Date: Sun, 9 Feb 2020 17:19:15 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 43: Shearer

Part forty-three: Shearer


The floodlights blazed through the February mists. It was a real tinpot
stadium, the kind of rickety low-key stands and roughly maintained pitches
you only got to visit in these early to mid-stages of the FA Cup and
such. The magic of the tournaments, really: the moments of thrill and
ambition for smaller English clubs, the potential for giant killing, the
inevitable glory of the dominant sides all the same. After all, he was
hardly here with the BBC tonight rooting for local Oxford Town, was he? No,
he was here as a Geordie first, pundit second.

49-year-old Alan Shearer took a long sip from the cappuccino their
production had just brought him, savouring the bitter heat, then turned
back across the poky commentary box he and his fellow pundits had been
given for the night's football. Below them, the stadium was gradually
filling, with optimistic local support and with the Toon's loyal but
aggressive travelling fans.

And even better, Shearer reflected, his wife was down from the North East
with him, and they'd booked themselves into a really swanky spa hotel on
the edge of the tiny old city, to take the edge of all this midweek
travelling to a draughty arsehole of a club.

He watched as the young assistant fussed his way about the sound and
lighting. A couple of Shearer's fellow elder statesmen of the sport were
prepping their notes and supping their own hot drinks like a bunch of old
men. Sometimes it was hard for the retired Geordie to accept his place
amongst them. A restless energy in the married dad made him feel a strong
urge to be back amongst the lads, leading a side into battle. Occasionally
he even kidded himself he was still fit enough to... and then a run with
his son or a visit to the gym or a particularly enthusiastic weekend with
Mrs S reminded him that he was not the young stallion of his glory
days. Not at all.

And yet, he didn't feel like killing the next half hour up here with this
lot, listening to them share their latest medical worries, complaining
about how fucking chilly it was in this makeshift studio, or revising the
notes he had been prepping on the journey down here for several hours
already. There was only so much to say about Newcastle's current wobbly
form, or their non-existent rivalry with these FA cup small fry.

He put his half-finished cappuccino down on the long central table, and
slipped quietly out of the room and down the stairwell, pulling a warming
scarf around the shoulders of his slim-fitting navy suit and matching tie,
then making his way down through the amusingly provincial grounds. Perhaps,
he figured, he could catch up with some of the Newcastle lads. Shearer was
hardly on close speaking terms with the club's management or ownership
these days, he couldn't help himself being a vocal critic: but he liked to
keep a few contacts amongst the coaching staff and the players and some of
the more long-standing behind-the-scenes folk. When you were Alan Shearer,
it was hard not to have a lot of clout amongst anyone wearing a Newcastle
United badge.

Downstairs, he brushed by the throng of site staff and hangers-on, making
his way towards the away team dressing rooms, hoping to see and pep-talk
some of the Toon lads he had a major soft spot for: big Jamaal Lascelles,
their sturdy captain, or Karl Darlow, who he'd noted was stepping up as
`keeper instead of lurking in Dubravka's lofty shadows; plucky Paul
Dummett, since he was always fondest of the homegrown Geordie players, or
even-

Aha, here he was: Andy Carroll.

Alan had begun to befriend the lanky striker a good while back, when he was
still just a promising teenage academy graduate making his name at St
James' Park. They'd kept up a little bit of contact during Carroll's spells
at Liverpool and West Ham, though not a lot: Shearer had shared many
Geordies' resentment of the poor choices that had taken a promising Toon
hero into relative obscure, an injured spare part at bigger clubs. But it
was fantastic to see him back, and Alan had invited the younger bloke
around to his family home a few times in the past few months, trying to
pick up an old acquaintance between them.

`Hey!' Carroll called quite excitedly, spotting Alan through the huddle of
people in the tunnel, and shifting over his way. Today, the big Gateshead
lad was dressed in less sporty kit, just dark jeans and a baggy jumper,
since he wasn't selected for the lineup nor the bench. Some guys got all
the bad luck with injuries, Shearer reflected sympathetically.

He moved over and grabbed the younger man's hand in a tight shake. `Alreet,
kid,' he said gruffly and warmly, `great to see ya. Shame you're not in
black and white, though.'

`Oh, tell me about it,' Carroll said through gritted teeth, his smile
twisting a little. `I'm dying to get out there, man, I really am, but...'
He patted a thigh through his dark blue denim, and sighed. `Doctor's
orders. Some comeback season this is turning out, eh?'

