Part 124: Loyalty
Breakfast. Jack could smell it in action: the sickly-delicious aroma of cooking bacon entering the bedroom in an almost tangible waft. The 28-year-old footballing stud stretched out in bed and grinned happily at the fact she'd got up early to cook his unhealthy treat of breakfast before a hard day's training at West Ham. He made long heavy sweeps of his arms and legs against the silky sheets, stretching out his compact body and making a little mewl of appreciation for the comfortable marriage nest he'd carved for himself over the years, untouched by his forays into extra-curricular fun with both sexes.
Smug in this knowledge, Jack Wilshere turned his mind to yesterday, and West Ham's little warm-up friendlies against a smaller London team -- but more specifically, the way he'd led Declan Rice discreetly from the subs bench, both dripping in sweat from their shift, and took him to a private shower cubicle to fuck his willing mouth and spunk in that bushy hair, cackling as he did it and grinning down whilst the lanky gurning lump of a lad jerked himself off. He always looked a bit like he might cry after he came, Jack thought, either in self-loathing for his bisexuality, or out of guilt for this new bird he was supposedly seeing, though Jack was not totally convinced.
The short stocky midfielder rolled over in bed and looked towards the door, supposing his breakfast would almost be ready. It was very early, but the kids would no doubt be up soon. But perhaps if he lured her back up quickly enough, there was time for a quick shag before he needed to be on the move? He could also eat a bacon bap in the car, after all. Although...
He got out of the bed, scratching his heavy bollocks in his white briefs, and found his phone in the tangle of his clothing by the bed. He sat back down with it in one hand, the other idly fondling his large bulge then stroking up his six-pack and to his firm chest, teasing the few loose hairs that sprouted between his pecs. He considered sending a text message, maybe using mostly emoji too convey his lust to young Rice, to spark the 21-year-old's interest; but no, that wasn't quite fun enough. He'd been rather enjoying these furtive encounters over the last couple of weeks, since Declan first outed himself as an inexperienced but eager cocksucker to the group of them under the showers. Actually, Wilshere was rather interested in seeing if any of those other curious fellas might be brought low at his mighty crotch, but he'd yet to try. Declan was a sure thing, and a surprising candidate, in his tall rugged glory, so for now he was the perfect side-snack in Jack's sexual diet.
He left the bed again, moving to push the door gently shut, then scroll through his contacts. It was too early for Dec to be looking at his phone, he reckoned, so no doubt this would go straight through to voicemail: perfect. The randy 28-year-old paced across the room as he held the phone mic up to his chin and began the call, full of his own predatory lust and sense of authority over the lanky young defender... `Hey lad! How's it hangin', big lad? Sorry to call ya early but...'
Lunch. Like all of the athletic men spaced out across the refectory tables, Jack Wilshere stuffed his face with almost bestial urgency. It was a tough day of work their coaches had organised for them, especially in the aftermath of full 90 minute shifts for almost everyone in yesterday's so-called friendly matches, aggressive returns to full play for sportsmen long-deprived of the action they needed. As a result, blokes like Jack were now ravenous.
Of course, Wilshere's appetites all overlapped in the way they dominated his personality and tested his marital loyalty. It was a test he rarely passed. Since a young age, he'd been greedy, whether it was for food and drink (it was a good job he worked in a world that pressurised his fitness, or he'd be a ball-shaped man) or for the finer pleasures of where he got to insert his penis.
Those appetites had led him to some odd places, he reflected, not least the Parisian hotel room of one David Beckham. That, though, was one of the few memories he did not luxuriate in returning to, smug with the conquests of his attractive manliness. No, not that one. Whenever he found himself returning thoughtfully to any trace of what had gone on in Paris at the tender age of 16, he pulled back, laughed at himself, thought instead of all those shy geeks on the Arsenal youth team whose mouths he'd cum in during the rest of that year, enjoying the idea that a blow-job from a lad turned out to be much better than from prissy females anywhere near his own age. Later encounters, including his own darling wife, had challenged that assumption, but it remained generally true. Even shy awkward goofs like Declan Rice could please a cock in ways most wives and girlfriends could only dream of, Jack concluded privately.
Speaking of which... He'd been eyeing Rice all morning. No response to the voicemail, of course, but he kinda knew he'd gone a bit far there. It had started out teasing and become a bit more abruptly aggressive, until eventually footsteps in the hall had cut him off and a bacon sandwich had curtailed his extra-marital flirtation. But he could tell from Declan's awkwardness on the training ground, his sombre mood in group conversation, his careful positioning anywhere away from Wilshere himself, that he'd listened to it, digested it, thought about it. Right now, seated at almost opposite corners of the training centre's dining room, Wilshere looked across the hall with a self-satisfied grin and spied Rice staring morosely into his lunch.
