Part 137: Barkley Uncut
A mixture of morning wood, dry mouth and inconvenient sunlight broke into his sleep and brought him slowly to consciousness, followed by the vague discomfort of the sofa he'd slept on. Stretching his back and thighs against it and slowly coming to, Ross Barkley wondered why the hell he wasn't in a bed. He rubbed hard knuckles at his eye sockets and grimaced into the daylight then fidgeted beneath the thin blanket and let out a wide yawn.
Looking around the bright ground floor space, he found it was a bit of a headache piecing together where the hell he was and why, but it did slowly come to him. Beneath the blanket, a dark tshirt clung to his musty sleep-sweaty upper body but his jeans were gone and his leg muscles brushed comfortingly against the soft beige fabric of the sofa. After a few more minutes of acclimitisation, the 26-year-old Scouser dragged himself off the makeshift bed and stood up to stretch, pushing his strong arms out to the sides and reaching up on his toes to ease some life into his tree trunk legs.
Ross padded in grey socks over the unfamiliar lounge space, past the coffee table cluttered with plates, food packaging and empty lager cans, and to the windows looking out on a strip of bright garden. The lawn was too intensely green to be natural, and Ross let his eyes find the jewel in the crown of this inner London outdoor space; a small pool at the far end, bingo.
He backed away from the windows, pulling the drapes a bit further open in some vague gesture at helpfulness, then yawned lazily at the mess on and off the table, the remnants of last night's bachelor night. He scratched at his firm tummy through the tshirt then down to the hanging bulge of his black boxer briefs, then set about stacking a couple of snack bowls and crushing some of the beer cans into one fist, ready to make some half-asleep attempt at mitigating the mess of his presence. He spotted the crumpled pile of his jeans and his trainers somewhere near the sofa and realised that he must have fallen asleep there after their gaming and movies session wore on into the night, though the blanket was a surprising touch; he thought of his host with a new note of friendly appreciation and set about taking the piled mess through into the big ground-floor apartment's kitchen.
Still sleepy, and body largely aching from last night's football game, Ross piled the dishes in the sink and tried to discern the different bin options, then gave up and piled them on the side. He stood awkwardly in somebody else's kitchen, eyeing up the fridge and deciding whether it was rude to go exploring for a drink. Politely and a little reluctantly, he settled for finding a clean glass and pouring out a pint of refreshing water.
`There's filtered in the refrigerator,' interrupted a voice; he hadn't heard his host enter the room over the brief gush of the tap, and he started slightly at the intruding American accent, then turned to give him a smile of greeting, pint in hand.
I ain't that fussy,' he quipped, taking a long sip. But cheers, mate.'
No worries, bud,' the younger footballer said, standing a little awkwardly in the doorway, his arms folded to keep closed the slightly ostentatious silk robe he'd pulled on at leaving his bedroom. Fuck, I'm so sorry you only got a sofa, pal, there's a whole fucking guest room right there... I just didn't wanna wake ya, yeh?'
Ross appreciated the thought, both of them, and rested his sturdy buttocks against the edge of the sink as he leaned back and enjoyed his cold water, watching Christian Pulisic move sleepily into the room, yawning and rolling his shoulders a little. It's grand,' he muttered vaguely. Sweet place you got, mate.'
Yeah,' Pulisic agreed quietly, it's pretty fricking cool. So -- what you want for breakfast?'
For some reason, Barkley had been on edge and frustrated long before Chelsea's aggravating 3-2 loss to West Ham drew to a nocturnal close. Even on the taxi ride over London to assemble with the squad and entourage at the other club's ground, he'd felt restless and a bit... well, frisky.
It was being `single', he supposed, reflecting on the quite lonely time he'd spent since being unceremoniously dumped and having to get out of his own flat; they'd have to amicably sort shit out there soon, but so far, he'd been crashing with his friend and teammate, Cesar Azpilicueta, whose flat was only a couple of streets from his own. It was very kind of the Chelsea captain to make the offer, that was for sure, but what Ross hadn't bargained for was how loud and Olympian the Spanish married couple's sex life was. Try as he might, he couldn't shut out the noise of their lovemaking shortly before midnight, clockwork passion, night after night. It was hardly what the dumped footballer needed to be hearing right now.
