Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2023 06:04:00 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 378

Part 378: England's Hole-keepers


`Give me - like, an hour and a half? Would that be okay? You're sure
you don't mind, mate?'

He nodded enthusiastically and gave a mock salute to his Arsenal
teammate, backing away out of the room; it was early evening on the
second full day of the England camp, and their duties were largely over.
A handful of other players were still involved in different media work
that the bosses had organised, but the North London clubmates were
entirely free, like a good half of the men on the squad.

`All good,' the 25-year-old called brightly again to the other occupant
of their suite, grabbing up a few items to hold under one long muscled
arm, and backing to the door. `Enjoy your call, mate, it's all good.'
Another waving gesture at the lad seated at the desk by the windows, and
with that he took his leave, stooping out onto the landing area outside
their room, and then up a short flight of stairs onto the next floor of
the familiar hotel that formed part of the Three Lions' home base.

It was a simple enough request to honour for the good pal who he was
rooming with - Declan Rice was a more than welcome addition to his North
London life and he was even gladder of the other English player once out
here on England call-up again, and so more than happy to help the other
young star out by giving him space for an hour or two on a Wednesday
evening. The sensational midfielder was planning some big group call with
family members, it seemed, and he'd made a point of asking if Aaron
Ramsdale could keep out of the way and allow him some privacy. And sure,
he thought on his way up the stairs, for all his warmth and good matey
banter, Rice was actually a really private person, who didn't seem to
share much of himself with his new Arsenal colleagues; Aaron wondered if
things had been different at West Ham, where he'd been so much better
established, or if this was just Declan's way of being professional.
Nobody at the club even knew if Dec was single or not, whereas everybody
knew all about Aaron's wedding plans and one-month-old kid - the big
Stoke lad was an open book in every way.

Up he went, rather than down; he wasn't sure anybody would be hanging
out in the communal areas down in the hotel below, other than the few
lads who were doing media interviews or filming silly content skits for
the national team's social media. Excused from such obligations this
time, Ramsdale had headed to his room in the same fatigued manner as
everyone else, leaving a comfy nap on his bed only when Declan made his
stilted formal request for a little bit of space. Instinct and
familiarity drew Ramsdale to what seemed like the obvious corner to him,
bringing him to a sharp flurry of knocks on a door at the far end of the
corridor above, temporary home to his two fellow goalkeepers of
Southgate's selection.

The door was answered almost instantly, and Jordan Pickford puffed out
his chest and gave him one of those looks of mock seriousness and
inflated self-importance that he loved to adopt, acting like a bouncer at
some top nightclub - `You got ID, son?' the Northerner demanded in a
silly Londoner accent, barring the doorway and looking ominously past him
in either direction.

`Can a goalie not chill in the goalie suite?' the 25-year-old Arsenal
player huffed playfully back at the England No.1, poising as if to rugby
tackle past the senior keeper and invade the room he was sharing with the
squad's other unused back-up. Pickford laughed immediately and opened
his arms, welcoming into a brief tight hug, then shoving him on into the
large room and pushing the door shut behind him.

Ramsdale was often surprised that the team's accommodation plans didn't
lump all three goalies into one shared room, since so much of the
schedule did keep the three of them at close quarters, with a whole load
of extra coaching and mentoring to create a `competitive triad' between
them - the Arsenal player knew that the truth of it was about buttering
up himself and Johnstone or Pope, whoever was in that other spot, so that
they could handle being spare parts whilst the Everton keeper continued
to be Southgate's favoured last defence, time after time. And with
Pickford not yet even 30, a big change to the No.1 spot for England
seemed like it might bypass Ramsdale's prime entirely.

Sam Johnstone, this international break's fellow goalkeeper competition,
was a large stoic fella who seemed relatively comfortable with that
situation - in Ramsdale's limited experience thus far, the big lofty
Lancastrian was someone who just plodded uncomplainingly into the duty
and accepted whatever the gaffer handed out, unfazed by minimal game
appearances and happy to work his socks off in training on behalf of the
wider squad. An admirable big fucker, Aaron thought, but not perhaps a
role he saw himself leaping into - he had enough of that angst going on
at his Premiership club, never mind on the international stage.

Right now, the 6ft4 Crystal Palace keeper was standing by the open window
on a phone call, turning only to give a brief wave of welcome as Aaron
sauntered into what felt communal space for them, even if he was actually
roomed elsewhere with Rice. At Jordan's direction, he flopped down into
a comfortable seated position at the foot of one bed, whilst the Mackem
bloke slobbed down into a nearby chair and resumed whatever game he was
playing on his Nintendo Switch.

`Good lad,' the 29-year-old murmured distractedly to him, feet playing
and thumbs bashing buttons, `for coming up here - we thought you might
be getting ideas above your station and hanging out with the real
footballers, y'kna.' He looked up, smirking. `But nope, good lad, up
here with the goalie losers for a quiet mope.' He resumed his play with
intense focus and Aaron chuckled vaguely at the lines, unsure how
genuinely self-deprecating the typically over-confident bloke was being -
he wasn't really sure what he'd expected by coming up to her join the
guys, but it had seemed to make sense as he found himself outcast from
his own room by Declan's intense politeness.

After a moment's quiet, just Johnstone's deep rumbling voice in the
background, Jordan paused the game and tossed the handheld console onto a
stack of his belongings on the floor, lounging comfortably where he was
with his feet propped on the edge of the bed. He fixed Aaron with an
inquisitive look. `Did you come up here for some wisdom from your elders
then, or what?' Again, it was hard to know when to take the swaggering
Everton man seriously or not.

`Just kicked out of my room,' Ramsdale told him lightly. `Dec had a
call to make.' He scratched at his fine blond stubble and the back of
his thick neck. `Just thought I'd pop by and see what you oafs were up
to, that's all.'

`Hmm, rightyo,' said Pickford.