Poor lamb, Jack thought half-mockingly. He wasn't without empathy for the confusion or conflict of the younger lad's position at 21 and with a girlfriend, but he'd seen with his own eyes how excited Declan was to get a bit of extra attention: from his perky volunteering in front of several teammates to the several more private encounters they had enjoyed over the past 10 days or so since. Every time, Jack fucked his mouth a little more furiously, enjoyed his orgasm and spilling seed a little more loudly, humiliated the sexy oaf a bit more harshly with words in the aftermath; he seemed to like it, since he kept coming back for it. Even if he did look traumatised every time he walked away. It reminded Jack a little of his dalliance with Calum Chambers back in the day, that little intimacy he'd resumed on his recent visit to Arsenal's hospitality suites. Rice was a little less naïve and gullible than Chambers, perhaps, but only a little. And Jack himself was a whole lot older and even more assured in his sexual dominance.
Dinner. More specifically, what do you want for it? That was the gist of the flurry of text messages waiting in his inbox when Wilshere checked his phone in the dressing rooms, pulling it out of his bag's side-pocket and standing bollock-naked in front of several teammates, letting his damp muscular body air-dry a little before returning to his towel.
He scanned through the loved-up messages from the wife, then replied the only way that felt appropriate: `your pussy + whatever else you wanna cook xx'. He smirked at the filthy humour that had tickled her since their first youthful date.
Around him, the West Ham men were in various states of undress, loud and enthusiastic conversations echoing about the training centre changing rooms, the product of a few busy days on the trot, and the very real demands of the Premier League lurking only a few days away. That prospect brought a touch of nervousness to the laddish humour, competitive jibes and ego-boosting proclamations. Wilshere, unusually, was holding back from it, a little frustrated; before he locked up his phone screen, he typed another quick and equally provocative message in to another number: `u guna suk me or not, ricecakes?' Send. He laid the phone down on top of his things and picked up his towel to grab and dry his weighty crotch, then looked at an angle across the busy dressing room, picking out Declan's glistening form emerge from the steam and find his place between a couple of other young players. Jack watched, whipping and tying the towel about his waist, as the 21-year-old defender picked up and checked his phone, saw the blanching of his long face and the little defensive frown. Rice did not betray himself with a glance this way but kept his gaze down and turned his back to the room before beginning to dry himself with a conservative over-use of towels, no glimpse of a more fully nude body.
Jack scowled at his prudishness and the likelihood of a treat cancelled. There had been no pre-breakfast shag, no lazy wank before getting up and driving into town for training. Realistically, it would be a busy and tiring evening, and probably no shag tonight. Declan's mouth was his main hope of relief today, as it had been on several occasions so recently, and Wilshere's greedy appetite always made him resent the removal of such an option.
He did take a moment to look thoughtfully at some of his other, ahem, options. Cresswell was a couple of places down from him, buttoning up a short-sleeve shirt and staring at the ground. The Scouser had been off with him since that day, which pissed Jack off too, having seen how much he eventually enjoyed it; across from them, behind the row of pegs and lockers, he could see a glimpse of the big Russian, Andriy Yarmolenko, who more than anyone, seemed utterly unfazed by their cheeky group activity. But imagining him going down on another guy was difficult -- sometimes Wilshere knew where his limits lay. There was always Pablo Fornals, mind, who was currently in skimpy red-and-blue briefs, chatting away to a couple of other European fellas in high spirits; it was true that the Spaniard had revealed a bit more comfort with man-to-man action, was definitely an option', but... he had been noticeably avoiding Jack since then, perhaps knowing he'd revealed too much? Lastly, Jack thought, there was old Snodders -- he peered away to his right where the Scotsman was tugging a hoody over his bare torso and booming with laughter at something the guy next to him said. Well, Robert Snodgrass had certainly surprised him that afternoon, but he was prickly and full of machismo, he would need a lot more careful work if anything more was to happen! Jack filed that one under work in progress'.
No, he decided: Declan Rice was really the only viable option.
Wilshere wasn't prone to self-analysis, but he could see his own need to dominate here, perhaps an over-compensation for the stagnant moments in his once promising footballing career, the dents to a buoyant ego that had taken him from exciting young prodigy to a what-could-have-been feature on sports round-up discussion shows. He also knew, with the same flash of irritating reminiscence as earlier today, that it had all begun as a much younger lad, in Paris, but he hated to go back there in his head. Stupid kid, he thought critically, why do any of that to yourself?
