Date: Tue, 21 Nov 2023 21:14:01 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 380

Part 380: The Ex Factor


Sunday meant recovery day, squashed in the brief turnaround between
yesterday's home win over Malta and tomorrow's trip to North Macedonia
for the last qualification game for the 2024 Euros. It also meant that
the men were put up in a central London hotel, rather than back to their
main camp at St George's Park, or even the Tottenham Hotspur facilities
that sometimes housed them around Wembley fixtures. It wasn't ideal from
a training or scheduling point of view, but for older players like this
33-year-old, it was a pleasing excuse to take today relatively easy, and
to maximise the recovery time between the two low-stakes England games.
Though he grinned and bore the odd bit of teasing, Jordan Henderson knew
that though there was no denying it: his playing life at Al-Ettifaq had
allowed him to take the foot off the gas somewhat, and he'd found the
intensity of England training last week quite tough after all. He'd
gladly taken the central midfield position again for his country, and he
hoped he could make it to at least this one last tournament under
Southgate's leadership... but it had not been an easy week for the former
Liverpool captain, far from it.

It wasn't Henderson's first England camp since quitting the
Premiership, nor since his break-up with his Liverpudlian boy, but it was
the first one where he might have dared to hope for a thaw in the icy
relations between he and the young Scouser; such hopes had proved false
and naive, given the sharp glares he'd received from Trent on the
arrival afternoon, in every training session of the week, and when the
pair of them were lined up in the middle of the squad formation on
Saturday night. It was crushing for Jordan, the guilt and anguish of
looking into that beautiful sullen face and seeing nothing but cold
resentment - but then what had he expected, really? And his attempts to
bridge that gulf, to make some kind of peace, none of them had gone
well... Not in the last couple of months when the two of them had met up
in the England squad, nor this week in November as they finalised
England's seeding for next summer.

It was early afternoon, and Jordan was finished with his workout in one
of the hotel's several spacious gyms, earbuds playing chill-out R&B as
he threw the sweat towel about his sturdy neck and made his way out
through the changing rooms, quick nods of acknowledgement to Trippier and
to Ramsdale on his way past various teammates. Today was less communal
than usual, the hotel's facilities not lending themselves to real
serious training, rather breakout groups and personalised schedules of
minor fitness work and deep recovery activity - and Jordan was glad that
his next activity on such personal schedule was just a dip in the ice
bath.

Moving through the changing facilities, the 6ft Sunderland man peeled his
gym top away, sleeveless lycra pulling away from the tanned musculature
of his torso, as showy and ripped as it had been as he primed himself
this summer, knowing a big-money transfer was on the cards. And, he
supposed, that his day-to-day life would involve a lot more time poolside
at his family's huge new home, rather than facing drab Merseyside autumn
- he pictured a training day at the Liverpool ground, him and the lads
jostling through chill rain, a romanticised haze falling over the
downsides of Northern England, and a composite memory forming of his eyes
meeting Trent's through the drizzle, sharing a knowing smile with his
young boyfriend, and then finding each other's bodies in the shadows
afterward.

Off came the shorts too, dropped to his ankles and the longer compression
shorts below peeled down with them, so that he was just in the black
sports briefs that clung firmly to his hard glutes and sweaty package.
Sock after sock rolled off and towel grabbed from the shelf of his
locker, just as he heard the doors swing and caught sight of the other
shiny-faced gym-goer emerging from the same exit behind him, also done
with his fitness plan and ready to cool down. `Oh hey,' Hendo murmured
vaguely, a little distracted by images of Liverpool in the rain, and he
waved a hand in general greeting.

Like him, the other England player was lost in the music of his
earphones, and didn't immediately even seem to notice him, whipping his
England training top away and spinning it recklessly in one hand, then
pausing with wide eyes and raised brows, a trademark dopey expression
creasing his scruffy face - `Oh, hiya,' trilled Jack Grealish
cheerfully, snapping out of the daze of whatever dance track he was lost
in, returning the wave. `Phwor,' the Brummie lad cawed instantly,
`look at that six-pack, old man, I thought you said you'd let things go
a bit since moving to Saudi...?' And chuckling brightly to himself, DJ
Grealo went strutting past, earphones still in, humming loudly along, and
then stopping a few lockers down the row. `Ice bath?' he asked
matter-of-factly, and Jordan nodded.

`Yup. Much needed. My legs, mate, my legs.'

Jack grinned and nodded. `Getting old, Hendo, for fuck's sake.'