`I didn't mean to kill your gaming time,' he laughed gently, nodding
at the discarded Switch, and then dumping out the few belongings he'd
brought up with him on the blankets to his side: his tablet, a crime
thriller he was reading, and a bag of cheesy snacks. Jordan gestured
impatiently at them and he ripped open the bag to share.

Jordan just shrugged as he crunched on a mouthful. `Was just playing it
cos I'm bored,' he admitted conversationally. `Who the hell is Dec
calling that he needs privacy?' A slightly nasty sneer formed on the
Sunderland bloke's tanned face. `Mason bloody Mount, haha?'

Less familiar with the running joke of the sport's greatest bromance,
Aaron just frowned vaguely back at his teammate and shrugged broad
shoulders, taking a large handful of the snacks himself. `Family, he
said,' he said disinterestedly, in no mood to be cynical or suspicious
of anything his friend got up to - he generally got on well with Pickford
as a fellow keeper, but he did sometimes find something a little
obnoxious or almost nasty in the other man's sense of humour, and he was
not interested in joining any gossip. `I left him to it, what with not
being a dickhead and all,' he added decisively, putting a lid on that
topic and asserting himself to the other guy.

`Fair,' was Jordan's vague, dismissive response.

`Alright lads,' boomed big Sam's voice, his call now finished,
striding between them and aggressively dislodging Jordan's feet from the
bed to get past and throw himself down on the other double. `Goalkeeper
party in da house, is it? Yes lads. What we drinking from the minibar,
hey? Haha.' The well-built 30-year-old from Preston sprawled out
comfortably on his bed in a white England polo shirt and baggy tracksuit
pants, the exact same gear as the other two, but for the light shorts
that Aaron had opted for, exposing the pale fluff of his thickly-muscled
legs folded beneath him.

`If only,' Pickford groaned, and Ramsdale nodded enthusiastically.

`I could murder a pint,' Johnstone complained heavily.

`Or seven.'

`Shall we escape out of the window and find a country pub?' Aaron
joked.

`Oh now our kid's talking,' enthused Sam in his thick Preston accent.

`Aye, talking shite,' corrected Jordan cynically. `Southgate would
string us up. Gah, no wonder you two are just back-ups, it's my level
head that England needs in goal, not two alcoholics,' he boasted with
ridiculous piety, pausing to laugh at himself. His humour was obvious,
and yet it was the wrong banter for the Number One to go with - for
Aaron, it tapped into too much current discomfit at home, and even for
stoic Sam, it roused a frosty expression and a sudden silence, and Jordan
clearly knew it. `Minibar aside, what the hell shall we get up to?' he
demanded frustratedly, running fingers through his quiff of strawberry
blond hair.

`Taking it in turns punching you in the gob,' quipped Johnstone
brutishly, making Ramsdale snigger stupidly. `Taking it in turns to kick
you up the backside?' he added, matching the big guy's tone, and fixing
their superior with an ironic look.

`Pfft, chill out the pair of yas,' chuckled the Mackem guy. He got up
from his seat and climbed aboard his bed, joining Aaron, and giving him a
gentle shove in the knee. He snatched up the bag of snacks and began
throwing them for Sam to catch in his mouth like a performing animal,
whilst whistling thoughtfully to himself. `Come on, Rambo, we know you
came up here to quiz us and get all the best tips, don't deny it - I
mean, if anyone can help you beat Raya and stay at Arsenal, it must be
us.'

Aaron blanched at the openness of this new topic, a matter which none of
his friends here in the England camp had addressed with such directness,
even after his own dad made sports headlines yesterday by complaining
embarrassingly on his behalf to some interviewer. Life for Ramsdale had
changed drastically this year at his club, going from a fan favourite
hero and shithouse to a spare part with only cup appearances to his name
- and he wasn't sure what he thought about arrogant Pickford bringing it
up so casually right now on their evening downtime. He went awkwardly
silent as he thought this comment over, glad when the Palace player cut
into it instead: `Leave that out, Picky, for god's sake - don't be a
cunt to the lad, or I'll smack yer arse myself.'

`Huh,' chuckled Jordan, `don't threaten me with a good time, big
man.'

`Fine,' grunted Ramsdale quietly, in the quiet that followed. `What
would you two fella do if you were in my position, then? Other than
keying Arteta's car?' The second question was meant to sound funny and
casual about the issue, but he could hear himself sounding nothing short
of bitter and resentful, which made his cheeks blush and his head hang,
wishing he'd changed the topic instead.

To the 25-year-old Stokey's vague surprise and delight, however, the
conversation turned into something of a heart-to-heart - whilst prime
first-choice goalies at their current Premier League, both northern
blokes had experienced varied highs and lows to their careers, which they
talked about now with a frankness and kindness that took Ramsdale by
surprise. Jordan, for a change, was all quiet humility, dwelling on a
long spell of loan deals when he'd thought he might never have a
permanent spot in anyone's goal, whilst big Sam complained about having
been on the Man Utd roster for 7 years without a single proper appearance
under the crossbar at Old Trafford. And then, as if they had spoken too
openly and earnestly for too long, the pair of them fell into some more
generic banter at each other, their clubs having clashed in the
Premiership on Saturday gone - Aaron's career crisis brushed aside,
Jordan went scrambling over to wrestle stupidly with the bigger bloke,
bantering about Everton's dominant 3-2 win over Palace. Aaron, impressed
and reflective after their shared experiences and moments of genuine
advice, sat there quietly to the side, whilst also privately noting that
a 5 goal game was hardly one for any keeper to try and take particular
pride in, but never mind...

Johnstone had Pickford in a headlock now and both men were turning red
faces this way as if Ramsdale was the umpire of their conflict - he
raised a single eyebrow and smirked stupidly at them, then grabbed and
threw a couple of pillows their way to break them up. As they parted with
a series of grunts, the 6ft2 lad stretched out and climbed off the bed,
feeling slightly lighter after all for having talked the dry spell over
with his contemporaries, men only a few years older than him but
seemingly much more worldly. `Thanks guys,' he said once the noise of
their scuffle was over, returning their surprising frankness. `It's
good to hear all that, y'know, it's been a rough six months or whatever
- a bit of a dry spell.'