Men were clearing out. Clothes pulled over warm, soap-scented bodies, dirty kits bundled into laundry baskets and boots stacked for cleaning. Conversations echoed by. Wilshere's mind fixated on the soft hungry mound in the front of his clean black boxer briefs, twanging into place at his waist, and his eyes reverted watchfully to Rice's movements. When he saw him hoist a bag over one shoulder and bump fists respectfully with the lad to his left, heading for the door, he hurried; black tshirt dragged over his shoulders, skinny jeans hoisted up and fastened, trainers pulled on over sockless damp feet. He shoved the rest of his things into his bag and followed.
Outside in the car park, he was briefly puzzled: there was Dec's familiar ride, oversized and countrified against the urban backdrop, but no sign of Rice himself. He pretended to look casually about, strolling past his own sports car and shoving his bag in the boot, then spotted where the lanky youngster was, on his way out of the gates and over the road towards the nearby cash machine. Jack nodded his goodbyes at a few of the blokes in the car park, then slid his fat wallet from his jeans pocket and followed Declan that way under this simple ruse.
It's alright, pal,' he muttered jokily when he neared the other lad on the far side of the road, you don't have to pay to get in my under-crackers, you know...' Rice jumped a little in alarm and stared over his shoulder, frowning deeply in recognition and scowling audibly as he turned back to punching numbers into the machine. Jack chuckled and edged forward, invading his personal space a little and making a show of not watching his PIN. `Oh relax, I'm just teasing, buddy...!'
Declan huffed out a sound of his annoyance, jabbing at the panel then turning sideways to give him another frosty look, the most attention he'd bothered with in the whole busy day. I'm not in the mood, Jack,' the 21-year-old said sternly, though there was a little hot pink in his high cheekbones that emphasised his youthful nerves. I just need to get away from here.'
Hey,' said Wilshere more softly, patting him on the shoulder, what's the hurry...? Could pop back inside and check out one of the quiet gyms, and...'
I'm not in the mood,' Declan repeated hotly, taking his notes from the dispenser. Thanks for that fucking message this morning, mate...' He looked furious now, Jack thought, as if he might lash violently out any second; uh oh, had he gone a bit far? Still, he kept his hand up gently against his back and laughed brightly at his mood, glancing back at the exiting expensive cars as West Ham players made their exodus from the training ground beneath a sultry evening.
Come on,' Wilshere encouraged quietly. The voicemail was just a laugh, a little wake-up -- you know we're good mates, this is just a bit of... bit of slap and tickle, nowt more, just a little bants, innit kiddo...' His hands crept up past the collar of Declan's polo shirt for his sturdy neck and was swatted irritably away, so he laughed again, holding up his hands innocently. `Alright, alright, I can take a fuckin'...'
Get away from him,' barked a stern voice somewhere just behind him. Jack paused at this noise, unconcerned by the sinister undertone but bewildered by the development. He saw the recognition register on Declan's face before he twisted to look at the other fella, who'd appeared out of almost nowhere on this quiet industrial road in East London; matching charcoal grey tracksuit of joggers and hoody, too much for this warm weather really, hood up in what might be construed a threatening pose, just some rude-boy chancing it outside the football club, hah, and... Get away from him,' the bloke said again, and stepped closer, and suddenly Jack burst out laughing in recognition.
What the fuck, Barkley?' he demanded, paused awkwardly between the two of them and the cash machine, thrown by this utterly twist in a conversation he'd been sure would end with a soft warm mouth on his prick. He stared at the Chelsea player's serious face, then at Declan's nervous frown, then laughed at them both. What the hell, am I being set up for a YouTube prank, or...'
Leave us, Dec,' Barkley said again in that same officious grunt. The tall midfielder had both hands dug heavily into the front pocket of his grey hoody, shoulders squared, brow creased with a frown. Jack looked back to Rice, who was scowling even more angrily, but taking a step back, stuffing notes into his wallet. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath and disappeared across the quiet road, leaving Wilshere alone with the unexpected visitor. We need to talk, Jack,' snapped the Scouser.
Long time no see,' Jack muttered uncertainly, looking at his former England teammate with a wary shift in his body language, sensing the younger man's bristling hostility. What the hell are you doing over this end of the city...? You know the transfer window ain't open QUITE yet, blockhead, right...?'
The cash machine was on the corner of two quiet streets, but just next to them, a narrow alley opened up between the blocky concrete buildings, big wholesale stores that didn't seem to have reopened. The hooded figure of Barkley motioned towards it with one shoulder. `Just need a private word with ya, mate,' the northern bloke said in a low gravelly voice, taking a step towards the alley mouth. Wilshere stared at him, more bemused than intimidated, and shoved his wallet back into his pocket. He left the pavement behind and followed Ross into the narrow space between the buildings, a sliver of brightness casting angular shadows. It was instantly a portal from London to Gotham City or some other ridiculous crime-riddled destination. Jack laughed out loud and he found his voice echoed just a little. He continued a few paces on into the shadowy space, wondering what the punchline was of this mad joke.