`Sure am,' Jordan chuckled quietly, unfolding the towel to wrap more
discreetly about his waist, and then taking long strides past the other
player, just as Jack began to stoop over to plunge down his under-sized
training shorts; Jordan was still thinking about wet Liverpool training
kits, and grabbing hold of Trent's strong body in the darkness behind
the kit shed, pushing the Scouse hunk in against a concrete wall and
tickling his sensitive neck with the fluff of his own beard, whispering
sweet nothings in his ear - he missed it so much, and yet it had been him
who threw it away, hadn't it?


Yes, Trent Alexander-Arnold thought bitterly, looking at the doors out of
the gym, still hunched over the front of the exercise bike he had been
powering against, but had now allowed to lull to a stop under his
powerful limbs. Yes, it was all that fucker's fault, so he couldn't see
why old Jordan had to make puppy dog eyes at him on his way past all the
time, or give him those martyr looks on the pitch last night, as if they
should have some kind of kiss-and-make-up in the middle of an England
game just cos one of them had made a good pass to the other. The
25-year-old Liverpudlian was hardly going to start drama and conflict,
kick up a fuss and refuse to play alongside his former skipper, he
wasn't either that much of a dickhead or that careless about his
international career... but he sure wasn't going to forgive and forget,
and just allow things to be pushed under the rug.

Jordan Henderson had dropped him like he was nothing the day he signed
his Saudi contract, and Trent had been forced to learn about this
movement alongside many of his teammates as it was announced on the
training pitch, not in any private communication with the man who came
inside him and whispered `I love you' in his ear, all tickling beard
and tight powerful embrace. Fuck him, Trent thought bitterly, fuck him
and his apology stares and nice-guy act, fuck him.

Sweaty and irritated, the defender-turned-midfielder left the gym a
couple of minutes after his ex, taking a slow route out, topping up his
water bottle by the door and making idle chatter with the younger England
newbies who were resting there, then disappearing into the locker-room
off to the side. He was glad enough that there was no sign of Henderson
himself in here - it looked like Grealish was just exiting off in one
direction, strutting away ostentatiously in tiny black pants with a
rolled towel over one shoulder, the bloody show-off, and this left just a
couple of other occupants: Guehi was getting dressed after a shower,
apparently heading upstairs for a massage treatment, and Bowen and Rice
seemed to be enjoying a West Ham gossip catch-up in various states of
undress by the showers. Suppressing his heated mood, Alexander-Arnold
made bland conversation with the three of them, hovering alone at his
locker, knowing that he ought to shower off and do the same as the Palace
player - he was due a few physio treatments himself after playing a full
90 minutes in the Malta win - but feeling vaguely that he was unready to
try and unwind like that, still restless and furtive.

He loitered at his locker, fussing pointlessly with his things, and
scratching at his bare thick arms, wondering how much he could delay the
remains of his schedule without getting in any trouble with Southgate's
underlings. He just didn't want to lie somewhere and be told by a physio
masseur that he had loads of tense knots in his back or his legs - yeah,
of course he fucking did, he'd been dumped unceremoniously by the love
of his life, the handsome rugged DILF who had turned his world upside
down. Sure, he was doing his best to get on with Liverpool life with him,
but the best that had offered him was an awkward unrequited crush on that
mysterious newcomer Dominik Szoboszlai, and a few near-meets on Grindr
that he'd panicked and blocked at the last minute; so much for young,
free, and single. Sad, sexless, and lonely, that had been Trent's
reality for half this year.

It suddenly occurred to Trent that there was only one clear way for him
to release some of this tension, and he slammed his locker shut in a
hurry, making the West Ham buddies look up from where they sat.

He ignored them and disappeared back through to the gym, but turning away
to the left into a separate fitness suite where he'd spied the swinging
boxing targets and racks of gloves. A leathery thud told him that he
wasn't the first to deviate from the prescribed regime and seek out such
release - the 25-year-old shifted between the pendulous stuffed weights,
picking up and strapping on a pair of boxing gloves with dextrous ease.

He slipped into the centre of the room and found out who was on his
wavelength: the central hanging target swung violently his way and he
caught it, staring past it to the gleaming shirtless figure who had been
pummelling gloved fists into it, his lean body heaving with exertion and
almost reflective in its sweaty shimmer. The other man relaxed his
fighter's stance at the realisation of company, and Trent allowed the
weighted target to swing away form his awkward grip, giving a nod across
to the other gloved man, who was panting and rolling his shoulders,
stripped down to just his Nike under-shorts.

`Just needed to throw some punches,' Marcus Rashford told him simply.

`Sure,' Trent agreed. `Same, bro, same.'

`Does me good,' grunted the thick accent of the Manc-born forward,
relaxing further.

