Date: Mon, 19 Feb 2024 22:04:00 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 390

Part 390: Toffees in South London


Another damp shower descended as the coach deposited them in front of the
South London hotel, the same alternative grey drizzle and bursts of
wintry sunshine that had tracked the travelling squad south from
Liverpool. All eyes on Crystal Palace, intoned the coaches as the men
were ushered indoors into another bland hotel foyer; all eyes were rather
bleary and more focused on afternoon naps, after a journey already
punctuated with irritation and delays, an atmosphere of general
irritation surrounding the arriving Everton squad that Monday afternoon.
As soon as schedules had been announced and check-ins were completed,
room keys were being handed out and pairs of tracksuit-clad footballers
were sloping away with sagging shoulders and little planned for their
brief downtime but a short snooze before preparations began for the
Palace game.

One young member of this away trip squad was a little more energetic as
he took his key from the gaffer and checked the map of room numbers
beside the three elevators; he shared a short furtive glance with his
assigned roommate, who immediately dropped his eyes afterwards, and then
he studied the map again to check what floor they needed; ahead, another
member of the Everton defence was using a £1000 trainer to keep the lift
doors open and let the two of them slip in. Up the elevator went, and the
other pair of footballer lads chatted in low sleepy voices before bidding
`goodbye for now' at the second floor; this young guy and his roomie
let the doors slide shut and travelled up two more floors to the
uppermost corridor of suites before getting out.

Up here, leaving the lift and stomping wearily down a long straight
corridor of numbered doors, the two young men didn't say a word to each
other, even though it was remarkably quiet, deserted-feeling, compared to
the dissipating huddle in the reception area. They wore matching Everton
away tracksuits and swung half-empty kit bags over broad shoulders, two
tall sporty blokes making their way to a door at the end of the corridor,
where a large window on the landing viewed the London skyline in full.

Only once inside room 432 did the 22-year-old Glaswegian seem to let out
a long whistling breath that he felt like he'd held since the bus pulled
up in the car park; his entire 6ft form was gripped by a giddy excitement
as he pushed the door firmly shut behind him, and then jammed the
key-card into the little slot that would power up the lighting and
power-points of their spacious shared room. Wiping a large clammy palm
across his face, Nathan Patterson pottered further into the room,
hoisting the bag-strap from a big shoulder and dropping it heavily in
place at the foot of one double bed; ahead of him, his roommate had moved
towards the windows, flicking oddly at the curtains and shooting furtive
glances about the room as if he expected to find some spy hidden behind a
corner of furniture.

Nathan let out a stupid gurgling chuckle, wiping his palms on the front
of his t-shirt, and fiddling with the zip of his tracksuit top. `You
okay?' the tall muscular right-back defended, staring goofily at the
other player.

Across from him, the older and more experienced Premiership defender just
shrugged big shoulders and stared anywhere but at him, stony silence and
wary eyes. Nathan was not to be put off, he was excited as he had been
all day, since he saw the rooming chart and knew they would be sharing
for the first time in a while.

`How long have we got?' the other guy asked after an uncomfortable
pause, his Yorkshire accent almost as heavy as Nate's own West Scotch
burr.

`Good hour and a half at least,' the 22-year-old insisted. He toyed
still with his zip, and let out another of those almost boyish chuckles
of nervous energy, lingering in the centre of the room between the two
beds. He lifted a big hand and fussed with the mousy brown sweep of his
hair on top. `It's cool,' he insisted. `We've got time.'

The other man drew a couple of steps closer, pushing his hands into the
pockets of his Everton tracky bottoms; he finally looked properly at him,
a pouty frown covered his long sandy-brown features. `Did you bring some
stuff, then?' he asked, his voice blunt and demanding - matter-of-fact,
straining for casual and aloof, but tellingly anxious and interested -
and Nathan couldn't help but nod his big head eagerly, a big shaggy
labrador of a man in his current mood. And to confirm the nod, he turned
round and unzipped one end of his kit-bag, reaching into it to retrieve
the goods. He lifted them up with a showy flourish towards his assigned
roommate, who paced a little closer, fists in pockets and face very
serious - the two men looked at each other and Nathan's grin split his
youthful face. `Here,' the former Rangers defender proclaimed
breathlessly.

`Huh, yeah,' growled the voice of the York-born older defender.

Patterson showed him the little bottle, just a couple of inches tall,
with its garish colourful label declaring a brand name `Rush' and a
rather alarming logo. `Should have seen me buying them,' he muttered
through his nervous laughter. `Hood up, cap down, shop miles out of the
city. Ha ha. Erm.' He passed the bottle to the 26-year-old man, who took
and inspected them and just made a non-committal `huh' of interest
before beginning to unscrew the lid; and Nate grinned intently at him,
watching the lid come off and the bottle brought up to the flared
nostrils of a long sturdy nose.

Just like that rogue afternoon of their club's last big regime change -
skulking about Frank Lampard's abandoned office as they were, led by the
curious Coady and frowning Tarkowski - here they were again, Nathan alone
now with Ben Godfrey, who sniffed deeply and loudly on one nostril at a
time, sampling the amyl nitrate that Patterson had purchased as if it was
Class A contraband. Breathing in the poppers, the mixed-race Yorkshire
lad blinked and winced and exhaled, and Nathan grabbed back the little
bottle to do the same - first one nostril and then the other, a heady
snort of the alarming substance... just like they'd done at Coady's
insistence when they found it in Lampard's desk drawer, goaded on by
their departed older teammate.