He was doing his best to remain positive. Apart from anything, he felt unable to morally judge his cheating girlfriend, knowing what he'd been up to, but he couldn't deny the pain -- the heartache, the crush to his male ego, the utter resentment of Palmieri. Being cuckolded by a guy he had to see almost every day was troubling and mortifying, and though Ross had been very careful who he spoke to about his love life, almost everyone seemed to know. He walked into rooms or groups at the Chelsea training ground and conversations just stopped. But he was playing well, getting his head around his so-called freedom, and he'd scored another FA cup goal at the weekend; he had no intention of wallowing and sulking.
As he arrived at West Ham, though, his skin crawled and his hair stood on end, a strange energy seeming to crackle through him. Not necessarily sexual, though for a lad like Barkley, that definitely seemed like the most obvious way of releasing it. He suppressed that thought (about fifteen times) and tried to keep his head in the game, placed in the starting line-up by old Lampard, and intent on doing his bit for a Premiership win.
But how was he supposed to keep a clear head when he was stuck between Mason Mount and Ruben Loftus-Cheek in the changing rooms beforehand? The tall black lad was shirtless in front of him, his torso a ripped washboard of brown muscle, a self-confident grin on his bearded face; there was something so exciting for Ross in looking at the big, powerful bloke, knowing that he'd had him up against the wall squealing. And next to him, Mason pulling on his Chelsea shirt but no shorts yet, so that his increasingly chunky and rounded bottom jutted below it in tight blue compression shorts, catching Barkley's eye and returning him with crystalline clarity to a night beach in Dubai and the first time he'd pushed between those smooth globes.
Fuck! Readying himself for the game, Ross pushed aside these thoughts. After all, he was just under-sexed by being dumped, and hyped up with energy for the match, it wasn't as if he was REALLY attracted to other fellas, for fuck's sake!
Still, as the men zipped back and forth in their preparations and it was suddenly much quieter at this end of the away dressing room, he had to tighten his fist and keep his hand at his side, overcoming a momentary longing to give Mount's mounds a good slap or squeeze, an affectionate bit of contact before they strutted out onto the pitch. But up came the baggier Chelsea shorts over the under layer, and the tantalising view was withdrawn from his... enjoyment?
On the pitch, where football should have made Barkley more focused, things became somehow worse. Throughout the first half, he found himself noting the tall and majestic way Declan Rice threw himself aggressively around the pitch, a bastion of West Ham's defence. The youth, who a year ago Ross might have dismissed a gangly loser, seemed broader and tougher, much more mature and impressive; Ross, who had never given anyone's cock but his own a second glance, even found himself noticing (with a trembling thought for Mason's backside) the occasional swing of claret-coloured bulge in Dec's shorts. The problem with Rice on the pitch was that Barkley was trying so hard not to be intimidating or weird towards him that he found himself softening his own play and almost avoiding tackling the lad.
And then, skirting around this and other interactions in a frustrated jog, Ross would catch sight of another West Ham player, slouched lazily in a socially distanced seat; substitute Jack Wilshere waiting for his turn, sullen and impatient as he watched his team take the lead. Ross shot him a series of hesitant glances, his own face set in a growling frown, wondering if anything in Jack's mood and expression had something to do with his visit to the stadium; was Wilshere always such a sulky substitute or was he thinking about their alleyway confrontation?! He pouted seriously and leaned back, shorts tight about thighs and bulge -- Ross, stop noticing these things, for fuck's sake!!!
The strange tugs on his mood seemed to peak midway through the second half, once young Mason was brought onto the field. The 21-year-old was as bouncy and excitable as ever, seeming to relish in opposition with his hidden boyfriend. And then both of them went in for the same tackle with Rice, their bodies briefly colliding: Ross felt the lean strength of the West Ham defender's body beneath one hand and the supple wriggle of Mason's lower back under another, tumbling between them and then staggering free, getting a little twist in his ankle in the process. Ten minutes later, he was being called off and replaced by Loftus-Cheek himself; the big footballer slapped him heartily on the shoulder, flashed him a knowing grin, full of shared memory, and dashed on to take up his duty, while Ross stalked off the field with plenty of regret for his distracted performance.
