Date: Tue, 28 Jan 2020 20:04:44 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 38: The Old Trafford Teens

Part thirty-eight: The Old Trafford Teens


Brandon Williams bounded indoors from the wintry afternoon and towards the
mens' toilets to the right, aching from an intense day's training but
excited as always to be here doing this for a living. He yanked down the
Adidas snood about his neck a little and tugged off his gloves to go to the
urinals, desperate for a piss. Even popping in here for five minutes was a
nuisance to him. Brandon was a hard worker, that was true, but he was also
just fuelled by his passionate love for the team and his youthful
excitement that this shit was literally his career. His local mates were
mostly still in college or starting uni, or busting their guts on
apprenticeships, and here he was, literally living out his dream.

He shuffled up to one of the urinals, reached into the layers of his
tracksuit bottoms and the tight compression shorts beneath, and flopped out
his dick for the much-needed wee that had disturbed his excited performance
out there on the training ground. As he relieved himself with a sigh, the
door sounded, and another shuffling, huffing-breathed footballer joined him
in here, approaching the next urinal just as he finished off.

`Alright, Bran,' came Luke Shaw's voice, a steady murmur.

Brandon shot him a sidelong glance and smile, a little bit embarrassed to
be joined with his nob still out by one guy who had seen it more intimately
than most. A week or so on, young Williams still kinda processing what had
gone on with the taller defender, his nearest rival on the squad, and the
more aggressive interaction with dirty Harry weeks before... he was pretty
sure he was cool with it now, but he couldn't help a little blush every
time he saw smiling beardy Luke about, and when their eyes met on the field
or over meals.

`Alright,' he responded in what he hoped was a very casual voice, shaking
his nob at the urinal. `No looking at my dick,' he added in a quiet joking
tone, and both lads chuckled. He wasn't sure if this might sound too
offensive, or worse, too flirty, but it eased some of his attention being
around the only bloke to ever suck him off.

`Don't need to,' Luke quipped, relieving himself at the next urinal, `the
sight of it is imprinted dearly on my memory...'

Brandon blushed privately but let out a little snigger at this joke (or
compliment?) as he stuffed his nob away and backed off to go and wash his
hands. He caught sight of his flushed cheeks in the mirror and wondered how
much of that was from the cold weather outside and how much of it was from
being alone one-to-one with Shaw again for the first time since that
encounter in the medical room. As he washed his hands, he glanced down at
the healing grazes from taking his anger out on a wall. Daft idea, always.

`Just kidding,' Luke added, joining him at the sinks, and peering at him
via the mirrors, his eyes bright blue under the scruffy blond fringe poking
from under his team branded beanie hat. `Well, half. Heh.'

`You old flirt,' the 19-year-old left-back told his senior rival for the
position, smirking at their reflections and shaking moisture off his icy
hands. He saw Luke's affectionate smile and wondered if the guy really did
have a bit of a thing for him. The novelty that these older blokes might
actually be attracted to him was something Brandon was struggling to get
used to, having gotten so awkwardly close to two of them now.

`Bran, mate,' Luke started, a bit more heavily, `can we have a bit of a
chat before we go back out there?' Shaw turned now, to look at him
properly, rather than indirectly in the mirrors. His expression had
hardened a little, there was a flicker of worry to his eyes.

`Sure,' Brandon said, though hesitantly. Fuck, was this big lad about to
confess his undying love for him or something? Williams was kinda used to
that, all of the girls he'd messed about with had seemed to fall for him
straight away. Bad lad, local hero, working-class football
prodigy... whatever label they wanted to slap on him seemed to be enough of
an aphrodisiac. `What is it?' he asked, a tiny bit cautiously, pulling
fringe out of his eyes and watching the other footballer carefully.

Luke let out a long breath. `What lies did you tell about Harry?'

Brandon had not seen that question coming, but he let out a little puff of
breath and a laughing scoff. `Oh?' he remarked. `What's it to you, big
man?' He grinned, feeling a surge of pride at his devious behaviour. `Is
that why he's not been in training yesterday or today then, the big twat?'