`Fuck,' the 22-year-old Scot murmured, instantly dizzy. It was just
like he remembered.

`Yeah,' grumbled Godfrey ambiguously, stood close in front of him; he
looked into his wide and mildly bloodshot eyes, thinking that big Ben's
mood already seemed a little softened, less rigid and uninviting than
he'd been on the entire drive down here - it had, after all, been his
idea that Patterson try and get hold of some of the daft party `drug'.
Nathan stared giddily at the other 6ft man, perhaps even broader and
heavier in build than his own developing physique, and he giggled
stupidly - surely Ben Godfrey was just as aware as he was at how they'd
behaved with this muck up their noses last time - wasn't that what they
were really here for this afternoon?

`Here,' the York man grunted deeply, `let me have another sniff.'

`Sure,' panted Nathan submissively, letting their large rough hands
brush as the open bottle was passed back between them. And then he just
couldn't help himself - he reached forward and pushed his hand against
the front of Ben's tracksuit pants, right into the crotch, feeling for
the mound of meat that was usually pretty obvious and visible there,
bouncing and shaping in whatever pants or shorts the mighty centre-back
wore to play. With a firm grip that belied his nerves, the Scot took hold
of the older man's copious bulge, holding his dizzy breath, and meeting
intense eyes; without fully reacting, Godfrey continued to take a deep
pull of poppers in each nostril, and then screw the lid back on. He
nodded his head, very slightly, discreet aloof consent, and Nathan licked
his lips.

`We're doing this?' the Scotsman huffed with a surge of fearful
energy.

`Course fucking are,' the bulky 26-year-old muttered back, and he
grasped him by the sound of the neck - and in he came, plunging into the
dizzy senseless kiss, his breath and tongue filling Nate's mouth.


In another shared room, one floor down, another young bastion of the
Everton defence was stood in the same spot, at the centre of his room,
but on his own; a bit like Nate above, this big muscular youngster was
grinning eagerly in such a way that split his rugged face, but he was
staring into the glow of his smartphone screen rather than at a
poppers-sniffing colleague. And a bit like nervous Nathan on the fourth
floor, this 21-year-old Cumbrian let out a boyishly nervous laugh under
his breath, one that jarred with his intimidating physical stature and
the look of brash confidence that he always wore on his face - but
putting nervousness aside, Jarrad Branthwaite let his thumb dance across
the screen and tap in a series of thumbs-up and purple devil emojis into
the messaging thread, affirming his plans to the sender who was luring
him away with the simple message `Blowie now???'

For a short moment's indecision, the big 6ft5 centre-back turned and
looked across the suite at his own roommate. But James Garner was already
flopped face-down on his bed and practically snoring, his overnight bag
dumped at one side - if the midfielder wasn't already asleep then he was
well on his way to it, and Jarrad felt that he probably didn't need to
worry about crafting any plausible excuses for the other footballer lad.
Instead, he just locked his phone and pushed it back into the pockets of
his loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms, zipping up his top over his tee, and
making a quick shuffling exit back through the door of room 312, out into
the broad quiet corridor that had led them here just minutes ago.

Well, the up-and-coming defender told himself, they'd been given the
downtime for relaxation before the pre-game rituals began and there
wasn't much that relaxed the giant Carlisle youth more than getting
head. So really he was just following the gaffer's instructions and
prioritising his well-being before the Palace game, right?! Or something
like that, anyway.

Moving as quietly and discreetly as a broad lad of 6ft5 possibly can,
Branthwaite exited the long corridor and opted for the stairwell rather
than the lift, dropping down to the second floor and counting his way
down the doors as instructed. He stopped a few feet from the given door
and faffed with the cuffs of his top, the drawstring knot at the front of
his pants, then even retrieved his phone and re-read the quick string of
messages - there was still a seed of shameful doubt that made him
consider deleting the chat and rushing back for the lift, back to his
room and to Garner's snores - to a fitful nap to gather his strength for
tonight. After all, he was crossing lines here, dipping his big toes in
taboo, and he was less and less sure that he could brush these incidents
off as standard footy lad banter as he had when it first happened with
Harvey Elliott on that Young Lions excursion.

But that shame and self-doubt had a lot to contend with in the big
Cumbrian's red-blooded greed and fierce physical needs. The option of
retreat didn't stand a chance. He knocked his heavy knuckles against the
hotel room door and clenched both paws in and out of aggressive fists
whilst he waited for an answer. When it came, the older man already had
his top off, relaxedly exposing his well-defined chest and stomach
muscles, a knowing smirk on his pink-tinged face beneath his ruffled
quiff of blond hair. Jarrad stared awkwardly at him, his own stature
somewhat dwarfing the 6ft1 England goalkeeper.

`Come in, then,' murmured Jordan Pickford in his strong Mackem snarl.