Alan looked up at the taller player and rested an almost fatherly hand on
one of his broad shoulders. `Head up, lad,' he instructed, `you're back
home, take it slow. This time next year, who knows how things will be for
you here.' He smiled warmly at the young striker, in whom he had once seen
a lot of himself. There were a lot of comparisons to be made in their
Tyneside upbringings, their style of play, their early talent, their
importance to the fans... just not in their hairline, he thought enviously.

`You upstairs doing commentary?' Andy asked with a returning cheer.

`Aye, aye... Just thought I'd pop down though, see if I could...' He nodded
past Andy's broad shoulders towards the dressing room door, but Carroll
shook his head.

`Gaffer is in there, team talk,' he said, apologetically. `I should be in
there really but hardly seems worth it, standing around pretending I'm part
of the effort.' He lowered his voice a bit. `It's canny embarrassing we're
even in a replay with these fellas, to be fair.'

Shearer nodded and the two Geordies chuckled a bit. `Ah well, maybe I'll
catch them later on,' he said with a vague shrug. `All good with you,
anyway? Things with the wife and such?' He watched Andy's flicker of
uncertainty at that question: when the Shearers had had them over for
dinner shortly after Christmas, things had seemed really off between Andy
and his Essex WAG. He could tell from the lad's expression that this was
still kinda true, but... it was hardly Alan's business, so he accepted the
blandly positive responses and nodded along. `Right,' he said, after a
pause, `I best get back to my work, then.' He eyed the closed door a bit
jealously.

`One day you'll be our manager proper,' Andy said in a half-joking mutter.

Alan scoffed and blushed a little, embarrassed by the transparency of his
fantasy. `I think I had my shot at that, mate,' he grunted regretfully. `TV
will have to do for me, eh?' He smirked, straightened his tie, and slapped
Andy on the arm. `Enjoy the show, I guess. Maybe catch you at half-time.'

And with that they parted. Andy off to do whatever off-duty players did
when dragged along to these things, which Alan remembered with a distant
frustration, though he had rarely been out of action in his own playing
days. He resisted the sneering temptation to wonder if he and his
contemporaries had just been made of tougher stuff.

Upstairs, his coffee had gone cold, so he demanded another from the
assistant, then got mocked by his fellow pundits for his diva ways. The
bunch of rugged ex-players laughed and bantered and got themselves ready
for their pre-match chat. There wasn't a lot to say, in all fairness,
except a bit of dour speculation at the chances the underdogs might
actually win. Once on air and discussing this, Shearer did his best to
defend his North Eastern interests, and predict a more rousing victory for
the visitors. And once the game was underway, he looked to be right. An
early goal from one of the Longstaffs put the Toon ahead, and Joelinton
made it 2-0 before half-time.

As he watched, analysed and discussed, Alan did find his thoughts wandering
just a little: to the night and morning of luxury ahead with Mrs Shearer,
to the vague ambitions of coaching and management that he still clung to,
to the pained look on Andy's face when asked about his own marriage. In the
second half of the game, as Newcastle's safe lead ploughed ahead, his
thoughts wandered even more.

And then, just as things looked settled, Alan found his interests returned
securely to the action. Within the last ten minutes, two ridiculous goals
slotted in from Oxford players, and the replay ended at 94 minutes with the
teams neck and neck... Shit, this was both exciting and annoying, he
thought, as he and the others discussed the implications for the two tired
sides. This was going to run late, then, two more halves of 15 minutes to
come!

As the commentators discussed this, their airplay cut over to report on
other games from the night, and Shearer took his opportunity to slip away
for a quick break. First, he needed to call the wife, and apologise that he
would not be arriving at the hotel quite so early as planned. A guilty
middle-aged thought hit him as he rang her: would the pair of them even
have the will to stay up late after such a delay, and get as frisky as
they'd had planned...? Bugger. No, no, this was a special night away, so
they had to... This thought was confirmed during the phone call, as his
wife excitedly accepted his apologies and informed him she was already in
the bath touching herself a bit, well ready for his eventual return. Stood
on the landing outside the makeshift studio, Shearer bit his lip, whispered
his approval, and hung up. Well that was positive.

He reached into the pocket of his suit trousers and removed the little blue
pill, then checked nobody was looking out from the media room, or down on
the staircase, more than a little embarrassed. It wasn't quite so much that
he NEEDED Viagra... he could definitely still get it up, at 49, that was
for sure. He knew that. It was just... Well, he'd read a load of stuff
about blood pressure and such, all sorts of reasons why your boners might
not be AS reliable at this age, and so on, not to mention the tedium of
monogamy after such a long marriage. A little bit of chemical help wasn't
so shameful or elderly, was it?

