Date: Thu, 21 Mar 2024 18:17:15 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 398 Part 398: "Keep It In Your Pants" It was day 3 of the England camp, and Kyle Walker was taking a short stroll with the gaffer; the old bod was pretty keen on this type of 1-to-1 stuff, and Kyle too quite liked the sense of being taken seriously by his national manager, steered around the edges of the training fields whilst Southgate seemed to confide strategy in him and pick his brains about how his teammates were performing so far this week. Kyle knew that he wasn't unique and that Gareth liked to take this tack with basically everyone, including some mentoring meetings for their young newbies, but he still enjoyed his ego being flattered, and the secure position of being the joint-oldest and most experienced player on this Three Lions squad. The Sheffield-born defender strutted along side by side with the slim bearded football coach, mouthing off at Southgate about who - in his opinion - had really turned up to play and who was slacking a bit or treating this week as a casual getaway. Kyle felt no particular loyalty to lads here in the same way that he did fiercely at Man City, with the exception of a few longstanding allies, and he was keen enough to rat on the lads he'd seen as a bit lazy or non-committal in the first couple of days. The boss nodded thoughtfully and stroked his scruffy grey-brown beard as they walked, seeming to register and mentally note Walker's every insight, or so it seemed to the rather self-satisfied centre-back, who puffed out his strong chest in his skintight training jersey and gesticulated emphatically at the gaffer to underline each critique. His tight new England shorts swished between his thighs and hugged perkily at the solid extension of his arse muscles, white Nike socks pulled high up his calves.but the odd flash of leg tattoo still on show; a tight dark compression vest hugged across his pecs and middle over the long-sleeved training top, which climbed partway up his thick neck to meet the neatly trimmed darkness of his beard. Next to him, Gareth shoved his hands into the pockets of black England trackies and nodded seriously along. Kyle's smug enjoyment of his confidante position came to an abrupt halt, as did the walk, when Southgate lifted one thoughtful hand from his pocket, gestured for him to stop, and asked almost out of nowhere, `Now, Walker mate - no funny business between now and summer, do you understand?' With the faux innocent look of a schoolyard clown, the 33-year-old ogled his manager and then frowned in confusion, as if `funny business' was never a phrase that could be applied anywhere near him - `You know what I'm talking about,' the England coach said simply, a weary edge to his sighing voice. `Everyone here rates you as a defender, and we know this could be your last big tournament, we really really want you there, believe me - but it's just one scandal after another for you in the tabloids - no, I know, I hate having to bring this up, Kyle, I really do - but I don't want any noise and negativity around my squad as we go into these Euros, and another...' He looked uncomfortable, seemingly unwilling to say `sex scandal', `affair', `lovechild', but he did burst out in a gruff laddish fashion that was unlike his usually soft-spoken delivery, `Just keep your cock in your pants for a little while, will you? Don't make it difficult for me to select you in summer, mate, just watch what you get up to.' He looked worried and imposing and embarrassed all at once, pushing his hands back into his pockets and standing there - it was clear enough that this off-pitch warning was the real reason he'd pulled Walker aside for a stroll, and all that chatter about individual efforts was preamble. Kyle was, unusually, speechless, opening and shutting his mouth and staring a little dumbfoundedly at the familiar manager. Eventually, he murmured, `Sure', not 100% clear on what he was agreeing to, and he dropped his gaze, folding his arms uncomfortably across his chest and finding himself unable to meet Gareth's kindly apologetic eyes. `I knew you'd understand.' The manager patted him on the arm. `I really do hate to have this chat, mate, but... you understand. Now, let me get back inside - you go and see if you can catch up the other defenders for cardio.' `Sure,' Kyle said again, dully, feeling deflated and silly, and tugging uncomfortably at the high roll-neck of his training top, and at the straps of the compression vest; Gareth gave him another slightly awkward smile, a friendly salute at the brow, and then strolled away, unimposing yet widely respected - and his words turned over alarmingly in Kyle's mind for a minute, making a little pink flush come into his cheeks, before he processed the warning and let out a hollow little laugh to himself - what the hell? I mean, what a ridiculous thing for the gaffer to say - it's not as if, Kyle thought, he was always in the papers or causing any real controversy! Sure, his love life had been quite rocky in the past year, but that had nothing to do with his play, and it was all in the past, everything was out in the