`Aye,' the other far Northerner grunted keenly back, muscling his way
forward and following him into the room - and pausing just a few paces
in, in the middle of unzipping his tracky top, when he saw the closed
door to his left and heard the watery gurgles and low masculine voice
behind it. `Hey,' he hissed, freezing up and staring accusingly at the
casually sauntering topless figure in front of him. `You said you were
alone,' the 21-year-old mouthed angrily, trying not to make any noise -
what the fuck?

Nearing the furthest bed, Pickford just turned and winked at him, coolly
unbothered; the 29-year-old stretched one arm and then the other across
his bare chest, beckoning Jarrad his way. The big lad paused, listening
to the splashes and muffled words, then pacing nervously in Jordan's
direction - he looked earnestly at the older guy, the experienced England
star who had befriended and coaxed him in these months since his
discovery on the England U21s. It had taken quite a few obnoxious looks
and compliments at urinals and showers before Jarrad even noticed how
interested the Sunderland native was in his big young cock, but once he
had, things had progressed quickly; it was only a couple of weeks after
he first let Harvey Elliott suck him and Tyler Morton off in that
midnight bathroom that he enjoyed his second blowjob from a man, sucked
dry by Pickford in a back alley behind a Liverpool nightclub.

`He's having a bath and ringing his boring wife,' whispered Jordan
placatingly, resting one hand on the waist of his tracksuit, and stroking
the other across his waxed pecs. `He won't know a thing, the boring
bastard - now, are you getting that big whopper out for daddy, or are you
gonna whinge off to your room for a lonely wank, kid?' The England star
stared confrontationally at him and the 6ft5 youth quailed at his crude
hunger and the regularity with which these covert cock-suckings were
taking place this season; each time he swore he wouldn't come back for
more, a big strapping football star who could already have his pic of
sexy Insta girls who wouldn't balk at deep-throating his monster - why
did he need to have it noshed by this married weirdo? Most worrying of
all, Jarrad might admit, was that he didn't even believe Jordan's
claims that he'd `put a good word in with Southgate' for him ahead of
the Euros - he wished he could kid himself he was offering his big
Cumberland sausage up to the goalkeeper as career advancement. But nah.

Hesitant, Branthwaite looked back at the hotel suite's bathroom door,
then down at the smart bedsheets, and then at Pickford's bare pink chest
and smirking smug face. In the confines of his briefs, the big stud's
fat heavy balls and curled trouser-snake overruled caution and fear, just
as they had shame and indecision in the corridor, and when Jordan reached
down to stroke them, he just nodded his big rugged face, and closed his
eyes.


Another hotel suite, another door shutting, another key-card pushed
clumsily into the slot near the door, triggering the low growl of
electric heaters and an extractor fan in the bathroom. He moistened his
lips with his tongue and turned away from this task so that he could
follow the other lad into the room proper, dropping first his own kit-bag
and then pushing that of the other lad down onto the carpet. Slightly
alarmed by this action, the 5ft9 winger looked warily back at him, and
then pulled slightly away, moving further into the room and close to one
of the beds; he moved after him, stepping lightly over their discarded
bags, and drawing close so that he really towered over the medium height
man.

`Here we are then,' murmured the low masculine voice of another Everton
player, but one of their most treasured attacking players, rather than
the big strong defenders roomed on the floor above; 6ft2 and densely
muscled, the striker stood over the winger, continuing in the same
dispassionate voice, `Just us two - alone.'

`Yes sir,' came the breathless whisper of the smaller guy, marginally
older at 27, and far less established in the Everton hierarchy of these
embattled recent years. The lad looked up at him with that same wary
expression on his pale face, dark black-brown hair slicked heavily back
with gel as always, and dark lashes fluttering with each twitch of his
beady eyes. `Just us two,' the 27-year-old attacking player echoed in a
faint voice, starting to look slightly more relaxed about the mouth and
the eyes, now that it was just the two of them, up in another shared away
trip hotel room, rather than seated several rows apart on the coach, or
playing side by side on the training pitch - a mixture of fear and
excitement rippled visibly through the compact body of the tracksuited
English lad.

Standing over him, Dominic Calvert-Lewin took a deep breath, his eyes
lazily half-open, and his face set into an expression of moody
disapproval. `Well, what are you waiting for, you little slut?' the big
powerful striker asked in the same low whisper of command. `Get on your
fucking knees, Jack.'

In front of him, the Leeds loan player and former Man City reject nodded
and began to move down, but not swift enough; Dominic had to put a
forceful hand on one of his shoulders and speed him down to his knees on
the carpet of the suite. Once he was down there, the dark-haired face
moved quickly in towards his crotch but Dominic wanted to tease him. He
clamped a hand on top of his head and held it back, frustratingly close
but separate from the bulging front of his tracksuit - and he held him at
that distance whilst with his other hand he undid the drawstring and
lowered them over his mega-strong thighs, so that just off-white briefs
separated Jack Harrison's lips of quivering dark pink from the big heavy
droop of DCL's manhood.

`My little slut,' the Sheffield-born footy hunk purred at the kneeling
lad.

`Yes,' Harrison confirmed quietly, weakly. `Your slut, sir.'

`Desperate for my big black cock?'