As he did so, sweating heavily down his thick neck and legs, the Chelsea player caught the eye of his boss, a slightly haggard and concerned looking Frank Lampard; their eyes locked for a moment in his exit from the game, and then Barkley could see those thoughtful old eyes darting downwards, over the tight package of his chest and to the contents of his shorts... perhaps unconsciously, Frank licked his sweaty upper lip, and tugged at the zips of his raincoat, shifting from foot to foot, his mind looking briefly distracted from the looming defeat, and maybe remembering how regularly they would disappear away together post-match in the past, finding some quiet spot where... NO!
Ross tore his face away, blanking the Chelsea manager and throwing himself into a spare seat, determined to get the better of his frisky mood. He could feel his fat cock and balls, dripping in sweat, reacting in the pouch of his briefs, a whirlwhind of images in his head: Mason's bottom, Ruben's six-pack, Declan's bouncing bulge, Jack's sullen pout, Frank's hungry eyes...
He got up, quit the subs bench, and went for an ice-cold shower.
It was on the way out of the grounds that his night took a surprising and oddly comforting turn. His own car having been abandoned at his own flat in occupation by his girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend, he was hanging about the car player exit waiting for the captain to emerge so they could travel home together. He was just picturing his awkward night of listening to the Spanish footballer bang his attractive wife when two opponents-turned-besties dripped by, all but holding hands in their excitable stroll to the car.
Oh, Ross,' said Mason, grinning softly, some vague effort to look like his team had lost, even as he trailed after the tracksuited West Ham player, who was shooting a wary smile Ross's way. Do you need a lift?' Tucking his hands into his hoody pockets, the smiling young footballer was quickly at Barkley's side, nodding back towards Declan's big motor.
Oh, er,' mumbled Ross vaguely in his thick Scouse drawl, a little taken aback by this offer, nah, I'm good, pal, er...'
`Things are okay staying with Cesar, right? Skipper looking after you?' Mount, who he hadn't really shared his current concerns about the nightly live sex show with, grinned concernedly at him while in the background, Rice disappeared into the car, something impatience in the slam of his door; clearly someone was still a bit intimidated by Ross the Boss, hah!
Ross just nodded at the question. Cos if you get sick of them,' Mason said quickly, you can always crash in my spare room, come stay with me and Dec for a night, or summat?'
Ross paused and looked thoughtfully at him. `You mean that?'
`Sure. You know I'm always there for you, man! Like, even if you just wanna chat, or...'
Ross looked past him, through the windscreen of the jeep. Declan, looking so much older and more dignified behind his thin strap of bear and longer hair, frowned silently his way through the glass, hands gripping the wheel, staring quite frostily this way. Ross sighed. Oh, you know what, I couldn't do that,' he said quietly, then a bit more loudly and jovially, your flat is a tiny little pigsty, Mase, fuck that...' He patted him on the arm. `Get yourself home, Mase, mate. See ya Friday.'
And with a series of polite, friendly if you're sure' sentiments, he was gone, getting into Dec's car and fucking off into the London night. Ross stood there, bag swinging vaguely at his side, reminding himself that he really needed to see his lass face-to-face and sort this out, when another figure stepped out next to him, fishing a car key from his bag and whistling to himself. It was his fellow attacking midfielder, young Christian Pulisic, a little flushed from his recent hot shower Oh, Barks,' the American chirped at the sight of him, `you need a ride somewhere...?'
And somehow, the quiet professionalism and wise-beyond-his-years calm of the young American was just the antidote to Barkley's mood. There was something very steady and reassuring about the 21-year-old, who he found himself confiding in about the sheer noise of Azpilicueta and his athletic bedroom performances; before long, Ross was texting the skipper to say he was staying elsewhere tonight, and downing cans of imported American beer with Christian on the sofas of his big central London apartment, relaxing in a laddish wind-down and, apparently, falling asleep in his pants and needing the friendly teammate to tuck a blanket over him.