tabloids and he was doing his best to make amends with the assorted mothers of his children. And, he thought resentfully, I'm not ALWAYS getting my dick out, like some kind of pervy sexy pest or something... Walker managed to be privately outraged as he thought on the gaffer's warning, veritable slander against a well-liked banter king who was so popular here and at his club...! Ridiculous. I mean, sure... There HAD been that little prank at breakfast today, he thought, remembering his own surly stomp as he made it late to the hotel breakfast buffet, hitting snooze one too many times on his phone alarm and being abandoned by his hungry roommate. Dopey with sleep and unshowered, the 5ft10 defender had swaggered in at the end of the queue and joined the younger lads, some of whom were already topping up their plates with a second helping of the generous breakfast - it had been a pretty well-timed and apposite joke, as far as dick jokes, and Kyle hardly felt that it could have offended the gaffer, if he even knew about it...! It was hardly Kyle's fault that the boisterous younger England players about him at the buffet table were bantering about how many sausages were left in the platter and who was going to grab the last one: it had seemed comically inevitable that bulky Kyle would nudge closer to the tables, reach one sweaty hand into the confines of his grey sweatpants, and land his soft heavy cock on the edge of the table where he stood, his stocky body at exactly the right height to do so, and bark across at them, `Hey lads, you missed one - here's the biggest sausage on offer, haha!' And, he thought resentfully, everyone had laughed! Anthony Gordon, who had been the one to seize the final real sausage from the tray and still had it spiked on his fork, had sniggered with instant amusement, clearly appreciating the witty pun - and his gigantic roommate next to him, big Everton lad Jarrad Branthwaite, had exploded into a fit of boyish giggles at his side, a jittery tower of amusement clasping one hand over his mouth in shock. Kyle, egged on by their laughter, had jiggled his loose heavy prick across the starchy tabletop and sniggered too, always an exhibitionist, looking pointedly at the other youngsters beside him to check that everyone had noticed and laughed - young Man Utd midfielder Kobbie Mainoo looked briefly alarmed and prudish, but then was laughing heavily, and Arsenal keeper Aaron Ramsdale was practically crying with laughter. Of course, the laughter had dissipated as the middle-aged female waitress appeared on the other side of the buffet table, ready to top up the actual sausage tray from a steaming dish in her gloves, and proceeded to drop it noisily to the floor as her bored eyes landed up on the flabby prick that Kyle was in the process of stuffing back into his sweatpants, still chuckling and shaking at every muscle - yeah, that hadn't been ideal, the way the poor old bird squealed and went red, and then had everyone flocking about her to help pick up the broken dish and scattered pork products, whilst Kyle pushed his own porker into his sweaty undies and evaded being singled out as the troublemaker. And there had been yesterday, he had to admit to himself, but that had just been a little bit of banter, nowt more - he'd wanted to confront little Cole about all that texting the other month for ages, so he'd been delighted when a bit of group work placed him with the lanky winger on the smaller pitches, and he'd been able to mutter a few sly digs at the Chelsea traitor about their messaging after that fixture - `You still got that pic saved, eh?' he barked, and `I never did get a pic of yours, is that cos the zoom isn't strong enough?' - really teasing the 21-year-old starlet in the same way that he had after City and Chelsea last played each other, affectionately mocking the way Palmer was taking off at his new club. In reality, Kyle was delighted for the kid, who had been something of a spare part on City's bloated squad, but was now coming into his own at Chelski and being asked by rude pundits how it felt to be their only decent player. But this kinda banter was just what you did, he'd experienced plenty of it himself, and he enjoyed calling Cole a `Traitor' and referencing the BBC reality show, then going back to the topic of the dirty dick pic he'd messaged the kid that day whilst City slunk out of London and the Chelsea Blues got messy celebrating their win in London pubs and clubs. Of course, Captain Cardboard himself, Harry No-Trophies Kane, had overheard one of his remarks (`Why didn't you send me a full review of that dick pic? I was so gutted...') and scolded him, telling him to focus on his football, and Walker had dropped the topic for a while, rolling his eyes in boredom and shouting `Just messing, kid' at the lanky geek, before sweeping in at Kane with an aggressive tackle of resentment. Still, he'd cornered Cole Palmer later on yesterday to make his point, muscling up to the tall slim youth in a hotel corridor shortly before curfew, and managing to be apologetic and goading all at once: `Sorry about the banter, Colesy, but I was just so upset that you left me