Pickford's little snort of amusement was quick, another seeming instance
of him unable to think much before speaking - `And I bet it's not the
only dry spell in your life right now, big lad, that's for sure!'

Ramsdale, out of context, wasn't even sure what the other guy was trying
to say, pausing and looking awkwardly his way - he could tell there was
some mean or crude joke to what Pickford had to say, but he was so
wrapped up in his Arsenal battle for that position, that he could only
infer some sly dig at his performances, contradicting the No.1's kinder
words only minutes ago. Jordan was clambering off the far bed, but Sam
was giving him a thump in the side and shaking his head. `What you
playing at?' the Palace man demanded crossly, but Jordan laughed and
gestured pleadingly.

`Hey, hey, Sam and I know what's it like,' Pickford professed
enthusiastically, hurrying closer to him at this side of the room. `I
mean, Rambo mate, we're both dads - we've been in your boat before, him
a couple of times.'

Realisation dawned on Aaron and he laughed embarrassedly, realising
they'd moved on from his goalkeeper career to a very different kind of
`dry spell' - and though it was hardly something he might have brought
up or complained about to these two, or in fact anyone other than his
closest pal Ben White, it was clearly a situation he was conscious enough
of to instantly recognise what Jordan was trying to say. A month or so
after the birth of his first son, the hot-blooded young athlete was
nowhere near getting any intimacy from his beautiful fiancee, and had
been stuck in one of the longest sexless ruts of his young life. He
blushed deeply and continued to laugh, whilst Pickford leant in and
pinched his cheek with a knowing wink, accompanied by a low grunting
laugh from Johnstone in the background.

`Tis true,' mourned the other goalkeeper, rising up to his 6ft4 stature
and shrugging. `And don't expect it to go back to normal for a good
while yet, youngster.'

`What he's saying,' Jordan elaborated needlessly, `is get used to Mrs
Palm and her five daughters, you get me?' A wanking gesture in the air
left no room for misinterpretation and then the obnoxious fella jabbed
him playfully in the ribs before returning to find a seat on his bed,
picking up his Switch again on the way to play idly on his game whilst
they spoke. In a wistful voice, Sam was trying to count out how long it
might be before Aaron was going to have sex again, and Jordan was
complaining loudly about all the other reasons his own partner found to
say no these days - and Aaron just chuckled stupidly at them, unsure of
this turn in the conversation, but then glad to think of something other
than his battle with Raya. It felt disrespectful for him to say anything
specific to their banter, anyway - Benjamin really was the only one of
his football mates that he might do, given the alarming honesty
previously shared between the two of them, in the Arsenal sauna and the
similarly arid heat of Qatar.

`You ought to show him that thing you brought,' Jordan barked suddenly
at Sam, putting his console down, and really breaking into sleazy
laughter. `Maybe you can recommend a purchase to this horny young buck
too, hey?'

Big burly Sam actually looked quite mortified, and so Aaron was intrigued
in spite of himself, shooting a confused look to the tall broad man,
whilst the main goalie continued to piss himself laughing on the bed.
`Oh fuck off,' Johnstone was barking at Pickford, `I knew I shouldn't
have shown you that, you cunt. I told you, I ain't even tried it out
properly, so how could I go recommending it?'

`Oh go on, get it out!'

`Fuck off...'

`Get what out?' the Arsenal back-up called to them, pausing by the open
window and folding his arms. `What the hell are you two on about?'
Jordan couldn't answer for his own laughter, whilst Sam grimaced and
rolled his eyes and then, with a pantomime of reluctance, went fiddling
into one of the bags by his bed. He pulled something out and threw it
forcibly this way, arcing high through the room, so that Aaron had to
lunge forward to give it a catch. He stared at the large thick tube in
his hands, briefly uncomprehending, and then he noted the rough shape of
it, the lip-like lining that formed a circle of sorts on this end, and-
`Fucking hell,' he exclaimed, `is this a fleshlight?'

He wasn't so innocent or thick that he'd never encountered the idea -
he had, after all, sneaked into the only sex shop in Doha to buy that big
chunky dildo to mock Ben White, for all the fucking trouble it had
caused! - but in the context of this hotel room on England duty, the
thing was alien and ridiculous, and - he frowned and blushed more deeply
- a bit bigger than he'd imagined such an item to be. Quickly, as if it
were a hot potato, he flung the thing back - not across the room at Sam
himself, but at the cackling hyena Jordan on the nearer bed, unsure that
such an item was the solution to his position as a new father trying his
best to support his fiancee.

`Well,' he said evenly, giving an empathetic look across at the Palace
player, `you gotta do what you gotta do, big man, so no judgement
here...'

`Oh aye,' moaned Jordan. `No judgement, not like you're the lad
who's gonna have to lie in the next bed while the big bastard here fucks
this thing into oblivion - what if he gets over-excited and comes across
to my bed once he's smashed it with his big cock, eh?' As always, there
was something astonishing in the crudeness and sneer of Pickford's
banter, which made Ramsdale himself feel prudish and silly in their room
- watching as the Everton goalie placed the male sex toy over the crotch
of his trackies and pretended to thrust upwards into it before tossing it
back at Johnstone.

Sam caught it deftly, smirking and shaking his head. `I'd fuck every
item of furniture in here before I caught syphilis from you, Mackem lad.
Thinks something of himself don't he, Aaron? Ugly prick.' And losing
his self-consciousness about it, he tossed the toy from hand to hand,
moving between the two beds. `It was a gift from the missus, said I
should try it out on this trip, that's all - says it will stop be
complaining when she's too tired, haha. I mean - it's just a daft toy,
I'll defo give it a go.'