Luke frowned, and Brandon felt a slight deflation to his smug satisfaction:
he had expected Luke to be admiring and impressed when he put two and two
together. In fact, he'd kinda hoped not to have to talk about this at all,
since he felt a bit bad about the lie, but... well, really, he'd done a
good thing, hadn't he? That big bullying dickhead needed stopping...

`Maguire ain't racist,' Luke said in a low, serious voice. `You can't
just...'

`I told you I'd get him back,' Brandon snapped, firing up a little. He
liked Luke, he respected him, and after their brief encounter, it was hard
not to feel a certain special affinity with him, but... Brandon was not
about to have his sneaky actions judged by someone as duplicitous and
secretive as himself! He eyed him confrontationally, pulling his posture up
a bit. `I said what I had to said,' he added as firmly and authoritatively
as he could.

`You lied, then,' Luke said, his voice a mix of frustration and
desperation. `You need to stop and-`

`I need to do what?' Brandon demanded. `Who the fuck are you, coming in
here telling me what I should and shouldn't be saying? You know as well as
I do that Harry Maguire is a fucking monster, I told you what he was like
with me, and... What the fuck is it, do you have some fucking crush on the
bloke?' Brandon stepped forward, really riled up now, and jabbed a finger
into Luke's sternum. `You know he's nearly married, for fuck's sake?' he
snapped.

Luke looked shocked and embarrassed, as he bloody should! He didn't seem to
know what to say so Brandon just scowled accusingly at him, refusing his
hypocritical judgement. `I made my complaint, and he deserved it,' he said
quickly and quietly. `Ain't nothing more to say, Luke, mate.'

`But...'

The door opened then, and McTominay and Jones joined, interrupting their
suddenly intense chat. Brandon relaxed his body immediately and Luke took a
step back, their eyes still locked for a moment more of silent
conflict. Brandon ignored whatever greetings or banter came from the other
two, and hurried for the door, really irritated. It was a disappointment
that his ingenuity wasn't being appreciated by someone who was clearly a
victim of the same twisted bully, and he hated the moral judgment on what
he was sure was the right thing to do. But training awaited: he burst into
a run as soon as he was back out of doors, jogging to rejoin the group and
see what was next on the afternoon's intense agenda. Luke and Harry and
their dirty mind games could fuck off, Brandon was here for one thing, and
one thing only: to be an awesome young footballer.



There were a good forty minutes more of drills and exercises, and then the
team were dissipating from the training ground in a frenzy of
satisfaction. The high of the weekend's FA cup triumph was still thick in
the air. Nobody was ready for the `Well, it was ONLY Tranmere'
conversations as the team was prepped for their next Premiership clash,
Brandon included.

He avoided going to the showers though, rendered a bit more self-conscious
by his run-in with Luke earlier. He was already irritably rewriting that
memory to paint the 24-year-old as some invasive lecher who'd checked out
his cock while he pissed... He was wondering if his private fumble with
Shaw was as innocent and fun as he'd dismissed it to begin with... Was the
other footballer just as sleazy and exploitative as the so-called Captain?

With these thoughts plaguing him, he skipped a return to the dressing rooms
and changed from boots to trainers in the corridor, still in his layers of
training kit, clammy with sweat and feeling the burn of the extreme
temperature switch from out there to in here. He thwacked his boots
together to loosen some of the mud then shoved them in a boot-bag to be
cleaned by staff, chuckling to himself and thinking of the days he would
dump such mucky kit on his long-suffering mother instead of a well-paid
assistance team. He seemed to have come so far in so few years.

`Oi,' came a friendly voice, interrupting his thoughts. Mason Greenwood had
emerged from the changing rooms in the same full kit, a backpack pulled
over both shoulders, his thumbs hooked into the straps as he strolled up
the corridor.

`Oh, hey,' Brandon said with a nod at the other young prodigy, his junior
by a year and a bit but by far his closest contemporary amongst the
first-team regulars. He reached out a hand for a quick grab with his fellow
teenager, who looked wiped out from the day's exertions.