`How were they?' Pulisic asked brightly across the outside table, putting down his cutlery with a clank and supping the dregs of his black coffee.
Ross chewed on the last of the homemade pancakes and gave Christian a quick, laddish thumbs-up. `Proper sound,' he praised. They were sat out in the garden, recharging with the younger guy's quickly whipped up breakfast skills, both facing the pleasant gap in their busy training schedules; as long as they put in a bit of home fitness for a few hours in the afternoon, Lamps had given them the day off, everyone needing the downtime in the tight schedule of the late season.
Ross picked up his own milky coffee and took a sip, listening as Pulisic swung into some casually nostalgic memory of pancakes from his mom back in Hershey, Pennsylvania, more expressive and open than he ever seemed to be around lads at work. Ross listened politely, making a few mental calculations about how long he could stay here today without stretching Pulisic's hospitality, whether he ought to go back to his borrowed room at the captain's place and crash out, if he could face organising some peace brokering lunch with the girlfriend...
Sorry,' chuckled Christian, smiling at him, I'm being a bore, huh?'
`What? Fuck, no mate, sorry -- just got stuff on my mind. What were you sayin'?'
`Don't worry about it... just rambling.' Pulisic reached for his plate, piling them up with a clink and then looking about them down the strip of garden, overlooked by the two floors above, but walled in enough to feel like they weren't in Zone 1. You could hardly hear the city. Trust an American, Ross thought, to wanna live right by all the big monuments.
`Just figuring out my day,' Ross sighed, unable to keep the heaviness from his voice. Another thought process: maybe he should even be considering Mason's kind offer, since there were few people in London he felt more comfortable with than the sparky midfielder. But no... the memory of their close-contact during Wilsheregate was fresh enough, as was Declan's resentful scowl in the car park. There was something there he needed to keep clear of, for everybody's sake.
Just chill here if you like,' Christian offered. Dunno about you but I fancy a dip in the pool.'
`It ain't that warm,' Ross pointed out a little moodily.
It's heated,' Christian said, proud but not boasting, getting up and gathering the breakfast things onto a tray. It's an absolute godsend, buddy, best start to days off. Trust me. You hang there and I'll get you a spare pair of trunks, huh?'
Barkley paused, self-conscious of his sofa-surfing status and the rep he must be getting throughout the Chelsea squad, but like last night after the game, the 21-year-old was so calm and reassuring, so removed from the other stresses in his life. Just a big honest smile on the short footballer's tanned face, his thick eyebrows creasing beneath the shaggy dark hair. Yeh, that'd be boss,' he agreed slowly, nodding. If you're sure.'
While Christian vanished indoors through the French windows, he went to check out the pool, having already admired it from the windows. It was almost the size of the rest of the garden, and unlike the lawn and patio, it was partly covered and spared from the balconies of the apartments above, a private space that almost felt like it belonged in some remote spa. Still just in his undies, a spare jumper tugged over his tshirt, Ross stood at the edge of it and squatted down to test the temperature, spreading his thick thighs to get down and feel it. As predicted, comfortingly tepid in the mild mid-morning light.
In moments, the bright and breezy Pennsylvanian dude was back, carrying two towels over one arm and dangling a pair of dark purple swimming trunks in his free hand; he himself was stripped down to a pair of quite long board shorts covered in some garish print, his lean 5ft7 body exposed, his Croatian heritage showing in his deep summer tan. `Here,' he said, tossing the shorts at Barkley and going to hang their towels on a rail that separated the pool area from the main garden.
Barkley was not shy, but he wasn't naturally a show-off, or an exhibitionist, so looking back, perhaps it was an odd decisions to immediately starting pulling off his undies there and then, dragging the warm pair of yesterday's pants off down his thighs; Pulisic instantly flicked a glance over this way and raise his dark Croat eyebrows, a little surprised. `There's a little changing booth round that corner,' he pointed out with a soft laugh in his voice.