`I know, nothing like it,' his Liverpool rival muttered, taking steps
towards him.

Rashford looked done, as if he'd been in here for quite a while,
slamming punches into the targets; he began to undo the straps of the
gloves, with some difficulty with both hands contained. `Here,' Trent
said quietly, using his under-arm to remove one of his own and then
reaching across to help, bringing them close together, and filling
Trent's nostrils with the rich manly scent of Marcus' physicality.
`There you go, lad.'

Rashford paused, looking at him with terse gratitude, and then pulled
away, tossing both used gloves aside. He cracked his knuckles and stood
there, throbbing with heat and exhaustion, the intricate tattoos standing
out on the dark shiny skin of his muscles. `You wanna punch these
things, or want me to grab some pads and help?' he offered in an almost
begrudging series of grunts, something weary and cynical in his face;
Trent paused to consider this, surprised at the friendly offer, though
the two of them had always had a decent relationship that set aside their
cities' rivalry entirely.

`Sure,' the 25-year-old agreed after a moment's thought, `I can throw
some punches at you, be a bit more fun with a moving target. Cheers,
Rashers. Just let me tighten these gloves properly, then get ready to
feel my fury.'


Some dreaded it, but Jordan enjoyed dipping much of his body into the
deep square plunge pool, feeling it do its work on the aching muscles of
his strong legs and his lower torso, towel discarded on the poolside
shelf. He toyed with his phone as he did, firstly setting the timer so
that he kept his lower half submerged for the correct allotted time, but
then checking a few messages and, lastly, turning to the camera icon on
his social media and poking an elbow into the other lad using the pool.
`Here,' he grunted in his Mackem accent, `let's get a selfie for the
gram, shall we?' A pic with the English sport's most popular face was
hardly gonna damage his online presence, which had dwindled slightly
after his transfer away from the Premiership and the mountain of
hypocritical drama about his Saudi deal.

Crouched to the other side and inspecting his own phone, Jack just made a
slight `hmm' and only half turned, whilst Jordan lifted and angled the
phone to get a good selfie angle: he kept angling it, wanting to reduce
the amount of his own body in shot, not wanting it to be too thirsty or
desperate in showing off his pecs or abs, which would just get him in hot
water with his wife, who'd been convinced he was cheating on her before
they agreed to leave Liverpool. He couldn't blame the deal and the
break-up entirely on her suspicions, but it had certainly been a sensible
factor. No, he didn't want this to look like a `thirst trap', as the
kids called it, so he angled it to get in slightly more of Jack than
himself, though he couldn't help but feel that he looked very ruggedly
handsome as it caught his jawline and smize. And behind him, next to him
in the ice pool, an almost forced smile from Jack, swaddled with white
towel over his shoulders, highlighted curtains parted over his whiskered
face. Click, caption, post.

Jordan hovered at one side of the narrow pool, applying a filter and
typing on the text, `Ice bath with this legend', tagging Jack Grealish
in it, and inspecting the image properly: yep, he looked pretty good, he
thought with rare vanity, and he dared to wonder what Trent might think,
seeing him like this, seeing just how good he looked... but that was dumb.
Trent could see his handsomeness every time they passed each other in
their hotels and gyms and shared football pitches, and the youngster
didn't show anything but lingering hate. The love they'd shared was
over, Jordan thought, and he needed to accept that, having trashed it
himself with his own decisions and his cowardice in failing to inform the
lad in time. How many times had he almost confessed the plan to Trent,
before it was too late...?

He kept looking at the picture for a moment longer before hitting post
and sending it to his story - yeah, he looked good, but so did Jack,
coquettishly handsome like something from a 90s boyband, even with the
towel about his shoulders like a chilly midwinter granny. And a slight
curve of tanned back on show, thanks to Jordan's attempts to angle the
shot away from his own muscles - and the other player's backside, framed
against the surface of the water, enclosed in black and, Jordan thought
with an internal laugh, almost shrunk by the distortion of the ice-cold
pool, because in real life that trunk was way chunkier!

He'd hit post, and within seconds found that he wasn't the only one to
notice this about the posted selfie: `Gawd, don't my bum look cute
there, haha,' drawled the Man City hero behind him, laughing hoarsely,
clearly inspecting the notification from being tagged in Hendo's post;
as if he'd hardly noticed this in the picture, Jordan half-turned,
responding with just a vague `Hmm?' and placing his phone carefully
beyond his folded towel.