`We still on for video games at yours, Bran?' the Bradford-born forward
asked brightly, then frowned a little as it became obvious Brandon had
forgotten all about this plan. When had this been arranged? God, he must
have been more distracted than he realised since the weekend... After all,
they had all got pretty lashed that evening after destroying the Rovers!

`Oh,' he mumbled in a daze, `is that today?' The 18-year-old's face fell
further, but Brandon quickly reassured him with a playful jab to the
ribs. `I'm still free – I'm just losing track. You good to come now and
catch the tram to my ends?'

Mason nodded eagerly, clearly relieved. The lean 5'11 striker often seemed
more mature than Williams, outwardly at least, but Brandon could often tell
the year's difference between them. Greenwood was far more boyish and
naïve in his behaviour, a lot less streetwise and toughened than
baby-faced Brandon, in reality.

`Cool, let's move,' he said, dreading Luke emerging from the dressing rooms
to give him another lecture on honesty and that cunt Maguire. He tugged
gently on Mason's sleeve in a half-serious gesture of urgency, letting out
an eager laugh. `Let's get out of here before the gaffer finds even more
fucking drills for us to do, hah!'



Brandon was unusual amongst his teammates in that he still lived with his
family, the blessing and the curse of making it big at your local team. He
was vaguely self-conscious of how this might infantilise him in the other
blokes' eyes, but that nagging sense was definitely outweighed by the
comfort and convenience of still bedding town in his parents' semi-detached
house a short tram ride from Old Trafford. Sure, he had big ideas about a
sexy inner-city apartment, maybe shared with other young guys like Mason,
but for now, he quite liked the comfort of his teenage bedroom, his mum's
cooking and the regular laundry service, and even the company of his
siblings.

This late afternoon, the light dwindling already as the lads hopped off the
tram and wound their way through the residential streets, the house was
silent. Brandon's siblings were at school and his parents were still at
work. He let himself and Mason in, locked up behind him, picked up some
stray post, and led the way upstairs. The pair of them were promising,
media-lauded professional footballers, but they were still foremost a pair
of teenagers: slobby afternoon FIFA and COD sessions on the Xbox were still
a great retreat from the hard work and pressure of Old Trafford, and from
the more serious company of their mature teammates.

In Brandon's room, a stereotypical mess of discarded clothing, he flipped
on a couple of lamps and the big TV (the first thing he'd spent his Man
United salary on, in fact) and busied himself tidying some space for them
to sit and load up a game, half-listening as Mason regaled him with stories
from the flat-share he had recently been moved into since turning 18 and
ditching his host family, the parents of a couple of Academy hopefuls.

Soon, the lads were intently playing a game of FIFA and hurling joking
abuse at one another like any two lads their age; Brandon sat cross-legged
on the corner of his bed, and Mason sunk into a bean bag at his side, both
lads bashing the buttons of wireless remotes and enjoying the game as
passionately as if it wasn't a computer-simulated miniature of their actual
lives. It was weird that football games were so popular among men who did
this for real, but Brandon had observed this was just as true amongst men
in their 30s. He supposed it was the restriction on their life: they were
hardly out partying every night, with their strict diets and fitness
regimes.

`Fuck you,' Brandon laughed after his younger teammate had smashed him for
the 3rd time in a row, tossing his remote controller aside on the
bedsheets. `I should really have gotten out of this sweaty kit,' he thought
aloud.

`Yeah, you fuckin' stink,' Mason said, giving him a smirk. `In real life,
and at FIFA...'

`Prick. Hehe.'

`Hey,' Mason said, thumbing idly at his controller, `did you notice Maguire
still wasn't back in training today, mate...?'

Brandon paused, feeling unsettled by the topic change. They tended not to
talk much shop when hanging out, and he'd always assumed Mason agreed with
his preference for this – there was a relief in the normality when it
was just the two of them. And after his conversation with Luke today, this
was the LAST detail of their United lives he wanted to come up. He just
made a noncommittal noise of acknowledgement and got up off the bed.