`You need to leave Declan alone,' Ross announced, turning to face him.
`What's it to you?' Jack responded immediately; the obvious exposure that the Chelsea man seemed to know what he'd been up to with a younger player was a little unnerving, but he was fucked if he was gonna admit to OR deny anything here to this brick of a Scouser, who did he think he was?!
`He's seeing someone.'
`Yeah, so he says -- what the hell is this to do you with you, Barks?'
`He's seeing a mate of mine.'
`Right, yeah -- sure. You mean he's seeing YOU? Haha...'
`No! Fuck off. No, that ain't what I meant...'
Jack liked this idea and chuckled lightly, cricking his neck and flexing his arms a little. `Big Barkley and Rough Rice, couple of the year, sounds about right, if only I'd KNOWN before I...' He trailed off, swapping words for harsh laughter, then abruptly stopped as Ross launched at him and gripped his shoulders tightly, forcing him with a thud back into the wall of concrete. He was briefly stunned, looking into the tight growling expression of the other footballer's face.
You startin' something here, Barks?' Jack demanded, a longtime subscriber to the notion that it wasn't the size of the dog in the fight, but the fight in the dog. He shrugged away the other man's rough fingers and rolled his thick shoulders, unconcerned about the height difference here, squaring up to the inexplicably aggressive visitor. What is it, Rosso, am I hitting too close to the bone...? So you and Declan ARE...'
We ain't,' Barkley snapped fiercely, and he shoved him back again, a bit more aggressively this time. Jack was more stunned by the repetition and force of it, but he tried not to let it show as he steadied himself and returned the other guy's glare. Dec is seeing a pal of mine, it's going well, they don't need some pervy fuckwit like you interfering, feeding your own tiny-dick ego on...'
`My dick is far from tiny and you should know, we've shared a fuckin' shower or two...'
Shut up,' Barkley snapped, nobody here wants to hear about your prick, Wilshere. Just back off, leave them be. Dec is okay, he don't need you pissing around and complicating his life, so just let him and Ma... let him and my mate have a good time, and-`
`This mate of yours... male or female?'
`Does it matter?'
Jack shrugged and smirked. `To some people it seems to. I wonder if it matters to you, Ross Barkley?'
`What's that supposed to mean?'
`Oh, I think you know...'
`Fuck off Jack...' He came forward to grab at him but Jack brought his hands up quickly and they tussled aggressively, Jack grabbing at the collar of the hoody whilst Barkley's strong hand pawed at his black t-shirt and drove him back towards the wall. With a grunt and a growl, Wilshere shoved back and broke the grip, staggering away from him with the force of the defence, but further into the shadows of the alley. His own breathing was heavy like Ross's and he felt the redness in his face; the tickle of fear as well as indignant anger.
Well this IS interesting,' Wilshere panted. Coming all the way East like this, sticking up for younger lads... got me askin' ALL kinda questions about the Merseyside meathead, innit...' Ross came swinging from him and he dodged the sudden punch, but a second blow caught him in the stomach and he limped back into the opposite wall, winded and shocked. Ross was bearing down on him instantly.
This is a friendly warning,' growled the bigger lad. His hood had fallen back away from his freshly trimmed fade cute, accentuating his strong jaw and scarily intent eyes. He was pinning Jack to the wall now with his trainered feet dug into the ground. The openness of the street felt miles rather than yards away, and Wilshere stared at him in confusion, unable to figure out what was going on here at all. You keep your little cock in your pants and stay the fuck away from Declan Rice or any of his pals,' Ross said heavily. `Tell me you understand and I'll let you go...'
`Jesus...! Barks, you dick... what the f...?'
`Tell me you understand.'
I understand! Jesus... fuck's sake...' As the weight on him pulled away a little, he spluttered and frowned and leaned heavily back on the concrete of the wall, rough against his skin and tshirt. He's a shit blowie anyway, for fuck's sake, like I'm that bothered...' He cradled his six-pack, still winded, and squinted warily at the other guy in the shadows. `What the hell are you over here poking your nose in my business? Yeah, yeah, don't tell me, your "mate"... fuckin' hell, Barkley, if only people knew you were...'
`What?' Ross demanded, looking ready to swing his fists again.
Jack spat on the floor between them. `You know what I'm talkin' about, big man. You wouldn't be here right now if you weren't... swinging certain ways. I dunno what the hell you got going on with Dec or whoever else, but... you and I, Rosso, I think we got more in common than we ever realised, all those England trips where we mighta...'