`Always, sir,' Harrison added quickly.

`Tell me how much you want it, Jacko.'

`I want it bad, sir. Want it so much.'

`Tell me.'

`Want it in my dirty gob, sir, want to suck it deep, please-'

`Tell me it's the best you've tasted!'

`Yes,' Jack insisted, panting. `Yes.'

`Better than Bamford's?'

`Yes, yes,' the slut begged.

`Bigger and better than that posh cunt's willy?'

`Yes, definitely, the biggest - I love your big cock sir!'

`Good fucking boy, good boy.'

`Can I suck it sir? Please, please.'

He reached down and slapped Jack across the face, leaving a pink mark,
then he pulled his face in against his briefs, a dirty pair he'd worn
deliberately so that they smelled all the mustier for this dirty little
whore. Later, he would make Harrison wear them on the pitch at Crystal
Palace, playing their Monday night game in them so that he knew what a
slut he was for the full 90 minutes out there. Only once Jack had noisily
sniffed them and tried feebly to kiss and suck at the fat sweaty cock
through the fabric did Dom take his big hands and slide them in at the
hips of his pants and slide them away, over the sculpted mounds of his
big brown glutes, and more importantly away from his bushy pubes and the
weighty circumcised serpent of his master cock. Jack paused, face angled
up, obediently waiting for permission, mouth wide open and tongue lolling
like an innocent puppy - Dominic smiled faintly, built up some spit, and
delivered it aggressively onto Jack's tongue, lips, chin. Then he
nodded, once, and slutty Harrison went to work, wrapping his mouth about
the swelling mass and tonguing its huge length, gagging quickly on
Calvert-Lewin's growing pipe.


Ben Godfrey took another deep sniff from both sides of his nose, letting
the burning sensation fizzle and the chemical rush hit his brain; and
then he passed the bottle forward carefully, not wanting to spill any of
the weird liquid onto the naked pale muscle of the prone Scotsman in
front of him. Fumbling hands took it from him and he watched intently as
Nathan did the same as him, taking big snorts of the evaporating
substance; while Ben's own fumbling hands were lifting and parting the
fluff-hairy weight of Nate's thighs, taking up those big defender legs,
and letting his lower calves rest against the strength of his own bare
shoulder muscles. He breathed deeply, letting the consumed effects of the
poppers wash through him, and spitting again down onto his long hard
prick, which he rubbed and tugged - he'd wanted to suggest making
Patterson suck on it, but he didn't know if he could expect such a thing
of the big gormless Glasgow kid - the kissing had been a wild risk,
something he hadn't tried when they last clashed bodies like this.

It had been early this season, the 26-year-old Yorkshireman reflected...
quite a long time after the original deed, really, when Lamps had been
sacked and the little silly gang of them were curiously exploring his
office. High on poppers and the jokey encouragement of Coady, he'd
pinned this gormless fucker down against the gaffer's desk in that
ridiculous jockstrap and pushed his cock between his cheeks... He'd
fucked a lad, he really had, and the tightness on his big black cock had
been like nothing Godrey had experienced in his adult life, not at all.
And so one drunken night last September, when the two 6ft defenders had
ended up exiting a lads' night out together by contestant, an
uninhibited Ben had seized the youngster and taken him back to his -
drunk enough to be bold, he'd admitted to the Scotland player that he'd
never felt anything so good as his arsehole, and that he had thought
about it ever since. And in a fumbling drunken mess, the two of them had
rolled about in Ben's bedding, and he'd tried to penetrate the
youngster again, but without any luck - no kisses, no foreplay, no proper
lube, but worst, no poppers. It had ended in pure awkwardness, Godfrey
utterly regretting everything, and red-faced Patterson just full of
apology and self-blame. It had felt so awful that Ben had called in sick
to training for days and spoken to his agent about a January transfer...
but Nate had actually been so sweet and charming about it all that he'd
recovered his pride and dignity and briefly tried to sweep the whole
thing under the rug. Until he decided that poppers was the magic
ingredient and that if they just bought a bottle of the little party
substance then maybe they could really do it again like they'd done in
Lampard's office after his sacking...!

Just like big oafy Nathan on the bed in front of him, Ben had no sense
that he himself might be gay or bi, so he wasn't sure why it had felt
right to kiss and snog the big daft lad first; was he trying to coax and
relax him? Trying to make up for his clumsy painful efforts last time,
jabbing stupidly between big white cheeks but making no entry into
Patterson's most private part? Was he trying to make things easier? Or...
He didn't know. But after the first sniffs of poppers, the two had
kissed and cuddled and ripped each other's tracksuits away, but now was
the time for the deed itself, and he had Nathan on his back, legs in the
air, ankles over his shoulders, and he was spitting more on his cock and
his hand, and trying to work out if he would really be able to get his
massive meat in between those strong arse cheeks again like that
afternoon in front of troublemaking Conor Coady.

`You ready?' the former Norwich defender grunted impatiently at his
friend.

`I think so,' breathed Patterson faintly. `I'll do my best.'

The sweet willingness of his face and tone made Ben feel awkward. `Tell
me to stop if-'

`I really want to let you,' gurned the younger defender, `like last
time!'

`But if it hurts...'