`Yeah, that's two days in a row, and no mention why,' Mason said with a
curious expression, leaning comfortably back in the bean bag whilst Brandon
traipsed by him. The tall 18-year-old lounged back and looked about the
room idly whilst Brandon fussed over a bit of tidying, shoving some pants
and a tshirt off the floor and into a laundry basket.

`Well, who cares, training runs fine without him there,' Williams remarked
gruffly. He eyed Mason uncertainly – he knew his pal was a little iffy
with the gaffer's choice of captain too, though he hadn't really broached
it with him. `I didn't think you were a fan of the big nobhead,' he pointed
out bluntly, and went to peel his training jersey up and off, just in a
skintight black long-sleeved top underneath it. He dragged this off too,
briefly shirtless.

`Well I'm not,' Mason agreed. `Just think it's a bit weird.'

`I heard he's in trouble,' Brandon said. `As he should be. The big fuckin'
weirdo.' He turned towards his closet and dragged out a clean-ish hoody to
pull over his bare lean torso. `I hope they fucking take the captain's
armband off him, and...'

Mason had got up from his seat and was standing there in his own slightly
sweaty training gear, an odd expression on his face. Brandon approached him
with the hoody over his forearms, trying to gauge that quizzical look on
his face. The two lads stood a couple of foot apart, and for a moment it
was as if a large penny was dropping for each of them, separately.

`Why do you call him a weirdo?' Mason asked in a strained, quiet voice.

`It was YOU who told me to be careful of him,' blurted Brandon, almost at
the same time.

The two teens stared each other down, Brandon suddenly feeling heated with
fresh resentment of the older Yorkshireman who he had done his best to
stitch up. He watched Mason's panicked expression settle down, and let out
a huffing sigh. `You too, then,' he said angrily. `God, that man is messed
up...'

`I don't know what you mean,' Greenwood said.

`You're a shit liar, pal,' Brandon told him, dragging the hoody on and
wrestling his head through the hole. He ran fingers through his tousled
hair and took a couple of deep breaths. `What did he do to you, then?' he
demanded meaningfully, all doubt put aside. He saw the embarrassed flicker
on Mason's face, and his own rising anger was mixed with concern for his
naïve friend, suddenly seeing his vulnerability around somebody like
that, somebody so... controlling. He pulled the bottom right down over his
exposed lower abs, and took a friendly step closer to his mate, who was
biting his lip and flexing his fists a bit uncomfortably. `Hey,' he told
him, `you okay, man...?'

`It's not so much what he... did to me,' Mason muttered darkly, `it's more
like... what he got me to... do...'

Brandon feared the worst. `Fuck, what was it?' he asked in a sharp
whisper. `Mate... I'm sorry... Did he hurt you...?'

`What? No!' Mason protested.

`He smashed me in the face when I wouldn't suck his fucking prick,' Brandon
grunted honestly. What was the point of hiding anything here? He saw
Greenwood's shock and wondered what the fuck had gone on for him, if this
was such news. `He's mad,' Brandon exclaimed. `Fucking weirdo made moves on
me in the gym, can you believe it...?'

`Shit...'

`One minute he's helping me work on my upper body strength, next
he's... Fuckin' hell. He deserves to be in trouble...' A slow smirk spread
on Brandon's young features. `And I made bloody sure he was. I did it for
us, mate. I got him sorted, don't you worry. Nobody twists a handjob out of
me then smacks me in the face, fuckin' creep...'

`You tossed him off?' Mason asked a bit weakly.

Brandon bristled at the potentially accusing question, and shrugged his
broad young shoulders. `Yeah, more or less... Fuck it. Dunno why I didn't
kick him in the balls and do a runner. And hey, you know that Luke Shaw, I
swear he's like gay for him or something, had him at me earlier on, trying
to defend Maguire and...' He paused, seeing the flashes of recognition and
worry on his friend's face at that extra name. He trailed off and looked
intently at Mason, who half turned away now.