on read that weekend, hehe.' The broad-bodied centre-back puffed out his pecs and squared up to the taller youngster, grinning playfully at him and nudging a single finger into his chest - `Very naughty of you, showing such disrespect to a senior player - you should have known you'd be back under me once we were Lions.' Cole, who had said very little to him on the pitch earlier, squirmed and looked very uncomfortable - so uncomfortable, in fact, that Kyle couldn't help but suspect that it was about more than just his own bants and inappropriate picture messages. He paused, his face lighting up with curiosity, and he stroked a hand up and down one arm of the tall slim football lad, lowering his tone: `What's up, Palms? Have I said the wrong thing? You know it's just daft banter, don't you...' `I know,' the Chelsea purchase told him tartly, `I'm not offended or anything.' `Well, you don't look happy,' Kyle complained, `and I'm sure Kane thought I was proper bullying you or summat, the way you were pouting and ignoring me...' `Nah,' the 21-year-old protested, `I ain't bothered one bit, how wet do you think I am?' He scowled and scratched at his thin face. `I don't care, it's funny.' He hadn't laughed once. Kyle nodded slowly and thoughtfully, pausing to greet another player on their way past - James Maddison stalking down the corridor and looking oddly fixated on checking all of the room numbers - before returning his attention to the skinny lad and giving him his most soft-and-sensitive expression of avuncular concern. Cole glared oddly at him and then looked away, something clearly on his mind. `They treating you well down there in Chelski land?' Walker demanded. `Well enough,' Palmer said evasively. `You having enough fun in London?' he asked, hovering knowingly over the word `fun'. `It's great,' was the vague surly response. Kyle shifted in a little closer to him, in spite of the exposed spot on the long corridor of suites, and he poked that finger in at his chest again, before rubbing it a little more slowly and sensuously up towards his throat and Adam's apple, rubbing over the pale soft skin, and then bringing his hand up to pat him once on the cheek. `Cos if they ain't looking after you,' growled the centre-back, `and if you ain't having fun... you know you can always rely on Uncle Kyle, don't you?' He smirked, wondering if he'd been suggestive enough about the ideas of `looking after' and `fun', never great at subtlety, and he smiled intensely into Cole's thin nervous face, unsure if he was being understood. But again there other players, and hotel staff, and the corridor felt suddenly busy - Palmer had scampered off to his shared room, and so had Walker, and he hadn't whipped his cock out publicly then like he did the following breakfast,when he was pretty sure the 21-year-old sweetheart had stolen a curious glance over at what he was serving on the buffet. And, Kyle thought, a little fumble with Phil could hardly count - just a little grope in the showers at the end of their first full day's training, for fuck's sake! He'd found himself eyeing up the twink prince of Stockport across the communal showers, as one done - there was plenty of meat on display that evening, flitting between the towels and steam, but Kyle was always surprised by the dense muscularity of that 5ft7 physique, and there was something untouchably exciting about Pep Guardiola's Filipe. It wasn't that Walker had never had a little go with the sexy chav, but Foden had that special aura back home at their football club, the anointed `Golden Boy' who was Pep's obvious favourite and who only seemed to extend his dirty antics beyond their Spanish manager when it was tactically beneficial - Kyle had seen and experienced enough to know what went on between charismatic Guardiola and the Stockport Iniesta, and something about that secret dynamic made him crave and covet the wiry little pup, who he'd cheekily dabbled with a few times in their past and more fully that rooftop evening after their victory parade. Horny as always, Walker had ogled the younger lad across the showers, trying not to let his fat cock get fully hard in his soapy hands, but letting his eyes travel up and down the pale bare skin and tight muscular terrain of Phil's body - unable to resist, the centre-back had sidled loser to his 23-year-old teammate until he was right next to him, at the next showerhead, and lifting each bulky bicep to scrub his armpits. It took a moment or two for Foden to sense his presence and look this way, and the 33-year-old grinned wickedly across at him once he did. `Alright,' Kyle greeted in a playful tone. `Hiya,' Phil said, almost disinterestedly, wiping at his damp fresh face. `Dropped your soap,' Kyle quipped stupidly, despite the lack of actual soap bars in these showers, and scooping his fat cock and balls into one hand with predictable lame humour, so that as Phil instinctively glanced down to their feet, his eyes must travel past the displayed generosity of Kyle's manhood; Phil's gaze flicked up at him and Kyle chuckled and winked, and he let go of his privates, letting them swing between his thighs. I mean, who