Date: Sun, 25 Feb 2024 17:18:46 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 391

Part 391: The Cursed Keeper, aka Thor of Tyneside


Loris Karius wasted no time in sidling away from the main pack of his
NUFC teammates and heading towards his allotted room in their Central
London hotel - there was a faint mood of heady enjoyment in the team that
was completely at odds with tonight's result, but a couple of leading
figures had suggested the lads pause to drown their sorrows, combined
with a rather incongruous effort to mark one year since the reinvigorated
club had reached the League Cup final across this capital city at
Wembley. For Karius, that landmark worsened rather than mitigated the
feelings of losing 4-1 to Arsenal tonight, given that one of his former
clubs were housed elsewhere in London in advance of their Carabao
showdown with Chelsea for said trophy; tonight remained one of the big
German athlete's few top-flight appearances since his grisly end at
Liverpool, and it represented another outing of potential humiliation for
his goalkeeping rep. The German man felt absolutely cursed and
self-pitying, having proven himself so regular on the training ground
only for his Premiership outing in Dubravka and Pope's footsteps to end
in abysmal defeat.

There was no obvious resentment or blame for Loris from the other guys,
in fact there had been several moments of approval and encouragement
coming his way as the disappointed Magpies left the pitch and washed up
backstage - Howe had been quick to commiserate his misfortune and to
praise some of the saves he made, sentiments echoed quickly echoed
separately by both the squad's de facto leader Kieran Trippier and the
remaining official captain Jamaal Lascelles; moments ago, he'd been
grabbed in a firm handshake and sympathised with by fellow spare (albeit
less infamous) goalkeeper Mark Gillespie. Everyone seemed to want to
mitigate the failure of tonight's loss against the in-form title
contenders, especially for the unlucky man at the back of the action, but
the truth of the scoreline and the current state of his career were there
to stare Karius in the face.

Ghosts of previous showdowns haunted the 6ft2 goalie all way through the
plush decor of their Euston-based hotel, the distant noise of his
teammates becoming the chatter of other squads, other crowds, other
failures, and the handsome blond man grimaced with his tight jawline and
sculpted features, finding and unlocking the door to his suite and then
practically tossing his shoulder-bag in there ahead of him. He stopped
himself from sulkily slamming the door behind him but did give a couple
of pathetic kicks to the dropped bag before dragging away the items of
official Newcastle kit and changing into a slack t-shirt and shorts of
his own, loosening and re-tying his golden mane of Viking-like hair
before grabbing some fruit snacks from his belongings and nestling into
his bed with only the TV remote for company.

Haughtily, the Thor lookalike from Baden-Wurttemberg thought bitterly
about the almost celebratory tone of the players who had flooded away to
the hotel bar as he went his own way, unsure why they were taking the
Arsenal thrashing in such good humour, but then his own guilt and
self-criticism overtook the sneering and he just felt right to make a
pariah of himself after his performance in front of goal, and the latest
blot on his professional record; it was no wonder that the big muscular
athlete had failed to secure an Italian transfer in the last three
windows, as hoped, to make life with his beautiful TV presenter fiancee
and new baby that bit less hectic and inconvenient. With a gloomy
self-loathing that was becoming worrying regular for the big gym bunny,
Loris reflected that his market value had just decreased yet again, and
that the summer transfer window was that little bit less likely to yield
the loan or transfer deal he wanted in Rome or Milan.

And so, whilst the bulk of the NUFC squad drank away defeat in a bar
overlooking the lights of London, including Karius' own roommate, Loris
was one of few players to distance himself, muting the messages on his
own phone, including from the love of his life, and just watching some
mindless panel quiz shows and other rubbish on the suite's limited range
of TV channels - dipping in and out of early sleep as he did so, his tall
muscle-bound form nestled half in and out of the duvet and the snack
dropped forgetfully to one side with the remote - in a really dazed state
somewhere between waking and sleeping when the sharp knocks sounded at
the door. As is the way of these things, the sounds seemed to enter one
of Karius' vague dreams, so that he ended up laying there for a short
while in confusion, wondering what had been on his mind, before a
repeated flurry of knuckles on plywood informed him that the knocking had
been real.