`It'll be better with this poppers, right...?'

`Yeah, well, probably, but just-'

`Go on, I'm ready, I'm ready...'

`Oh fuck, you're so tight though mate...'

`Ain't that a good thing, haha...?'

`In a pussy maybe, ha, but... mmm... shit, we should have got proper
lube...'

`Spit some more - that'll be okay. Here, let me sniff some more of this
stuff.'

`Don't overdo it, don't want you passing out mate...'

`Go on, push it in, I reckon I can...'

`Damn it, you're just so tight...!'

`I'm trying to relax... ohhhh, shit-'

`Fuckkkkk... Nath... ohhhh...'

`Fuck, maaaaan-'

`Oh god!'

In it went, bit by bit, and Ben lost the ability to form words - again he
was feeling that extraordinary tight grip against the head and, inch by
inch, shaft of his large weighty cock; he was entering the 22-year-old
fractionally, but with far less resistance than at first, and he could
see a look of almost transcendental enjoyment on the Glaswegian's big
freckled face, already beading with sweat, red and blotchy about his
cheeks and neck. Ben lifted up his strong musclebound arms and took hold
of Nate's ankles as he edged his powerful body forward, inch by inch by
inch, until he was deep inside of the straining, open-mouthed young jock,
and once again able to turn his gurning pants into words: `You... feel...
so... good... buddy...'

`And - you,' whimpered Patterson in response. `Ohhhh, fuck. Here - you
want some more poppers?'

Godfrey nodded and took the bottle. `Jesus fucking Christ,' was all he
could say.


Tarkowski often took long baths, but this afternoon hardly felt the right
time for it; besides, all his missus could talk about was the attention
garnered by a teaser clip for their upcoming appearance on the `Married
to the Game' TV show, and it was making the 31-year-old Mancunian feel a
bit silly and self-conscious. His voice lazy and laconic, he resisted his
partner's teasing over speakerphone, the device propped between
toiletries on a shelf above the bath where he rinsed suds from every lean
muscle of his 6ft1 athlete's body, the draining water flooding away from
his torso and legs and privates, forming a soapy whirlpool between his
large hairy feet, and gurgling away so that he couldn't help but making
a `Saltburn' reference to his giggling wife and asking her if she'd
drink his bathwater in their next appearance on the new WAGs docu-soap.

James, climbing out of the bath and reaching for his towel, snorted with
laughter at his own stupid banter, shaking his head and catching his own
eye in the mirror as he straightened up; he was both mortified and
delighted with the social media attention for his terrible bit of
flirting in the promo clip, but he did wish she would stop going on about
it. He'd had his bath now and he wanted to try and fit in a brief nap
still, which seemed feasible before the squad were due to assemble
downstairs in the hotel restaurant.

The 31-year-old former Burnley star wrapped the towel tightly about his
lean waist and paused for just a moment's egotism, checking out his
lightly haired pectorals and shapely shoulders in the mirror, turning his
face this way and that. His wife was already trying to negotiate some
photoshoot interviews for them with glossy magazines on the back of their
appearance in the WAG series, and Tarkowski was examining himself to see
if he was really as handsome as bantering teammates often accused, or if
it was all a joke at his expense and he was really still the jug-eared
geeky kid he tended to see reflected back at him; dismissing the posing
moments, he began his goodbyes to his missus and dried his hands before
retrieving the phone from its carefully balanced position.

`Bye, babe, bye bye - I'll see you tomorrow, love you lots-' and so
on. He ended the call with a swipe of his thumb and clutched the device
at his side, using the other hand to check the knot of his wrapped white
towel, then unlocking the door that would return him from the small
steamy bathroom into the main shared suite where-

The Everton centre-back froze in the doorway, looking at the wall-mounted
mirror that exposed to him a view of the full room around the corner,
meaning that for a long awkward moment his steamy emergence was unseen,
and Tarkowski was just looking at a framed display at what was happening
on one bed: there was that big young lad Branthwaite, of all people, up
on his knees in the centre of the bed, with his t-shirt pulled right up
above his nips, and his pants down to his knees; hunched sideways in
front of him, head down to business, was undoubtedly Jordan fucking
Pickford, England No1, and he was visibly - and audibly! - giving oral
service to the big giant youth. James blinked and gawked disbelievingly
at the scene, unable to contain the `Fuckin' hell' of horrified
discovery, and turning about the corner to confront them almost on
autopilot, when quickly a part of him wished he'd just slammed the
bathroom door shut again and hid in the steam of his soak.

Jarrad, of course, leapt from the bed as if stung or bitten, an
alarmingly big long rod of manhood swaying and juddering with each clumsy
movement of his half-dressed form. The stupidly tall Northern bastard
went stumbling and skidding off the bed and into the wall with a crash,
pants about his ankle and t-shirt all tangled. He immediately began to
mouth off, stupid things like `Pickers, what the fuck were you trying
there mate?' and `Jesus, where's my jacket?' and `James, mate, it
ain't how it looks-' as if the big gurning lad hadn't just been caught
getting his cock serviced by an older man. It wasn't long before
Branthwaite, still struggling back into his clothing, was brushing past
Tarkowski and making for the door, sounding almost like he was going to
cry.