could accuse him of being silly and getting his cock out in the SHOWERS, how else was a fella meant to wash his bollocks? He sensed the talented 23-year-old tense up next to him, though both men ostensibly continued to wash themselves and hurry towards reaching for their towels in completion - but Phil kept shooting him ambiguous glances and Kyle just kept grinning and sniggering, and really dragging his large soapy palms down his six-pack and onto his package, stroking on his loose cock and pulling at the limited foreskin, then fumbling and fondling at his weighty balls, really drawing the eye down to it, and making Phil pout and blush and stare away, until... `Here,' the centre-back growled, grasping Phil's shoulder and leaning in, `I'm gonna go take a piss before I get dressed - last cubicle, one minute.' And he pushed away from the other lad, letting his long fat semi swing loose, and then throwing a towel lightly about his thick waist as he strutted out of the steamy block and through the busy locker-room beyond. He made a beeline for the nearest toilets branching off from the changing rooms, glad that the cubicles were unoccupied - wet and naked but for a towel, Kyle let himself into the last one and left the door ajar, whipping off the towel and hanging it over one broad shoulder, then reaching down to give himself a good stroke. It seemed like 60 seconds exactly when wet footsteps slapped down the lino and Phil came sliding into the cubicle with him, red-faced and tight-lipped, and Kyle grinned smugly at the shorter lad, holding onto his stiffening prick and nodding imperiously down at it - it was more like 6 seconds before the Stockport scally was kneeling down and slapping his lips about it, making Walker purr and groan and run fingers across his scalp, calling him `Golden Boy' and groaning `Yeh, suck it like Daddy Pep's...' But then there were foosteps and voices, presumably from the urinals opposite the cubicles, and Phil was freezing down there on his knees - he stopped sucking and just hunkered there, looking terrified. The deep manly voices beyond their cubicle were those of Ramsdale and Johnstone, and perhaps if it had been lads he knew better, Kyle might have abandoned caution and shoved his hard-on back into Phil's gifted gob - but he shared an ounce of the youngster's nervous fear and he just hulked there in silence, pressing one hand to the wall to support his powerful body, and sighing in frustration at the interruption to his oral service. One of the pissing goalkeepers shouted out to ask who was dropping a bomb in there, and the saucy mood seemed ruined - but once the footsteps and voices receded, Kyle assumed Phil would get back to work, instead of getting up in a fidgety manner and securing the towel back about his slim hips. `That was close,' Foden muttered. `Relax, they're gone,' Walker told him irritably. Phil shook his head, backing off, reaching to unlock the door - Kyle had to stop him momentarily cos his own rock-hard monster was so throbbing and obvious, and he glared reproachfully at the beautiful twink from the showers, unsure why they couldn't carry on and he couldn't dump a load on that pretty face. Instead, Phil was flattening his erection under his towel and retreating out through the bathroom area - Kyle stomped after him, having to shove his throbber at an awkward angle to pin it beneath his towel, scowling and sighing, and following the other Man City talent back into the main changing room area. `Huh, I bet you just wish Jack Grealish was here,' the older Lion complained loudly after the skulking midfielder, who glanced over his shoulder - `I bet things would be different if Jack the Lad was in the squad this week, mister,' Kyle teased meaningfully, always somewhat jealous of the way his twink pal trailed after Grealo like a lost puppy - and Phil just gave him an odd wary frown before disappearing off between the lockers - a few other attentive players gave him odd looks for these comments but Kyle shrugged and sighed and made his way back to his own spot in the corner. Well, he admitted to himself, there had also been this morning: everybody kitting up for the day, tight new England jerseys and skinny-fit tracksuit pants, making Kyle eye up with interest another young colleague with a little bit of previous. He could, he supposed, have controlled himself, and tore his eyes away from those strong young legs and the perfect rounded bottom that the leggings accentuated; he didn't have to follow discreetly when the unassuming 24-year-old quit the room to pop to those same loos where he'd almost fucked Foden's face, and yet off he went, sidling away from the lockers and the chat of others, even though the guys were already being called out into the bright morning sunshine. Dragged along by his second brain, the big fat one in his briefs, Kyle had found himself following the Gallagher lad around the corner and down that same row of urinals - Conor only even noticed him when he stopped at the next bowl to him, two strapping figures against the nooks of white porcelain. In tandem with the younger guy, Kyle pushed down the front of his shorts, removing