I'm nowt like you,' Barkley burst out anxiously. Takin' advantage of younger lads like that, ragging around on a poor dumb kid like Dec Rice, making him-`
I never made him do anything,' Wilshere snapped back fiercely, resenting the idea that he had ever needed to force himself on anyone without strict consent. I dunno what you're mistaking this for, Barks, but it ain't my fault if some bonehead defender can't keep off his knees and his lips away from a sweet slice of Wilshere beef...' He sneered arrogantly at the other guy, ready for more blows that he could defend or match fist for fist. `You telling me you've never taken the attention that's on offer from these impressionable thick kids stomping through our footballing world, lad...?' He could see the righteous anger on the other lad's face, but also a twitch in his snarling lips, a bit of doubt or worry in his glassy eyes. They faced each other as if ready to fight. Just as he saw Barkley began to soften his stance, lower his arms, he lunged forward, in no mood to be bested or humiliated by this dumb northern prick from the Mersey, out of his depth on the streets of London: Jack brought a knee swinging up for his crotch and piled both fists up at chest height; an opposite knee cracked heavily at his and one of his hands was caught, but the other made contact with Ross's jaw. Jack swung to the side a little with the force of his own left hook, then reeled back in a daze as an lebow met his chin and a knee slammed into his side.
`Fuck!' swore Barkley angrily, as if annoyed to be provoked at further violence.
Jack held a hand to his popped lower lip, his chin and jaw throbbing with pain, staggering again and reaching out for wall with the other hand. He could taste blood. He could see Ross holding a hand tenderly to his face too but already the younger, taller man was coming at him, enraged by his retaliation. Jack reached out to grab at the flailing fists and tumbled back until his trainers slipped on the damp alley floor and he was tumbling back, twisting just enough to prevent his head smacking hard on dirty tarmac, but his whole body winded and pinned beneath the muscular weight of his opponent, bearing down on him like an angry dog.
You smug twat,' Ross was barking, you utter cunt... always were, always think you're the big man in the room, even if you're like four foot tall... just take a hint and... back the fuck off...!' Jack twisted beneath him, pinned down by his whole body with his hands around his collarbone, threateningly close to grabbing his neck if needed. But in spite of the threatening position, the angry force, the real sense that the other guy had lost all control, he burst out laughing in his face, because he could feel something else pressing down on him, just as tense and forceful. `What are you laughing at?!'
Either,' croaked Jack, wriggling in his grip, that's a gun in your pocket, or you're really pleased to be on top of me... hah!' Instantly Ross was releasing him and springing back, off and away from him, into a crouching position against the wall, a stunned look on his face and, to Jack's confirmed amusement, a clear outline in the front of those leg-hugging grey jogger bottoms. Jack coughed and caught his breath and rolled the other way, pulling up into a mirrored crouching position, wheezing a little at the fall and attack. `Didn't realise you fancied me that much, pal,' he laughed out between a series of spluttering coughs, rising slowly to his feet. He saw the worried hesitation on Barkley's usually reserved face, the fight-or-flight cliff-edge of the moment; but then Ross was lifting up to his feet too and crossing the narrow dark space between them. In seconds, he'd grabbed Jack by the hand and pulled it against the front of his joggers.
Fancy ya?' snarled Barkley. Fuck no, you ain't got big enough tits.'
Jack allowed his hand to be dragged across the stretched front of the bottoms, feeling the hefty presence of this other lad's arousal, feeling the pain in several parts of his muscular little body, but also the rising excitement of a fantasy he never knew he held. He was dizzy and alarmed but also getting a full-on stiffy in his pants. He squeezed the outline of Barkley's. Oh come on, you're stiff as anything for me, you dumb prick... Ross, if all you wanted was to show me your boner, we didn't need to wrestle...' Aggravated, Ross jabbed him back against the wall with both hands but stayed close, leaning in against him, rubbing his crotch a little into Jack's exploring hand. Jack let out an appreciative little murmur of noise and an accidentally nervy chuckle. Well, well, well...'
`I knew you were bent,' muttered Barkley stupidly.
I knew you were horny,' retorted Wilshere breathlessly. He scooped up the front of the hoody a little and slid his hand inside those tracksuit bottoms, between their soft grey material and the briefs within, feeling the rigid shape in there, longer and thicker than his own decent tool. Yikes. He teased it with thumb and forefinger and gasped provocatively in the thuggish player's face. I never knew you were quite so... well equipped...'
I'm not some weedy kid you can boss around,' snapped Barkley, as if his physical dominance here was still in any doubt here, shaking Jack by the shoulder a little, grabbing at his sore chin and rubbing a thumb over his popped lip, smearing a little blood over his cheek. You don't like it when you meet a man who can stand up to you, do ya, eh?' He panted with breathless anger and excitement in Jack's face, and his cock seemed to throb against his palm. Jack grinned weakly back and licked his bloodied lip defiantly.