`And that's it?' Mason asked. `That's all you got up to...? Fuck...'

`What? Why? Mate, what did YOU do...?'

Mason backed off and dropped into a sitting position on the edge of the
bed, and Brandon hurried with him. He sat down next to him and draped an
arm about the bigger lad's shoulders. `Hey, man, you can tell me,' he said
quietly. `What have you been getting up to, pal? What did that dumb prick
force you into...?'

`He didn't force me, exactly...' A worried groan came from Mason, who
buried his face in his hands, and Brandon hugged at him a bit until he sat
back up a little and carried on. `He got me involved in some stuff,
though,' he said in a nervous voice, `and then I freaked out a bit... I
mean... I ain't queer, you know? I'm straight, I swear...!'

`Well aye, me too,' Brandon insisted, giving him another gentle hug. He
thought about how much of a weird thrill it had been, touching Harry for
the first time, in spite of all his fears and confusion, until it
turned... sour. And that blowie from pretty boy Luke, well... He bit back
these thoughts, gritted his teeth, tried to push these truths away. `We're
both just straight lads,' he said forcefully, `led astray by that dirty
bugger, so...'

`Mate,' Mason said suddenly with the hissing air of confession, `I think I
went a bit far, though. I mean, I did some really queer shit, so...' A long
tense silence between them, sat on the bed leg to leg, the musty smell of
their used kit filling the space between them. `I've been thinking about it
ever since,' Greenwood admitted in a tiny voice. `I can't believe what I
let myself do. It's all so mad.'

Mason hugged at his broad shoulders, feeling his body warmth, again that
swelling aggression coming to him: a real desire to make Maguire pay for
upsetting his pal. But also, a strange thrill at the closeness of their
bodies. He thought about how simple and fucking satisfying it had been with
Luke, and... But no, that Shaw lad was just as weird as Maguire right,
or...?

`Mate,' he muttered back to Mason as cold comfort, `I let bloody Luke Shaw
nosh me off in a physio room, so... You can't be much more confused than I
am right now!' He let out a hollow laugh and the lads' eyes met in this
laddish hug, pulled close together. `Only bloody shot my load too,' he
added, with a mixture of guilt and relish.

Mason nodded. `Yeah, I got sucked off too,' he said. `Not just Luke,
though, er... Dan James, too.'

Brandon sat up a bit more upright in shock. `No fuckin' way,' he said more
loudly. His mind raced: Dan James?! It was hard to imagine that feisty
fucker getting up to anything so naughty with another lad, what the hell?
How many blokes were into this sorta thing? He loosened his arm from
Mason's shoulders and blinked in furious surprise.

`But yeh, I came too,' Mason admitted then in a weak attempt at mutual
reassurance.

`Well that doesn't make us bent,' Brandon responded sharply, a touch
defensively. He pictured himself blowing his load on that treatment bed,
with... well, it hadn't just been the blowjob, had it? His buttocks
clenched against the mattress and he thought again of the weird sensation
of a finger exploring down there, shit. Why had let Luke get away with
THAT? `Who would have thought any of this of Luke fucking Shaw, and Danny
James, eh... God... You think you know a lad, and...'

`It wasn't just blowies,' Mason added quickly.

`Huh?' He looked at the Bradford lad inquisitively, and frowned. `Mate, you
didn't...'

`I fucked them both. I mean... just a bit. Erm. But...'

`Shit!'

`Bran, mate, I dunno what I was thinking,' Mason said hotly. `Harry said it
was really cool and normal and I thought I was just playing but then it
felt so heavy and real and... Shit. God, what do you think? I just don't
know if...' Mason stopped his gibbering, realising that Brandon had placed
a trembling hand on the thigh of his trackies and leaned in a little
closer.