He popped the little blue pill onto his tongue and unscrewed his water
bottle to help it down. Take one pill 2 hours before `desired results', the
package had said, and he was throwing his face behind this pharmaceutical
wisdom. He swallowed, bit back his macho embarrassment at needing the pill
in the first place, and headed back inside to join the other blokes and to
begin commentary on the cup tie's two bouts of extra time.

He sat down in his chair, thick thighs straining at his trousers even at
his age, fiddling with the knot of his tie, and staring hopefully down onto
the pitch as both teams prepared to get going again. He pulled on his mic
and earpiece, and tried to tune in to the other two guys' conversation at
his side, and then... Oh. What an odd stirring. For a second, he almost
laughed at himself, wondering with incredulity if he was getting a buzz of
sheer envy at just seeing the Newcastle lads line up to play, a steely
determination visible on their faces even from here, but...

No, no, this buzz was NOT envy, it was...

The game got underway, and it was time for him to do his job, but... He
looked carefully down his shirt front, and saw the bulging
shape. Fortunately, it wasn't as visible in the dark navy of these
trousers, thank fuck he wasn't wearing a lighter coloured suit, but... He
clenched his legs to the seat, leaned forward a little, and willed the
physical reaction to recede.

`Alan, what do you say to that?' barked one of the other guys.

`Huh?'

`Keep up old man, we were just...'

`Oh, yeah... oh, um yeh... of course...'

Fuck fuck fuck. Shearer sat there in a sweaty daze, trying to picture the
back of the packet. Take one pill 2 hours before desired results, right?
One pill? 2 hours? Erm... 2 hours? 2 minutes?! But a pill couldn't work
THAT fast, could it? Surely... Oh bugger. He could feel his dick rock hard
now, straining at his boxers and suit trousers, practically throbbing with
a heartbeat of its own. He adjusted his legs, tried to pull the front of
his blazer across his crotch a bit, but... Well anyone who looked closely
would be able to fucking see it. Jesus. It had to go down before he moved
from this seat, it HAD to...

When the first 15 minute burst of extra time had ended, he could feel sweat
beading on his bald head, and he had to repeatedly clear his throat, his
heart going wild in his chest. The other guys were asking him questions,
seeking his opinions and insights, but he could barely string a sentence
together, he felt so hot and bothered and deeply distracted. He wanted to
yell out `I'M TOO HORNY TO FUCKING CARE' and flee the studio space. Instead
he just kept nodding in silence, giving the others a serious look, and
making sure he didn't lean too far back in his seat so his crotch wasn't
too exposed to the others or to the camera.

The return of play brought SOME relief, as he felt attention and
camera-time leave him some privacy and dignity. He felt like his armpits
were flooding his white shirt with sweat though. How fucking strong were
these tiny blue pills?! The boner was still achingly firm, stretching the
suit fabric down his leg. God, what was he going to...?

And then came the winning goal, and all of Shearer's experience and
loyalties should have had him up on his feet celebrating, but... nope. He
could just make vague noises and comments of approval, glued carefully to
his suit, a clammy sheen on his brow and cheeks. The others were giving him
funny looks now, but he ignored, and pulled a couple of fingers inside his
shirt collar to let some air to his reddened neck. He was quietly asked if
he was okay by the producer, and he had to lean at an awkward angle so they
couldn't see between his thick legs.

The minutes ached and throbbed by. Alan thought he might explode with
physical arousal and mounting public humiliation.

When the final whistle was less than a minute away, he had reached his
limit. He grabbed the clipboard of stats, scribblings and pre-match notes
from the desk in front of him, held it at the most disguising angle he
could, and got up hastily from his seat. Several pairs of eyes flashed his
way, but nobody could pull themselves from the job at hand, and so nobody
stopped him as he backed out of the room, his face ruddy and gleaming with
perspiration. Out on the landing, he cursed under his breath, and then
hurried down the steps, though even that was a slight challenge, with this
chemically-enhanced hard-on tugging at the slim-fitting fabric of his
suit. He kept the clipboard in place as he hit the corridor below, knowing
that this passage was about to flood with people as the painfully extended
game finally ended...

He rushed down the passage looking for an escape, and crashed headlong
into...

