Part 116: Arm Day
Bicep curl, bicep curl; shoulder press, shoulder press. Bicep curl, bicep curl; shoulder press, shoulder press.
Kieran Tierney knew he needed to work on his upper body strength a bit, so he was putting in an extra shift in Arsenal's reopened gym suites, hoisting dumbbells a few grades above his usual weight, and breaking into an uncomfortable sweat as he did. The 22-year-old was extremely powerful below the waist, his thick thighs and hefty calves giving his legs some real authority in defensive play, an aggressive force that often made coaches and fans comment that he played like a left-back of 10 years more in age. It had helped cement his place in the London club since moving here from Celtic last summer, a decision he still found himself questioning.
Bicep curl, bicep curl, shoulder press... ugh, shoulder press.
He wasn't sure how many more reps he could do. His wrists and shoulders trembled a little and he lowered the weights heavily to his sides, gasping at his own clammy reflection in the mirrored wall of the gym, feeling the burn in his biceps and shoulders.
At Celtic, he mused, he'd been a homegrown hero, a promising spark for Scottish football -- at Arsenal, though, he felt like a small fish in a much bigger pond. The club might not be what it once was, but its reputation and its fanbase were huge and could never live up to their own appetites; there was a constant air of disappointment and criticism here that he found hard to cope with, even if the fiery passions of divided Glasgow had their own downsides and lows. Then there were the injuries; that was why he was in here, really, working overtime to make sure he entered these final weeks of the season at peak physical fitness. Tierney did not want to end his first English season limping off the pitch or cradling a minor fitness issue on the side-lines with some sour-faced second-rate players, feeding the club's sometimes toxic atmosphere.
No, Kieran had big plans. In his head, he saw himself fighting on for maybe just one more season at Arsenal, then perhaps a minor move across to one of the more flourishing London teams -- Spurs or Chelsea, West Ham at a push -- and then to a real contender, one of the Manchesters or Liverpool. The 22-year-old Scot was not arrogant or ridiculously ambitious, he just knew his own abilities and had been told quite firmly by coaches and agents since his mid-teens exactly where he should be setting his sights. He was too young and promising to start compromising now.
Gritting his teeth, he gripped the bars tightly and lifted them up into a fresh curl at either side of his tensed body, then again, then dragged them upwards against the dreaded gravity and above his lean shoulders, then into the air. They clanked dully together above his head, once then twice, and with a loud growl of exertion, he let them drop to the padded matting either side of his feet. Fucking hell, his arms were scorched with the struggle, and he felt a slight twinge in his lower back, but... no pain no gain, so the saying went. He dared to flex his arms a little in the mirror and wonder if they already looked a little bigger and stronger -- no, surely it didn't work like that. He was no skinny weed, but they did look awfully flimsy compared to the thick trunks of his thighs!
He wiped down the weights and returned them to their rack then picked his way across the careful `2 metres distancing' markers on the gym floor, finding space to stretch out his throbbing upper body and roll his hips and knees into some comfort. The team training outside hadn't been too intense this afternoon, really, allowing him the time and energy to come in and work on the free-weights by himself.
Still wallowing for a minute in the vague regrets that had chased him all year as an honorary Londoner, the confusingly English-born Scotsman made his way out of the air-conditioned gym and into the glossy empty corridors of the training complex, whistling a tune to himself. Through the tall windows of this passage, he had a view of North London sizzling beneath the early summer, all treetops and varied architecture, spreading densely down a sloping vista; nothing like home, he thought a little sadly, thinking of beautiful Glasgow, and of the village his parents still occupied.
The training centre was quiet but not deserted -- he could see one group of the lads still outside working on a later shift, coached closely by the club's young manager Mikel Arteta, all fiery-eyed determination as he worked a cluster of Kieran's teammates hard. On the way down the stairs he passed older players, Ozil and Luiz, on the way to the gym themselves -- he gave them passive nods of greeting and didn't really engage in conversation, privately a little glad he'd had the fitness suite to himself for `arm day'. He was self-conscious about his ambitions to build up his physique and, in all honesty, he just wasn't connecting as well with lads down here as he would like.
At Celtic, the make-up of the squad was still quite overwhelmingly Scottish and, if honest with himself, Tierney was still adjusting to the more cosmopolitan world of Premiership football -- the languages, the cultures, the attitudes. He felt like an alien sometimes, his own thick Lanarkshire accent causing him to speak loud and slow for non-British players, and then even some of the English lads would hoot with laughter at the slurring Scotch. He got on well with plenty of blokes but he had yet to connect and make really close friends with any of them.