Heavily, the 30-year-old got up, swinging heavy blond-furred legs from
the bed and striding irritably across the shared room - the German did
not know how long he'd been dozing, but the explanation seemed fairly
obvious, that his own roomie for the trip was drunk already and had
misplaced his room key as a result. He was very ready to glare accusingly
at Fabian Schar and lecture the Swiss hero when he wrenched his door
inwards and found himself staring at three other members of the Newcastle
line-up instead - `Oh-'

`Hellooooo,' cooed the central of the trio, flashing one of his
trademark toothy grins that was full of manic energy, his eyes just as
wide and passionate as when he stopped to over-celebrate a simple tackle
on the pitch and delight the adoring fans - `We come in?' demanded the
Brazilian lad in his somewhat restricted English, hoisting a brace of
beer bottles in each hand, a stash matched by the men on either side of
him; Bruno Guimaraes did not wait for an answer before bustling into the
room, quickly followed with less obnoxious chuckles from the other two
tracksuited figures.

`Lads,' Loris said slowly and wearily, holding the door hopefully open
even as they began to make themselves at home, `I skipped the party for
a reason...'

`We know,' chirped the other 26-year-old visitor, whilst locating a
bottle opener at the room's generic minibar, and beginning to crack some
lids off for them, `but we just didn't think it was right, y'know? You
can't sulk up here alone, not tonight.' It was obvious from his tone,
and from the flushed pinkness of the ginger man's lean face, that he was
drunk - it was harder to tell with someone as generally manic as Bruno,
but the towering third visitor had a confirmingly beery glaze to his
serious eyes and slack grin; the usually-reserved Sven Botman was swaying
on his heels and snatching a beer greedily from the services of Harvey
Barnes, whilst Guimaraes came and squared firmly up to him, ready to make
their case. `You need drink,' the Brazilian star informed him simply,
passing the cold bottle into his hands, `and we want to make you feel
good.' He grinned his almost boyish grin, 26 going on 18, and puffed out
his chest as he took a long swig - Guimaraes barely drank, as far as
Karius knew, so presumably the 6ft central midfielder was wasted after
just a few in the hotel bar.

`Go on,' urged big Dutchman Botman, clinking bottles with each of them,
`just a couple, to take the edge off things.'

Loris stared irritably between them, conflicted but rather charmed - it
was, he had to admit, quite sweet and supportive of them to leave the bar
and the pack of colleagues, and to bother him like this - certainly, his
own roommate Schar was presumably still down there drowning his sorrows
or enjoying himself, and the kind words of his manager and captains had
been less forceful. The German let out a conflicted laugh and shook his
head. `I was getting to sleep,' he complained half-heartedly, and
gladly drank some beer. `But thank you, gentlemen, thank you.'

Drunk and well-meaning, the trio invaded his quiet sulky space like a
small but intense plague of locusts. Former Leicester star Barnes,
recently returned from lengthy injury leave, threw himself onto the
tangle of duvet that had been the goalie's nest, grasping the remote and
flicking away through the other channels; big Botman perched near the
windows and picked up some running joke that had been brought up form the
bar and made no sense to Karius himself; Bruno buzzed about the room in
his hyper manner, disturbing both occupants' things and deciding that
his beer wasn't enough, pilfering miniatures from the minibar and
causing Loris to raise a disapproving eyebrow - `I don't need the
bosses getting that bill from the hotel on top of everything in this
shitty trip,' he sighed exasperatedly, becoming irritated rather than
grateful again.

`We blame Sexy Fab,' Guimaraes insisted with a snigger, his words
reflecting an affectionately mocking label that was common among the men,
before turning it back on the night's cursed goalie: `In honour of Sexy
Karius, haha - here.' And Bruno threw him one mini, before tossing
others to the sniggering drunkenness of the others. Loris shook his head
but thought `fuck it' and sat himself down on the foot of Fabian's bed
rather than his own, supping alternately between the icy beer bottle and
the tiny bottle of pleasant whiskey which had been volleyed at him by the
Brazilian.

Minutes passed, and the big goalie's mood softened - he could become
bitter about his inferior place on Tyneside, the third or even fourth
priority keeper in a rich squad, only getting his disappointing 90
minutes tonight due to Nick Pope's ongoing injury - but right now he was
feeling the warmth and spirit that had grown at the club under Howe and
Trippier's leadership, and he felt more included and valued than he
usually did. He could feel pretty isolated and peripheral, but then he
supposed he did that to himself; he'd really found it hard to commit to
a squad since the way things had ended at Anfield.