`When he does,' Pickford insisted, `I'll be coming down to hang out
with you and Rice, mate, even if he is having a cam-wank with Mason
Mount, okay?' He was being sneering and derogatory and yet, Aaron
couldn't help but notice, he was staring up very intently at the way Sam
juggled it from hand to hand and then, in the same mocking exaggerated
way, placed it dramatically over his crotch and proceeded to thrust into
thin air. Aaron laughed and rolled his eyes at both of them, thinking
maybe this was his cue to leave.

`You two are mad,' he huffed in a half-laugh.

`We're just trying to help,' Jordan protested weakly. `Just trying to
offer some solutions to your dry spell, Rambo. Hey, I mean maybe if you
empty your fat balls some time, you might actually lift your goalie game
and get back in that Number One spot, so...' This time, as Aaron flushed
and grimaced, there was no interjection or warning from the bigger man,
who just chucked the fleshlight back his way, and shrugged his shoulders,
saying, `Our man Prickford here might be right, y'know - nothing worse
than sexual frustration for ruining your form during a tense season,
kiddo.'

Catching the tossed item, Aaron stared in surprise at this perspective
from the giant, and then back at the lewd look on Jordan's face.
`Sure,' he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, `I'll just whip my
prick out now and pop this thing's cherry for you both, shall I? I'm
sure that'll put me right in goal on Friday night, no worries... Fuck's
sake, lads.'

`Go on, I dare ya,' cackled Pickers, whilst Johnstone said less
mockingly, `We don't mean Friday, for fuck's sake - this cunt has that
one sealed up as usual - we just mean if you relaxed a bit more and let
yourself go, maybe you'd find things got a bit easier for you at
Arsenal, that's all. I think that's what we were trying to say earlier,
mate, that's all - once you get uptight about it, once you freak out,
that's when you start losing the battle, hey?'

Aaron stood there, arse propped back against the windowsill, hoisting the
offensively large plastic item in one hand and staring between the other
two goalkeepers. `And whacking my nob in a fake vagina is the thing
that's gonna relax me, is it?' he said, trying to sound annoyed but his
face splitting into a grin and the question ending on a laugh of
disbelief. He inspected the device more carefully, shaking his head - he
had never tried such a thing, though he remembered staring at them in
horrified fascination when scouring that sex shop for the most
intimidating rubbery phallus on sale. The most intimidating and
embarrassing rubbery phallus, he thought, which had caused so much aggro
when secreted in Ben's bed to horrify his conjugal visitor - for a
moment, staring at the fleshlight in his paw, Ramsdale was back there in
the winter World Cup, and Benjamin was helping to push the stupid sex toy
into his backside to... to what? To atone for his prank? To prove a point?
He felt himself go pale and stiff and awkward, thinking about that
incident between them, which had ended with Ben's pinkeye and flight
home to the UK, perhaps the flat end to his entire career on the England
squad. Fuck.

His long moment's thoughtfulness must have been ambiguous or misleading,
because Pickford now whooped, `He's tempted, isn't he? Fetch that lube
she bought you with it, Samwise, and hoy it at the kid, he's well up for
giving it a test drive.'

Sam was laughing, but with some doubt in his voice as he said, `Hey, I
don't think anyone is popping that cherry except me, boys, that was MY
gift from the missus, okay...' And with an awkward kinda serious, he was
moving this way and reaching out to accept it back - which Aaron gladly
accepted with a laugh, chucking it to him and then wiping his hands on
the sides of his shorts as if tainted by holding it for too long, though
his thoughts were less on a receptive toy than the penetrating monster
that had slid between his downy cheeks.

`Well heck yeah,' Jordan barked, `you can go first, but I think all of
us want a go on it.' It was as simple as that, somehow, the sudden shift
in the tone, the shift from exaggerated banter and overdone outrage
between them, because Jordan was sliding off the bed now and hopping over
his roomie's bed too - leaning over and fishing rudely through his
mate's belongings, until he was wielding the little pump tube of Durex
lubricant, which he waved about like a trophy, then came in at Sam with
some boxing moves, laughing his head off and then gesturing
enthusiastically over this way. `Here, Aaron, you won't mind if the big
twat gets his chopper out, will you? We're all goalies here,
brothers-in-arms.'

Ramsdale could laugh heartily at this, picking himself up from the
windowsill, arms folded uncomfortably against his chest, but perhaps only
because he was so sure that Jonhstone would laugh it off too, and give
the uppity prick the clip about the ears he deserved. So when the Palace
goalie reached a hand into the front of his pants and then flopped his
cock and balls out with complete self-confidence, it gave the Arsenal boy
a start. `Honestly,' big Sam sighed playfully, `this Mackem cunt will
do anything to get another glimpse at my meat, y'know, he's such a
fuckin' perv.'

`Well,' remarked Jordan in the voice of a connoisseur, stood close next
to him, `it is a fucking ridiculous big monster of a thing, ain't it?
Ain't it, Rambo? What do you think?' And he forced the pump tube into
Sam's free hand before lounging comfortably back down on his bed,
staring brightly between the cock-swinging giant and the gawping younger
lad.

For several long moments, Ramsdale didn't really know what was expected
of him - he could see the leer and provocation on Pickford's face, but
he could also see a kind of simple dumb pride on Johnstone's, and more
than anything he could see the fat drooping member that hung over the
waist of the England tracksuit, a prick that was perfectly proportionate
to the 6ft4 man's excessive height and breadth. It was big enough to
make Aaron think again of that Doha dildo, but perhaps that offensive
monster was already too much in his mind, triggered by all this chat
about sex toys.