`Why'd you post my arse on Insta?' Jack demanded, but through a smug
chuckle as if really enjoying the framing of his pert backside in such
skimpy black sports briefs. `God, the thirsty messages I'll be getting
after that, you dick - it's bad enough as it is.' He giggled to
himself, still thumbing away at his phone and bent gently forward in the
same posture - so that as Jordan turned to address him, he found himself
facing the magnificent view in the watery flesh, looking the 5ft8 winger
up and down, from his stylish hair and superhero towel cape to the curve
of his back and hips, the distorted meatiness of his submerged legs, and
the perfect black backside of those briefs, which looked so much fuller
and bigger in front of him, far better than their dainty framing in the
selfie.

For some reason, Hendo couldn't help himself. `I just needed to share
the view,' he chuckled warmly, propping his hands back against one side
of the pool, and staring fully down Jack's rear, enjoying the
masterpiece he could see with an appreciation for the male form that had
taken years to develop - he really hadn't known what he was doing when,
several years ago, he'd allowed those first hungover touches to be
shared with his best mate Lallana in the spare bedroom of his marital
home.

`I look like such a tease,' Grealish groaned as he turned about to face
him, sounding like he was exactly 50% worried and 50% delighted. Hendo
still stared at the view, now the broad smooth chest and toned tummy, the
bulging front of those briefs again distorted and shrank by the
perspective of the water - and when the City player looked up from his
phone, he seemed instantly to recognise the thoughtfulness of the stare.
Or was Jack the Lad really incapable of looking at anyone without a
flirty glint in his eye and a cheeky slant to his grin? That was
possible.

`Hey, were you looking at my arse?' the attacking player demanded
simply.

Jordan rolled his eyes. `It was a selfie,' he said. `I just thought
I'd post a pic of us in recovery. For the fans, y'know.'

`Not there, but now,' Jack laughed, pushing it. `You were looking at
me.'

`What?' Hendo asked, but it seemed hard to deny - he'd been staring so
openly as the younger guy turned around to face him, and he was annoyed
that it had been noticed. He gave him a strained smile, shrugging his
broad bare shoulders, trying to evade this. `Stop fretting, I bet you
love the pic - it's hardly more than the stuff you've done for
magazines in the last couple of years, Little Beckham.'

Confusingly, Grealish frowned and screwed up his face at that name, but
laughed quite likely and slid his phone away on the sides of the pool,
scratching at his furred chin. `Nah,' he said in that strangely
charming Birmingham monotone. `You were proper staring. But yeah- I
don't mind.' And he turned back around, this time more exaggeratedly,
bending over to the edge of the pool, his big arse pushed back across the
surface of the water, more prominent and glorious than in the selfie -
and Jordan couldn't even bring himself to deny his mistake, just staring
openly down at it, registered by smirking Jack as he glanced teasingly
over one shoulder. Jordan glanced up, up from the black-framed cheeks, up
the curving back, past the cape of towel, to those lined naughty eyes.
`You like what you see, daddy Hendo?' purred the £100 million man,
Villa's great loss.

Perhaps it was the `daddy', perhaps it was the fresh burn of Trent's
hateful stare - perhaps it was the physical exertion of the week gone and
the tense battle of the Malta game, played awkwardly close to his ex.
Perhaps it was all of this, and perhaps it was just lust, raging
testosterone, a need he'd been suppressing since the day he packed his
bags and moved to Saudi. He slid his hand through the water and grabbed
it, taking hold of one big plump cheek through those tight wet briefs.
Jack, over his shoulder, winked. `Maybe,' the former Liverpool captain
growled, giving it a good squeeze, then releasing it, and stroking it
more gently. `Maybe I do, Jack.'

Grealish turned away, hunched over the side of the pool in this
pronounced manner, and Jordan edged forward, into the pool's centre: he
rested both hands on Jack's hips from behind, holding him there ,and
then giving his arse a good feel, one big glute in each hand, cupping and
squeezing the muscular cheeks, teasing his fingers at the tight edges of
the clingy sports briefs. In front of him, Jack made a pleasant `Mmm',
and Jordan sucked in his breath, biting his lip. He was excited. He
inched further forward, his body heating up in spite of the cold pool.
His hands slid up from Jack's arse, onto his sides, up his back - and
his body edged closer, until he was right behind him, and it was no
longer his hands pressing onto that perfect big rear, but the front of
his own briefs. Jordan edged forward, letting his thick muscled arms
embrace Jack's shivering form, and pressing his bulge in against his
bottom, until he was leaning in and brushing his bearded mouth against
the thin exposed strip of Jack's neck. Again, low and sensual, Jack
moaned `Mmm', and Jordan felt the throb in his swelling cock. It was
like he'd never wanted something this much in MONTHS.

