Date: Tue, 5 May 2020 07:47:07 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 94: Caught Out I

 Part ninety-four: Caught Out I


 Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain watched as the designer fire-pit on their
immaculate patio turned the marshmallow in front of him from fluffy white
to charred black caramel and tried to tell himself to be content. Here he
was, nestled on the comfortable garden furniture on a pleasantly warm May
evening, his beautiful international pop star girlfriend right beside him,
broadcasting their cosy affections to their big social media following; it
had been a great day, all things considered, another great day.

 He'd nailed a tough new fitness regime from his fitness coach and beaten
his expectations on a number of specific exercises, meaning the ever-ripped
body beneath his comfy leisurewear was more defined and powerful than
ever. He'd cooked new recipes to great triumph for his darling girl and
after eating together in the afternoon sun, they'd fucked on the lounge rug
for one of the longest sessions in ages. He'd made her squirt all over his
pecs and she'd let him cum on her tits and it had been fucking
incredible. He'd enjoyed a few beers before dinner whilst on a group call
with some of his best Liverpool FC lads and caught up properly whilst he
waited to be fed, his dick sore from the afternoon romp.

 Yet here he was, toasting a marshmallow, his mind elsewhere.

 Andy Robertson had been in high spirits on the call; his ginger-brown hair
longer and curlier than Oxlade had ever seen it in their footballing lives
together, a lockdown look that made the cheeky Scotsman somehow even cuter
and more charming as he entertained the blokes with banter and
self-deprecating humour. Alex had laughed with everyone else at Robbo's
comedy about his undying love for big Virgil, but even as he chuckled along
with his iPad in his lap, he'd had to admit to himself a strain of
jealousy: how pathetic, he told himself, to feel a twinge of envy at a
stupid running joke between his two heterosexual pals. But knowing it was
pathetic and stupid didn't stop him feeling it, and want grinning freckly
Andy to make those jokes about him. To make those jokes real.

 He felt like he hadn't seen the Glaswegian joker in forever. Before the
season ended, there had been such a phase of low contact between the close
pals, the lingering hangover of their intense interview with Jamie Redknapp
early this year. For Andy, that incident seemed to have been a darker and
more intimidating event than the surprise fun that Alex
remembered... though at the time he knew he had been more scared, felt more
confused and vulnerable. Time had allowed him to admit more to himself --
time, yeh, and a couple more experiments.

 Half-listening to Perrie chat on about some fantasy holiday they were
booking as soon as the world returned to `normal', the muscular midfielder
sat and allowed himself to mull over the things he'd done. He thought about
his hotel room curiosity and his fumbling with Joe Gomez; he thought about
what it had led to in that Anfield gym, remembered the taste of not just
big Joe but, most shocking of all people, Mo Salah. And more vividly and
excitingly than that, he thought about a couple of weeks ago and the
eventful jog.

 The problem was, he mused wistfully, looking into the fire, was that much
of this was just lust. The South Coast lad had grown up with a heavy
appetite for a certain kind of fun, he knew that; he'd been a wild `player'
as he rose through the ranks of Southampton and Arsenal and England, even
in his early days at Liverpool, before he settled properly with his
girl-band beauty. Wasn't this just a relapse to that old appetite? Sure, he
was tasting something other than pussy, but wasn't that somehow more
faithful to Perrie? This was a new argument that he was beginning to enjoy:
his messing about with lads was a form of loyalty, because he could
continue to tell himself he hadn't touched any woman but her. This was
laddish banter in its most physical form, he decided with a carefully
practised confidence.

 Just lust, then -- mostly.

 It was when he thought about Andy, Robbo, that he felt the guilt
return. Was it normal to miss a pal this much? Why had he been quite so
churned up to see him relaxing in his garden, arm about his missus, man of
the house? Pull yourself together, lad. Calm down. He's your mate. A really
good mate. Nowt more!

 At that point, he realised he was supposed to be responding to some
fantasy speculation about the distant holiday. He turned and flashed his
broad toothy grin at her, puppy-dog eyes saving him from a lecture about
male listening skills. `Hun, let me go get us a top-up,' he invented
rapidly, escaping the moment. A quick kiss and he was extricating himself
from the cosy spot to swagger inside and top up their wine glasses.

