Part 152: Dinner at the Shearers'
Their taxi dropped them on the sweeping driveway of the suburban mansion and the big front door was opening before they had even crossed this space, a bottle of expensive red gripped in one hand and his wife's palm squeezed in the other. Both Andy Carroll and his long-term fiancée wore the excited grins of parents getting an increasingly rare night away from their brood of kids, and Shearer's attractive youthful-looking wife matched their enthusiasm on the doorstep, throwing her arms open to welcome a younger couple. She looked as delighted to be playing hostess again as Andy and Billi must to be off duty for the night, ready to be cooked for and lavished with booze.
In the doorway to the Shearers' big Gosforth house, Andy held back and deferred to the showy air-kisses and effusive greetings of the women. He held the painstakingly selected bottle in both large hands against the chest of his dark blue shirt, brimming with nervous energy as he grinned at Lainya Shearer and peered past her into the porch for a sight of her husband. `And Andy, how lovely to see you after so long,' Alan's wife cooed, turning to plant a more tangible kiss against his bristly cheek, she on tiptoes and he stooping to meet her rouged lips. She talked on, and he gladly followed them in, pushing the door shut behind him, entering in the quietly and tastefully decorated central passage of the slightly rambling, much-extended home.
Oh, so glad to be out,' his fiancée Billi was gushing at Lainya, love them to bits, but...' She was cupping the glamorous bump of her latest pregnancy and giggling. `We both just need a night off, now and then...! So kind of you and Alan to invite us, babe...'
In they went, first through to the kitchen. There he was. Andy paused a little in the empty arched entrance of the house's bulky old farmhouse kitchen, his hand resting a little on the frame, stooping a little since older homes tended to be less accommodating of his 6ft4 lofty heights. The 31-year-old Newcastle player smiled glassily across the room with a mixture of excitement and apprehension, catching the eye of their host; Alan Shearer stood on the far side of the island set-up, a striped pinny over his pale grey shirt and a softly ironic smile on his aged features. His wife, petite and well-preserved in a glamour that predated the modern-day WAG, crossed happily over to him, and Andy's own partner rested at the middle counter, gushing over their latest home improvements and demanding to know what smelled so good. Andy held back longer, letting his eyes rest on Alan's, taking in his wary welcome and lordly composure.
A fairly relaxed training schedule had ruled at the Toon training ground after their Monday night trip to Brighton, the lads all equally tired out by the morning journey back from what had been a lacklustre evening's work: a goalless draw. Carroll had been as relieved as anyone else to endure a short and low-key fitness regime that afternoon back at the training ground, with more solid preparations to begin under Steve Bruce's command the following day.
Into that atmosphere of lingering disappointment and lazy complacency had strolled their visitor, on site for a couple of interviews and passing through the training session to clap eyes on their progress. Carroll spotted Shearer from a distance and tensed up a little with mingled excitement and regret, picturing their encounter in St James' Park not so long ago. The tall Newcastle striker had immediately been barked back to attention by his coach, slacking in the set of exercises he was supposed to be doing. He put his limbs back to work, but his eyes didn't leave the strolling casual figure of Alan Shearer, deep in conversation with the boss, and heading this way.
Alan had been pushing a vague invite for some time. Andy avoided it tactfully by text message and didn't mention it to Billi. His sturdy butt cheeks clenched every time he saw another pleasant and indifferent suggestion from the older man arrive in his inbox. He found his arse cheeks do the same now, standing up straight and panting his breaths as their assistant coach allowed them five minutes to cool off and recoup for the last burst of effort. Shearer and Bruce were nearby now, meandering along the edge of the training ground, headed for the big sets of doors into the main building, but pausing at this corner.
Shearer broke away from the club manager, who disappeared indoors, and took a few slow steps over this way. Their eyes met and Andy found himself quite frozen to the spot, big hands resting on his slim hips, towering over the other men in his training group, not breaking the work-weary frown on his reddened face with any smile of acknowledgement to his childhood hero.
Andy,' Alan called once he was closer, how is tomorrow night, lad?'
Carroll heaved another tired breath and brought an anxious hand up to rest against his lock neck. Sorry?' He watched the crinkled smile spread on the ex-player's handsome older face, still a little tense in his tall muscular stance, feeling the vague attention of the men around him swing his and Alan's way, half-interested. What's that?' he repeated, taking a hesitant step closer to the other guy.