`Mate, again,' chuckled Andy Carroll, towering over the 6'0 man by a good
four inches, beaming contentedly at him on a high at the hard-fought
victory going on a few yards away. In fact, just then, the erupting cheers
of the visiting Geordies echoed down the passage from the small Oxford
stadium, and big Andy's face was lit by a satisfied grin.

Alan stood awkwardly in front of him, unable to join in the pleasure, just
huffing irritably. What the fuck could he say? Nothing, that was all. And
so he skirted around Andy as quickly as he could, shot on down the passage,
tossed the stupid clipboard onto a cabinet at the side, and burst through
the door into the mens' toilet, letting the door swing behind him as he
staggered in and to the sink. He yanked on a cold tap and splashed the
water in his face. Hah, a fucking ice bucket would be more like it right
now!

The door swung again and in came Andy, for fuck's sake.

`You okay, chief?' the 30-year-old called in concern.

Alan could barely look over his shoulder at him, but in the mirror he could
see the worried look on Andy's long face. Oh shit. A sense of being
patronised as near-enough-fifty-and-therefore-a-constant-health-risk stung
at his ego alongside the obvious embarrassment of what was going on. He
blinked several times, feeling the cool water mingle ineffectively with the
sweat on his handsome lined face, and then letting out a groan of
frustration.

`Al,' Carroll muttered, getting closer to him, `what's up, are you...? Oh,
fuck...'

Alan had half-turned, but even that was enough. He looked at the bewildered
expression up on Andy's chiselled features, then down at the straining tent
in the front of his trousers. He wheezed out a little laugh that did
nothing to ease his tension. `Bit of an incident,' he said in a voice as
strained as the expensive fabric of his suit pants. `As you can, er,
see...'

`Shit, Al...'

He looked past him, at the near-closed door, and gritted his teeth. There
was no way he was leaving these toilets with this shameful outline in his
trousers, it would be far too busy out there now. For the first time in his
almost 50 years, Alan regretted the blessed proportions of his junk. He
glanced back at Andy and scowled to find him still staring at his crotch,
presumably in judgment... `Yes,' he snapped, `stupid old Shearer took a
fucking Viagra and now...'

`Oh mate,' Andy moaned with empathy, which made him feel a bit bad for
snapping.

He looked at the two toilet cubicles with resigned dismay. `Look,' Alan
grunted, `will you do me a favour, Andy? I just need to...' He wiped a hand
across his face and checked his red-faced reflection once more. `Please?'

`Mate, of course,' the young striker said with surprising earnestness and
compassion. Alan would never have expected such calm and helpful reaction
from a 30-year-old footballer in this stupid little crisis. He didn't take
long to dwell on that fortune, but pushed his way into the corner cubicle
and slammed its door shut behind him. There was no time or mood for
embarrassment at having a lad stood just a couple of metres away, he knew
what he needed to do. He pulled off his blazer, irritated its
shoulder-hugging tightness, and dangled it from the peg on the back of the
cubicle door, then tugged open his belt and flies and reached into his
sweat-damp boxer shorts for the aching rod of flesh, which sprung gladly
out into some fresh air. He stared down and thought for a moment that he
hadn't seen his dick look so swollen with lust in YEARS. Jesus, those pills
were mad...

`It's okay,' came Andy's voice, distractingly. `You just do what you need
to do.'

Shearer ignored him and spat in his palm and took hold of himself-

`I'll be here keeping watch,' Carroll continued. If it wasn't for the
ridiculous predicament he found himself in, Alan thought, the lad's
needless chat would be a real boner-killer. As it was, it was endearingly
well meant, but still irritating.

`Aye, thanks,' Shearer grunted quietly, as he pulled back and forth on his
nob. His cock actually felt less sensitive than normal though, with this
stupid induced erection, so much less sensual than a natural one,
really... and plus, he was in a stinking cubicle in Oxford Town FC, not the
expensive spa hotel room where his wife lay waiting for him...

`I was in a similar pickle myself recently,' came a nervous whisper from
beyond the door.

Alan just scoffed at this, though he appreciated the sentiment: how many
similar pickles were there?! It was hard to imagine a young stud like Andy
Carroll needing a dumb blue pill in their life, or ending up with a boner
in the middle of a working evening, so... The kid was just saying any old
shite to make him feel better. Again, Alan, a man of a certain generation,
felt stung and patronised, unable to take the gentle blows to his
masculinity.