`Here,' Sam chuckled, `watch me finger the sexy bitch.' And stood
proudly before them, the third-place goalkeeper of the England squad
squirted a bit of transparent lube onto two thick fingers, and then
pushed them gracelessly into the `lips' of the toy, chuckling as he
did, and eliciting whoops of amusement and approval from Jordan too.
Aaron let out a hollow awkward laugh, blinking furiously. He was about to
announce his departure to leave them to their egos and rivalries over
dick size, but he was stopped in his tracks by further shock at the
openness and exhibitionism of a bloke as simple and traditional as the
Preston giant: more lube pumped out of the tube, into his palm, and then
a few slow leisurely pulls on the soft length below the hem of his polo
shirt, bringing it into an even thicker shape, slowly rousing himself
with a few long strokes, whistled at admiringly by Pickford.

`Fellas,' Ramsdale said quietly in a voice of nervous disapproval, but
he felt himself ignored - Pickford was cackling quite happily, and
Johnstone too was laughing, in a heavy grunting sort of way, whilst he
took the fleshlight in one hand and his semi-hard prick in the other.
`Fuck, not quite hard enough,' he was chuckling, whilst Jordan barked,
`Well give it a proper stroke then you daft twat.'

Aaron found himself oddly fascinated by it in several ways. He was
fascinated by the openness and carelessness of Sam, a guy who had never
seemed particularly broad-minded to him; he was fascinated by the extent
of Jordan's dirty humour and unhealthy interest in his teammates, which
went far beyond the daft jokes that he was used to hearing from him. He
was fascinated by his own... what, prudishness? Who was he to judge, after
what he'd let happen with Benjamin? It had been one thing joking around
with the dildo, and pranking White, but then... why had he needed to
appease him with such a physical act, why had he gone through with it?
Why had he let Ben help, taking hold of the thing as it pushed into him
and hurt his hole, made it sting and ache for DAYS, in such a way that he
hadn't been able to admit to anyone, least of all the England medical
staff who were so inquisitive about his limp the next day? Jesus, what a
mad stupid time that had all been, how had he been so daft as to...? He
saw Benjamin's face, as he unloaded messily into it, and remembered the
difficulty in their friendship for so many months after Qatar was over,
though everything was rosy again by now - so long as neither mentioned
their Middle Eastern adventure whatsoever!

`Right, maybe now,' boomed Sam, and dear jesus, his cock really was a
big long hefty thing when getting seriously hard - was it fully hard, or
did the thing extend further?! Whatever, he was bringing the plastic
tubing back down to it, taking it in both hands, and inserting himself
into the synthetic tightness - Aaron's eyes slide upwards, wanting to
study the mixed amusement and pleasure on the big rugged face of the
skinhead bloke, then across to the glassy fascination that covered
Jordan's features, absolutely mesmerised by what was happening - with
jealousy and eagerness to try it, he wondered, or some more
unconventional interest in his well-proportioned roommate?

`That's it,' insisted Jordan very eagerly. `Push yourself right in
there, big fella - shit, she knows you need the XXL one, I guess - she's
been split open by that weapon enough times since you swept her off her
feet, ha.'

`It's fucking huge,' Aaron found himself echoing awkwardly, taking a
couple of steps forward, lowering one knee to the edge of Jordan's bed,
knuckles resting on hips. Like Pickford, he too stared intently, watching
as with a performative kind of rhythm, the fully-clothed giant of a man
held the cup to his crotch with both hands and rolled his hips, fucking
his dick slowly into the toy in several slow strokes, then a sudden
flurry of quicker humps that were accompanied by higher-pitched laughter.
And then, in a flourish, he pulled the thing off his manhood, making a
squelchy sucker noise, and tossing a few damp flecks of lubricant against
the edges of the bedding; his big dick twanged and shook where it
protruded from between his polo shirt and his tracksuit, and he slapped
one lubed hand to it instantly to continue playing, whilst holding the
toy aloft.

`Sure, she feels good,' he confirmed through his big manly laugh.

`Here, I'll give it a go,' Pickford demanded, and Ramsdale was further
shocked when he heard his own voice, firm and pushy: `Nah, I thought it
was my dry spell we were trying to fix? I'll go next, thanks, and you
can have sloppy thirds, Prickford.' He heard his own aggro there like it
was the voice of some other rough lad from back home in the Potteries.
And yet the other two were laughing their agreement and the toy and pump
were being tossed his way.

Right, then. Here goes. I mean, this can't be weirder or worse than what
happened with Benj, can it? Fuck no, this is nothing like THAT. This is
just banter, and- yeah, yeah, maybe these guys have a point. Maybe I just
need to let loose, by some daft shite like this whilst sex is off the
table at home, and...

`Well you'll have to get yer dick out, Rambo,' Jordan informed him
tartly.

`Don't be shy,' guffawed Sam. `You can see I ain't.'

And so with one hand Ramsdale found himself pushing down the front of his
training shorts, exposing the soft wiry grey-blond of his pubes, and then
flopping his saggy balls and gently swollen semi out into view, whilst
also reaching for the little pump tube and spunking out some lube to rub
against his fat pale member. He was confident in his size, but there was
something about Johnstone's proportions that made him insecure and keen
to make it harder, wanting the other guys to see it at full mast and not
in this shy droop - somehow, their crass comments were helpful to his
arousement, rather than distracting: `Rub yerself happy, Rambo lad,'
tittered Sam stupidly, and `Have a wank imagining Raya snapping a wrist
next weekend, hehe' was Jordan's nastier invocation. Whilst Aaron slid
his hand about his reluctant and shy cock, slowly pulling it into fuller
shape, Jordan picked up and inspected the cock, seemingly unphased by the
slimy wetness of the entrance where their friend's cock had penetrated
it - but passing it back once Aaron looked ready, holding his thick heavy
cock at the base and angling the bright pink tip towards the entrance.

`You sure you don't mind sharing your new girl?' he croaked across at
Sam, trying to sound bolshy and aloof - met only with hearty laughter
from both the other guys, and some pushy insistence from an excited
Pickford: `Go on, shove yer big nob in her, daft lad, make her squeal
like your bitch!'