A beer and a mini scotch couldn't drag the 30-year-old into the tipsy
haze of the three room-crashers, but it did give him a buzz, and it
certainly made him less alarmed when Bruno now positioned himself behind
him on the bed and began to massage his big shoulders through his thick
baggy t-shirt - the physical intimacy of the move was somehow acceptable
in amongst the quirky unpredictability of the team's Brazilian
firecracker, who giggled as he attempted to massage him, and Loris could
only laugh rather than shrugging away the tension, and gladly accepting a
second beer from a pink-cheeked Harvey. The 26-year-old Englishman
hovered in front of him with one hand in a pocket, cheersing him and
drinking greedily on another beer.

`How's that?' the left winger asked him over-enthusiastically.

Karius made a playful expression of criticism: `I've had better -
don't quit the day-job, Bueno.'

Bruno giggled at the chocolate-based nickname for his own addiction, and
he changed his approach, knotting his fingers more firmly and strenuously
into the tight tense muscles of Loris' upper back in a way that was
undeniably satisfying and relaxing, and then tickling them up the back of
his bare neck. Letting this happen, he hunched there and looked
thoughtfully back at the young redhead who was in front of him, looking a
bit too intensely at him as if expecting something to happen.

A deep throaty laugh from Sven, who moved from the window to sit on the
corner of the other bed, close now to Loris: `These two just wanted to
cheer you up,' the 6ft4 centre-back boomed in his deep voice, his
English as crisp and precise as Loris', and an almost sly or leering
expression across his large young face. `And I feel like I owe you
something too, my friend - it was my own goal that started things...'

`Only technically,' the goalkeeper murmured, dismissing any individual
blame for the big strong defender, and shifting a little as Bruno's
fingers needled across his shoulders and back onto his neck, feeling
really quite good now.

`Still,' huffed the 24-year-old Dutchman, `we all felt bad for you up
here.'

`Yeah,' said Harvey quite eagerly, `that's why we brought up the
beers.' He shifted his twitchy gaze, and took a deep glug. `Here, let
me have a go - Bruno, go on, I want to try. I reckon I have good hands.'
Loris just laughed at this, the silly idea of the two 26-year-old
professional footballers squabbling over giving him a shoulder massage,
daft bastards - and he turned to smile vaguely across at Sven, expecting
him to find this equally stupid, but again the big broad youngster was
giving him an oddly knowing look, and chuckling to himself, and still
toying with his miniature from the room's stash. `They just want to
feel your muscles,' grunted the defensive player, following it with a
puerile snigger.

Loris blinked and frowned vaguely at him, mildly puzzled by his
expression. Now Barnes was kneeling behind him and manhandling his broad
powerful shoulders, and he noted idly that his hands were less strong and
insistent than Bruno's, but pleasurable enough in their own gentle
manner; and this meant that Guimaraes himself was next to him, and then
in front of him, and then getting down to the carpet on his knees - eh?
He knelt there right in front of where Loris' heavy body perched, that
same manic grin on his face.

`What?' Karius asked slowly, proxemics telling him what he didn't want
to know.

Bruno's hands were on his legs, brushing against the pale soft hair of
his lower thighs, resting on his knees where his shorts ended, and the
Brazilian laughed. It was Sven who spoke, reaching across and punching
him lightly in his right bicep. `Go on, let him,' the Netherlands-born
footballer insisted in his deep brute voice. `He's good at it.' And
Loris glanced wide-eyed across at the giggling 24-year-old, then back
into Bruno's expression of wild recklessness - the tips of his fingers
had advanced beneath the hem of the bed-shorts, just enough to send jolts
of electric sensation up the muscles of his inner thighs, and the
firmness of Harvey's fingertips increased on his shoulders.

Guimaraes took some more beer and put his bottle aside somewhere. `Sven
knows,' he said in a low slutty murmur. `I AM good at it.' He licked
his pink lips, eyes wild. A deep chuckle from Botman and a breathy
nervous laugh from Barnes, whose hands were still and tense on his
shoulders. Loris stared at the Brazilian, his expression and mood
shifting from confused alarm to thoughtful contemplation - he could feel
the questing fingers crossing invisible boundaries on his inner legs, and
he was relaxing into the quick drinking and the affectionate attention.