`Just... watch... the door...' he muttered, taking deep breaths and feeling
the buttons of his shirt strain over his chest and stomach as he tensed his
whole upper body and pulled his fingers back and forth on his swollen,
tender prick. He needed a wet pussy to shove this into, not just his own
trembling fingers!

`You okay?' asked Carroll, seeming childish in his curiosity, reacting to
Shearer's huffs of anger and self-loathing.

`Oh yeah I'm fuckin' great, man,' Shearer snapped, leaning against the
cubicle divide. He heard the clatter of a door, and Andy's voice seem to
move closer, as if he was right up against the cubicle door – no, in
fact, he was in the next cubicle now, there was the slight clatter and
rusty thud of a door shutting and locking.

`You'll be alreet, man,' Andy's voice murmured through the thin plywood. It
was annoying but also a little reassuring. `Just go for it, big man,'
Carroll said in a rough chuckle of encouragement.

`I bloody am,' Shearer said, as much to himself as to his cubicle
neighbour. Well, if Andy was in there, who the fuck was watching the
outside door in case a load of others came barging in and he lost whatever
scraps of private dignity he had right now?

`How many pills did you bloody take, Al?'

`Just the one... fuck's sake... how was I to know...?'

`I've heard it's powerful stuff, man...'

`Aye, I'm finding that out! Jeez. Agh...' Alan gave up wanking and heaved
an annoyed sigh. His cock looked stiffer and fuller, if anything! He bashed
a fist against the plywood divide and the brick wall, one with each hand,
and then rubbed his clammy face again.

`Look,' came Andy's supportive stage whisper, `why don't you... Oh, well
– maybe not, but...'

`What?' Shearer demanded frustratedly. `What are you on about?'

`Well, mate, why don't you –` Another pause, and a lower voice. `Try a
finger up the bum, man?'

In other circumstances, Alan might have burst out laughing. Had he heard
him correctly? He leant against the shaky divide between them, blinking
sweat out of his eyes, and fondled his aching balls. Days of load in there!
He'd been saving himself for tonight. `What's that, lad?' he groaned.

`Just one finger,' Andy muttered, and Alan could hear the embarrassed blush
in his speech.

He stared down at his aching dick and thought about this. What a stupid
notion. But... Desperate times. Wanking certainly wasn't working! And this
was Andy Carroll talking, a lad he had a vague manly respect for,
so... well, was this was lads got up to these days?! He looked from his
cock to his clenched fist, and at the chipped plywood, beyond which he
could just about hear Andy's ragged, expectant breaths.

`You reckon that will help?' Shearer mumbled.

`It might do.'

He loosened more buttons of his trouser flies, and let them down a bit with
both hands. Then he put his left hand gingerly to the length of his nob,
and reached his right hand back, feeling its way across the downy hair of
his backside. Jesus, was he really gonna try this?

`You don't have to put it in much,' Andy said speculatively. Huh. Since
when was HE the expert?

Alan slid his right index finger in between his round cheeks, feeling the
hairy crack and finding his own hole. It had never even crossed his mind to
touch himself back there. He prodded at it, awkwardly, and pulled a little
on his dick. No, still nothing so...

`Squat a little bit,' Andy muttered helpfully. `If you just relax a bit
and...'

`Aye, aye,' he grunted irritably, bending his sweaty legs a little, and
feeling his cheeks gently part around his uncertain finger. The tip found
the tight heat of his hole amongst the hairy gap. He pushed in and winced a
bit at the discomfort, but felt a definite twinge in his Viagra-fuelled
cock. He pushed more, and couldn't hold in a slight grunt at the sensation.

`That's it,' Andy murmured gently. Again: irritating, unwelcome,
but... reassuring. `Just... you know, push it in a bit, and...'

`This is fucking weird,' Alan muttered darkly, and he wasn't sure what he
meant most. The boner, the pill, the cubicle, their closeness, the finger
going into his arse-hole?! He pushed on it a bit more, and felt a more
definite throb run through his hard-on. He bent his knees a little more,
feeling the sweat trickle down his tensed neck. This was messed up,
but... well, it was actually working. With his left hand, he began to pull
more firmly on his responding cock, which was starting to feel so much more
sensitive than before.

`Yeah, weird,' Andy echoed quietly, `but... is it... helping...?'

Alan puffed and panted for a bit before answering. `Aye,' he groaned, `aye
it is a bit...'