`Something is defo standing up to me.'
`Shut it...'
`It seems to like the way I...'
`Shut yer trap, Wilshere, you...'
`Mmm, bet it tastes real good, don't it...' He saw the tension and indecision in Ross's aggressive features as he slurred this tease and began to dip lower against the wall, scratching his back down it and bending his aching knees until he was sliding into a squat. He saw Barkley close his eyes and rest his face forward, folding his arms to the wall to support himself, and letting Jack lower himself to his crotch. Wilshere didn't even bother looking cautiously back up the alley; they were in deep shadows here, having spilled further down the passage in their conflict. He dragged down the front of Ross's grey jogging bottoms and the dark blue briefs within, letting the big soapy smelling cock spring loose in his face. It had been so long since he even bothered to touch another lad's prick, really...
A hotel room in Paris. A glittering view of the City of Light through big windows. The white bedsheets tangled and creased beneath the tanned, tattooed form that stretched ahead of him, eyes sparkling over at him as he pulled at those briefs and released his fat long prick, holding it experimentally and letting his mouth drift open a little, tongue creeping eagerly out, smelling and now tasting the manly richness of the England legend on the bed..
Barkley groaned instantly, and Jack slid his lips further down the veiny shaft until as much of it was in his own mouth as he could manage, spluttering a little as he hit his limit. Then he ran his tongue back up the length and kissed it properly on the tip, then gasped a little, still breathless and tingling from their clash. Ross groaned again as he wrapped his fingers about the base and rolled his tongue over the head, tasting and pleasing him. This wasn't fair, Jack thought, but licked anyway. This isn't what I wanted, he scowled, but kissed the side of the shafty anyway. This should be the other way round, he insisted to himself, but pushed the long thick thing upwards to flick his tongue against the heavy hairy balls beneath, anyway.
Ross was staring greedily down at him now. That's it,' he pushed, not so tough now, hey?'
Jack ignored him and pulled his mouth around it, narrowing his eyes at his exciting assailant, and sucking greedily on his dong. He forced another soft moan from Barkley, which rather undermined the big guy's attempts at dominant dirty talk. But then Ross was shuffling forward and pressing into his mouth, pushing his head back into the rough scrape of the concrete wall, pressing down imperiously on one of his shoulders and lifting his hoody with the other hand, exposing a little of his deep caramel six-pack. Jack lapped at the prize of his alpha male dick and felt his own throb and stiffen, desperate for the pleasure it had been denied today.
Above, Ross growled and panted and Jack heard the crack of knuckles as he thumped a fist to the wall, either angry at what he was enjoying so much, still furious at the odd argument that had escalated to this, or just totally overwhelmed with lust!
Jack carried on, pulling his mouth side to side a little, angling the sensitive head of Barkley's big bone into his cheeks, slathering wetly on it and going down to kiss the balls again, letting the hot meat slap against as his face as he did. It had been so long since he had tasted another bloke, more than a decade in fact...
Bent over against that hotel bed, quivering nervously, unsure of what his hero really wanted from him, but ready to give it up. His pale young body stretching out, fingertips the grabbing sheets, his smooth backside lifted up and pawed open by Beckham's hands, then the odd sensation of his breath on his crack, and the first wet lick of that powerful man's tongue...!
Ross was dragging him up, panting a little, and turning him round. Jack didn't even ressit or make a sarcastic retort. He just let his sore face be pushed and scraped into the rough surface with a breathy yelp, his dick leaking pre-cum in his boxer briefs. Ross was reaching around the front to prise aggressively at the buttons of his jeans, so he reached down to help, finding his fingers shaky and unskilled. Just let me,' snapped Barkley commandingly, pushing his hand away condescendingly and doing it for him. His jeans were open now and his whole body trembled as they were dragged down a few inches and another of Barkley's hands was squeezing his left cheek through his pants. You sleazy cunt,' gasped the Chelsea man's voice, full of power and authority and that same judgmental anger, `you thought you could mess around with a lad like Rice and nobody would give a fuck...?'
`It isn't like that,' Wilshere whined faintly, his whole body pushed forward into the wall, a hand on his neck and another on the waist of his boxer shorts. His cock absolutely ached, he wanted to reach down and grab it, but he felt that as soon as he did, Ross might intervene. Now his boxers were being pulled back and down, so quickly and roughly that he thought he heard elastic snap. His arse grabbed more firmly, more possessively, then a dry finger going in between his cheeks. He tried to yelp out but suddenly Ross's hand was clamping over his mouth, tight, as he began to finger him. Jack quivered and writhed, feeling the dry finger forced between his glutes, his whole being on fire with resentment and reluctant submission.