Dinner,' Shearer said. We insist.' His tone was easy and with no expectation of debate. Just bring your beautiful selves and we'll take care of everything else.' His eyes twinkled with charm and Andy found himself staring at the 6ft pundit with an almost boyish quiet, lost for anything productive to say back; the presence of a few other Newcastle players about him prickled at his broad shoulders, the certainty that he was going to accept this invitation. He wasn't quick enough on his feet to generate a plausible excuse, and he knew he would sound churlish and stupid not to be interested. Besides,' Alan was continuing warmly, `Lainya ran into your Billi at a salon this morning, so it's settled.'
Huh, aye,' Andy replied after a worried pause, that's it settled then! Tomorrow night then, man? Aye, sweet...' Shearer grinned briefly and followed the manager indoors, leaving the younger striker stood uncomfortably, parts of his body re-enacting the fleshy contact they had made in the media rooms of the city's stadium a short few weeks ago. Quickly, Matt Ritchie was punching him in the arm and mouthing off. `Hah, Shearer's fave, you should be honoured you big prick, nobody else gets invites like that from local royalty...! Come on, back to work...'
`Let me take that, mate...' Alan's warm callused fingers brushed Andy's as the bottle of red was prised from his chest like a passed infant. He was still dumbly quiet, smiling oddly at the older man and not quite registering the chitchat of their female partners next to them in the kitchen.
He'd been anxious about tonight, but also looking forward to it, all the way through a busy day at NUFC's training centre. Now his big body ached and throbbed beneath his close-fitting shirt and dark linen trousers, and his mind felt as runny and shapeless as cracked eggs. He could smell the same rich woody aftershave the ex-striker had worn on his day of punditry at the Newcastle stadium, watching them crash out of the FA Cup to City; god, the match already felt forever ago, they'd played Pep's Manchester side again since in the League! But equally, it felt like yesterday he had stormed into that small private dressing room to `confront' his hero, and...
Andy!' trilled his fiancée, jabbing him in the arm. He's speaking to you, honestly!' She burst into her distinctive Essex cackle and Carroll shook himself. He realised that Alan was not giving him the intense possessive eyes he'd greeted him with a minute ago, but laughing softly and squeezing one of his biceps in a laddish way, jerking his head behind him and speaking in warm mutters about how he should come help him choose a bottle for them all to enjoy. Andy nodded his head slowly; the women were flitting away through a doorway into a lounge space and Alan was hoisting the straps of his pinny off, charmingly domesticated despite his rugged manner.
Another low doorway at the back of the big square kitchen led into a dark low side-room. Andy needed to duck severely to follow his host in, patting his flat palms at the taut thighs of his trousers and dipping into the cool shady space, his girl's voice still echoing after him, laughing noisily at Shearer's wife. Ahead of him, the broad 49-year-old was sliding the gifted bottle into a rack, making Andy nervously question the quality of his choice (was it being consigned away as no-good plonk?), and perusing some other options. He shouldered in next to him, taking in another deep breath of the man's rich scent. Here,' Alan said in his throaty Geordie accent, what do you think of these...?' He leaned in, squinting at the couple's ample collection, and then...
Alan's hand began on his upper back, resting quite gently against the fabric of his shirt, but in seconds it danced downwards, past the waist, and onto the firm arc of his rear, cupping it through the thin cool material of his trousers. He sucked in his breath and stood there, bent a little forward, exaggerating the meaty shape of his arse as Alan stroked it once then twice. `Mate,' he said in a cautious hiss.
What do you think? Merlot?' Shearer asked quietly, dismissively. Andy looked straight ahead at the wine, resting one hand forward against the strong wooden structure of the rack, clenching and feeling his heart rate rocket. Slowly but firmly, the fingers on his right buttock squeezed him through two layers, then was gone; Alan was reaching forward beside him and slipping his hand firmly about the neck of a bottle and sliding it out. Aye, we'll go with this,' he purred, holding close beside him for a moment, warm despite the cool storeroom air. `Tasty, right?'
`Aye,' Carroll chuckled weakly without looking at him, feeling the low buzz of pleasure somewhere inside him, letting out a long-held breath and following him back out into the bright air and muffled music of the kitchen.
The night before being confronted and invited by Shearer at his own training work, Andy had spent a long and largely sleepless night in a Brighton hotel room, staring at the ceiling and waiting for the post-match buzz to burn away. In the bed parallel to him, Dubravka rasped heavy Serbian snores into the dark warm air. He wasn't sure at what point his frustrated thoughts of the goalless match, and his failure to head in a late winner, to the recurrent theme of Alan Shearer's touch -- and Paul Dummett before him. But at some point it did: he was lying there, shirtless against the bunched up duvet, rubbing a little at the heavy front of his bed shorts, letting out hot sighing breaths from his chapped lips.