The changing rooms were almost deserted, between the rolling shifts of player training, all carefully organised to prevent things ever feeling too busy here at the North London centre. He flashed weary grins at Granit Xhaka, drying himself off and engaged in slick French conversation with their fellow player Alexandre Lacazette. Tierney thought he'd been okay at French in high school but he could barely understand a word of the two men's silky dialogue, confidently bollock-naked with their towels in hand as they finished up from a shower. They parted oddly as he walked in, separating from their close conversation and that oddly tactile way a lot of the European lads had; Kieran thought he'd stolen a glimpse of Lacazette's hand on Xhaka's arm, and a surly suddenness to the way the two older footballers parted with murmured remarks. He didn't think too much of this and strolled on by in his sweaty gear, making for the empty other side of the room and finding his locker, keen to get cleaned up and away. For some reason, the pangs of homesickness were worse now than they'd been in the quietest patches of lockdown, trapped in his luxury apartment.
He half-listened to the rise and fall of the two Europeans' conversation as he peeled his way out of a training vest and rolled his damp socks down and off, pushing his clean gym trainers into their bag. He could make out the odd key noun but even then he wasn't sure if he was translating well. He had the vague sense that, sticking to their shared language despite his arrival, they might be talking about him. He was just scolding himself for such British egotism when Lacazette burst into throaty laughter, joined by Xhaka quickly, and a fresh burst of paranoia made him sure that he was, somehow, the centre of their amusement.
Tierney stripped off fully and took a towel from the rack, realising as he did just how feeble his arms now felt, wiped out by his regimen upstairs. He flashed a self-conscious look at the two older blokes as he passed them for the communal showers, sensing the mild pause in their rippling speech, as if waiting for him to say and do something dumb and Scottish. It was the metropolitan chic and international confidence of these fellas that made Tierney suddenly feel oafish and inarticulate, on and off the pitch. Still, his belief in his own talents and potential held firm: he had a rougher and more powerful style of play than most men at Arsenal, and he had his Scottish upbringing and early playing days to thank for that!
In the shower, he cheered himself up with plans for the rest of the day. He had a video call later on with some family back in Lanarkshire, he was planning to cook an exciting new curry recipe he'd seen in a video online, he would be playing Call of Duty online with some old Celtic teammates later, and... Well, it wasn't glamorous, but it was his London life. He hummed to himself again, distractedly, and scrubbed clean his body, noting the difficulty of even bringing his weakened arms up to rub soap over his smooth young chest or to his broad shoulders. He laughed a little at this, deciding to take it as some vague hint of progress; no pain, no gain! Tomorrow, his biceps would be bursting out of his tracksuit, ha ha...
Back into the changing rooms, dripping a little and knotting the towel about his smooth pale hip, leaving glistening footprints on the marbled linoleum. Granit Xhaka, their controversial Swiss colleague, seemed to be gone, but Alexandre Lacazette was still there, half-dressed and almost watching out for him with that familiar aloof grin that often sat on his handsome features. A ghost of a smile was shared between the men as Kieran moved past, again doubting his brief worry that they were talking and laughing about him; nonsense! Kieran shook his head and paused at his piled up things, testing the strength of his upper arms -- he leaned forward to move his stuff and found himself struggling, the strength sapping more rather than returning.
`Are you okay?' It was Lacazette, his tone mingled concern with detached amusement, that silky French accent always preventing any real offence.
`I'm good,' Kieran grunted back, picking his clean things out of the open kit bag, but embarrassing himself a little as he dropped his fresh canvas shoes to the floor and on his own toes, watching them roll over the space between the two men. Alexandre had joined him at this end, shirtless in tight black jeans, barefoot. He smiled patiently, reached down and passed the pair of canvas trainers back to Kieran in one fluid motion. The Frenchman lingered there as Kieran, with a twitch of pain in each bicep, dumped the shoes down on the surface of the bench and unfolded the rest of his clothes one-handedly, keeping the other gripping the knot of his towel.
`Your arms?' Lacazette said, the two words loaded with curiosity.
Arm day,' Kieran chuckled. Maybe overdid it, mate.'
A little burst of a laugh and a slow nod. `You need a hand?'
With what?! Kieran wasn't about to ask the French striker to dry him down or give him a sponge-bath! He sensed the trace of mockery in the kind offer and felt a hot little blush of pink in each of his cheeks, but laughed and shook his head. I think I might manage,' he replied jokily, but thanks, Alex. Arms just a wee bit sore, that's all, will be grand.'