his cock and directing it down into the urinal, and he stood there all burly and unnecessarily close, not even glancing suggestively at the Chelsea midfielder or shooting him a smirk or wink. He knew that his presence here would be suggestive enough to the handsome young blond who had been a highlight of his last England camp, and he just stood there pissing noisily, listening to the awkward sound of Conor clearing his throat over the echoing gurgles of their streams. Kyle thought about how fun it would be to haul the 6ft Chelski boy into that same last cubicle, and feed his pissy wet prick to his quivering lips - he thought of how conflicted and saucy Gallagher had been when he last played with him in a quiet corner of the neighbouring hotel, encountering the lad in similarly risque circumstances on the edge of their shared national team. But he had other ideas this morning, partly cos he'd sorted out an erection between breakfast and shower, and he didn't even really need to cum again yet. Leaving his own fat prick to hang obnoxiously over the waist of his shorts, he reached his left hand across and took a firm hold of Conor's pert backside. Now he did glance that way with a grin, catching the nervous profile of that stumpy face, the hair distinctively slicked back; Conor stood very still, a little uncomfortably, while Kyle's hand massaged across his beautifully framed cheeks. Kyle patted him gently there, and chuckled. `We should go out to train,' the burly centre-back said under his breath, testing just how uncomfortable and resistant the Chelsea lad was - but Conor didn't look like he was rushing off anywhere. Good. Walker gave his arse a good squeeze and then a firmer little slap, still through the taut nylon. Then he reached his hand forcefully inside first that layer, and then also the cotton pants below, and he yanked them down to expose curved pale cheeks; he leaned back enough to give them a proper look, and whistled appreciatively. And then, stood side by side with him at these exposed urinals, only half-caring that another player could come wandering around here at any moment - though it did sound as if everyone had heeded the coaches' calls and gone outdoors - he sucked wet a single finger and then slid it between those cheeks. With his right hand, Kyle just played loosely with his fat lazy prick, soon semi-hard, and with his left he frigged Conor's pert bottom, jabbiing his single questing ginger in and out of a clenched hole - while Kyle just pulled and played loosely and complacently with his own snake, the 24-year-old lad was tense and clenched and soon furiously jerking his own rigid pink member in quick little pumps of the fist. It was just a couple of tense minutes before Conor was spluttering out an `Oh god' and dumping silvery streaks of cum down the white porcelain, his cheeks really clenching and forcing out Kyle's one invasive finger. `Phew,' Kyle sighed at him, `that was a messy one.' He brought the single dirtied finger up and ran it playfully against Conor's cheek, under his nose, across his pouting lips. Then, laughing, he wiped it against the side of his shorts and pushed his lazy semi away into his briefs, backing away from the quivering 6ft Surrey kid. `Good lad,' the older man said dismissively to his teammate, going to the sinks to wash his paws, and then strutting away through the arched doorway and across the main changing rooms - a moment later Conor was following him at a distance, a slightly uncomfortable gait confirming that he was anally unpractised, and Kyle winked at him over his shoulder. The Gallagher lad blushed and lowered his gaze, but Walker knew how much he'd enjoyed it - the cum pooling in the urinal said it all. He thought about these little escapades and wondered if it was remotely possible that Southgate knew anything: nah, fucking hell, of course not. The old bugger was just chatting about the tabloids, surely, and all of that was starting to blow over... "Keep it in your pants", indeed! Still... it did vaguely occur to the highly-sexed 33-year-old that the gaffer might have a point, and he could do without any further scandal in the months coming into a Euro tournament. The Yorkshireman thought about the uproar he'd caused when CCTV caught him showing off his fat soft whopper in a near-empty bar in front of a few cackling pals that night - stupid reporters had been asking Guardiola why he wasn't stripped of the captaincy the following weekend! Pfft. But, still... Southgate had a point. Keep it in the pants. Yes, maybe. Behave, perhaps. Focus on football, for a while. Yes. Kyle didn't quite catch up the cardio running of the defensive contingent, and instead he did a little cardio alone indoors, on a treadmill, looking out thoughtfully at the spring evening, and then he headed across into the hotel, going up to his shared room in a thoughtful mood. Part of his brain was turning over the gaffer's wisdom, and part of it was just cycling reflectively through the showreel of dirty deeds since he'd got here for this camp - whopping his cock out at breakfast, toying with the Golden Boy, teasing his ex-City buddy, and finger-fucking Conor