He'd glanced over at the other bed in the hotel room, checking that the big lauded goalkeeper was definitely asleep, though his buzzsaw breathing should have been confirmation enough; he'd lifted on an elbow a moment to squint in the dark and, you know, make sure, then sunk back into his own bedding and slid his hand properly inside the shorts to finger at his twitching lengthening weapon. Try and think of the missus, he told himself, picture your lass the other night, opening up and wet for ya, but... nah, his brain circled like water in a drain, right back to standing in front of big Shearer and... and... and...
Lying alone in that bed, the sea breeze through cracked open windows doing little to cool the sultry air, he'd slid down his shorts about his big footballer's thighs, sliding a spit-lubed hand gently against his tentatively erect shaft, and pulled the other hand down further and past the hairy droop of his balls, under that to the sweaty taint, and then... a private, exploratory finger, craving Alan's...
It turned out dinner had been mostly cooked by Mrs Shearer, Alan just liked posing in the kitchen and fussing over making a sauce. Andy found himself chatty rather than awkwardly quiet, conversation spilling nervously out of him as he grinned frantically across the table at his other half, and then over at Lainya, and then down at his plate -- never to his left, where Shearer sat comfortably on this side of the dining table, contributing little to the group's conversation but laughing pleasantly along and nodding his strong, square jaw.
Andy's plate was mostly cleared, knife and fork angled politely over the greasy porcelain, when he felt a wandering hand again. Alan was, for a change, leading the chat, making some self-deprecating jokes about his own age and career and the banter he would get from the likes of Lineker and Redknapp and Richards in the studio -- but while he spoke, he was leaning across just a little, gesturing quite enthusiastically with one arm, the other dropped down under the table and hand meeting Andy's thigh. He sat there, tall and stiff in his chair, trying to mirror the friendly listening faces of the two women, conscious of Alan's fingertips dragging back and forward between the middle of his left thigh and just above his bent knee. On each trip back, their looping stroke seemed to cross further over his thigh and send shivering tingles up his inner leg and into the sweaty bundle of his crotch.
Carroll sat there and took it, aware of his perplexed frown and inability to now chip into a conversation he had been cheerfully dominating; it was mad how tender and delightful the man's fingers felt on his leg, and that someone as stolid and mature as Shearer would go there, but... wasn't this exactly the kind of moment that he'd both feared and fantasised about last night, going to bed, and this morning, alone in the shower before training...? Hadn't he asked himself repeatedly in the past few weeks if Big Alan just wanted to invite him over to... well, THIS...
You want a hand with dessert?' Billi was offering, either over-the-top polite or genuinely infatuated with their hostess. One hand on her pregnancy bump and the other swilling a glass of some pretentious non-alcoholic gin substitute, she was up and out of the room, trailing after Lainya and calling back, Now you two behave a minute without us, won't you...!'
Andy risked a look to the left. Initially Shearer didn't look back, sitting there calmly, leaning just a little this way, his hand resting on his upper leg. But then he did turn, and his grin was different. For some reason Andy was relieved to see a possible flicker of fear or danger in his eyes and mouths, some comforting sense that he wasn't the only one losing his mind here. Alan looked warm and excited but also afraid. His fingers squeezed the thigh muscle and slid in a little, not holding his package but resting very much against it, the side of his hand and thumb touching the loose folds over where his cock and balls lay and tingled.
`We've wanted you two over for so long,' Shearer grunted.
I'm sorry,' Carroll said, finding himself honest, I just wasn't sure if I could...'
`You're here now,' the older Geordie grunted clearly at him.
Andy nodded, marvelling at the small frightened voice he found himself speaking in. `But they're just in there,' he whispered back, hearing the almost comical guilt and nervousness of his deep man's voice, the taller and stronger fella at this table, but held in place by Alan's hairy old paw slung loosely against the side of his crotch. Andy looked over at the doorways going through into the kitchen, let out a strangled little laugh.
It's okay,' his football hero informed him gently. We'll find a moment, if you're ready.'
Ready for what?' He felt pricks of sweat on his forehead, in his temples where his long dark hair was scraped back into its tight bun. He eyed Alan cautiously, watching the more assertive and experienced smile curl on his rugged features, the smoothing of his frowning forehead. He just let out a throaty chuckle without opening his mouth, and then his fingers were sliding gently away just as Billi burst through the doorway and started asking Cream or custard, lads?'