 He rolled his shoulders and hips and stretched aching muscles, sore from
today's mega-session in the morning, but happy with the results; he'd be
looking fucking buff in the morning, to say the least. He was beginning to
wonder if he'd return to the season fitter than ever in his career, really
reaching his injury-proof prime. He grinned at this thought indoors,
sloshing sauvignon blanc into their glasses and grinning out through the
window as Perrie posed and selfie'd for her followers. Stop letting your
mind wander, he told himself, this is fucking perfect. You don't need
anything beyond this life, mate.

 In the pockets of the baggy black jocker shorts he wore, his phone
vibrated gently. He knew from the low intensity that it wasn't a proper
text message or anything, just a notification from a lesser app. He slid
his phone out, licking a stray drop of wine from one thumb, and saw it was
just an Instagram messenger notification; probably some banter from the
lads about his cringey posts with his missus, no doubt. He flashed over to
it and paused in surprise at the name and the messay in bold at the top of
his inbox.

 He'd thought about this a number of times in the past couple of weeks. He
didn't actually have Ross' number on his phone, though he must have been in
a shared England squad group chat at SOME point. They'd been comfortable
teammates but never close. So when it had idly occurred to him that he
could share a, ahem, RUN with the Chelsea bloke again some time, it hadn't
been as easy as buzzing him on WhatsApp. He'd considered using social media
himself but decided it was invasive and cringe and, besides, did he really
wanna see the ex-Everton yob again? (Well, yes, clearly, since he'd aimed
his last five runs down that same wooded stretch at a similar time of day,
and kept his eyes peeled for a glimpse of that big bouncing backside on the
path.)

 `hey ox -- goin for run in min. same route. maybe c u ???'

 That's all it said. His eyes and his thumb hovered over it. He pushed it
back into his pocket, slowly licked his bottom lip, then picked up the two
wine glasses. He took his time walking back out into the big garden patio
with them, looking up at the pink-streaked sunset that was descending.

 `But it's getting late,' she protested when he announced his plans to go
jogging.

 `But you've done so much fitness today, babe,' she added as he smiled and
shrugged and cajoled.

 `But am I not getting a bit more of that big, big tongue, baby boy?' she
teased at last, stroking his bicep and urging him to drink his wine.

 No, no she was not. `I just need to run off all I've eaten and drank, just
an easy one on my own, that's all babe -- I'll be taking it slow. Don't
worry. Sorry hun, sorry... but come on, I gotta do it. Those coaches are
strict.' He was glassy-eyed as he grinned and kissed her goodbye, had to
stop himself bursting into a sprint as he went to pull on his running gear.



 Here he was, just thirty-five minutes later.

 On his knees, cock in mouth.

 The 26-year-old ran his strong lips along the shaft, loving the girth and
shape of this meat, which he was pretty sure outranked his other male
snacks in the size department. He was delighted to find he was so good at
this: he loved the way every gentle movement of his lips and tongue earned
rasping grunts from Barkley, the sense of control he could enjoy even over
a big bloke like this, with just the power of his open gob.

 Above, splashes of pink sky were just visible through the tree cover,
fading to darkness. They were roughly in the same spot, perhaps the same
tree? Ross had his tight running vest tucked up over his neck, just looped
about his shoulder and upper arms, the tight lean muscles of his torso on
show and beading with passionate sweat above the glorious sight of his
rock-hard dick. His hands were reaching down at the sides to stroke at
Alex's curly `fro and tickle down the home-cut fade from Perrie, stroking
with surprising tenderness at his small but prominent ears.

 He opened wide and pushed forward with his mouth to try and take it all
in, but he couldn't `deep throat' just yet, he was still amateurish and
felt himself gag; he knew from experience that the spluttering could be a
turn on, and big Ross was no different for himself. The native Scouser
grunted and growled in response to his clumsiness, patting his cheek and
tugging at his curly hair a little bit. Alex stared hungrily up, wanting
Ross to open his eyes and look back down at him, register just how much he
was pleasing him, but it was almost like Ross the Boss was somewhere else
entirely, with a different cock-sucker on his tool!

 Probably thinking of his girlfriend or some other shag, Alex mused
enviously, some other slut who's had the luxury of this inside them.