`Who ever felt sad after a blowjob,' laughed Sven Botman, and Karius
glanced interestedly at the young Dutchman, before turning his handsome
serious expression back at the kneeling midfielder - `Okay,' he said in
a low voice, `show me what you can do, Bueno.'

`Oh yes,' shuddered the slutty kneeling Brazilian, who unbeknownst to
Loris was deeply missing the company of injured Joelinton and his
Amazonian whopper, beginning now to pull gently on the shorts so that
Karius had to lift his hips and glutes to make it easier - and down they
came, stretching over his blond thighs and past his knees and down to his
ankles, and his big powerful legs were exposed, and what's more the
manhood between them. Just tipsy enough to put aside self-consciousness,
he sat there, letting his muscular weight lean back in against the
stroking firmness of Harvey Barnes, with his thighs open and his big
Viking cock just drooping casually across his balls on the edge of the
bed, a long thick snake of chubby meat even before it began to prickle at
the sensuous fingers on his inner legs - Bruno stared into his eyes for a
couple of moments more and then lowered down, moving his plump pouting
mouth from side to side, kisses upon the inner thighs, electrifying the
German's crotch, and then... breathy closeness to the weighty sleeping
beast of his cock, teasing him with eternities of anticipation, and
then... Mmm, he felt the soft wet lips enclose his tingling prick, and he
leaned back further, his back and shoulder supported against Harvey as he
relaxed into this treat.

`That's it,' growled Botman's voice. `Look at him go, the big
slut.'

`Yeah,' Loris said, a little more slowly and thoughtfully, `he is a
slut.'

`He loves your big white cock,' breathed Harvey, practically in his
ear. `Don't blame him, heh.'

Mmm. It DID feel really good, or was that just the quick rush of a beer
and a measure of whiskey? His cock felt sensitive and ready, and Bruno's
mouth felt... well, SO soft, SO wet, SO warm. Fuck - it was as if the
30-year-old hunk had never actually experienced a proper blowjob, in all
his years of many attractive models who gravitated to him like moths to a
6ft2 blond-haired big-muscled flame. Was this what it was MEANT to feel
like?! Bruno Guimaraes' mouth felt like a delicious pussy, and his cock
was rapidly rigid and veiny against those lips and that tongue, and he
leaned fully back into Harvey's support - he felt those hands rove over
his shoulders, his back, his neck, and... not just hands. Harvey was
kissing the sides of his neck, brushing lips and tongue at the top of his
spine, breathing heavily, and... lifting his tee, stroking his sides, his
abs, his inked pecs, pinching and tickling his hard bullet nipples. With
the relaxation of an open-minded German, Karius leaned into it, surprised
but not frightened, and thinking... well, yes, this certainly WAS taking
his mind off things, and helping him to feel `good'.

`How is it, Thor?' asked Sven's heavy voice, cutting into the zen
mood. He was up on his feet again, towering 6ft4, and gripping himself in
the front of his NUFC away tracksuit pants; Loris, eyes fluttering
lazily, grinned up at him, enjoying the leer on his face now, seeing the
vague envy in the defender's deep dark eye and twitchy grin. `Fucking
good,' he answered smoothly, lifting his arms now so that Harvey could
peel the t-shirt up and away, baring his full powerful body in the buff.
He rested there and felt Harvey's lips caress the back of his shoulders
whilst his shaky hands cupped his muscular tits, and he laughed gently.
`Two sluts,' he murmured thoughtfully, and Sven agreed: `Two dirty
cock-sluts,' breathed the huge centre-back greedily.

Karius, moaning softly under his breath, looked down at Bruno's wild
face between his thighs, and he pushed him back, gently and almost
regretfully. He met his eyes and nodded to one side. `I think the big
man here needs you too,' he chuckled, and reached a calm strong hand up
to one side and took Barnes by the wrist: `And this one can taste my
cock instead.'