Lacazette, though, didn't seem to be going anywhere. He hovered there, leaning into the lockers and folding his own toned arms, smirking gently across as Kieran unknotted the towel and ragged gently at his privates and furry thighs to dry them. The Lyonnaise goal machine was not an especially tall or broad man, only a little shorter than Tierney at 5ft9, but his confidence and reputation gave him a certain imposing presence that the young defender felt crowding his privacy. He brought the towel up to his upper body, but not without difficult, his arms now jelly-like in their weakness; he was not gonna be able to get it right up to dry his shoulders or his hair, he realised in horror.
`Some arm day,' chuckled Lacazette, not unkindly.
`Sure!' Kieran agreed hotly, blushing more. He lowered the towel until his arms were at a more comfortable position, then sat himself on the bench, modesty still wrapped in white fluffy cotton, to begin pulling on his polo shirt even though his torso was damp and his hair was dripping, pretending it was not a damp problem as the Frenchman looked on. Finally, as he wriggled uncomfortably into the forest green top, Kieran saw Alex back off and leave with another soft chuckle, and he could give in to his sudden pathetic physicality: he leaned in low so that he could bring the towel up enough to dry his face and hair, though his green top was sticking to his shoulders and chest with moisture. Ugh.
Gripped with a vague and not entirely justified embarrassment, Kieran finished dressing, pulling on fresh white underpants and a pair of soft pale denim shorts, then thrusting his feet into the canvas trainers. He dumped his dirties in the communal laundry at the centre of the changing rooms and then struggled visibly to get his kit bag up off the bench, his arms shifting from soft and unhelpful gelatine to the fragile weakness of wafer. It felt like they might just snap the fuck off if he tried to do too much with them!
`Tierney,' Lacazette said, reappearing beside him -- Kieran had assumed he was gone! -- and reaching out one strong hand,' allow me.' Kieran felt, as he often did, almost belittled by even the delicate Gallic syllables his surname seemed to take on in another man's mouth, but now Alex was grabbing his heavy bag off him and relieving him of that duty. His blush returned and he struggled to lift his brooding eyes up to meet the older man's expression.
Tierney,' Alex repeated, you've hurt yourself, no? Allow me.' The striker shouldered a bag on each side and gave him a sympathetic smile. `I think perhaps you should not drive in this condition, eh? Let me give you a ride home, what do you say?'
Kieran was vaguely mortified by the intervention but he hadn't thought that far ahead. His biceps and shoulders were numbed and feeble and, now he considered it, getting his car in gear and driving through the hilly North London roads might actually be... well, unsafe. He had a surge of gratitude for the knowing offer and pushed aside his macho shame. I might need that,' he admitted quietly, giving his arms a pathetic lift and letting them fall at his sides. God, I'm a dumb oaf!'
No,' Lacazette said smoothly, you are a hard worker. Come.'
They agreed that Tierney could leave his car in the training centre's car park and that Lacazette would pick him up tomorrow morning to drop off. Kieran felt a vague unease at his car's safety here overnight, but then it was hardly as ostentatious or high-end as some of the vehicles in and out of the place, and the security was decent. With the conflicting senses that he was somewhat emasculated by this experience but that he was finding some common ground and closeness with one of the more aloof experienced players, Kieran got into Alex's car and was driven out into the warm, humid afternoon.
`You live alone, eh?' Lacazette said, punching Kieran's address into his navigation.
`I do,' Kieran said self-consciously, a rare bachelor in a squad of married family men.
Lucky young man,' laughed his driver for the afternoon, to his surprise. No responsibility, no commitment -- I think that is the way, eh! Haha...' Kieran chuckled and looked over at the Frenchman with a quiet acknowledgment of the rough details he knew -- it hadn't been so long ago that Lacazette was in big trouble over an extended affair behind his long-term French partner's back. Kieran had seen the tabloid trash and heard a bit of muttered banter about it around the club, but he didn't quite know the details; he'd seen both Lacazette's partner and his mistress and felt the women were out of his own league, too in awe to be morally judgmental of the 29-year-old. Still, after that fuss and controversy, it was no great shock that his own single status might be of some envy to an older guy...!
`I guess,' he muttered.
They chatted quite easily on the journey. Lacazette was the strong silent type at training, never looking entirely serious and workmanlike, but with little time for distracting gossip or horseplay. In fact, it was only when he was speaking in French to a handful of other players of similar European or African backgrounds, that he sounded relaxed and jovial, just as earlier on with the Swiss midfielder. But here in the car, his own territory, the Lyonnaise strike seemed calm and almost chatty: he moaned half-jokingly to Kieran about life with his girlfriend, who had somehow forgiven the affair but had him under strict `surveillance' and timetabling. Kieran wasn't sure what was true and what was exaggerated for comic effect, but he seemed to find out more about the man's personal life and feelings in ten minutes than in ten months of being teammates. He got the faintest sense that Alexandre had no real intention of monogamy, but was biding his time and keeping his endangered relationship afloat; Tierney didn't pry, unsure how to ask the questions without sending prudish and inexperienced. He had only really had one long-term relationship back up in Scotland he never would have thought to cheat on her, not ever!