That mirror, positioned perfectly to reflect the whole scene, crouching over and staring in fascinated horror at his own position, feeling the invasive push of Beckham's fingers in his hole, amazed at it and feeling the inevitability of what must come next. He saw his tight swollen package in the fabric of the jockstrap, his fluffy dark hair, his worried eyes, and behind him, the tall majestic figure of David, preparing to mount him and own his bottom...
`Oh, fuck me,' Jack panted before he could stop himself, one cheek dragged roughly against the concrete as his whole body was manhandled into position; his black tshirt was pushed halfway up his slim defined torso so that Ross could slap at and grab his six-pack and stroke his back, his jeans and undies now down to almost his knees, so that a series of stinging spanks could be landed upon his right cheek before the finger, two fingers now in fact, went back inside his ring. The desperate plea had been rising up in him for several agonised moments, the voice of a much younger lad returning from the past, brushing by years of forceful dominance.
As soon as he'd said it, Ross Barkley was laughing his ear, pressing up against him and thwacking his hard-on against his hip. `What was that, Jack, mate...?'
`Fuck me,' Wilshere repeated pathetically, picturing himself in that Parisian mirror.
`I thought you said that...'
`Fuck me!'
A cruel laugh. Nah, just wanted to hear you say it.' And just like that the pressure of Barkley's body was away form him, the fingers withdrawing from his twitching, unpractised arsehole, sore and tested. His whole muscular frame sagged and trembled and he pushed his hands hard against the concrete, looking nervously over his shoulder. Ross had took two steps back and was now wanking himself furiously, red-faced with lust. Bend over, you slut,' Barkley growled at him. In the moment, it didn't occur to Jack to defy the order, to shout back or launch an attack, to yank up his undies and run, to demand the blowjob he desperately needed... instead he just lowered his head, rested his elbows to the wall and pushed his meaty backside in Barkley's direction. Carefully, he rested his weight into a single hand, and pulled the other down to his hard-on, removing it from his boxer briefs, pulling desperately on it while he heard Ross gasp and groan behind him.
I'll leave them alone,' Jack found himself whimpering through his swollen, aching lips. I'll never touch Declan again. He's all yours, or whoever's. I don't care. I'll never touch any of them. Just fuck me. Please. Fuck me, Ross, please...' He squeezed his eyes shut shamefully and felt his ring twitch. He heard Ross groan and pant and laugh through his moans. Then he felt it; the wet flick of the other man's semen, splattering on his tense butt muscles, warm but quickly cooling. Ross made a few more strangled groans and he felt more moist flicks against his sweaty skin. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut and panted into the side of his own tattooed bicep. `Oh god,' he whined to himself or to some half-treasured deity, praying this was just a nightmare. Then he felt the final blow to his arrogant ego: Ross's finger again, lubricated now by cum, pushing in between his clammy cheeks, finding his aching sore ring, pushing his own juices inside him as a parting insult. With this spunky wet finger up him, Wilshere whined and whimpered his way to orgasm, blowing his fluids into his hand and against the brown-grey concrete of the wall, then collapsing forward into it, sucking in deep breaths and willing his arsehole to push that invasive finger out.
Then, as if rubbing salt into the wound by being so helpful and patronising, Ross was attending to his clothes: yanking up his undies and his jeans, pulling his tshirt back down around his bare sides, ruffling his short dark hair, patting him on the thick upper arm, chuckling into his ear from behind. You'll be a good body now, I bet, Jacko... eh?' The harsh Liverpudlian drawl going on. Not the cocky fucker I played for England with after all... just a hungry little bitch too used to getting his own way.' Ross pulled in even closer, nuzzling the tip of his nose against the side of Jack's neck, letting out a slow breath down his stubbled skin. `Don't you touch a fucking hair on that lad again, Wilshere. He's not your property.'
`He's yours...'
`No. No he's not. He's... my friend's. And they're really fucking happy together, okay? They're... they've got something really special, fuckers like you and I can only dream of. So you keep your dirty paws to yourself and stick to shagging your hot wife, yeah? You get me, Wilshere...?'
He nodded weakly, reaching down to do up the last button on his jeans fly, Ross's hands pulling away and letting him sag wearily into the concrete, feeling his sticky cock rub at his pants awkwardly, his buttocks clench nervously and the cum dry against his ring. When he turned round, Ross was tugging up his hood and doing up the drawstrings on his bottoms, the floppy outline of his subsiding dick still very visible. He gave him a last meaningful look, backed off, then burst into a jog, not fleeing, but getting out of the alley as quickly as he could. Wilshere groaned weakly and reached a grubby hand up to feel his swollen face, dreading explaining any of it to the missus.