And so he did, although it was a giggling Jordan Pickford who added the
squealing sound effects for him, adopting a high feminine voice and
crying `Yes yes, I'm being fucked by the king of the Arsenal hole, I
mean, goal! Oh yes, Rambo, you fuck much better than that wanker Raya or
tiny-cock Arteta, ohhhh-' Until, that is, a heavy clip about Jordan's
head from Sam silenced this distracting banter, and it was suddenly all
three of them assembled about the one bed. Aaron stared into the
middle-distance, avoiding eye contact with either of them, whilst pulling
the strangely realistic skin-feel against his head, against his peeled
foreskin, against the girth and veins of his shaft, sliding quite slowly
into it, shocked at its tightness, its inexplicable warmth. Oh, it felt
good, and he needed to buy one of these. He found himself unable to
express this in words or laughter, just a breathy moan, one which
triggered more peals of excitable laughter from his naughty pals.

`Go on,' Johnstone grunted simply, `fuck her, pal.'

`Does she feel good?' came Pickford's almost breathless enthusiasm.

Pickford, he noticed, was feeling himself through his tracksuit, hot pink
in his cheeks, his neatly quiffed hair falling out of place and a little
sweaty sheen all over his brow; Johnstone, mind, was still openly pulling
back and forth on the obnoxiously large rod that had christened the toy,
wanking himself in a leisurely and immodest fashion, as if loaning the
fake fanny out was a very temporary measure - he looked ready to reinsert
and take back his wife's gift, impatient to finish the show-and-tell.
Somehow, Ramsdale didn't really mind this, didn't mind their excitement
or proximity, kinda proud that he'd got himself hard and shoved it into
the toy, at their joky insistence - it was like he was proving himself to
his fellow goalies here in some new way, actually stepping up and joining
their experienced clique, rather than being the bright-eyed newcomer as
he'd felt on his last few call-ups.

And this, he told himself, was nothing like Doha, nothing like that whole
messy prank.

He felt like he'd barely played with it, barely pushed his hard member
in and out of its slimy entrance, but Jordan was reaching for it -
snatching rudely for it while it was still wrapped about his cock, which
made him flinch uncomfortably, demanding that it was his turn. And Sam
was muttering agreement, saying `Give it to Prickford, sloppy thirds
like you said!' And so he pulled out with some reluctance, sad to lose
the pleasurable pressure on his cock, and shy to have his lubed hard-on
judder about as it was released - but grabbing it in his hand, like Sam
was, because Sam made it seem okay, and after all he really WAS horny,
so- Jordan was shoving down his trackies and boxer shorts, and making the
joke before either of them could, putting himself down whilst sounding
entirely smug and cocksure: `She'll hardly notice this chipolata after
you two beasts, but here we go!'

And with a fully performative energy to his movements, he was shoving his
shorter, more slender prick into `her', holding it in one hand and
bringing the other up for high fives, first with Johnstone and then with
Ramsdale too, clapping palm to palm with them whilst gyrating his hip and
fucking the lubed lips in a rapid flurry of motion. Here they were, all
three of them, pleasuring themselves, the three England goalies together
- god, Aaron thought, this is a bit much, ain't it?! And he and Ben had
got in trouble for being found playing with themselves in a dark sauna,
he remembered, fined by Mikel Arteta for inappropriate behaviour, and the
gaffer hadn't even caught them trying to finger themselves because of
Benjamin's relationship problems at the time...! If it hadn't been so
long ago, it would be tempting to blame that silly disciplinary matter
for his current out-of-favour subs bench era, but who knew where the
boss's distrust had begun...

Aaron pulled on his cock repeatedly, matching the slow steady rhythm of
Big Sam, rather than the rather frenetic and showy fucking with which
Jordan now attacked their shared toy, cackling as he slammed noisily in
and out of it, overcompensating - his hair flopping back and forth and
his face getting more shiny with sweat. It was Sam who broke into this,
giving him a shove to the shoulder, and announcing with a sort of
matter-of-fact simple bluntness: `Give us it back, then - I need to
finish off this boner before we all have to go down for dinner, you pair
of wank-stains...!' And like Jordan, he was casually snatching at the
toy, pulling on it whilst it still gripped Jordan's smaller erection -
yanking it away for himself, and pushing himself back into it, absolutely
comfortable in his size and power, and happy to fill up the tight tubing
in a way that must feel even better for his girthy equipment.

Stop thinking about his dick, Aaron chided himself, you've never worried
about your own size before, so quit this new insecurity!

But he was thinking more about the toy, about its tightness, its strange
realism, and maybe even... well, maybe just a bit, the AUDIENCE of it,
being able to fuck it, fuck `her', with two other fellas here, like
this was some seedy foursome or something, some tabloid footballer sex
scandal like you read about with the names removed - Aaron had never been
invited into anything so naughty as that, and he'd resented it before he
started settling down with the current love of his life...! He felt that a
misspent youth had escaped him, he looked like too much of a big goofy
good guy, that was his problem... Too wholesome.

And in front of this wholesome Staffordshire lad, in front of him and
smirking wide-eyed Pickford, Johnstone was no totally going for it:
one-handed, but rapid, really pulling the toy back and forth so that
shiny wet glimpses of his thick shaft were flickering in and out of
vision. There was something businesslike about it, something mechanical
and repetitive, but his face was intense, his brow furrowed and veined,
his cheeks red, his eyes fixed and narrowed, lips pursed, facial hair
glistening damp. He was a man on a mission, and his grunts grew louder as
he approached its completion. `Here I go, fellas,' he announced simply,
speaking through the hot breathy dirty talk of Jordan's encouragement
(`Fuck her hard, mate!') and Aaron's own mumbled endorsement (`Er, go
for it, fella...'), until suddenly he was letting out an almost
animalistic growl of satisfaction, and his motion ceased - he just held
the toy tightly down on the entirety of his big cock, pushing himself
into it and presumably filling it with his jizz.