Lacazette pointed out his own big house (Kieran wasn't actually sure which one he meant but he nodded and smiled all the same) in Hampstead and then sweeping down sloping roads into more central London, approaching the new high-rise of expensive apartments that Tierney had bought in at the end of last year. The conversation had turned to his own life and he found he had regretfully little to report: no comic adventures, no nagging woman in his home, very little to say! Partly in discomfort at feeling so dull and ordinary, the 22-year-old suggested a drop-off point near Archway tube station, but Lacazette insisted that his arms would feel terrible if he tried to lug his bag indoors, and insisted on coming right up to his flat. Kieran felt he was really imposing on the French guy now but he reluctantly agreed, and he guided his friend and driver through the security steps into a basement car park, filled with motors as expensive and flashy as Lacazette's own.
He stood to one side in the elevator, lifting and rubbing experimentally at his upper arms, trying to knead some life and energy back into them. He glanced at Alexandre, swinging his bag about for him, and peering idly out of the flickering view over central London as they ascended. At least, Kieran told himself, Alex is a quiet guy, unlikely to bring this up around training and cause any great amusement at daft Tierney buggering his arms up and needing a carer! Though... He pictured him confiding it in mischievous French to Granit Xhaka after a shower and fresh colour ran up his thick neck and boyish cheeks.
He let them into the flat: spacious, sparse, laddish. A few minor homely touches, sentimental Scottish symbols against the clean whites and beiges of a freshly designed bachelor pad. Lacazette swaggered on in confidently, moving into the big open-plan lounge and dropping his kit bag heavily onto a side unit before going over to take in the view properly. Hands on the hips of his slim-flit black jeans, tight white tshirt hugging his compact torso closely. Flashes of tattoo creeping down the dark brown of his muscular arms.
Kieran hovered after him, quite unused to welcoming guests into the place, even before the long weeks of isolation. He pictured himself offering a drink or something and making a twat of himself dropping glasses or plates or bottles in the open-plan kitchen, so he just stood quietly and hugged his weak arms to below his chest, cursing his over-ambitious weightlifting. The coaching staff would be furious if they found out.
Lacazette was waxing lyrical about bachelor life. Freedom,' he intoned, that is what this space says to me, a young man's complete freedom!' He was striding about with private chuckles. He seemed to see or sense Kieran's awkward hosting; `Have a seat, relax -- are you in pain? Can I find you a painkiller or a drink...?' The 29-year-old's gentle benevolence was becoming more warming and charming, less patronising. The intimacy of their conversation and laughter in the car had broken some long-held barrier for Tierney, or some unidentified intimidation he'd felt whenever he trained and hung out with the experienced striker.
He flopped into one of the chunky leather couches that angled across the space, aimed at the huge plasma TV on the wall, his favourite item in the whole apartment. He lifted a weak arm to switch it on, straight to YouTube and his playlist of Indie music, then tossed the remote down the couch and eased his sore arms down at his sides. A bath, he mused, that might do him good.
Clearly making himself at home, Lacazette returned from the kitchen space with a beer bottle in each hand, opened. `You mind?' he chuckled. Kieran grinned more genuinely up at the other fella, pleased by his easy presence and dismissal of stuffy British norms. He shook his head, watching as the medium-built striker crossed the room lightly and sat down beside him, placing the beers on the low glass table in front of them and then fishing the remote control from under his own arse.
`I like your thinking,' Tierny laughed, but he struggled when he reached for the lager.
Here,' Alex said easily, with no sense that this was embarrassing, and lifted it up for him, angling the neck of the bottle towards his mouth. Kieran blushed but parted his pink-red lips and pressed them to the neck whilst Alex tilted it back and fed him a fizzy gush of beer. There, easy,' the Frenchman laughed lightly, a long swig on his own bottle then placing both back on the glass. `You just rest your arms, my man.'
God, I'm not quite an invalid,' Kieran gruffly mumbled, I don't need a carer...'