Jordan, on the other hand, hadn't left the bed, but he had slid from his
crouching attentiveness to a louche reclining position, saying nothing
but just staring challengingly this way, and wiping his mouth across the
back of one arm. James stared at him, blinking heavily, and letting the
steam rise off his chest muscles.

`Seriously, mate?' was all the 31-year-old could find to say.

The England goalie laughed. `That was quick - I thought you'd be in the
tub for ages.'

`So it fucking seems-!'

`Oh, relax - was just having a laugh, marra.'

`Mate, you were...'

`Having a laugh,' Pickford insisted. He wiped his mouth again, rolled
his eyes. `Fuck, that lad is well hung, y'know? Everything in
proportion, the big lucky bastard...'

`Mate...'

`Oh, fucking relax and let go, Tarks - come on. Get that towel off and
I'll suck you instead, yeah?'

James stared hard at him, several different uncomfortable memories
surfacing, not least the occasional digging comments and suggestions of
his much-missed temporary teammate Conor Coady who had joined Everton at
the same time as him; breathless and awkward, the laddish 31-year-old
stared down his roomie, and shook his head. This was hardly his first
exposure to Pickford being a little bit, well, eccentric, but to walk in
on him fully fellating a young player, Jarrad of all people...! James'
mind was blown and the relaxed fugue of his bath was shattered; worse,
the towel was slackening and loosening at his waist and he had to chuck
his phone aside so he could reach down and save it from falling away from
his naked athletic body.

`Watch it,' chuckled Jordan, `I nearly saw the goods there. Oh, come
on, lad, it's not like we ain't showered together for years... Come on.
Whip it out and let me-'

`Fuck off,' James told him decisively, and he stormed back to the
bathroom, bright red in the face at what he'd confronted. `Honestly,
Pickford, you're fucking mental - Jesus! - I can't believe you just...'
And the flustered married Manc lad barged back into the bathroom in a
state of deep embarrassment, locking the door behind him and clamping his
angry hands against the rim of the sink - he looked back into the mirror
and stared himself down while trying to calm from the shock of discovery,
adding up certain clues and suspicions over his years of team company
with the Three Lions superstar. And again, due to the rapid movement of
his indignant rush, the towel was unknotting, and sliding away from his
hips and the curve of his rump - and James looked down idly as it fell,
stood there with his hands on the sink, ignoring the muffled sounds of
Pickford's dismissive banter through the bathroom door.

Tarkowski looked down in puzzlement that defied his usual self-awareness:
if he was quite so horrified to discover Pickford sucking off their
teammate, then why had his towel fallen away to reveal a raging hard-on
between his hairy thighs...?

`Come on,' Jordan was yelling through the door, `I was just joking
really, I know you aren't open-minded or much fun...'

`Oh FUCK OFF,' James shouted furiously back at him, hearing the
insults.

Pickford shouted something else but it was unclear; clearer was the slam
of the main hotel room door as the goalie apparently exited, maybe in
pursuit of Branthwaite. This just left Tarkowski in the steamy hotel
bathroom, confused by his discovery, confused by his erection, and
already vaguely flustered by the prospect of silly media attention
because his beautiful wife wanted to launch a bit of a career in the
spotlight. The 31-year-old footballer was gripped by confused
frustration, and like most men at some point or another, he knew there
was only one easy solution: a good wank. He gripped the sink in one
pink-palmed hand took his cock with the other, and jerked furiously away,
bringing first his wife to mind, and then the sight of big Jarrad being
blown - and then, confusingly and distressingly, the knowing smirk of
Conor Coady when they used to hang out together, occasionally resting a
hand on his knee for a moment too long...


`Thank you sir, thank you,' Jack tried repeatedly to say, but it
wasn't so easy, with his mouth alternatingly full and just half-full of
the big mocha-brown weapon that jutted from Dominic's crotch, the
delicious meat that he'd been chowing on for a good three months now
since first sneaking into the striker's bed one cold night in the FA
Cup.

He wasn't on his knees now, but lying curled on his side on the bed,
next to where Calvert-Lewin's big godlike form sprawled and stretched,
pausing moans only to call him `Slut' and `Whore' and tell him how
grateful he should be to taste this perfect cock. Oh yes, Jack would
think whilst wild in the moment of greed and subservience, lucky,
perfect, yes yes yes - though he knew full well that afterwards would
come bitterness, resentment, distrust, all of the usual insecurities of
his sexual debasement. It was, he had quickly realised, just as it had
been at Leeds, when he finally gave in to the alpha supremacy of posh boy
Paddy Bamford, who had made him his cock-sucker when his little Geordie
boyfriend was sold off to some shite lower league side. At Leeds with
beautiful Paddy and now at Everton with majestic Dominic, it was the
same: Harrison was so full of shame and uncertainty about his cock
cravings that he could only give in and enjoy it when taken control of by
these powerful dominant types, who he would drop and worship dutifully
and obsessively, only to scowl and sulk and avoid them in between. He
knew it was far from ideal, but it was what was currently available to
him.