In his sweaty-faced climax, his big heavy body fell forward slightly, and
one long arm extended - a big heavy hand clutched at Aaron's shoulder
through his polo shirt, and he tensed to steady the weight of the 6ft4
man. The contact felt odd, his other hand gripped about his shiny dick,
reaching the left one up to hold and support Sam's grip. `Fuck!'
roared the Crystal Palace goalie, still stooping there, with Jordan
grabbing and squeezing his shoulder in tactile approval, telling him,
`You've cum buckets in there, I bet...'

And just like that, big Sam's interest was switched off - he was pulling
away and squeezing the toy from off his member, dropping it heavily to
the bedding, and pushing back with heavy rasping breaths... grasping at
the front of his white shirt to pull and waft it against his overheated
chest and stomach muscles. `I'm showering,' he declared, adding,
`might make it a cold one after that...!' He had no interest in the
discarded toy, or the rapt faces of his audience - he was just steering
heavily away from them, beginning to peel off the Three Lions merch, and
disappearing into the bathroom doorway that his huge stature entirely
filled. And then he was just a firmly closing door, and Aaron was an
awkwardly kneeling one of two, dick in hand, staring down at the toy.

The question was forming in his head, close to escaping his lips, when it
was answered by Jordan's shiny snatching fingers. The question was `Did
he really shoot his load in there?' and perhaps, as a follow-up, `We
can't put our dicks in it now, can we?' The answer was, based on the
enthusiasm of Jordan Pickford, `Who fucking cares?'

Right next to him on the bed, kneeling up like him, the Everton goalie
was dragging his polo shirt further up his dense torso, up to just below
the nips, and rubbing sensually at his abdominal muscles, whilst bringing
the lips of the toy back to his quivering cock, average-sized or perhaps
a little smaller, Aaron didn't like to judge. He certainly felt bigger
next to him than face-to-face with Sam. Whilst one hand applied the
fleshlight to his prick, Jordan grabbed at Aaron's shoulder with the
other, pressing his weight into him for support, and forcing the Arsenal
keeper to grip helpfully at him with his right hand, bringing his left to
his dick to carry on stroking it.

As a more polite form of the questions that had died in his throat,
Ramsdale asked, `How's it feel now?' He hoped Pickers understood what
he meant, but it was unclear. The other man responded only in grunts and
moans, thrusting into the toy really hard, breaking his gasps of pleasure
only to laugh heavily as if this was all one hilarious dirty joke - and
in the background, the sounds of a shower and a bad singing voice, Sam
Johnstone casually washing away the sin of communal masturbation.

`Fuck, it feels better,' Jordan hissed, either finally catching the
hint of Aaron's query, or just spontaneously sharing his concern, `I
can feel Sam's jizz as extra lube, fuck.' Such a filthy thought, Aaron
couldn't help but purse his lips awkward and wrinkle his nose, but he
was also intrigued by how excited it made his England senior - and so
when Jordan's pace slowed and they shared a meaningful look, he nodded,
and reached out, taking it directly from the other man's cock with a
squelch of release. He paused only briefly, looking at how slick and
shiny the lips were, but then just shoved himself into it again, glad at
that tightness closing once more on his head and shaft - it didn't feel
any different, neither better nor worse, but there was some special
dirtiness in the knowledge of how well-used the synthetic cunt already
was.

`Fuck, that's it,' growled Pickford's voice, grabbing and rubbing at
his shoulder muscles, and there was something cloying and excessive about
his closeness now - Ramsdale shut his eyes to better ignore him, briefly
using both hands on the toy, just fucking it like there was really a
beautiful woman on the bed with him, but feeling the intimacy of
Pickford's hands running over his bicep and shoulder and onto his broad
back. And then, worse, brushing his chest, heading down - `Here,'
hissed the England Number One, `just let me take over, pretend it's
your bird...' Aaron's hands were brushed aside before he could take in
this instruction, and now he was just kneeling there, feeling the pulsing
tightness of the toy, but his hands dangling to his sides, a confusing
moment's unreality with his eyes closed - he was fucking a fantasy
woman, beginning to push with his strong hips and glutes now that his
hands weren't involved, and for several beautiful moments, hardly
processing that it was JORDAN'S hands who'd taken control.

His eyes flickered open and so he was unable to edit out this
information, because they were kneeling close on the bed, Johnstone gone
so that the banter of three men had become the alarming intimacy of two -
and with one hand still on Aaron's shoulder, Jordan's other was tightly
gripping the toy, holding the fleshlight in place so that Ramsdale could
thrust energetically into it with the full force of his 6ft2 physique,
sweat pooling in his pits and down his back, damp and fresh beneath his
polo shirt and the bunched up shorts. He shook, alarmed, when Jordan told
him to pause, his voice breathy - it was as if Pickford was suddenly
registering how dirty and wrong this was, and demanding that they
stopped, which made Ramsdale feel filthy and desperate for allowing it to
take place. Instead, though, the Everton man just reached for the little
tube and held the lube over Aaron's crotch, pumping out two squidges of
it so that the substance drooled down onto the base of his cock, meaning
that as he slowly began thrusting again, his cock felt all the better and
looser, and he could really pick up speed.

`That's it,' hissed Jordan's voice. `Fuck her good.'

Ramsdale found that he couldn't reply anything more than sharp gasps,
but he didn't know what he'd say - he stared almost resentfully into
the snarling face of his England superior, the man whose position he
needed to usurp, and in his final moments of pleasure, found that he'd
gone from sensual fantasy to utter grudge-fucking. It wasn't as if the
toy in Pickford's hand still represented any idea of womanhood at all -
he was literally fucking the man's fist and showing him that he was the
more powerful, the more virile, the more manly goalkeeper, the young stud
who should be defending England from all-comers. He stared quite
aggressively into the shiny face of his prime rival, and in his mind's
eye he was staring at David Raya too, at Mikel Arteta, at the whole
fucking stupid situation, at the crippling sexual frustration that had
gripped his body until today.