He rubbed forward, pressing his increasing bulge in against that meaty
rump, rubbing his hands roughly up the smooth back, taking hold of the
edges of the towel and lifting it up over Jack's head, then across his
pecs, using it to pull him upright and back, bringing their bare bodies
close together, skin to skin, bulge to arse, chest to shoulders, and
breath to his ear as he said `Jack-'

And, unceremoniously, was cut off by the trill of the alarm on his phone,
the timer he'd set to make sure he kept his lower body in the icy water
for the optimum period. He almost laughed, staying icy still, with the
alarm ringing behind him, his hardening cock still pressed in against the
prime Grealish buttocks. He let out a long rattling sigh, and Jack
chuckled under his breath. `Time to get out,' purred the City lad,
pressing back with every muscle into Jordan's hesitant, frozen grip, and
Hendo saw that he had choices - he could pull away from this mistake with
his dignity intact, saved by the bell, or he could sink further into a
sudden and unexpected desire.

Henderson pulled sharply away from Grealish, splashing the cold water as
he did, reaching firmly across and turning off the alarm, leaving his
hand there, and then turning back across the narrow square of
waist-height water, staring hotly at the 28-year-old. Jack grinned simply
at him, turned this way and reaching under the water to fondle the bulge
of his briefs. He winked again, and Jordan could hear his own thundering
heartbeat. Decision time. He nodded, looking over Jack's shoulder,
across the room, and then he barked under his breath, very simply: `Get
in that sauna, Jack.'


Now Trent was every bit as dripping in sweat as the United striker. He
too had shucked his top and danced from foot to foot in just his gym
shorts, swinging punch after punch into the hard capable strength of the
taller player, impressed by Rashford's focus and stamina as he countered
blow after blow and pushed him to change it up, moving from hooks to
uppercuts to rounds of swift one-two. And now Trent, like Marcus, was
heaving with exertion, aches in his biceps and his shoulders, sweat
flooding down his frowning face, and a vague thought for the relaxing
physio treatments he had rejected in the suite upstairs. But he went
flying in with one last flurry, almost determined to catch Marcus
off-guard and see the Manc lad stumble or slip - but still, the
26-year-old icon countered each blow and held level with him, all intense
focus and attention, right until the last weary smack of Trent's glove
crashed into his left pad, and the two men reeled apart, gasping for
breath and wiping forearms across the gloss of their brows and noses.

`Feel better?' Rashford laughed through his heavy breathing.

`A bit,' Alexander-Arnold told him through a hoarse chuckle, ripping at
the velcro and ties and pushing glove after glove away, so that he could
shake and flex his hands, then do some stretches with his strong arms
behind his head, exposing pit after pit and wondering what muscle-clad
Marcus thought of his short but bulking body.

`What you got on your mind?' the forward demanded bluntly. `There was
a fair bit of aggression in those punches, Trent lad.'

He stared thoughtfully at the other player, something of a counterpart
for him across the Manchester-Liverpool divide, a friend that perhaps he
could confide partially in - certainly one of the lads he was closer to
in this squad, though truthfully he was missing his new bosom buddy Jude
Bellingham. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, unsure he
could even find the words if he wanted to be honest and open with the
other guy. Instead, keeping his voice dry, he just said `Life', and
backed away, going to place his gloves on the rack, stroking shoulders
with one of the swaying targets that hung from the ceiling - but his arm
muscle then brushing something else as he turned back. Marcus too had
come to place his pads here, and the two young football studs found
themselves side by side, very close, between the rack and the hanging
targets, and again all Trent could smell was the mixture of fresh sweat
and Dior fragrance.

The two men, a couple of inches apart in height, but Trent a little
thicker and heavier in build these days, stared each other down: Marcus
seemed to stare at him in an almost suspicious manner, down his hooked
nose, nostrils flaring, lips pouting. He looked like he was struggling to
read or understand something, and Trent felt that way himself, glaring
back into that demanding expression, their arms and chest briefly
brushing, hot and sweaty skin. He could feel the rising tension, could
feel the inevitability of further contact, but was he just projecting?
His own frustration, his own restlessness, his own desire... could this
straitlaced hard worker really feel so distracted too...?

And then he had his answer: Marcus' hand touching his skin halfway down
his flank, resting by his six-pack, and his own hand, in answer, settling
somewhere between bicep and shoulder, feeling the other lad's body heat,
feeling the intense sweaty dampness of his smooth decorated skin. And
then Marcus lunging in, the taller of them stooping somewhat, and Trent
bringing his hungry mouth up to receive the kiss - and then Rashford was
really kissing him, locking lips and questing tongue, and grasping at his
thick muscular body, pulling him into a slippery wet hug, sweaty muscle
against sweaty muscle, before pushing him roughly back into the unsteady
surface of one hanging weight. It swung and shifted and their bodies
tumbled sideways, bringing Trent crashing down against the floor with
Marcus on top of him, snogging him and pinning his arms back against the
ground at either side, straddling him and cock rubbing on cock.