Lacazette raised both eyebrows comically. Sorry, I did not catch a word of that. Something about... a haggis?' They both laughed and shook their heads at this relapse of old banter from Tierney's early months at the club. Another barrier broken. Alexandre had picked up the remote and was fussing with menu buttons. You can even watch what you want,' he exclaimed with mocking excitement, `not Keeping Up With the Kardashians or all of the American nonsense my girl is... ugh, so much rubbish... you can... Hah, you can even watch porn in the afternoons, in a place like this!'
Tierney frowned at the sudden shift in conversation but laughed along. Oh yeah, and beauty of twenty-third floor, nobody looking down through your window,' he added quickly, no need to shut the blinds, haha...' It was a joke but it was also experience, and he quickly regretted the honest of it, though it tickled his giggling visitor. He glanced back to the screen and saw Lacazette knew his way around the model or operating system; he'd gone from the youtube app to a more general browser and was hitting the `incognito' button to get to his private browsing. Kieran felt an almost teenage burst of paranoid protectiveness as he realised too late... the familiar black and rusty-yellow colourings of Pornhub were up on the screen, the last-visited page still hanging there in the smart TV's apps menu. He felt a stab of shame, but at what? Who the fuck didn't watch porn, and he was single? And joking or not, Lacazette had brought it up!
Pornography,' sniggered Alex, in that smooth accent that made the vulgar word poetic, on a big-screen, on the couch...! What a life. Why am I not single? Hah...'
Kieran chuckled but scoffed sceptically at the talk. Could long-term relationships really get so dull and monotonous that THIS seemed like a decadent luxury...? He rarely indulged in a cheeky wank on the sofa without following it with ten minutes of youthful self-loathing and longing for his gorgeous Glaswegian ex, who he'd left behind to move down to this gloomy city of arsey Englishmen.
Let us see,' carried on Alex, enjoying himself, pushing the buttons, last searches...'
Oh mate!' Tierney protested, but less annoyed than he had been a moment ago, already seeing the funny side of this invasive prank. Please, shut it down, this is...'
`MILF porn, huh,' Lacazette sniggered.
`Buddy...! It's just...'
`No shame, no shame -- older women are beautiful too...'
Oui oui, cheerleaders, eh!' Kieran swiped at him but weakly, his arms still as sloppy as anything as he fumbled with Alex's strong limbs, leaning away from him on the short couch. Ooh la la,' continued Lacazette loudly, `now this is interesting...'
`Mate!'
Lesbian 3somes,' cackled the striker, pushing him roughly away and holding the remote far away in his left hand, skimming down the search history then settling on a thumbnail of one video, oh yes, interracial lesbian 3way, zut alors, Monsieur Tierney...'
He was still laughing and blushing as he wriggled on the creaking leather, making weak grabs at the other man's arms even though he hardly had the strength to wrestle with him. He felt a little flash of embarrassment at the racial element but the handsome black Frenchman seemed dismissive, eyes fixed on the screen; Kieran found he was enjoying the sleazy humour of it all even amongst the exposure of his little minor kinks. He looked from Alex to the huge screen as the video loaded up, a really cringey piece of early-noughties filth: tacky fonts announcing the title and actresses' names, glossy close-ups of black and white-skinned hotties in a pillow fight, cliché of clichés.
Alexandre kicked his legs out, ankles resting on the glass coffee table, his right hand squeezing at the front of his black jeans suddenly. Good shit,' he remarked as if tasting a fine wine, really good shit, eh...'
Kieran suspected he was being teased, so didn't comment, although it WAS one of his faves, a video he'd stumbled on a couple of years ago but found himself returning to time after time, a sure-fire pleaser for all his desires -- and even now, conscious of this 29-year-old footballer sharing his couch and making fun of his porn habit, he felt his young eyes flick to the screen and take in the familiar frames of needless exposition, three young women having a `ladies night in', popcorn and movies and, inexplicably, dildos... He watched it unfold with a queasy sense of desire and self-doubt, then saw that Alex was still rubbing his crotch; not a playful grab, a showy gesture of mockery, but seriously rubbing, sliding his palm back and forth over the bulging creases of that slim-fit black denim, erm...
Alexandre turned and gave him an ironic look, one eyebrow raised. `It is a hot video,' he announced, as if this fully justified sitting in another man's lounge and idly feeling up the front of your jeans!
Er, yeah,' the Scotsman agreed hesitantly, but- I mean, yeah, it is a fave, ha ha, but...'
`Oh -- you do not mind, do you?' Alexandre asked suddenly, as if only just realising he was starting to touch himself up. With his left hand he lifted his beer to his lips and took a long swill that left his lips glossy wet. Then, as the bumbling 22-year-old decided how to answer, he gestured between them with the same bottle and lifted it towards Kieran's lips; weak in the arm and taken by surprise, he just leaned in and parted his lips and took the swig, though the helpful gesture felt less innocuous now. After all, while one hand poured beer at his lips, the other was squeezing the front of those jeans very firmly.