Ross frowned, stepping out of his undies and dangling the shorts in one hand; below the hem of his tshirt and jumper, his cock and balls were fully exposed beneath the short wiry pubes, and he just looked challengingly at Christian's mild alarm. `Mate, we shower together a few times a week,' he said, hearing something of a question in his own voice. Perhaps he was skewed by months of being involved in the experimentation of others, but it definitely felt for a moment like the American was looking at his big manhood. Fuck's sake, not this again!
Christian, then, seemed to realise what he was doing and look very directly away, his cheeks flushing redder, and an awkward laugh bursting from his lips. Sorry bud, I wasn't-
No bother, just-
-wasn't looking too closely or anything!' Pulisic finished lamely. Nothing funny or queer about it,' he added, his nervousness charming and affable in his East Coast accent, `I just get so -- well, freaked out by... you know...!'
`Huh?'
`You guys and your fucking sleeves...'
Ross still stared at him a moment, holding the purple shorts discreetly over his crotch and waiting for Christian to explain what the hell he was on about.
You're... uncircumcised,' Pulisic said lamely. I mean, I know I've been in Europe a year or two now, dude, but... I dunno, they look so weird to me.' He laughed and turned away, blushing deeply as he chuckled at himself. `God, I must sound like some total weirdo hick...! Ignore me, please...! Fuck!'
Ross dragged the spare shorts onto him, becoming quickly aware that they were at least a size too small, given his greater height and build than the speedy attacker, particular around his centre of gravity. Tight and hugging but they did fit. He dragged his tops up and off, sharing for a moment in his young friend's discomfort at the turn of the conversation -- but only really for a moment, because in a way this felt inevitable. On some level, all of his interactions with guys seemed to head this way now! Not so long ago, he thought, he'd been totally perturbed when Mase caught him trying to photograph himself, and took so much interest in his anatomy... now, weirdly, it just felt natural that, for whatever specific cultural reason, a young lad might have some vested interest in his prick. Didn't they all?!
As a result, he climbed down into the room temperature water feeling a lot more relaxed and indifferent than Pulisic, who looked mortified by his own admission. The pool really wasn't big enough for more than the dip' his host had suggested; Barkley tried swimming a length' or two, but the rectangle of glittering water disappeared in two quick bursts of his 6ft2 physique, and he bored of that fast. This left him paddling idly in the centre, glad of the comforting setting even with its lack of swim potential. A few morning rays still struck his bare arms and shoulders, a cluster of tropical-looking pot plants shielded them in, and a structure above screened them from view. In this comforting warmth, Pulisic had chosen to linger at one side, arms pulled back against the pool edge, looking anywhere but at him.
Relax,' Ross told him gently, I didn't give a fuck that you were lookin'.'
A little scoff of chuckle from Christian. `What? I know, it don't matter, I was just...'
Ross pushed himself that way with one stroke, into the shallower water of that edge, and then lifted from it, knowingly splashing the American a bit with the cascade from his physique. He turned side to side Christian and pulled his arse onto the ledge, sitting beside and above him, trickles of water following his limbs downward.
`Ain't nothing wrong with having a look, we're just mates,' Barkley found himself saying.
`Forget I said anything!' Pulisic pleaded with a mixture of amusement and unease, pulling a wet hand over his face.
Seriously, how can they freak you out, foreskins are normal, mate,' Ross continued with a burly laugh, flicking more water at his ear and cheek, then sliding forward and onto his feet; the pool only came up to his mid thigh here. Christian turned to look his way and he pulled a little at the front of the tight swimming shorts, exposing an inch of pubes. You want a proper look, so you can reassure yourself it ain't that weird?' What am I playing at? Why am I encouraging this?
I'm not sure that's necessary,' the other Chelsea lad began, then a polite Oh' as Ross proceeded to pull down on the shorts, peeling their too-tight waistline and clingy wet mesh down until his privates fell comfortably into view. Again, the young American-Croatian stared in obvious interest at the meat between the thighs, poised at the pool edge with his elbows digging into the ledge, water playing about his nipples and his jaw dropping a little. Perhaps, Ross thought with growing smugness, he is registering the size of it, not just the stupid turtleneck!