`Fuck,' Trent gasped in a pause in the kissing, staring up in shock.

`Quiet,' Marcus hissed dismissively, and then bluntly, `I need my cock
sucked.'

And Alexander-Arnold wasted no time in nodding his head, just as Rashford
wasted no time in lifting up on his knees and pushing back slightly, just
as he dug into his tight clingy under-shorts and tugged out his long hard
erection. Trent raised up on his elbows into an ab crunch below the other
guy, and brought his eager mouth to the tip of the proferred cock, ready
to taste more than just Marcus' mouth.


Jordan pushed the other lad ahead of him, thrusting him into the narrow
dark heat of the dry sauna, and letting the door swing shut behind him.
He grabbed his confined hard-on in his wet briefs and scuttled into the
room after Grealish, grabbing him once more from behind and kissing his
neck, pressing his stiff bulge into his arse, cuddling at him and running
hands up and down his chest, his neck, one up onto his jaw and his mouth,
the other disappearing down his tummy to tease the waist of his pants; he
kissed his neck roughly and passionately and groaned into his ear,
grinding his wet bulge into the firm huge muscles of that famous arse,
wanting desperately to be inside it.

`Fuck yes,' drawled Grealo.

`Quiet,' Hendo barked, `don't make too much noise.'

`Yes, daddy,' the winger growled.

`Don't call me that,' the Al-Ettifaq player commanded, even though it
turned him on.

`Whatever you say...'

`Get these off...!'

Down came Jack's briefs, pictured so well in the selfie, and it took
both of them: Jordan wrenching them from behind and getting his hand on
the bare damp cheek, and Jack pushing down at either hip, the material
bunching and clinging. But down they went, so that Jordan could spit
heavily on one finger and push it between them, finding and prodding the
delicious hole that he wanted to penetrate. He kissed and chewed at
Jack's left ear, at the side of his neck, at the nape and the top of his
spine; and with his other hand he pushed down his own almost identical
sports briefs and took his prick in his hand, slapping the head against
one cheek, shivering with pleasure and enjoying the dirty `Mmmm' from
Grealo, the hissed `Oh, DADDY' that giggle stupidly out, even though
the Brummie lad was only 5 years his junior.

Henderson was urgent and impatient, spitting down on his prick and
rubbing his own saliva up and down the thick shaft; he felt like he
hadn't fucked in ages, having not put his cock in a man's arse since
the final night with Trent. (Only he'd known it was the final night, of
course, a fact that he knew must break that beautiful boy's heart...)

He pushed his cock in between those cheeks but just had to rub it up and
down the crack, finding Jack tight and resistant, for all his slutty
moans and gasps. Jordan hugged and held him, kissing still at his neck,
so roughly that he would leave a rash or a hickey, and wanking the base
of his cock, shoving it in against the hole, then giving up so that he
could finger it some more, prodding roughly and impatiently, one then two
fingers, making Jack howl and whine and giggle, needing to stick three
fingers of the other hand in his mouth to shut him up, which the City
slut sucked and kissed with deep lavish moans.

`I'm gonna fuck you,' Hendo growled needlessly into his ear.

`Yes,' whined Jack, bending further forward into the slatted wooden
confines of the sauna, pressing back with his big perfect posterior - and
between those parting cheeks, Jordan thrust forward, pushing the head of
his cock in against the tight hole until it relented, and he could feel
himself slide slowly inside the great arse, entering this most-wanted
man, this cocky lad who in the past he'd barely wasted a second look on,
no matter how wild everyone else seemed to go for him - that was the
thing with Henderson's lust, it had never been wandering and
promiscuous, not really - first it had been friendly curiosity with Adam,
and then an almost protective urge to take Neco Williams in his arms; and
then, like a bolt from the blue, a a fiery passion with Trent that had
consumed him entirely and had him googling divorce lawyers - but now,
here in the moment, he wasn't thinking romantically, there were no
feelings to worry about, there was just his own bodily hunger, and
Jack's big beautiful bottom, and the tightness of it as he entered. This
was all he wanted, the now, the satisfaction, the feeling of being
balls-deep in the gurning yob. `Feel that?' Jordan snarled powerfully.
`Feel that cock in you?'

`Fuck yeahhh,' moaned Grealish. `Oh, daddy Hendo - fuck me good!'