 He pulled back, his knees grinding painfully on the spiky knotted mess of
the undergrowth. He lifted a strong arm and wiped sweat from his brow, his
thin exercise kit feeling heavy and warm on his muscles after more exercise
than one quarantine day should bring. Gym, shagging, running, this. He
laughed at his own exhaustion and leaned back in his squat, running his
hands up and down the Barkley thighs and gently stroking one side of the
rigid wood.

 `Why you stoppin'?' grunted the Chelsea man, his sometime England
teammate, the star of several sex dreams in the past fortnight.

 Alex panted, dragging in deep gasps of air, torn between two
answers. Because getting a breather was one reason, yeh, and the sore
knees, but also... His hands wandered up and around the thick muscle of
this powerful man's legs, over his hips to where the meat of his glutes
pressed up against tree bark. There was one bit of last time that he'd let
himself dwell on in particular, shocked at his own adventure, but thrilled
too...

 A dismissive, almost irritable grunt from the man himself. `You want to
taste my hole again, do ya? Liverpool scum? Huh.' The harsh aggression of
it sent a shiver over Alex's broad body, though Ross had been amiable
sparse chat as they met on the edge of the woodland, humble and shy as
always until his cock was hard and he had his pal on his knees. Such an
interesting man!

 That was when they heard it. Not the engine, which must have been there in
the background mesh of noises, birdsong and gentle breeze and the watery
music of the Mersey down below; no, the sudden jarring cry of the siren,
and the flash of red and blue lights somewhere horrifyingly close in the
darkening tree cover. Alex pushed back sharply from his crotch and stared
between the trees, trying to pinpoint where both sound and lighting came
from. Secondary to this alarmed curiosity was the sudden and undeniable
knowledge of his own nudity.

 Ross had made him strip off before anything began, unknowingly feeding
Alex's ego as he silently acknowledged his physique and ordered him down to
his knees.

 Now, Barkley was moving fast. He practically pushed Alex over in his
haste. Through the trees, the siren was getting louder, and it mingled with
voices. Shouting, several voices. Angry voices? Authoritative voices. It
was all a bit of a blur. Alex found himself scrabbling at leaves, some damp
and some crispy, and swiping foliage from his shins and forearms as he
pulled himself up and thrust both hands in front of his swinging semi. He
hadn't even noticed just how dark it had got, there had still been blasts
of fiery gold in the sky when he followed Barkley into this riverside
thicket. Now he could barely see two trees away and rustling footsteps
echoed all around.

 It happened fast. Did Barkley say anything to him, any friendly warning or
complicit exclamation at the sudden plight? Or did he just fuck off and
save himself as fast as he could? It felt a lot like the latter. One minute
he was leaning back against the tree gasping at a discreet blow-job, the
next he was tugging his shorts up and haring into the darkness. Alex
snatched his running shorts from the branch they'd snagged on, then
realised how close all the noise was. His brain was to do two things at
once: catalogue where all his discarded items had ended up in this little
glade and figure out how close the commotion was to him.

 Then he saw it unfold: the two uniformed officers burst out from thicker
cover, torches in hands, dashing through the woodland... but past him,
straight past him, not seeing him beyond his limited cover, clearly heading
for someone else. So Alex scrabbled about to try and get his things --
where had his phone fallen? His house keys? Where was his fucking vest? But
there were more bodies moving about in the sloping wooded area. He saw men
burst out of thicker cover not far away and, terrified at the prospect of
discovery, he scrabbled uphill and behind some thicker tree trunks, then
looked back. Two men, mid fifties maybe, vaguely sleazy looking, one doing
up his belt.

 Right, he thought, of course. He knew what people said about these woods
by the river. He'd just never connected it with his own running route... or
his own behaviour. A cruising ground, was that the phrase they used?

 More voices, loud, the sounds of chase. Anti-social
behaviour. Arrests. Exposure. The real and imagined dangers put
Oxlade-Chamberlain into a state of terror. He ran. No trainers on his feet
or top on his torso, he bolted away from the path and up the hillside. No
phone, no key, but some hope of preserving his dignity. Tears of panic
streamed from his eyes and sweat dripped from his muscles and, wearing only
a tight-fitting pair of bright blue gym shorts, he fled the Merseyside
woodland.