Greedy and desperate, he gobbled up and down the shaft, spitting and
gurgling all over it, and stopping when commanded to kiss and suck on the
baggy balls, or to nuzzle in the rough curls of pubes, or to worship the
lower rungs of Dom's six-pack - anything the big sexy bastard demanded
of him whilst he sprawled there, lazy and selfish in his pleasure,
calling him a `Dirty little whore' who barely deserved to drink
`sir's piss'.

`No,' Jack agreed in a whimper, `I don't deserve that, but...'

`You dirty little shit, you actually want it, don't you?' Dominic
barked aggressively. `Get back on my cock and suck it.'

`Yes, yes, I'll be good...'

God, why did the thought of Dominic's piss excite him even more than his
cum?! Paddy had never pissed on him, but maybe Dom would, maybe if he
sucked him really good and did everything he was told, maybe he would get
a golden shower too before tonight's match...!


Nathan gladly moved into the new position at Ben's insistence, back into
a bent-over doggy position over the side of bureau at the windows, almost
recreating the posture of that first time over the managerial desk; a
little sniff more of poppers, too much perhaps since all he could see was
fireworks, and Godfrey's cock was sliding back into his wet hole,
feeling every bit as good as he'd remembered. How many times had the
young Scotsman dared to fantasise about it in the year and a bit since
that day? How often had he blushed to recall the mood of exploration that
had followed them into the office? How easily he'd been convinced by the
older men... how good it felt it to be back in that position, to be opened
up by the big black cock and filled by another man. It confused and
thrilled him, all the more for Ben's hot kisses after their first
sniffs. They'd come out of nowhere and he had enjoyed every touch of
mouth to mouth, baffled at the sensations. Patterson was a lad so
broad-minded as to be almost unshockable, but he knew that he'd be
astonished when he woke up tomorrow and thought about this episode in the
lead-up to their Crystal Palace showdown - maybe, he suddenly dared to
think, they would do it again later tonight, or tomorrow morning before
the coach home???

He followed every grunting suggestion of thrusting Ben Godfrey, bending
forward a bit and raising his strong arse, parting his long hairy legs
some more. He took each diving plunge of that big cock, feeling it deep
inside him, and he just gasped and moaned for it. He felt Ben's hands
rove over his back, his shoulders, his arms, up into his hair, scratching
through it against his scalp, and still he moaned and panted, unable to
find words himself.

Fucked for a second time, and loving it; wow.

He almost unscrewed the bottle again but decided not to overdo it;
besides, Nate didn't want to be more high and bewildered, he really
wanted to feel it, the ramming force between his fluffy white cheeks. He
folded his arms into the bureau and pushed his face against them, feeling
Ben's hands return to his hips and grip him tightly there, signalling
even more pace and force in the thrusts into him. God, this felt good, oh
god - and behind him, Godfrey was verbalising his exact thoughts, moaning
`Oh god oh god oh god', getting faster and harder, and then saying in a
clumsy breathy rush, `I'm g-gonna... ugh... ugh... gonna cum...' Nathan
received this information in his fuzzy cloud of poppers rush, and he
didn't quite associate the news with his body, until Ben asked very
forcefully, `Can I shoot inside you, bro?'

The 22-year-old Scot mulled this question over in bleary slow-mo, puzzled
and enticed by the idea, but then it was too late, because the older
lad's groans were heavy and exhausted, and he knew he must be finished -
when the cock slowly retreated from his throbbing ring, he knew he must
be full of the man's cum, wow, and he stayed in his bent over position,
throbbing and aching from the force that had railed him in several
positions around the room... when he rose and turned, he found Ben backing
off, arms swinging at side, head raised and eyes shut, big chest heaving.
His cock, wilting and shiny, swayed from his neatly trimmed pubes in
between mighty thighs - wow, to think that had been shoved so hard inside
him, and left its seed behind...! Could Nathan now feel it trickling down
one thigh...?

He giggled stupidly and reached down for his cock.

`Did that feel good?' he asked hopefully.

Ben seemed able only to laugh and wheeze in response, and then stagger
back close to him. `Yes,' he breathed in his ear, and he threw his arms
about him. Nate leaned into him, smiling and sighing, and reaching down
to stroke and pull on himself; his hand batted aside after a minute and
replaced instead by Ben's strong grip. The young Scottish defender
melted into the support of the other 6ft hunk, holding him about the
middle, and jerked slowly off by one sweaty hand until he too was
shooting his cum, smearing it on Ben's hip and wrist and in thick
silvery droplets on the carpet below.

`Fucking hell,' Godfrey moaned in vague disbelief, perhaps at what his
hand had done more than his own powerful cock, and Patterson just giggled
and sighed and held on, `Thanks buddy, thanks for that, aye...'


Jarrad, trying unsuccessfully to smooth and hide his throbber in the
front of his tracksuit, had barely made it halfway down the corridor
before he had to stop, look surreptitiously about, then reach into the
pants and give it a few strokes. He was mad with horny desire,
interrupted mid-service like that, when he had been probably a few slurps
away from dumping his load in the goalkeeper's throat -fuck! Usually
Pickford's oral attention made him cum pretty quickly, but the tension
of knowing someone else was in the bathroom had slowed and stalled in,
he'd been too conscious of the danger... and yet not conscious enough,
ugh! Now he'd been discovered at it by his respected fellow defender, a
senior centre-back who he'd have to play side-by-side with tonight in
the match...! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Angry, regretful, mainly horny, the youth made it into the lift,
travelling one floor to his own corridor, glad at how empty the corridor
was, since his pants were utterly tenting around the monstrous
proportions of his Carlisle cock. The raging 21-year-old was almost back
at the door to his own room, hoping Garner was deep asleep, when he heard
Pickford hissing his name and scampering down the passage after him.