`Shh!' he hissed, and he clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle his
cry, before he began to slam forward with all his strength, giving the
slut everything he wanted.


Trent had sucked Marcus' cock slowly and luxuriantly, first lying on his
back, with the forward pushing it down into his throat, feeding him with
gentle hip thrusts in this awkward position; and then inverted, with the
United player sprawled across the boxing room floor, and Trent crouched
between his parted thighs, face bobbing down as he gave good oral service
to the pleasingly long thick weapon of the striker. But sucking it
wasn't enough, because now Trent wanted to feel it in him - he didn't
know how sexy Rashford felt about fucking a guy, he was shocked enough
that the serious-faced Manc lad was up for being sucked by one. But he
wasn't about to wait and interview him on the matter. In the moment of
welled-up lust, Trent was a commanding power bottom.

He climbed atop the other guy, straddling above his waist, and staring
down at the tense uncertainty on Marcus' face. He squatted there over
him, reaching down as Rashford has before, and pinning muscular arms to
the ground, whilst pushing back with his broad bare bottom, rubbing it
over the curving tower of cock, making his intentions clear, watching the
flicker of Marcus' eyes and the twitch of his pouting lips. Trent
reached behind himself, stroking the hard dick, and then rubbing
fingertips against his own puckered hole, and then shifting into better
position - without letting Rashford take control of anything, he
positioned his arse over the curved weapon and rocked back and forth,
teasing his own hole against the thick tip until, gently and slowly, he
felt himself open, and felt himself able to sink lower into seated
position. He studied Rashford's intense face and wondered uncertainly if
it was his first time.

Soon the Liverpool defender was fully straddling him, riding his cock,
and the Man Utd lad was just a mask of ecstasy, mouth forming an `O',
lying there on his back whilst his cock was gripped and rode by the meaty
muscular arse of the right-back. Neither of the mid-20s football hunks
said another word, just rhythmic grunts and pants, more sweat trickling
over the different brown shades of their strong limbs and torsos, and
Trent's arse gripping that wonderful cock tightly as it rose and plunged
over and over again.


`Fuck, fuck, fuck!' gasped Jack, low and breathy, no longer showy or
loud and needing to be muffled - he was bent forward, arse in the air,
head banging gently into the wall of the sauna as his hot body buckled
with each thrust. Behind him, Jordan thumped into him, fucking in that
powerful reckless manner that he never dared with his wife, but powering
into the strong body of the footballer lad in a way that surely only
someone as wiry and muscled as Grealish could take - he wasn't even sure
he'd fucked this hard with either of his sweet secret boyfriends,
neither Trent nor Neco, who he'd always handled with care. They were
good sweet lads who he'd wanted to treasure and protect - Jack, his hazy
mind figured, was a dirty slut who just needed fucking senseless, and was
getting exactly that, both of them overheated and dripping in the small
dark sauna. And so he pounded on, ramming the lithe body into the side of
the sauna, putting his big Mackem cock to use, really burying himself in
that magnificent arse and making its meaty cheeks jiggle repeatedly.

He barely registered that Grealo was cumming, the shift in the whine and
moan and breathy Brummie dirty talk - he was focused entirely on his own
pleasure, and he kept riding that arse until he was ready to blow
himself, several heavy sweat minutes later. He pounded all the harder,
holding Jack so tightly at the hips that he would leave bruises, and
pushed the full length of his cock in and out, and then right back in,
leaivng it there, and bending forward, moving his hands up to sweaty
shoulders, emptying his balls deep inside him, filling his arse with cum,
groaning and panting over him, exhausted completely.

`Fuuuuuck,' was the Brummie's slow drawl of satisfaction.

Henderson just gave his ragged wet hair a rough tug, pushing his head
with one last soft bump into the wooden panel, and then slowly
retreating, his dick aching as it inched out, out from between those
majestic cheeks, trailing spunk. He gasped for air, but the stale heat of
the sauna choked him, and he needed to be out of it, reaching for his
towel and holding it over his face and chest, then lowering it about his
waist and his weapon, backing away from Jack's shaking form, arse still
in the air.


Riding Marcus like a sex toy and thinking only about his own pleasure, an
unusually selfish Trent pumped his dick in his fist, bouncing up and down
- until, with a series of messy spurts, he unloaded his balls, cumming in
long white streaks over Rashford's pecs, some hitting his neck, his
chin, his shoulders. Trent groaned, not loudly, but deeply, and shook as
he bounced, up and down and up and down, pleasuring himself with each
squat upon the thick tool. `Ah god yeah,' moaned the Scouser, still
playing with his sensitive cock, squirting the last drops of his seed
onto the muscles below him.