I dunno why they creep me out so much,' Christian said, finally. I mean, I get that my dick is the one that's been, y'know, cut, or whatever, but...' he shrugged and shuddered quite comically. `I just can't imagine having one, that's all! Doesn't it, like...' He left the question unfinished, gesturing vaguely at Ross's crotch and bursting into another little roll of nervous laughter, making him sound his youthful age. The blush was intense.
Well, I obviously can't imagine NOT having one,' Barkley chuckled back. He pushed lightly at his floppy dick (in truth, it was pretty much semi, in these warm relaxing conditions, with yesterday's frustrations unresolved, but he didn't suppose Pulisic would know that) and let it swing, then scratched idly at his sack. But... nothing wrong with a bit of extra skin there. It don't feel weird or get in the way, you know.'
`Not even a bit?' Christian asked, his voice dropping to a curious whisper.
Nah, nah, watch- And with relaxed body language, Ross held his package up in one hand and rolled back his foreskin gently with two fingers of the other, letting the younger athlete see the pink bulb of his bell-end emerge. `See, just like you underneath, Captain America.' He chuckled, releasing his privates and letting them dangle pendulously again; Christina's eyes followed like somebody hypnotised by a snake. Was the reserved young player JUST fascinated by the difference in their penis status...?
Right,' Pulisic said slowly. Yeah, I mean... God, sorry Ross, I didn't mean to be weird...!'
Nah,' he sighed, holding the lowered waist of his shorts but not pulling them up from the surface of the water, just letting his cock dangle and get fatter, you're alright, lad...'
`You don't worry about it tearing?' The question came quietly but with a fresh burst of curiosity in his earnest expression, eyes flicking up and down between cock and Ross's face.
`No way. And I fuck pretty hard, haha.'
`Er, I bet you do, heh... Erm.'
You wanna touch it?' The question was out before he had time to second-guess it, and he could see the twitching nervousness of Christian's shoulders and neck, the gulp of his throat and his eyes moving away to rove the surface of the pool. Like... just to see how normal it is, like how similar to yours, ya know...?' Barkley smiled firmly at him, not moving from his posed stance.
Sure,' the other footballer said, really hesitantly, but moving closer through the water, ok.'
Pulisic but his thumb and one finger very slowly to the middle of Barkley's shaft, careful not to squeeze or grip, just brushing the wrinkled but stretching skin, then shifting down and pulling a bit at the looser folds around the tip; had the American kid noticed that it was getting a bit thicker, that the foreskin was already pulling ever so slightly off the head? Perhaps not. Very quietly, hunched forward in the shallow end of the pool, he pulled softly on the hood of the big tool, gulped loudly, then let his thumb push momentarily at the tender skin of the helmet.
Ugh,' Ross moaned slightly at this contact, but then added, it's ok, just... I guess having the skin there makes us way more sensitive around those parts, not like you fellas... heh...'
Christian chuckled sensitively, his fingers still playing about the girthy meat, eyes drifting up to meet his, as if looking for permission, or disapproval, or anything. Ross just smiled faintly, lazily back at him, bringing his hands up to his own hips a little, enjoying standing over the nervous 21-year-old, having his dick so delicately cupped and stretched and explored; it was really responding, curving out and swelling, there was no way the naïve American wouldn't be spotting this. If he was, perhaps that's why he pulled his hand away now, dropping it into the shallows and letting out a long sigh through gritted teeth, the red blush still all over his sun-darkened features.
Why you stoppin'?' Ross asked in a gentle voice. Eh, lad?'
Dunno,' mumbled Christian, erm, sorry...'
`Go on, have a proper feel, if you like,' he encouraged. He shouldn't be doing this. But he was.
Pulisic didn't look back up at him now, but he did slide his fingers a little more fully around the hardening length, still focused on the way Barkley's foreskin pulled back and stretched as the head swelled and shone. Ross could feel his fingers and thumb tremble against his meat and he let out a more controlled, satisfied moan. `You see, just normal, just like yours really, lad...'