`Hey... matey... sorry about that...'

`Fucking hell,' Branthwaite hissed. `He saw us! Tarks! Fuck!'

`Shush, shush - you wanna make it worse?'

Jarrad felt like punching the smug-faced goalie, but he held back, and he
just moaned frustratedly because he didn't know what to say. He was
right at the door back to his shared room, but he just leaned on the wall
and stayed there, alone with Jordan, because he wasn't sure if he'd
find James awake or asleep, and he knew how obvious his hard-on still
was; Jordan stood in front of him and made playfully apologetic
expressions with his face, before bursting into suppressed chuckles.
Jarrad, in spite of panic and anger and regret, returned this awkward
snigger, and buried his rugged face in both large hands. `What the
fuck?' he asked, more at himself or the world in general than of his
older teammate.

`Just you stand there,' muttered Pickford - he was about to ask what
that suggestion meant when he felt it - Jordan's hand reached inside his
pants and taking hold of it. Here? In the corridor? He verbalised that
horror but was shushed. `Nobody's about - everyone's napping. This
won't take long.' And just like that, he was wanked off inside his
trackies, leaning back on the wall, publicly risking even more exposure
as the England ace pressed against him and tugged on his slick wet weapon
until he was pumping spurt after spurt of thick cream inside the
Everton-branded nylon, and gasping into the collar of the older man's
jersey - and then left like that, red-faced and clammy, cum dribbling
down his inner leg. Overwhelmed, Branthwaite leaned heavily into the wall
and stared belarily at retreating Pickford and his triumphant smirk.

As Jarrad watched him retreat towards the lift, he saw the cheeky-faced
29-year-old lift one hand up to his mouth and lick his knuckles, tasting
one trace of the Cumbrian sausage's release. Jarrad thrilled and
trembled at this dirty man's enjoyment of him, both mortified and
exhilarated with his own masculine power. And then the goalie disappeared
into the elevator and left him, sagging and wet-crotched against the
wall, ready for naptime.


For the dozenth time, Dominic tried and failed to fuck Jack, who
whimpered and yelped and told him `No, you're too big' before
wriggling off the bed; again, Dominic called him back to the bed with
insults and arrogance, and finished off by dumping his messy load on his
face and chest, then spitting on him and disappearing into the bathroom
to wash his hands and face. Staring into the mirror, the mighty tall
striker thought the same thing as always: dominating and exploiting
slutty Harrison brought a certain satisfaction or at least release,
definitely, but it wasn't filling the hole in his love life, not at all.
For a moment in the post-nut clarity that always followed his use of the
slut in his bed, he pictured those curly blond locks and the trusting
blue eyes - he thought of the intimacy that had developed between he and
Tom Davies, who he would fuck just as powerfully and dominantly in mouth
arse, but then treat with a tender kindness afterwards. Why had he never
been able to say `I love you'? Now it was too late - little Tom was
happy at a new club and dating a new guy, and seemingly had no idea that
Dom still felt this way for him.

DCL lingered there, muscles heaving and sweaty, his magnificence
reflected in the mirror from handsome face to perfect muscles to drooping
sated cock; and then Jack Harrison entered, hovering in the doorway with
cum drying on his chest and face, his eyes wary and shy. Dominic briefly
met his gaze in the mirror and then looked away, continued to wash his
hands and splash the water against his torso and crotch...

`Sir,' whispered the former Leeds star - Dom ignored him. `Sir...' And
then, when he hadn't answered, `Sir, will you piss on me?'

The Everton striker turned to the shorter lad, who flinched a little, and
just stared at him in cold disinterest, then pushed past him and left him
alone in the bathroom. He needed to stop doing this, he told himself, and
not just because the wimp couldn't bottom properly and take his big
cock; he was just trying to replace Tom, and it was all his fault that
he'd let that beautiful Scouse lad leave his life. He stood naked in the
bedroom and dragged a towel across his chest, his six-pac, his crotch;
when Jack skulked in after him, he picked his dirty briefs up off the
carpet and threw them this way. `All yours,' he spat bitterly, and
slumped his 6ft2 adonis body back down into bed, alone now and
undisturbed by Jack's fawning submissive hunger. He shut out the sound
of Harrison wanking off whilst sniffing his dirty briefs and dozed off to
dream of perfect memories of the holiday he and Davies had taken together
in the Swiss Alps, and playing over and over the moments where he could
have announced his feelings for his best mate.


(P.S. I'VE JUST SEEN THE EVERTON GAME WAS HOME RATHER THAN AWAY... OH
WELL. I'M SURE SOME OTHER DETAILS IN MY ACTION MIGHT NOT BE TRUE TO LIFE
EITHER LOL)


'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