Dessert quietened things down; Alan felt so physically distant from him that it was almost as if he'd totally imagined the subtle gropes of the evening, was just going slowly insane with his sleepless reminiscing. He grinned sheepishly into big spoonfuls of the delicious crumble and tried to ignore the fat lazy semi in his underpants. Talk turned, directed more by the ladies than them, to tonight's football, to Liverpool's big win. Andy found himself unable to give any clear opinion or commentary on the club that he'd once served, the team whose big money had first lured him away from Tyneside.
`Well, we'll hardly stop you watching the trophy presentation,' Shearer's wife laughed, touching Billi lightly on the arm as they gave the faux weary giggle of the loyal WAG. Andy grinned idly at his fiancée, seeing her pretend protest at this thought, then felt Alan's hand settle somewhere on his beg left shoulder.
We'll watch it in my study,' Shearer announced with the kind of winsome certainty that only a man of his age and experience can deliver. You two can have a proper gossip and I'll look after this one. Besides, there was some old memorabilia from my Toon days that I wanted to show the lad.' He patted Andy's shoulder in a way that was almost brotherly or fatherly, and Andy felt shivers run down his sturdy arms and broad back, skin electric under the blue fabric.
`That sounds like a plan,' Billi giggled approvingly, and Lainya just made loving eyes at her husband.
Andy could still remember the first time he'd met Alan Shearer. It had been a few years before they briefly held a player-manager relationship, when he was an exciting 20-year-old and Alan was the club's interim chief coach. No, Andy remembered first meeting him years before that when he was probably only 16 or 17, not yet on a proper adult contract with the club he loved, and their recently retired ex-favourite had visited the youth training sessions to impart wisdom and encouragement.
Probably Shearer didn't remember it at all -- Andy had teased and joked at him about this possibility a number of times in the decade and more years since. For him it had been a profound and career-defining moment of approval, for Shearer it had probably just been another plucky brat kicking a ball and expecting the world to cheer.
Nobody had been an icon for the Gateshead youth like Alan Shearer, nobody. He'd wanted to play like him, lead a career like him, club and country, everything. Meeting him after a damp chilly training session in his mid-teens and getting a firm, approving handshake and pat on the shoulder that evening, well it had made his year, his decade. It had been one of several moments in his slow Newcastle ascent that told him, yep, you can do this, you can make it big. You can be a serious contender.
He could remember standing there, a black woolly hat pulled over his short scruffy hair, spotty-faced and grinned across at his hero as their gloved hands met and shook. There had been an electric sensation then too, their hands gripping and their eyes meeting, Alan's as wise and deep-set then even in his mid-to-late 30s. But the electricity of it had been ambition and passion, the sense of his sporting future sprawling wildly out ahead of him and this older man an embodiment of all the possibility. Nothing sexual or dirty in that excitement at their touch... not like now.
Now, even the steering strength of Alan's fingers resting on his shoulder was pushing jolts of excitement through his muscular bulk, stepping through another low doorway into the converted garage space that had become Shearer's downstairs home office of sorts, a long low room that was occupied by gym equipment, desk, framed football shirts, shelves of minor trophies... and a big wall-mounted television screen that was now playing the trophy ceremony live from Anfield, where the Liverpool squad were being rewarded for their excellent and historic season. A beaming, misty-eyed Jordan Henderson was lifting the prize in both hands with his red-clad squad going wild about him, streamers and flares and lights going mad about them on-screen.
Andy moved into the centre of the room, feeling the intimacy of being led into what was clearly the middle-aged sportsman's private man-cave, a room so steeped in his footballing history that it was a little overwhelming. His eyes settled on old framed England Newcastle shirts on the wall, his name and number emblazoned dramatically there. Screams and roars from the TV screen brought him back to earth and he looked back at the telly before turning again to Alan, stood just behind him and to his right, thumbs hooked into the belt-hoops of his faded jeans, short-sleeve grey shirt hugging his thick sturdy arms and chest.
Now that they were in here, away from wife and fiancée, his manner was a bit different. Since Carroll had arrived here, his host had seemed powerful and mysterious, glowering at him over rooms and seeming so utterly in control of the situation. Some nervousness as he touched him up under the table, but a nervousness he was initiating and knew how to handle. Now, standing close to each other in this low quiet room at the side of the house while their women mixed drinks and waited for them, he looked more tense and unsure, like a child who doesn't quite know what to do with a new toy.