His wish was their command. The 30-year-old was dazed but successfully
cheered, and he was accepting this physical service in the complacent
manner of an attractive sportsman who had always been treated as such by
the women he met, and was relatively unsurprised to find certain men just
as worshipful of his body - besides, an under-current of certain sexual
tension had always caught his attention at his several senior football
clubs, even if he himself had not been involved. Draining the rest of his
second beer, he was only to happy to accept the nervous-faced young
Englihsman between his lips, licking and kissing at his towering
erection, whilst watching Bruno hunker down in front of Sven and be
slapped in the face by what was unfurled from the front of those tracky
pants. Loudly, the dual blowjobs proceeded, and again he couldn't help
but note a greater skill and confidence in what his big veiny member had
received from Bruno's mouth, compared to the almost tentative gestures
of Harvey, whose anxious trembles transmitted to his thick upper legs
through the clutch of his hands there on the muscle. Loris laughed gently
and reached one big goalkeeper's hand to stroke the side of the lad's
face, and then brush fingertips through his wiry red hair, and then
playing a single thumb gently up and down one cheek - `Slower,' he
growled at him, `gentler, boy...' It fascinated him to see that earnest
face concentrated entirely on dribbling over his cock, rather than
dribbling a football, and he wished Barnes had the same soft
self-assurance as mad Guimaraes.

After a while, they swapped again, Loris moving onto his own bed so he
could stretch out, kicking his shorts away and fully naked, accepting a
third beer from the Brazilian cocksucker who resumed gobbling his weapon,
whilst Sven lay down on Fabian's sheets and yanked away his jersey to
bare his ripped long torso. Harvey drooled over his cock and went low to
suck on his big Dutch balls, and Loris instructed his Brazilian to do the
same. He and the defender met each other's eyes with leering pleasure
and smirking lips, and Loris decided that yes, this treat had been
EXACTLY what was needed. It occurred only briefly to him to feel guilty
or naughty here, but it had been offered to him on a plate and it was
soothing the deep unhappiness and frustration of the night's result -
fuck it.

To that effect, he began taking Bruno's head in both hands and pushing
his dick into that perfect mouth, working his hips and fucking the warm
softness of his lips like they really were a cunt - ogled and encouraged
by both Sven and Harvey as he did so, until a spluttering and greedy
Bruno was catching his breath and playing a wet hand up and down his
shaft, and asking him bluntly, `So you will fuck me, Thor?'

`Fuck,' moaned Botman's voice, `he is such a slut for you,
friend...!'

Loris, who had settled so comfortably into this transgression, now
paused, running his fingers through the Brazilian's short dark hair, and
averting his eyes from the manic energy of his facial expression; he
looked at Sven's expectant leer and Harvey's blanched excitement,
pausing with his lips at the tip of a big Dutch cock, and he doubted how
far he could go here. But already Bruno was wriggling out of his
tracksuit pants and the black boxer briefs below them - naked, the lithe
tanned devil was up on the bed, playing with his slim stiff prick, and
straddling one thigh thick - `Let me sit on it,' he said almost
pleadingly, continuing to play with Karius' wet shaft. The German looked
across to the other bed and saw that Harvey was doing the same, whipping
away his tracksuit, and that Botman looked unconcerned - socks were being
tossed away and soon everyone was naked. In tandem, the 26-year-old
cock-suckers were positioning themselves at the waists of the lounging
giants, and Lorius realised he had left it too late to protest - already
Bruno was squatting over his meat and rubbing his pert buttocks against
the sensitive wet head, giggling as he did and pressing down on his
six-pack.

Soon, the wild-eyed midfielder was really sitting himself on it, and
Lorius was reaching one semi-conscious hand down to help, gripping the
base of his big cock to hold it in place, and feeling the tight ring that
was ready to take his girthy tip. He hardly had to do a thing, just lie
there, as soothed and spoiled as by the blow-jobs - Bruno Guimaraes was
sitting down on his cock as if it was not so thick and huge, clearly not
his first rodeo, and he could hear deep brutal moans from Botman and wild
whimpering sighs from Barnes, resisting the urge to look their way in
case it alarmed him from allowing this - he could feel the hot tightness
of Bruno's arse clamp around his cock and he let out his own deep
Germanic growl of satisfaction, reaching with strong fingers for the pale
brown of those bare hips.