He tensed there in the toilet cubicle, sliding a finger halfway in and out
of his tight little hole, feeling it lubed up by his own sweat, and yanking
furiously on his cock, which almost stung at its own stiffness and his
rough desperation to climax. He knew his own breathing was loud and
aggressive, audible clearly to Andy in the next cubicle space, and to
anyone else who wandered into these fucking toilets now. But he just needed
this over with. He carried on, closing his eyes, gritting his teeth,
flaring his nostrils. Tried to imagine what was waiting for him in the
hall, instead of the big top-knotted football lad leaning against that
plywood, murmuring supportive comments at uncomfortable intervals, and...

`OH,' grunted Alan, `oh FUCK...'

Finally, like a distant volcano, he blew his load. The heavy portion of
spunk he'd been saving for his wife's pearl necklace hit the cistern and
the painted wall behind it. The last spurt trickled over the fingers of his
left hand. His sphincter tightened and gripped his right finger and it hurt
perhaps more on the way out than the way in. He stared at the greasy
fingertip in fascinated horror and stood there, chest heaving. A couple of
shirt buttons had popped open beneath the swaying length of his loosened
tie. A glob of sweat dripped from his chin to the brown leather of one
shoe.

`You okay?' came Carroll's nervous enquiry.

Alan took a long, sighing breath. `I am,' he confirmed, again as much for
himself as his oddly voyeuristic companion. He fumbled his dick, which was
not really going quite down, but which had lost its veiny girth and
desperate swelling, back into his boxers and trousers, and began fastening
both them and his sweaty shirt. Food poisoning? Would that lie work? After
a few more moments, he left the cubicle and stepped to the sink, washing
his hands earnestly, and then his face, and then his hands again, soaping
that right index finger up repeatedly.

Andy had emerged from the other cubicle and was watching him with an odd
expression. Somewhere between curious admiration and baffled
judgment. Shearer eyed him in the mirror then turned to look at him
properly. `This,' he said pointedly, `never fucking happened, did it?' A
shake of the big lads head, and Alan stumbled past him to the
hand-dryer. He let out another long sigh as he held his scrubbed hands
beneath it, then gave Carroll another look: what the fuck was he hanging
around here for now? Shearer felt a queasy mix of gratitude for the lanky
bloke's strange suggestion, and a resentment that his private embarrassment
had been subject to this audience. Still, if there was anyone here he
trusted with this, then... He huffed and grimaced and rubbed hands over his
face again.

`You're gonna pass a message on for me, aye?' Shearer muttered.

Andy nodded. `Aye, I can do, man,' he agreed readily. `You get yourself out
of here, yeh.'

`Tell them it was the shits or something. Dodgy tummy. Apologise to the BBC
lot. And to your teammates. Aye?'

`Aye.'

`Right. Fuck. I need to move.' Shearer departed the bathroom at a quick
stride, looking anxiously down the corridor where he could just make out
the Newcastle celebrsations spilling into the corridor from their dressing
room, and hurried around the next corner in search of an exit to the car
park. He'd have to ring the BBC lot from the car to apologise, or maybe it
could wait until tomorrow... but he knew he looked a mess, and all that
mattered was getting out of this place!


Later that night, or more accurately, in the tiny hours of the following
morning, Shearer lay awake in a king-size bed, marvelling at the power of
the little blue pill. Arriving about an hour and a half late to the luxury
hotel, his sweaty bedraggled appearance hadn't mattered: his wife had
practically torn his suit off him anyway, and she'd made some excited
comments that the musty sweat just reminded her of his later playing days,
when he would skip a shower and come home to fuck her straight after a
match. In the car, Alan had wondered if he would find the sexual energy to
please her, after his frantic cubicle climax; he needn't have worried.
They'd fucked three times in a row, and the pill had done its work each
time. Sure, his dick felt red-raw and he wasn't sure he'd even squirted a
drop of spunk the third time, but he'd made her cum repeatedly, and he'd be
enjoying her wifely gratitude for WEEKS based on that...

He lay there, his hairy chest matted with both of their sweat, and thought
again of the awkward moment in the toilets, sticking a finger up himself to
try and force the wank into action. Well, Andy Carroll had known what he
was on about... but dear god, where had he got that idea from? Alan was
hardly sure he wanted to know what strapping young footballers got up to
these days!

He stared at the ceiling of the hotel room for a moment more, then shut his
eyes and tried to will on a satisfied sleep. His wife was tangled up at his
side, snoring in her gentle, ladylike way. No wonder she was exhausted,
he'd pounded her for almost as long as Newcastle United had played football
tonight!

But... never again, Viagra. Never again!