`It's just something about those girls, damn,' Alex groaned.
Kieran let himself look back at the screen. Those girls. Yep. Well, one in particular. The mixed-race girl, sat aesthetically between black and white actresses, seemed to be especially his type, a model he'd never found in any other porn. He let himself fantasise about her often, an unnamed symbol of all his favourite looks and features. Just watching her now, peeling away her bra and giving coquettish eyes at the confident blond white girl, he felt a surge of arousal in his white briefs. He couldn't help himself; he lifted his right arm and rubbed his palm over the front of his denim shorts a little -- but with difficulty, because both arms just felt numb as fuck with his gym exertions.
Hey, my man, this video...!' exclaimed Alex lustily. He was taking another pull of beer then clinking the bottle back to the table beside the other, then pushing both hands at the front of his jeans. Mon dieu...' He grinned over at Kieran, who couldn't stop blushing but smirked back, feeling his dick swell and twitch in his tight denim shorts; well, if an old experienced player wasn't shy about these things, then...! But then, he saw, Lacazette was tugging roughly at the button fly of his jeans and stretching them open, then sliding his left hand inside, in between the thick denim and the silky blue material of the boxer briefs below...! Was that too much? It was definitely a surprise.
Tierney,' Alex said in a slightly gasping voice, I think I need to -- how you say? -- please myself. Do you mind?' He gave him an oddly intense smile, the front of his jeans bulging around the shape of his own hand, his other palm resting over Kieran's wrist. Here' -- suddenly grabbing up the beer -- have another drink.' Kieran gently opened his mouth and gladly took the swill of de-stressing lager, then watched Alex neck the rest of the bottle and clink it back down. His own hands played at the waist of his denim shorts uncertainly. What the hell could he say to this?
Oh,' Alex said suddenly, can you not get your shorts open?' Kieran's hands were lingering weakly at that region but not doing anything; he hadn't ACTUALLY tried to unfasten the tight fly of metal buttons, but it had crossed his mind, his cock swelling and pushing at his close-fitting briefs. He looked over with a frown of doubt at Alex but the older guy just grinned and pushed his free hand over to help; Kieran could feel every prod and twist of those thick fingers atop his bulge, wrestling open the upper half of his button fly until it sprung apart at the front like Lacazette's own jeans. There,' chuckled his visitor, that is better...!'
Next to him, Alex sprawled back, stretching his legs out and really reaching inside his jeans and -- Kieran realised -- his undies too, feeling himself with one hand and sliding the other beneath his tshirt to stroke his lower abdomen, lifting it a little and baring a few inches of rich brown skin. Kieran, with a quick sense of voyeuristic alarm, looked back to the TV instead, seeing the action really kick off. Irresistibly, he stuck his fingertips halfway inside the waist of his briefs, tickling past his short pubes, feeling the thick girth of his semi... mmm... It was getting up to his fave scene now, the mixed-race girl stretching back and opening her legs while the other two kissed at each other's mouths and her fanny all at once, mmm...
He took a long moment to realise that, at his side, Lacazette was leaning over and grinning broadly at him from his long handsome mouth, surrounded by the wiry curls of his short beard, eyes twinkling like the diamond in one ear. `You really enjoy this one, eh? I see why...' And Kieran noticed more: the hand was pulling back out from his underpants but bringing with it a thick curving snake of pinky-brown flesh. Alex' cock protruded from the waistband of his silky boxer briefs, gripped between thumb and one finger, rising thickly up in his hold. Kieran stared at it for a surprised couple of seconds then met his eyes, trying his best not to look too horrified -- after all, he didn't want to offend his visitor.
`You need more of a hand?' offered Alexandre quietly and smoothly.
Kieran realised what he meant, his arms hanging weakly at his sides as he slumped there, his excitement made obvious by the outline of his erection against the soft pale blue denim, oh shit how embarrassing, but... what did a hand mean, exactly? Then Alex was reaching across purposefully, pushing another button open at the front of those jeans, and peeling back the front of his briefs until, with a fleshy thwomp, his cock sprung back across, fat and pinkish-red and foreskin curling away across the swollen head. It swung and flopped into his open palm but grazed awkwardly at Alex's brushing knuckles as it did, freed by his touch.