And he lay there, the Thor-like cursed goalie, all thought of the
night's game or his past sins forgotten, just the physicality of the
here and now - he lay there, holding Bruno by the waist, and aiding in
the bouncing rhythm of the way he sat up and down on that big German
cock, making Karius feel so fucking good, making him groan and sputter,
making him swear and curse and forget to speak in English - both of them
matched the noisy enjoyment of the other two, the playful `Yes, you
slut!' of Sven's grunts and the whining `Oh god' of Harvey's
exclamations, a kind of dirty rhythmic synchronicity developing between
the two beds - interrupted only by the half-noticed thump of the door and
then the brittle disapproving exclamation of a fifth male voice.

`You shits,' ranted Fabian Schar, `you absolute fucking shits - on my
bed!'

Karius lay there in a curious mix of alarm and enjoyment, shocked but
also unbothered by his roommate's return, by the beery drunk presence of
the tall 32-year-old Switzerland player standing at the foot of the beds,
his face thunderous; the goalie stared at him as if he wasn't really
there, and continued to thrust violently up there, matching the bounce of
Bruno's arse cheeks, fucking up into his tightness and laughing rather
than making any effort to stop. `They just came to cheer me up,' he
moaned drunkenly, and he began to ram upwards even harder.

`We think it worked,' guffawed Botman. `Here, let us - you can have
his mouth, if you want?'

Loris laughed, groaned, rolled his eyes, focused more on the intense
physical satisfaction of the muscular ring that slid up and down his
shaft like a fairground ride - but he expected raised voices and
annoyance, and got instead fresh moans. When he looked over, Harvey
Barnes, former Leicester Fox and sex pet of Jamie Vardy, was spit-roasted
between the violent thrusts of a sweaty naked Botman and the pursed lips
and closed eyes of Schar's handsome visage, the tall defender stood at
the end of the bed with his clothes still on but Barnes' face clamped to
his crotch. Seeing this sharing of the other slut pleased Karius in some
way he could not name, and he really let himself go - he gripped
Guimaraes tightly and hammered upwards into his cunt until he was letting
loose all of his potent seed inside the gurning slut and then tossing his
clammy body aside to catch his breath and cool down, lying back with
sweat pooling around every bulging muscle.

He lay there and laughed, stretching out his limbs and his torso, and
then very slowly got up, dazed and relieved; with one smooth motion he
untied his ponytail and flicked loose his mane, stood naked with his
chunky limp cock between his legs, and watching quite casually as Bruno
now fucked Harvey in the mouth and Sven reached an obvious orgasm in the
ginger lad's arse, and Fabian stood to one side jerking off furiously.
Loris stood to the side of them, panting and laughing, and shaking his
head - what a scene. One by one, dazed and drunk in their different ways,
the men were finishing, and he picked his way between them, still gasping
for air and feelings trickles of sweat move down his abs and over his leg
muscles, and finding his way into the bathroom to switch on a cold shower
- he paused in the bathroom door and grinned gratefully across at them
all, feeling quite firmly part of the team in a way he had yet to
achieve.

By the time he returned from his cold shower, one towel about his waist
and another over one big shoulder, Schar was missing - `I offered him my
clean bed,' chuckled Botman deeply - and the big Dutchman was making
himself comfortable in that soiled bedding instead; Harvey was lolling in
a chair by the window, rubbing a hand-towel against his clammy dirty
face, and Bruno was opening the final beer in a state of casual nudity,
shiny smears of cum up and down his midriff. He turned and smirked this
way and Karius nodded gratefully at him, before gesturing commandingly at
his discarded clothes.

`You two best go,' he said, firmly but pleasantly, and the Brazilian
just sniggered at him, taking his time - but bit by bit, he and his
fellow dirty bugger dressed their lithe smoothe bodies and exited the
suite, by which time Sven was already snoring, and Fabian must be safely
ensconced in a room swap elsewhere - leaving the disaster-prone keeper to
climb back into his own sweat-marked bed and cast aside the towels. Well,
well, well - it was good to be so appreciated and reassured by core
members of the team, wasn't it? And god that mouth and arse had felt
incredible on his cock.

Arsenal's 4-1 win was far from his thoughts as he drifted off, curling
the sheets about his inked muscles and loose flowing hair, wondering if
an Italian transfer really was such a priority this summer, with Bruno
Guimaraes and co around...




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty
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