Brandon stared intensely at his friend and teammate, and let out a breath
he'd been holding for too long, then awkwardly moistened his plump lips. `I
think we've both done some mad shit, haven't we?' he asked, with a croaky
little laugh, edging closer. He looked at Mason's wide innocent eyes, the
conflicted curve of his pretty mouth, the little acne scars on his pale
caramel cheeks. He ran a hand back across the stretch of those broad
shoulders, very gently.

`Aye,' murmured Mason in agreement. He rested a hand on top of Brandon's
where it had settled on his thigh, and he sighed too. The lads edged ever
so slightly closer in the half-light of the bedroom, bathed in the faint
glow of the resting TV screen and its paused video games. `But we were
just... experimenting. None of it makes us gay, does it?'

Brandon leant in more as he shook his head lightly, and he squeezed a
little at the thigh muscle through the thin nylon trackies, feeling it
twitch a little as his pal tensed up. He let his head lean in more, until
he was really close, then he pressed the tip of his nose against Mason's
smooth jawline, and let his lips rest an inch from the skin of the other
lad's neck, blowing his breath teasingly against the skin. `Nah,' he said,
resting in that position, hugging close to the lean striker, pressing the
side of his own thigh to Mason's, and holding onto his back muscles. `Nah,
not at all.'

Very slowly, Brandon edged his hand further, until it was settling in the
space between the other footballer's legs and finding the outline of some
fat shape in the crotch of those tracksuit bottoms. He pushed his lips
against the tingling skin of Mason's neck and made a silent kiss. His
friend sighed acquiescence. `Bran... mate...' Enticed by this gasping
reaction, Williams gave him another kiss, and closed his fingers about the
swelling shape of Mason's piece. God it felt warm and exciting, just as
Maguire's massive thing had, and Luke's lovely thick... shit, so many cocks
in so little time, haha!

Very gently, he pushed Greenwood back onto the bed, and wriggled on top of
him. A kiss on the lips seemed far too bold, too queer, but nuzzling and
licking at the musky skin of the lad's neck, that would do... He pressed
his hands under the material of Mason's football shirt and felt the ridges
of his six pack, and let their crotches grind gently together, two growing
erections through layers of sweaty training gear, their legs crossing
awkwardly as their bodies ground and writhed. The lads let out alternating
gasps or mumbles of confused enjoyment, and their hands pawed beneath
clothing until they had to separate to strip.

Williams clambered aside to tug and grab at his own hoody that he'd only
had on minutes, throwing it heavily aside. As soon as he was shirtless on
his knees, Mason was up and at him, and the 18-year-old was planting lips
against one sensitive nipple. He yelped out his surprised delight as he
felt Mason's tongue brush and caress his nip with gusto. `Oh fuck...' And
then Mason's hands were on the downy skin of his lower back and sliding
inside his under-shorts to squeeze his butt. He thrilled at the memory of
Luke's questing finger, then tensed up in fear as he remembered Greenwood
had gone much further than him, and actually FUCKED two blokes, shitting
hell...

Scared it would go too far too fast, Brandon tensed his wiry arms and
shoved Mason backwards onto his back again, bearing down on him so their
bare torsos rubbed and slapped together, planting his tongue and lips to
the other lad's nipples just as he had started on him. He slid his hands
down to help Mason out of his trackies whilst licking and kissing his way
down the central canal of that defined young six pack, until his chin was
brushing wiry pubes and a sweaty erection was in his face. He swerved his
lips to avoid it and, just like he did to Luke, he ran his tongue against
the bollocks, tasting his mate's salty sweat. Mason's strangled groan of
pleasure drove him wild and gave him the confidence to go further: he
opened his lips wide and began sucking on the pinky-brown tip of his pal's
excited member.

`Oh god... Bran...'

He could feel Mason's fingers claw through his floppy mess of hair, and he
squeezed his eyes shut and tried to open wider to take in more of the cock,
which felt so much bigger than it looked once it was between his tongue and
the roof of his mouth... mmm... They shifted their bodies about a little,
so Brandon could more comfortably devour the long shapely rod of flesh, and
he felt Mason pushing a hand into his trackies and under-shorts and tugging
out his own straining boner. Greenwood, despite his reported adventures,
was obviously less comfortable handling a cock, patting and stroking a bit
ineffectually at it so that Brandon might have laughed if his mouth wasn't
so busy. He couldn't believe quite how good it tasted.