Alex laughed, though perhaps admiringly, and brought both hands back to his own loose tool, long and rock-hard -- Kieran looked it for another curious couple of seconds before staring hard at the screen. The sliding limbs, the exposed labia, the curving tongues, the drooping breasts... a much-enjoyed fantasy given fresh lust through the eyes of a stranger and the exposing brutality of this viewing experience. The last time Kieran had wanked with another lad in the room had been a few awkward times in his late teens, tugging away inside trackies or PJs in shared hotel rooms, never really acknowledging the broken privacy but just doing what needed to be done in less private circumstances. Here, now... this 29-year-old lothario was openly and happily teasing his prick, and Kieran was rubbing self-consciously at his own fat boner. He couldn't keep himself focused on the porn scene, too intimidated by Alex's close presence, the length and stiffness of his equipment.
Lacazette looked at him now with a note of concern in his wide eyes. It seemed for a second as if the inappropriateness of the moment had caught up with him, like he'd realised they were two teammates in the late afternoon glow, cocks out and public norms forgotten! But no -- Tierney,' gasped the Frenchman exotically, are your arms too sore to...?'
`Huh? Nah -- uh...' He lifted his right arm but it was like a sort of extreme pins-and-needles, an inexplicable weakness. Well, not inexpicable -- he'd been an ambitious cunt in the gym, right, and he'd fucked his biceps here! Tomorrow's training was gonna be grim. No sooner had he lowered the sore arm against his side than Lacazette was sliding closer.
Is okay,' the Lyon striker murmured under his breath, just let me help.' Let me help, he'd said, hoisting his bag; let me help, he'd said, driving him home; let me help, opening his flies! Now his right hand was there, resting at the base of Kieran's fat Scottish prick, while his left slid gently up and down his own curving brown shaft. Tierney stared down in horrified fascination. Surely not...
Alex, though, was watching the screen, intently; his thick tongue curling out a little over his bottom lip, his brash white upper teeth on show against the contrast of his black beard. His pulls on his own dick slowed as he ran his long fingers across the stiffening weight of Kieran's neglected member (he hadn't had a shag since... New Year's Eve?!) until it stood fully to attention. Tierney thought about pushing him away but his arms really did feel so weak, it would be like the short-lived wrestled for the remote before...! Why wasn't he saying anything, though? Why wasn't he stopping him?
Just enjoy your video,' moaned Lacazette's throaty voice. Just enjoy...' He was jerking them in unison, wrapping two tight-knuckled fists around two sizeable erections, and sliding up and down with little wet squeaks of their equipment. Then his hands were lifted up and he just spat heavily into each palm and resumed work. Now, Kieran could feel his strokes more tenderly, feel his cock twitch and ache within the tight lubricated yanks. Oh hell.
He only realised how good it felt, his mind stagnated with shock, when Lacazette stopped, briefly, to pick up the other beer in his right hand and knock some back. But then his left hand was on Kieran's dick, jerking it slowly from a fresh angle, and the other hand (which smelt faintly of his own soapy, shower-clean cock) was pushing the beer bottle at his lips. He supped it willingly, glad of the cool boozy liquid on his dry tongue, gasping afterwards at mixed pleasures. Lacazette hunched beside him for a while, ignoring his own boner but left-handedly working Kieran's; his right hand rested on one of Kieran's sore shoulders, squeezing it softly through his polo shirt.
Mate,' the nervous heterosexual Scotsman whispered, what if I...'
Go for it,' panted Alexandre. I'm just helping. Pretend it's her hand, hah.' With his right hand, he reached from Kieran's shoulder to his neck, angling his face back towards the screen. The 22-year-old defender watched his fave girl orgasm with three fingers in her cunt and the other girl sucking on one titty. Fuck, yes. He'd usually cum and turned it off by the time it got to this bit! Oh... Kieran was wracked with guilty pleasure, his arms feeling weak and detached but the rest of his body burning with arousal. He let out a barking little gasp, knowing he was close. He reached his right hand for it weakly but both upper and lower arm felt so free of strength and tension that he couldn't brush Alex's strong knuckles away or get a proper grip...
Alex swapped hands: his right hand was stronger and firmer. Ohhhh. He tugged it hard, his forearm and elbow digging into Kieran's tummy a little. His left hand was there too though, pushing in against the thick bunched up denim and finding, somehow, the edge of Kieran's balls, tingling at this invasion. Ohh fuck,' he murmured, closing his eyes now, the video's dirty climax imprinted on his retina, ohh fuck fuck fuck...' Alex's fingers had really cupped his balls against the tight fabric and found the gooch below, prodding alarmingly at the hairy flesh just above his crack, until- `OH HELL,' he gasped, 'oh ya cunt, ya... OH...' The virile young Scotland stud exploded, releasing his load in a blur of white. When he opened his eyes, he could see some of it lanced down the fabric of his jeans shorts, but most of it pooled on the table, a few drops stuck to the side of the unfinished beer bottle, oozing down its label. He gasped and opened his eyes wide and felt his broad aching chest rise and fall weakly.