Gallagher. Was it all a bit much, then? But in his room, peeling off the compression vest and the long-sleeve jersey, and shoving down the close-fitting England shorts, Walker found himself feeling horny again, his morning wank long-forgotten. The broad Sheffield man bared his big chest and strong arms and stepped out of his socks, tottering about the large comfortable suite in just tight grey briefs that hugged his big arse and his sweaty package, and he admired himself briefly in a full-length mirror on the wall, waiting for the inevitable. When the door opened and his roommate bounded in, exuding his usual giant labrador energy, Kyle was ready for him, sprawled comfortably on one bed in just these sweaty grey briefs. `Oh,' barked the 6ft2 stud who burst into the room, smelling of outdoors and pink-cheeked from the long jog that the other defenders had taken through the grounds - but Kyle wasn't interested in comparing training schemes or explaining that his tete-a-tete with the boss had left him pensive and solitary for the rest of the day. Instead, he was hopping off the bed and instantly wrapping his thick arms about the taller body of the big Barnsley hunk - and silencing hish heavily-accented enthusiasm with a gentle kiss to the lips. Keep your cock in your pants, demanded Southgate - well, maybe Kyle Walker could control some of his bad behaviour and avoid too much scandal, but... Here was the real love of his life, and that needn't change. Big John Stones melted into the hold of his arms and responded happily to the sudden kiss, their tongues meeting as their lips fought. It was a long wet kiss and both men panted as it broke. `What's brought this on?' drawled the big handsome centre-back, but Kyle was already fondling him through his taut trackies, and nuzzling at his face, reaching for a second wet snog - `Shush,' he insisted, and he went down on his knees like Phil Foden in a toilet cubicle - desperate after a couple of days of mischief to get some real action, and frantic in the speed at which he pulled down those training leggings and then the compression shorts below, freeing Stonesy's rapidly stiffening cock. In a mutual frenzy of kisses and cuddles, the Man City defenders tumbled onto the bed, bodies lightly sweaty and in tune with one another. Quickly, Walker made sure that Stonesy was as naked as him, training gear peeled away and tossed to the sides of the room, and off too came Kyle's sweaty briefs, though not before John had bunched them in a fist and given them a playful sniff. Hands roved over muscles, fingertips tracing chavvy tattoos, but lips kept finding lips, both lovers too keen to tongue each other to really do anything more than tumble against each other in the bedding. `We have to get down to dinner,' laughed John between pants. `Let's be late,' insisted Kyle, kissing him on the neck, the collarbone, the shoulder, the pec - `let's be fucking late, gorgeous...' He shut the big sexy bastard up with a blowie, kissing and sucking on that long thick tool, wanking his own, and then shifting into a 69 position where both defender hunks could service each other simultaneously. Before long, Kyle was fingering John's hole and John was tickling his balls; and shortly after, they were in a spooning position, cuddling and kissing whilst the 33-year-old pushed his cock between the 29-year-old's sturdy cheeks. Kyle fucked him like this, gently and almost lazily, with their hefty bodies on their sides, and the strokes long and slow - it was passionate but sedate, the sex of a really intimate love, and neither lad gave a fuck about the evening meal they would be late too. Kyle could forget all about Southgate's warning or any of his naughty escapades here, because this was something so different. It always had been. Ever since that stormy afternoon when their wet bodies had steamed and simmered inside a parked sports car, both pulsing with adrenaline and testosterone from a playful boxing match inside the training centre; something special had been released that day in the parked car that had never stopped sizzling in the years since, even during the brief phases where one or the other had tried to knock it on the head to concentrate on their hetero lives. Nope, nothing seemed able to prise Walker and Stones apart, neither their tight bromantic relationship, nor more literally, as Kyle slid in and out of John's hole, gently fucking him to completion on the messy sheets, sweat beading on every muscle. Kyle didn't finish inside his boyfriend, but instead they turned around kissed and hugged each other face to face, and John wanked them both at once, their cocks pulled together in his grip, so that they were deeply snogging when they each released their loads against the other in a sticky mess - at some point in the dazed moments of blissful kissing that followed, there were impatient knocks on the door, and the voice of an assistant coach instructing them to `stop fucking about' and get down to dinner. The lovers giggled and kissed and fondled at each other's muscles, as delighted with each other now as three years ago. '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