Bigger,' mumbled Pulisic awkwardly. Fair bit bigger. Erm.'
Oh.' A soft chuckle. Right.'
Ross sighed again, hands on his hips, enjoying the warm lap of the pool water against his knees, the delicate stroke of American fingers around his bell end and, curiously, further up his stiff shaft. The pool was screened from view, but still... a mixture of public decency (whatever that was) and the vague aches in his back and limbs from sleeping on a couch after a hard night's footy made him pull back a little, releasing his hard-on from the lad's shaky touch. Christian pulled back as if chastised, holding his questing hand tight against the faint fur of his chest, embarrassed and wounded-looking, moving away along the pool edge and getting up to his own feet. As he did, his wet, loose board shorts showed the nature of his excitement quite vividly, and his mortification was complete. But Ross just smiled at him and nodded at the long wall of windows, the open French windows by the table.
`Inside,' he said simply.
In the bedroom, Christian Pulisic reached for a light-switch, but he pushed his arm down and shook his head, and nudged him forward into the soft dark of the big master bedroom. Ross took several dripping wet strides over the floorboards and sat his damp arse down on the bedding; out of the pool, Pulisic had tugged a towel nervously over his torso and face but Ross had strode on over the lawn, hard-on swinging, dangerously in view of the balconies above for ten seconds, then straight indoors.
Christian sank carefully down on the bed next to him, and Ross took his hand and pulled it into his bare crotch, letting him wrap his fingers about his cock again, then patting his shoulder and reaching for the back of his neck. It's alright,' he whispered harshly at him, it's okay to touch it, if you like. You like it? You like it, yeh?'
Christian nodded his head, their faces obscured without more light, just nervously stroking the curl of Barkley's foreskin and the thick tender skin of his bell-end. Ross kneaded stern fingers over the nape of his neck and let out an appreciative sound, then lay back on the bed, spreading his damp back muscles over the sheets. Christian shifted back with him, still shakily holding him by the dick. Ross, aware that the nervous first-timer needed some guidance, curled his arm about his shoulders a bit, pulling him gently in against himself at his side, holding him as he began to wank a little more certainly at his tool, each stroke long and hesitant before sliding eagerly back.
`You fancy tastin' it, do ya?' Barkley murmured in the dark, hearing the danger in his own suggestion. He stroked idly at the fade trim down the back of Pulisic's head, not pushing it towards the task, but cradling it on his right pec a little, trying to comfort but lead the anxious American.
`I don't know,' was the ambiguous, shaky answer; but at the same time, his fingers seemed to tighten a little around the base of that thick Merseyside monster then drag up its length to play against the foreskin and head once more, then slide sooooothingly down...
`Go on. I wouldn't tell a fuckin' soul, Chris.'
`But we're...'
`Just try it, if ye don't like it, forget it happened.'
A silent nod in the shadow. Ross breathed in and let out an anticipatory gasp; he stroked the neck and shoulders of the 21-year-old as Christian moved earnestly down his body, hands leaning clumsily onto his tight six pack then his fleshy thigh. There were a few moments where nothing seemed to happen and Ross imagined the lad, so naïve and confused, just staring at his cock, or at least his little turtleneck of foreskin; then, oh yes, the soft awkward touch of lips right there, spreading, then the gentlest wet flick of tongue, then... then, of course, Pulisic was pulling his mouth more fully over the thick tip and tasting it. Ross heard his little `mmm' of relief at a boundary pushed over.
Barkley didn't bother with the rough push or guiding stroke, though he felt he could have, holding all the cards here. He was a little nervous of the bambi-like newbie, and also just decadent in his lazy pleasure. The bed felt so good and soft beneath him, Christian's huge kingsize and luxury mattress, notihng like last night's sofa, or the lumpy thing in the spare room at the skipper's place. He sprawled back, stretching his legs and purring his enjoyment, feeling Chris lick at his dick in dabs and pulls. The blowjob, clumsy and experimental as it was, felt so good, and there was a certain new feeling in it that took Barkley a good ten minutes to put his finger on:
Freedom.