`Yeh, buddy, that's it,' Greenwood panted.

Hearing in his voice how close he was already, Bran tried harder. He
thought about Luke's generous lapping and tried to emulate it, though he
felt like his tongue was less thick and muscular or something, because he
couldn't quite recreate those moves. But still, he knew his friend was
loving it, and was so close. Just before Mason climaxed, he lost some
confidence, and pulled his lips away, so that the sticky seed shot up his
cheek rather than on his tongue. He felt the warm cum ooze down his cheek
and dimple and onto his chin, and he let out a weak laugh of surprise or
embarrassment or, perhaps, regret at not catching it in his gob.

`Sit up,' Mason told him excitedly, `on your knees, mate...'

`Mase... I'm not ready to be...'

`Don't be daft, I'm not gonna... I just thought...'

In spite of his protest, confused Brandon rose up onto his knees on the bed
and felt his pants pulled further back by the other lad. But of course
Greenwood wasn't about to fuck him, he'd already spent his load... So he
was just... oh, yes... He felt hands on his buttocks and a finger entering
his fluffy crack. Would he be as good as Luke at this?! He rested on his
haunches and tried to relax a little, but he couldn't help but tighten up
and giggle as that long finger tickled through his crack and found his
tight hole. He moaned and mumbled profanities. Mason just panted
enthusiastically and planted a couple of kisses on his spine.

And then, just as Mason's finger was beginning to find his hot pink
entrance, the heavy sound of a slamming door downstairs. Brandon hopped off
the bed and onto his feet as quickly as if he'd been electrocuted, boner
slapping off his thighs.

`MASON,' called his mother's voice from downstairs, `I'M HOME...'

Brandon shot a look over his bare shoulder at near-naked Mason, sitting
cross-legged on the bed with his arse-finger still held out in some sordid
imitation of ET, his jaw dropped, a terrified frown settling on his
face. Brandon hopped awkwardly to the half-open bedroom door, dick slapping
and shaking. `I'm cumming soon,' he shouted awkwardly out into the landing,
pushing the door further shut so he could hide fully behind it if anyone
was coming up the stairs. He heard indistinct calls from his mother, and
leant nakedly against the door, his cock throbbing. `MUM... MASON'S HERE,'
he called, and shot another nervous glance at his pal. `Is it okay if
he... stays for dinner?' A moment's silence, then that maternal shouting
echoing back up the stairs: `Of course...'

Brandon pushed his door shut firmly, gasping, and then turned back to face
the bed, and nervous-faced Greenwood. Then he took a confident stride
closer, took his cock in his right hand, and purred to his fellow teenage
football hunk. `You heard that,' Brandon muttered sensuously,
`you're... staying... for dinner...' He stood squarely in front of the
other lad at the edge of the bed, squeezed his throbbing hard-on, and
rubbed his free hand across one shoulder and up Mason's neck
encouragingly. Their eyes met, and Mason looked hesitant but willing.

His head dip and his inexperienced lips brushed the swollen red head of
Brandon's cock, and he tried his best to mute his gasp of relief. `Ohh...'
He reached both hands to the soft fluffy texture of Mason's short afro, and
pressed it down, guiding the pursed mouth against his
boner... `Mmm... Buddy... Yes... Dinner... is... served...' He knew it
wouldn't take him long, he was so fucking excited right now. He pushed a
few more inches of his dick into Mason's mouth so that the oral-virgin
gagged and spluttered a little, then he released his load, feeding drop
after drop to his nervous lover and letting out a series of short sharp
gasps.

He pulled up a hand to wipe the spunk off his own face as he withdrew his
throbbing dick from Mason's quivering lips, trailing his seed down the
other lad's chin too, both of them a bit stained and salty in the face
now. They looked at each other and couldn't help but giggle and blush.