And beside him, he became aware, hot pants from the older footballer. Lacazette's right arm and right leg still brushed him closely as he attended to himself. Kieran dared to glance to his left, saw the man wank himself with one hand cupped around his own balls, dick angled up his body; his white tshirt was pulled back and hooked beneath his bearded chin to stop him spilling his load on it. Instead, when it came, it gushed onto the dark curved muscles of his chest and abdomen, oozing creamily between densely packed abs and brushing the wiry chest hair around his dark pink nipples. Kieran stole his eyes away and blinked dizzily at the TV screen, the ongoing filth of a video he hadn't watched to the end in a year.
Oh my,' chuckled Lacazette, zut alors...!'
Buddy,' gasped Kieran, several unfinished sentences dying in his weary gasps, such as Buddy, why the hell did you grab my dick?' and Buddy, I can't fucking believe that just happened, are you insane?' And lastly, still silently, Buddy, that felt so good I think I could cry!' All he said, again, in a throaty Lanarkshire gasp, was `Buddy... oh...' He lay his head back on the cooling leather, staring around the room; Alexandre had got up and left him, but was back. Tshirt still tucked beneath the chin while he dabbed cum form his torso with a fold of kitchen roll.
Kieran felt how feeble his arms were before he realised just how helpful his older friend would be. Soon Alex was looming at his side and dabbing the pad of tissue down at his sagging cock and one leg of his denim shorts, smearing up his goo. Alex tossed the dirty paper towel onto the table, into the rest of his sticky mess, and then, with the gentle manner of a male nurse, pressed Kieran's cock into his briefs and tugged shut his jeans, not bothering to do the buttons. Then he was up and away, tending to himself instead, dick swinging loosely as he walked back into the open-plan kitchen. Kieran lolled on the couch in deeply satisfied disbelief, sexless weeks of suppressed impatience exploded in one lusty half hour of surprise and confusion.
Alexandre started up the car, watching silently as Kieran, a big baggy hoody of dark charcoal sagging over his other clothes, walked over to the control panel to undo the security and let him out of this basement car park. The hooded figure of the young Scotsman didn't look his way properly as he got the slick vehicle moving and crawled down the dark lane past him. He only caught his eye for a second, his face looking pale and clammy beneath the hood, a dim attempt at a goodbye smile as the Frenchman picked up speed and whizzed out of darkness, into evening sunshine.
Poor lamb, Alexandre thought playfully, but he had been in no fit state to take care of himself!
On the road, he pulled on a pair of designer sunglasses to protect his eye and loaded up his phone on the internal controls of the vehicle via Bluetooth. Soon a robotic dial tone sounded from the car's speakers, all bass and rasp. Then, as he car motored back uphill into Hampstead, there was a beep and a click and a soft, European accent calling, `Well?' It was Granit Xhaka's Swiss tones.
Well what?' Alex returned in the French they shared, though of course Granit spoke many languages with a harsh beauty. What do you think, my friend...?!'
`Well, did he say anything?' demanded Xhaka, sounding nervous down the line.
`Of course he did not!' chuckled Lacazette confidently.
He walked in just as we...' Granit began then stopped, as if somebody else might be listening in. You are sure he did not see...' Alex just chuckled some more. He heard his teammate sigh, frustrated and relieved all at once. You are sure of all this?' the troubled former Arsenal captain demanded in a smaller, less aggressive voice. You are sure, baby?'
Lacazette's turn to sigh, a dreamy wistful sound, thinking about the real pleasures his afternoon COULD have included. `I am sure. The boy knows nothing -- he sees nothing. He is... an innocent. Trust me. I checked.'
`And what does that mean?'
The striker laughed complacently, turning off the main road and into the leafy cul de sac where his old Victorian mansion lay. It means we are safe, my pretty man. Now stop worrying and go fuck your wife like a good boy. Eh? I will see you tomorrow, my sweet.' Granit began to say something, sounding still worried, but Lacazette smirked and pushed end call', trying to underline his point. Xhaka needed stop worrying, he was too new to all this, too honest and anxious. Lacazette lingered in the driver's seat on the gravel drive of his tall old townhouse, adjusting to the expression of humble apology that was needed to navigate these lingering weeks of tension with the love of his life. He must be the perfect boyfriend, repentant and shamefaced; his affair exposed and ended. Well, one of them.