He didn't have to feel a fucking ounce of guilt, single as he was, lying here and letting this confused young Penn emigrant tongue at his cock with what he imagined was an expression of gormless amazement. A damp rustle told him that Christian, hunched on the edge of the bed, was tugging at himself through his own shorts as he began to run his tongue down Ross's shaft. Mmm.
Oh Chris,' he decided to moan, really getting into it, fuck that feels good... nice, aaww...'
The encouragement helped. Pulisic settled in, lying alongside him and stretching out a bit, really burying his face between his legs, opening his mouth wider and struggling to take a bit of dick into it properly; Ross tested him, pushing up softly with his hips to guide it in, and then deciding, fuck it, why not? He reached his right hand over and pushed Christian's own fingers roughly off the front of his still-wet board shorts, and traced the outline of his short thick cock there. He didn't get it out or properly wank it, he just thumbed and teased it while his dick was serviced.
The thing was, Barkley had been introduced to certain things early on, when he still couldn't quite believe that he'd let a lad nosh him; and now, that was what he wanted. He lifted his right leg, brushing his strong thigh over Christian's chest, then firming up his knee, and pulling the limb up into the air until it leaned heavily onto the lad's outer shoulder; like this, he pulled the American more firmly into his crotch, wrapping his strong legs about his head, trapping him there at his cock and balls... but reaching down, curving his taut abs, and pushing at the soft dark waves of hair, pushing Chris down so he was licking his balls rather than his cock, those fat sacks pushed into his lips. Further down. Pushing. Barkley parting his big legs, releasing his grip a bit, sitting almost upright, his other arm planted behind him at an angle to hold position: he pushed down on the crown and forehead and felt it, Christian's tongue go down from beneath his balls, over his gooch... he pushed and lifted his hips and YES...
A little muffled noise of surprise or bewilderment, but Pulisic was not protesting. Ross could feel his flickering tongue enter the soft hair of his crack, not quite able to get between his big squashed glutes, but teasing into the gap just enough to really stimulate him, to push him from very horny to maddeningly aroused. Barkley curbed his back and lifted his arse and thighs into the air, reaching further to properly hold Christian by the head, pressing his face in between his gently parting glutes. One of Pulisic's hands found the cock, wet with his saliva, and tugged at hit for him while he, gasping for breath, kissed and licked the space between his cheeks.
Ross had no interest in this American geek being horny and excitable once he'd had his fun. He reached for the front of Christian's shorts and pulled at his quivering dick through them. It didn't take long. A few rough pulls and forceful squeezes, a bit of loud honest moaning from his own mouth. Then Christian was quivering and producing a fresh warm wet patch in his swimming shorts, and Ross could really let go and enjoy his own orgasm. He came with Pulisic still kissing his gooch nervously, his nose propping into the droop of his ballsack; the thick white goo from Barkley's cumshot spilled into his fringe and on his forehead and eyebrows and trickled onto his nose.
Aw yeah,' the sturdy Scouser groaned, awww, lad...'
Fuck, oh god,' whined the American, his body shaking, ohhh god...'
Ross groaned happily, pushing his head back into the bedding and patting patronisingly at the boy's thigh, near where his cum seeped through his shorts. Aw yeah... there there, Pulisic, good lad, aye... mmm... ey... Chris... Chris?' He saw the outline of his face rise up, gently outlined in the dark, a little light seeping through the door they'd left ajar. Be a love, will ya... go make another pot of coffee, eh?' He grinned calmly down his own bare, moisture-prickled body, unable to quite read the bewildered expression on the youngster's face.
Erm, okay,' Christian said quietly, between pants. Okay, dude.'
And up he got, scuttling form the room with deep, worried breaths. Ross lay there, cock flopping against one thigh and feeling sticky and wet on his leg hair. He breathed deeply of the room's woody, perfumed atmosphere and stretched out his arms at either side. Mmm, this was shaping up to be a pretty sweet day off from training...