 Upstairs, the kids were long-asleep and his missus was already curly up in
bed with the latest episode in their box-set binge lined up for viewing. He
fussed about the kitchen at the back of their big home, tidying a few
dinner things away and making sure the kitchen was tidy enough, light on
his bare feet as he made his way around the ground floor. He re-entered the
kitchen, pulling idly at the loose green silk pyjama bottoms he wore, his
privates flopping loose in their front. Ah, he'd forgot to shove the butter
in the fridge.

 He grabbed it off the counter and stuck it in the fridge, grinning
contentedly to himself and pushing the mirrored fridge door back into
place. In its dull, half-formed reflections, he saw a flicker of
movement. His own silhouette and the designer kitchen about him were
half-mirrored in the sheet metal, but so was the view of the garden. He
turned his head with a curious frown, and stepped his way over to the big
French windows that lined the room.

 Again, movement, out there in the dark. He stopped at the glass,
immediately tensing into a kind of defensive stance, ready to fight any
fucker who invaded the home of his partner and young kids. The 26-year-old
Scotsman tensed his arms and shoulders and glared out through the windows,
which was difficult, as the low electric lighting meant he was essentially
looking back into his own reflection once more... but no, somewhere out
there, another flicker of movement.

 Becoming faintly worried, Andy Robertson flicked off the kitchen lights,
clearing the dark view of the garden. He slid open a drawer and found a
weapon; a knife seemed melodramatic, so he wrapped his hand about a rolling
pin and clutched it like a club. Out he went, sliding the French windows
aside and making his way over the broad sweep of decking and onto the
lawn. Thick shrubbery stretched down its side towards where there garden
overlooked the natural greenery of some patchy woodland. He paced along
this side of the property, wooden rod in hand, a creeping fear joining his
manly defensive instincts.

 There it was again, suddenly, the movement of branches and leaves, an
emerging figure... Fight or flight, fight or flight. He started lunging
forward, lifting the rolling pin, ready to-

 `Andy, mate,' came the familiar voice in a breath rush, `it's me, pal,
it's me...'

 Robertson paused, the wooden stick held over his head, staring in shock as
Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain tumbled out of the bushes towards him. What the
fuck? He was stripped down to some skimpy gym shorts, bunched up around his
thick thighs; a few stray leaves entangled in his afro and grazes on his
knees and elbows. His eyes were wide with panic and he was visibly
shivering in his undressed state. Robertson gawped at him and had no idea
what to say.

 `Mate, please give us a hand, will ya?' the Ox pleaded shamefacedly,
stumbling closer.

 `Buddy, what the fuck's happened?' Andy demanded, panic setting in. `What
happened to ya?' He looked him up and down again, the grass and debris
stuck to his shins and shoulders and the muddy smears around his
ankles. Where were his trainers and socks?!

 `Fuck am I glad to see you,' Ox announced suddenly, and he lunged forward,
grabbing Andy in a hug. The 26-year-old Glaswegian steadied on his feet and
embraced the cold muscular slab of his teammate, taken aback. He held onto
him and patted his broad back then pulled away, scanning his anxious face
for any clue of what the hell was going on. Alex was muttering something
but his teeth were chattering and it was inaudible.

 `Are you okay?' Andy demanded of his Liverpool ally. `What the hell,
man...?' He realised how much more distraught Alex looked at each question
and gave up. `Fuck, let's get you inside before you catch a chill...' But
Ox looked nervously at the house and seemed reluctant.

 `I've been a dick,' he confessed. `I don't wanna upset your missus
tramping in.'

 `She's upstairs,' Andy said dismissively. `Waiting for me, in bed. You
know, cos it's like 11-fucking-pm and we're on lockdown...? Mate... look at
the state of you... where are your clothes?!' He rubbed comfortingly at one
of Alex's bare arms and gestured towards the open French windows of the
kitchen, Alex still seeming reluctant. In amongst the confusion and panic,
he felt a pang of incredible gladness to see his good mate face-to-face,
instead of just over a Zoom call with the lads.

 `I've been a dick,' Alex said again, taking a few shaky steps over the
lawn with him. `I was out for a run, you see mate, and I met with this bird
for a bit of fun, kinda thing, and...'

 `What the fuck?' Andy asked incredulously, appalled and a little bit
impressed. `Seriously, man? Cheating on Perrie...? Jesus...' He led the way
onto the decking, glancing up and down Alex's stripped body and shaking his
head. `Where's rest of your kit, silly bugger? I'll get you clothes but
dunno if it'll fit your bloody mountainous pecs, dickhead.' He laughed
uneasily and led the way inside the kitchen, scratching his gingery stubble
and pulling the window shut behind him.