Midnight snack. Ross stopped by the mini supermarket near his block of apartments to pick up a few things. After leaving the East London suburbs, he'd driven for quite some time, then gone for a long jog on some scrubland around Stratford and the canals. Time had disappeared away from him, and he suspected his long overdue return to the flat would incur quite a lecture from his girlfriend. After all, his vague messages to her that he'd be back late had made no sense, gave no real reason or excuse, and would not go down well at all. He picked up a few of her favourite sweet treats and a bottle of nice wine and tossed the grocery back in against the leathery backseat of his motor, sliding his big strong body into the driver's seat and sighing before getting back on the road.
It had felt such a long day. It seemed like a week ago that he'd watched Mason in training, worried by his unusual mood and demeanour, even more worried by his shit football skills and his arsey responses to feedback or support. So of course Ross had driven straight over there from his gym session, pumped up with testosterone and swollen muscles, desperate to know what was going on. He'd been so sure that prick Rice would have done something bad, but when he saw the reality of Mason's anguish and heartbreak, he'd felt even more troubled. And then there had been that clinch in the kitchen, their bodies so close, Mason so needy and eager... Ross wasn't sure he'd ever had such a tight battle with his own instincts, pulling away and doing the right thing. He'd watched Mason blossom in his pairing with Declan, he'd seen the difference in his confidence and his behaviour over the weeks... He couldn't be the one to destroy that. So he'd fought his instincts and pulled away, left the poor lad there to cry it out. It had hurt him like hell but he'd done it, because it was the right thing to do.
He was no good for Mason, he was sure of that. He was as bad as Lampard, in his way, and he hated to feel that Jack Wilshere was a bit right about him; they weren't so far apart, the two of them, swinging their cocks around and not thinking about the damage they did to other men's lives. Mount... Lampard... Oxlade-Chamberlain... Elliott... now Wilshere. You're no better than him, an angry little voice at the back of his head told him, you're just a bully, a prick, pushing your weight around and thinking everyone is gonna obey...
So he'd done the right thing: he'd left Mason to his misery, and he'd figured out how to defend the two young lovers. He'd thought about it all afternoon before driving over to West Ham's training centre and spying out Wilshere. His plan had been vague and shaky, but it certainly hadn't involved letting things get so violent or so... intimate. But once it began he'd barely been able to stop, until he'd stared at the humiliated West Ham bully with his big bare arse, begging to be fucked. And then he'd felt sickened by his own behaviour, his thuggish antics, even with honourable intentions. So he'd left Wilshere there, whimpering, and got the fuck away from the alleyway and his own forceful form of justice. Had it worked? Would it keep Wilshere away from Rice? Could it really help those two kids stick it out and find happiness together? Ross hoped so, desperately. Someone had to make Mason Mount happy, he was sure of that, loyal to the bone.
On the way up to the flat, Ross felt his slightly swollen jaw, where Jack had landed a bit of a blow on him; there were maybe a couple of other bruises somewhere from the struggle, but he was guiltily satisfied that Wilshere had certainly come off worse. At the door, he turned the key and let himself in, leaning heavily on the door to push it open, his other arm hugging the bag of groceries to his warm chest. Inside, he paused immediately, sensing something was wrong. The lights were mostly out, but a faint warm glow came from one doorway, that to their master bedroom. The corridor looked wrong too, there was... what, not enough pairs of shoes or coats on the rack? Too many? Whose was that watch on the windowsill? Why was there a bra there on the carpet in the middle of the corridor?
And suddenly, like an image in a nightmare, the half-dressed man came lurching from the bedroom, face hidden in the middle of pulling a tshirt over his head and shoulders, toned smooth body, a rich mocha in colour on show below this and a pair of pale chinos open at the waist to expose a little of his patterned boxer shorts. Behind him came another figure -- Ross's girlfriend, wide eyed and mouthed in guilty horror, silky robe wrapped about her curvaceous body. Down came the tshirt, wrestled into place at last, and the guy's face was revealed, tanned Latino features and dark frame of beard and trimmed hair. His eyes bulged and narrowed and his smile disappeared instantly.
`Ross,' gasped his girlfriend of several years, clinging to the doorframe and holding her robe shut over her bosom.
`Barkley,' echoed the man in a South American rasp. Emerson Palmieri stared at him in a strange, fixed horror, wrestling the tshirt fully down over his body and then pulling uncomfortably at its neckline.
Ross Barkley just stared at them both and let the bag of groceries drop from his arms, the bottle of wine smashing against the hard wooden floor and flooding the space between them with liquid and broken glass. The Chelsea midfielder stared from his partner to his teammate, lost for words, and then just let out a little gasping noise of wounded amazement. `But...'