`Cum for her,' drawled Jordan.

`Shurrup,' Rambo barked back at him.

`Yes,' gasped the England No.1, `fuck me- er, her, I mean, her-'

`Shurrup,' he growled again, `shurrup!'

His hands reached out and grasped at Jordan Pickford's rounded
shoulders, holding tightly onto him as if he WAS the fleshlight, whilst
the toy itself was held vice-like in both of those goal-saving mitts,
keeping it still and secure as Aaron Ramsdale powered into it and emptied
his balls, adding his own salty flavour to the mess that Johnstone had
deposited inside. `OH FUCK,' he growled, and a flurry of other swear
words and gasps escaped dry lips, eyes fluttering, and Jordan's pants
turning into bursts of vicious laughter.

Ramsdale slowed, his cock sensitive and tingling, his body suddenly
exhausted; he realised how tightly, perhaps painfully, his large hands
were gripping the 29-year-old by the shoulders, and he let go, leaning
and swaying backwards, his face feeling drenched with sweat. He looked
down, lashes fluttering, and fixed his eyes on Pickford's hands, still
clutched around the plastic that encased his quivering member - sure,
there were a couple of synthetic layers between meat and skin, but
still... `Geroff,' he grumbled awkwardly, pulling away, sliding his cock
out as Jordan simultaneously let go, so that the kinky thing tumbled
down, silvery-white liquid oozing from its lips as it hit the bedding -
his, he wondered, or Sam's?!

Breathing heavily and avoiding eye contact, Ramsdale retreated off the
bed, shoving his aching cock into the mesh of his shorts, and wiping the
hairy backs of his arms across his clammy face. God. What a mad thing to
do. He looked towards their en suite bathroom, but the door was still
shut, the other goalie still having his cold shower; and so Ramsdale shot
his eyes back at Pickford with an almost accusing expression. The
Sunderland man was gently stroking himself, hand stuffed down the front
of his tracksuit, small cock no longer on show, but definitely still
hard; and the No.1 stared confrontationally back, which was fair enough.
What was Ramsdale trying to accuse him of...?

`You alright?' Jordan demanded.

`Fine,' Aaron panted quickly. `Fine, fine.'

He stood there at the foot of the bed, fiddling awkwardly with shorts
that didn't fit well with a dick at half-mast. He writhed at the
sweat-damp polo shirt. He glanced again at the bathroom door, thinking of
how the tone had seemed to change when big dumb Sam had pulled away and
left them to it. Jordan had gotten VERY close to him. He tugged
uncomfortably at his collar and then wiped his face again on one arm. He
took a slight step away, and paused as the senior goalkeeper suddenly
spoke up.

`What,' Jordan asked, his voice low and serious, `aren't you staying
to help me finish too?'

For a long awkward moment, Ramsdale stared at him, blinking, his pecs
rising and falling with his pants - and then the deadly serious look on
Pickford's face switched to his usual leer and a burst of laughter.
`I'm fucking kidding, you twat - now piss off so I can enjoy myself in
peace, go get yourself showered off before teatime, go on you wanker...!'
And Aaron laughed too, shakily, and hurried for the door, still trying to
adjust the bulge of his fading erection in the front of his England
shorts - hardly noticing as he slipped out that Pickford immediately
reached to pick back up the cum-leaking sex toy from the bed.


He didn't rush immediately downstairs, too preoccupied with the
obviousness of his physical arousal - he paced the corridor awkwardly,
remembering at some point that he'd left his own personal tablet and
book back in the goalkeepers' room, but too worried of interrupting
Pickford if he went back. Eventually, still streaked with sweat, and cock
very sensitive in his briefs and shorts, he took to the stairs, back down
to his own floor. How long had it been since he left Declan to it? He
wasn't sure. It felt like he'd been upstairs with the other keepers for
absolutely hours, given the intensity of the experience - first the
heart-to-hearts and man-to-man advice, and then... the other thing. He
marched down towards the door of his own hotel suite in the confidence
that Rice would be finishing up and done with his family call, confident
that if not he could slip straight through and drench himself in his own
ice-cold shower, following Sam's lead.

Well, `finishing up' was one phrase for what he found when he burst
into the room.

Aaron's eyes picked details out one at a time as if in extreme
slow-motion: the open laptop first, at the centre of the double bed, then
the bulky bare legs spread either side of it, ending in the white-socked
feet of his roommate and Arsenal colleague; the long wide-mouthed
expression on Declan's face, the wildness in his wide eyes; the tension
and contraction in his chest and arm muscles; the fortunate positioning
of the open laptop, and the more explicit view that its presence perhaps
obstructed from this imprinting visual; and for some reason, his eyes
lingering ironically on it, one of those same pump tubes of Durex
lubricant, lying nestled in the folds of duvet near Dec's knee. And
last, but most vividly, happening in real-time as he lurched in through
the hotel room door, the sticky shiny wetness that spurted up Dec's
pectorals, accompanied by the throaty sound from his open mouth. And
then, more vivid and distinctive than the orgasmic moan of Rice's
vocals, the tinny distant speaker voice through the MacBook between his
open legs: `That's so much cum, baby, so much!' It was a good long
while since Aaron had spent any time with the out-of-favour midfielder of
former Chelsea fame, now Man Utd, but the cheery perky voice of the south
coast twink was very very recognisable. `Oh yes,' moaned Mason Mount's
voice through the magic of the internet, and Aaron didn't hear the
follow-up to that exclamation - in a panicked rush, he retreated,
slamming the door behind him and staggering back into the corridor, his
own aching cock and dubious behaviour forgotten, and his brain now
completely obfuscated by the image of Declan Rice's secret orgasm.



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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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