 `Don't tell Rachel,' Alex pleaded. `I don't wanna make a scene. Fuck,
buddy, I'm so sorry to turn up like this, I know I must look a sight.'

 `Yeah, just a bit!'

 `Bud, please, can I just borrow some threads and fuck off home? I'm in a
state. I've been so daft. I had to run from the police before I got an ASBO
or some shit.' Alex pulled both hands up to rub his face, a few broken
leaves and branches dropping from his hair. Andy sighed, leaned over,
grabbed him in a second, tighter hug.

 `Silly wanker,' he sighed after letting go. `Hang on. Let me grab some
shit for you to wear and I'll drive you back to yours, eh?' He saw the
shameful relief on the Ox's face and just patted one of his rounded
shoulders. `You mad prick. Wait here.' He backed off, shivering himself in
his loose pyjama bottoms and open zip hoody.

 He left Alex standing awkwardly in the kitchen making scruffy footprints
on the stone floor. Upstairs, he lied fast. `Ice cream,' he said
mercurially to his fiancée in their bed. `I really need some fuckin'
ice cream, you know?' She ranted half-heartedly at him about needless
journeys and shopping trips, but he kissed her and pleaded his case, and
abandoned her to run his errand. He moved about the house quietly, going
into the adjoining room that was their walk-in wardrobe. One pair of jogger
bottoms to cover his own PJs, another pair for poor Alex; he zipped up his
own hoody and found a big baggy old Scottish FA jumper from years ago, one
that would hopefully fit his well-built colleague. He snatched some socks
and old trainers and took it all downstairs. In the kitchen, Alex was
hugging his thick arms to his chest and hanging his head in shame.

 `In here with ya,' Andy grunted at him, trying to sound kindly rather than
impatient.

 The garage was almost as chilly as outside now, but he pulled a light cord
by the door and nodded towards one of the three parked cars. He pressed the
bundle of clothes into Alex's hands, feeling the cold fingers against his
for a moment. He let out a sympathetic sigh. `What are you playing at, Ox?'
he asked in a quiet but judgmental voice. `You've got it good. Why you
getting up to no good in the fucking forest, lad?'

 Alex backed off, ready to dress. `I know,' he said gloomily, `I know,
mate.'

 Andy looked at him with a sudden flash of suspicion. He didn't really know
where the idea came from, but perhaps the memory of that transgression
always rose to mind when he was alone with big Alex nowadays. That was why
he'd found it so difficult to hang out with him for a couple of months, why
he'd pulled back on one of his closest and most important friendships. He
eyed Alex's guilty face while he pulled the jogging bottoms up over his
thin silky pants.

 `It was a bird, wasn't it?' he asked a little sharply. He knew from Alex's
twitching mouth and eyes that he'd hit on something. `What, you just went
for a jog and saw a hot chick in her activewear, and...?' He narrowed his
eyes. `What you really been up to, Al?'

 `Mate,' breathed Alex in protest, fighting to get his arms into the
jumper. Seized by this suspicion, Andy strode towards him and stopped him,
grabbing the top to hold Alex's bigger arms in place and glaring at his
mate's shamed expression. `Mate,' the Ox said now, `don't ask, it just...'

 Andy couldn't explain his anger right then; he was no homophobe, no
moralist, no hypocrite. But... He tugged at the jumper he'd just offered
his near-naked mate, wrenching it away in quiet fury, leaving Alex just as
undressed, the other items dropped at his feet. `What the fuck has really
happened?' he demanded, keeping his voice low but showing his fiery temper
in every word.

 `I got in some trouble, I told you,' Alex returned, each word tight with
what he wasn't saying.

 The two men stood close in the quiet half-light of the garage, Andy seized
with an almost maniac fear for his friend, a resentment of what had already
happened, but also a desperate desire to fix things. He huffed, knowing his
complexion would already be redenning in his mood. He turned his head away
and shoved the jumper back at Alex, confused at why he had reacted so
aggressively for a moment. But then Alex was pulling forward and grabbing
his arms, coming close.

 `Just don't tell anyone about this,' Oxlade whispered urgently. `I am so
fuckin' sorry for coming here, bringing my shit to your door, disturbing
your night...'