`How did I taste?' Bran asked, stood over his usually looming tall friend.

Mason smirked. `Like a smug prick.' He licked his lips gingerly. `Fuck
you. I'll still beat you at the next game of FIFA, you mug...'

Brandon let out a long sigh, and rolled his shoulder muscles as he
relaxed. `Well... you play one on your own first... I reckon I should
shower. Then you can have one too, if you like.' He paused, backing off,
dick swinging. `I mean... you could even sleep over... erm, if you liked.'

Mason flashed him a nervous grin. `That would be... cool, mate.'

Muffled by the firmly shut door, Mrs Williams' voice echoed up through the
small house again, excessively loud against Brandon's teenage-imposed
deafness. `What do you lads fancy for dinner? Sausages and mash okay?' The
two teenage football prodigies looked at each other and burst out in fresh
laughter, their nude bodies rocking with mirth as they relaxed fully and
enjoyed their newfound intimacy, inhibitions abandoned.



It was much later in the evening, after they'd sat through a long comedy
film with the rest of Brandon's family, that Mason finally brought up the
topic that had spurred their bedroom experiments earlier tonight. He turned
to Brandon in the kitchen, as they worked together to wash up the family
dishes at the sink.

`What did you mean earlier, mate, when you said... About Maguire, and...'
Mason paused in the middle of drying a dish, and gave him a serious
look. `Did you do something to get back at him?'

Still giddy with his explorations, Brandon turned a lazy smile at his close
friend, and dipped his hands back into the frothy bubbles to find some
cutlery. `Erm... yeh... it's er, it's so funny, and don't say anything
but...' He leaned over, dropped his voice, and explained: the secret
meeting he'd had with the Assistant Manager, the tears of awkwardness he'd
squeezed out, the story he'd pulled, how he'd invented a dumb racist joke
and claimed to hear Harry Maguire say it behind a couple of black players'
backs during training, and then...

Mason stared at him, stony-faced. `Brandon,' he hissed
disappointedly. Brandon continued to smirk proudly, but then saw just how
angry and stressed his mate looked now. He stared confusedly at his younger
guest, then darted a look nervously to the kitchen door in case his mum or
one of the others had come to check how they were doing with the clean-up
operation.

`Have you looked past your white fucking privilege for a second long enough
to realise how shitty that is, buddy?' whispered Mason gravely. `Bran,
lad... racism ain't something to joke and mess about...' He looked
genuinely upset. `If you'd ever experienced any, you smug white bastard,
you wouldn't put anyone through that.' Williams wilted at the accusation,
rethinking his whole cunning scheme and realising how ignorant he'd
been. `I can't believe you,' Mason added sadly.

`Shit,' Brandon muttered.

`Yeah, shit,' concluded Mason. He put the dried dish down on the counter
next to them, and rubbed his hands on the tea towel for an awkward
moment. `You know what... Maybe I won't stay over tonight.' He pulled away
as Brandon reached for a hug, and marched across the kitchen. Brandon stood
at the sink, frozen with shame, and listened to his friend's polite
goodbyes to the family out there, and then his heavy steps and the gentle
slam of the front door. Shit.

He leaned against the sink and closed his eyes, thinking about what a
bell-end he'd really been. It had seemed such an easy lie, a quick way to
fuck up his enemy, and... He stepped away from the sink, and took his phone
out of his jeans pocket, and took a deep breath. Well. There was only one
thing for it. He'd made the mess, he had to face up to it. He looked
through his contacts for the Assistant Manager he'd spoken to, bit back his
shame, and hit dial.

`Hey... Hey, chief... Sorry to disturb you, er... You got a minute? It's
just...' He gave a heavy breath, rubbed his forehead, and accepted his
shame. He drifted across the kitchen, sat down at the table, and got ready
to confess his sins into his mobile phone, picturing the disappointment and
judgment in Greenwood's eyes. `I did a pretty shitty thing, and I need to
tell you about it...'