Below, Rashford stared up at him, his expression ambiguous - perhaps a
little disgusted to be rained on with spunk, but still lost in ecstasy,
having his cock slide in and out so quickly and roughly. And Trent kept
going, even in the throes of exhausting orgasm, just riding that dick and
staring intently down at the United player, nodding at him, encouraging
him to finish, telling him it was okay. `Fill me up,' he mouthed
silently, licking his lips.

Rashford seemed to need that permission to relax, to let go, to unleash -
and the way his eyes rolled and his lips pursed and parted, Trent knew he
was getting an arse-full. He slowed but didn't stop, driving them both
wild, bouncing on Rashford's quivering cock, and teasing his own
throbbing member, and taking ages to reach a lull and stop, and then
peeling their bodies apart and falling to one side, drenched.

Alexander-Arnold laughed through his breathlessness, his arse feeling
amazing, and his cock and balls tingling deliciously. He rolled onto his
side and stared over, watching as the attacking player got unsteadily to
his feet. There was something totally wild and brilliant about the 5ft11
naked sight of him, shaky on his feet, with little trickles of jizz
moving down over his pecs and his abs, down his thighs, his cock greasy
wet... his face a mask of torment, someone who couldn't believe how much
he'd just been pleasured. Rather than stomping away, as Trent briefly
expected, the tall gentlemanly Manc lad stopped right next to him and
held out a sweaty hand to help him up.

Stood face to face, the 25- and 26-year-old just stared each down with
thoughtful frowns, Trent tempted by a final kiss. Instead, he reached up
a hand and just stroked the striker's cheek and neck a little, and then
clutched his shoulder. `Yeah,' he grunted quietly, `I sure feel better
after that. Thanks.' He smiled ambiguously and backed away, picking up
his shorts, his vest, and retreating backwards between the pendulous
boxing targets, back through the door and into the vestibule of the main
gym. He stopped there, catching his breath, and laughing happily, so glad
that he'd first boxed away some tension and then exorcised the rest with
a good power fucking sat astride that Manc hunk.

And the 25-year-old Scouser moved through into the locker-rooms, which
were less quiet now, more men busied with undressing or dressing, in and
out of showers, finishing up - they were all due in reception late
afternoon to report for the journey to Macedonia after all. Trent moved
in a sex-drenched haze, unable to return any of the vague greetings or
comments that came his way, just finding the way to his locker and
beginning to peel off the drenched items of clothing: vest, shorts,
boxers, socks, trainers. Naked, and thinking that Rashford's cum might
leak from his arse soon if he didn't get into the hot shower and wash
his pleasure away, he sniggered to himself.

He grabbed his towel and moved backwards, holding it over his front not
out of shyness or dignity, but because he knew his prick was still a
little stiff and swollen. And he paused, turning in the direction of the
showers, as another door opened and another sweat-gleaming figure walked
into the gym, towel about his waist, and a most strained and awkward
expression on his soft-bearded face - and their eyes met yet again,
staring to each other across the busy changing rooms, two men in their
towels. Trent stared at his big chest, his long arms, his handsome face
framed in beard, his searching eyes - god, he's a sexy bastard, even if
he is a selfish cunt. He tried to glare at him, to stare him down
hatefully, to pierce him with laser beams of righteous indignation - but
he could only stare at him with tragic wistfulness, his sexual
satisfaction from riding Marcus Rashford fading into nothingness.

And Hendo stared back at him with that some vague hopefulness, that same
desperate enquiry in his eyes. Trent tried to break the lingering stare,
but he couldn't, drawn magnetically across the room to his former
captain. But then the swing and clatter of the door broke that spell, and
he glanced past the midfield hero - swaggering along behind him in black
skimpies, towel over shoulder, came a very smug-faced Jack Grealish,
looking very much like the cat that got the cream. Trent's brain whirred
and he stared from Jordan's anguished expression to the red-faced
pleasure of Jack, striding by and intercepting them for a moment,
whistling to himself. Trent stood there, absorbing the obvious truth, and
looking at the guilt on Jordan's expression. And then he became aware of
a presence to his side, the smell more than anything, as wet naked Marcus
came marching past him, towel rolled under one arm, big dick swinging
freely as if it hadn't been up his arse minutes ago, on his way int
other communal showers.

Trent stared back at Hendo, and the two ex-lovers just looked lost and
confused at each other, wondering where their love actually went, before
breaking the gaze and going their separate ways - Trent into the steam,
following vaguely in Rashford's sweaty footsteps, and Jordan on to his
locker, ignoring a rough playful push in the side from a giggling
Grealish.




'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