 `You don't need to be sorry,' Andy told him through gritted teeth. `I'd do
anything for ya, Ox. You know that, for fuck's sake.'

 `And the same for you,' Alex told him earnestly. He met his eyes and
looked away again, inhaling sharply. Alex's hands were pawing at the
sleeves of his hoody. He was only an inch taller but so much weightier with
muscle it always felt like a different dynamic. Robertson shook himself and
looked at the car, eager to get them in there and away form the house,
needing this weird little crisis resolved. But Alex's fingers were really
pulling at his sleaves, kneading at his forearms and wrists, pulling
closer. `You're the fucking best,' he heard Alex say gently.

 `You're the worst,' he returned dryly, turning his face back and realising
just how close they now were. `Couldn't you have had your half-naked jog to
some other cunt's house tonight, for fuck's sake? Jesus mate, you're
covered in woodland shite, you're a mess...'

 `I know, I know...' Alex hugged him again, pulling him in close so he had
no choice but to return the embrace, feeling his arms stretch out around
the thick trunk of his body, resting his chin vaguely on some shoulder,
enjoying the comfort his own body warmth could offer in the cool
environment. He heard Alex's words as if from some distance, and froze up
at their meaning: `Let me thank you, Andy mate, let me say thanks...?'

 `Ox,' he murmured, `we need to get you home.'

 `We will,' Alex whispered. `But...'

 `Mate...'

 He was going down, sinking towards his bare grazed knees on the concrete
floor. Andy stood perfectly still, feeling large strong hands slide down
the loose front of his hoody and settle at either hip. He shivered and
averted his eyes, refusing to look down as Oxlade-Chamberlain settled into
a kneeling position in front of him. The flat palms rubbed gently at the
top of either leg, disturbing the two layers of material that rested atop
his flaccid dick and balls. `Mate,' he breathed again, and risked looking
down. Alex was staring up at him with those wide innocent eyes and that big
toothy grin, full of boyish play. The hands inched into his crotch and
pulled at the fabric so it rubbed across his soft prick tantalisingly.

 `Let me thank you,' the big English lad said in a low, gruff murmur, his
voice so weirdly arousing.

 `Alex,' Andy sighed back, a short gasp full of conflicted meaning. He
lowered his hands to somewhere on Alex's biceps, feeling that thick rounded
muscle beneath his palms. `Oh...' He could feel the nose and mouth on his
dick through silk and cotton, testing its rise and fall, making it twitch
and stretch. He held in a second moaning `oh' and closed his eyes. This was
madness, this was wrong. But he still remembered how good it had felt.

 `You don't need to do me this time,' Oxlade murmured as he pulled first
the joggers and then the silk pyjamas down a few inches. `Not this time,
buddy, I don't mind, I'm happy to just do you... just let me, mate, let me
say thanks... You're the fuckin' best...' He stopped talking as he planted
a slow kiss on Andy's quivering Scottish sausage. Ohhh... `Come down, lie
back here, get comfy...?' Andy stared at him and then to the corner he
indicated. He stammered wordlessly and backed away -- but not to leave. He
just twisted the key in the adjoining door, blocking out the
household. Then he unzipped his hoody and crept past Alex into the corner
of the garage. A load of bags of old kit and stuff were piled up, and he
lowered himself to the hard floor, resting his head and shoulders back
against the bags, letting his hoody fall open over his smooth lean chest
and abdomen.

 No sooner had he taken this position than his bottoms were being dragged
fully off, over his knees and down his shins and off his ankles, his feet
as bare as Alex's. That curly mop of African hair disappeared into his
crotch and he felt those gorgeous soft lips on his nob again. He
sighed. Reached down and plucked a couple of leaf and twig fragments from
the other bloke's hair. `Oh mate,' he groaned, his full prick taken into
that hungry mouth, every inch of him massaged by tongue. He knew he wasn't
particularly well hung but he was still impressed by how easily Alex took
it inside his mouth and sucked it. It felt incredible.

 He felt his slim toned legs lifted and handled, pulled up so his calves
rested on the bunched muscle of Alex's big shoulders, one on either side,
sliding forward, his ankles grazing down that cool smooth back. Oh....

 Between his thighs, the grateful midfield hunk was lapping at his cock and
then his chubby balls, then above the base at the ginger fluff of his
re-growing pubes. He sighed and moaned and fidgeted with his hands, unsure
where to put them. He thought back to that Anfield interview room and their
tense confrontation with sleazy Redknapp; if you took that smug prick out
of the equation, hadn't he really fucking enjoyed getting so close to
muscled Ox? It was the admission he had been pushing away ever since.

 Suddenly, Alex's tongue was migrating south, and he tensed up again,
glaring at the strong hands gripping the sides of his thighs and thinking
to push away; Alex's tongue lapped down from his tight bollocks to the
gooch, lifting his legs up a bit more awkwardly, pressing his back and
torso into the bags of old sports clothes waiting for a charity shop. Andy
slid into position, too confused to protest more physically,
then... then... oh -- my -- god...

 He stretched back and gasped loudly at the thick wet sensation pushing
between his arse cheeks, totally new and unexpected. Alex's flat tongue
running right down his crack and back up. Ohhhhh... He reached down to wank
his own dick, overcome with this extra stimulus, but one of Alex's hands
pushed his away, denying him that relief, gripping his hands at his sides
to trap him in this everlasting moment of unexpected delight. Andy had
never once considered what it would be like to receive this treatment,
never in his wildest fantasy, but here he was, being rimmed by the hunky
Englishman, feeling like his cock could explode without being touched.

 It didn't last long, both men were very conscious of the lies and need for
hurry. But for the moments of almost excruciating sexual pleasure, Andy
twisted and panted, his cheeks parted and his ring quivering. Oh my
god. Then, after these torturous minutes, Alex's hands found his cock and
balls, stroking at them even as he continued to lick back up his hairy
ginger crack. And then, oh yes, the blowjob was back on, that talented
mouth was on his thin red prick instead, and... oh yes, oh yes, Alex, thank
you, oh... He suddenly realised these exclamations were out loud and not in
his head. `Yes, Alex,' he whimpered, `OH YES...'

 He came against the roof of his mate's mouth, heard the deep luxurious
moan of satisfaction from Oxlade-Chamberlain. He stared down his pale body
and watched Alex's lips pull back over the head of his dick, glistening
with his seed. There was a mischievous twinkle in Ox's eyes and he met it
with wide-eyed wonder and complete submission to this intimacy. `Jesus
fucking Christ,' he swore, not breaking that intense gaze, `what have
we...?' But before he could ask any more, Alex was licking his sensitive
balls and ducking back down, one last lick of his arse-crack before sliding
away and getting up from the ground.

 Andy took his offered hand and rose up next to him, shivering
uncontrollably and head swimming. The stronger lad took him in a hug and he
squeezed back gladly, leaning his weight into the Ox and enjoying the
physical closeness for precious moments before remembering what was going
on.

 `You don't need to do me,' Alex said again, and in another tone of voice,
it could have sounded like a needy hint. Looking down, Andy could see the
fat outline of the well hung midfielder's privates in his running shorts,
but he was pulling the jogging bottoms on over them and stuffing it away,
disinterested in his own pleasure. He'd genuinely just wanted to `thank'
Andy, and the gesture was heart-melting for some reason. Andy separated
from him, zipped up his top, pushed his feet into some spare sandals,
climbed into the car alone and waited for Alex to join him. When he did, it
took Robertson a while to start the engine. He just sat there looking from
the wheel and the gearstick to the musclebound footballer sitting two feet
from him.

 `Don't worry about it,' Ox said, flashing that winning smile. His lips
were still a little bit shiny with saliva or cum or sweat. His eyes
twinkled. Andy stared at him for a long moment then started up the car,
nodding silently.

 `Let's get you home,' he said eventually, once the automated garage door
had ground open and his headlights were splashing out onto the driveway. He
started the car and it purred out onto the roads, out into the quiet
Liverpool streets, away from the comfortable peace he'd been enjoying until
his visitor crash-landed. As he reached the first set of traffic lights, he
felt something on the leg of his jogger bottoms: a hand. He glanced down at
Alex's big knuckles resting on his leg, then looked up at the patient,
friendly grin on the other man's face.

 He paused, then smiled nervously back.


**LONG OVERDUE RETURN FOR A COUPLE OF LIVERPOOL FAVOURITES THERE.... HOPE
IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT!**