Amazing, ain't it?' the tall striker asked him, hugging his long arms about his front and nodding at the screen, where heroes like Mo Salah and Virgil Van Dijk were really letting loose, and cheeky poses from the likes of Andy Robertson and Trent Alexander-Arnold were sharing the Liverpool mood with the watching nation. Andy turned back to the screen for more of it, feeling a vague proxy satisfaction for a team he'd enjoyed moving to, even if things had hardly worked out as planned. Fuckin' awesome for them, they deserve it so much.'
Shearer ignored him and said nothing, but moved over and laid his hands on him: one in the crook of his long back and the other halfway up his six-pack, pressing gently into his strong body through the thin warm material of his shirt. Andy shivered. They're just through there, like two rooms away,' he said so quietly he could hardly hear himself over the cheering on TV. Shearer, mate...'
You weren't worried about that in St James Park,' his hero grunted at him in the same low, confidential tones. You weren't worried about who might see or here us then, in my dressing room, were you, lad...?' Andy could only respond with a slow shivering sigh, beginning to turn and face him, but stopping at resistance from those firm hands; Alan was guiding him the other way, counter-clockwise, back to him again. His hands were moving. Andy stood there facing the wall of Shearer's achievements and felt those hands creep down his adonis belt and onto the waist of his trousers, feeling his stiffening member through the loose fit and then tugging at button after button. `You're already hard,' Shearer murmured in his ear, sounding half-accusation and half-praise.
Oh man,' Andy mumbled back at him, your hands feel so good.'
Do they?' chuckled Alan deeply. You've been thinking about it, have ya?'
Andy bit his lip. `We're both straight.'
`We're both a lot of things,' Shearer muttered at this, either wisely or pointlessly. He'd prised open Carroll's linen trousers and was firmly groping his thickening tool through his soft loose underpants, a strong presence behind him; faced with the man's tender imperative, Andy could quickly forget that he was the bigger, stronger, younger man here. He could toss the retired bloke away with relative ease, but as soon as Alan's hands were on him, his strength seemed to melt, just as it had in that dressing room, failing to confront him in the angry and vengeful way he'd intended...
Now he was being turned around, Alan's fingers pulling quite gently at the sleeves and hem of his shirt, turning him into his arms and pushing forward a little with the crotch of his own denims. Andy reached down instinctively and stroked the long diagonal outline of another man's hard cock there, unable to quite believe that it had been in his mouth. He had enough self-awareness to laugh ironically, thinking about his progress: really, he'd been fucked by a bloke before anything else, helped out by Dummo, and THEN he'd gone to his knees and hesitantly noshed off Big Al, and yet he hadn't even KISSED a fella, so... weirdly inverse, right?! He found himself looking at Alan's face, his strong stubbled jaw, the squashed shape of his nose, the crinkled lines about his eyes and uncertain smile, and before he quite knew whether it was what he wanted, he was stooping and pressing his lips to his, stealing a kiss. Shearer felt very still and passive, maybe taken by surprise, but Andy immediately knew it WAS what he wanted, rubbing their lips together and easing Alan's mouth open, enjoying even the tickle of their facial hair on each other, a world away from the smooth intimacy of any snog with his lass.
After the first moments of surprise, Shearer took control: he reached up and grasped the back of Andy's neck quite tightly, pulling him down further so he could kiss at him, and his other finger plucked at buttons on the chest and waist of his shirt until it was falling open and he could run his hands over his pecs and tummy instead in long possessive sweeps. When the kiss broke, Shearer was stroking around his naval and almost growling up into his lips, breaths heavy. He looked a little bit concerned or even angry, holding his hands against Carroll but pulling his strong face away, frowning into space.
Sorry,' Carroll told him. I just wanted to see...'
To shut him up, Shearer pulled him into an awkward hug, more manly and platonic, except that their hard privates rubbed below the waist and the heat between their torsos felt volcanic. Andy swayed against him, troubled by his urge to kiss the great man, unsure what he wanted to happen or not happen. When he'd experimented with Paul, it really had just been for the sake of his relationship! All he'd wanted was to understand what his future wife was pushing on him, and his mate had been helpful and obliging, nothing more. But now, faced with Shearer's authority and interest... his cock twitched helplessly in his boxer shorts and he shuddered at his own heady desire, remembering that their female partners were two or three rooms away, waiting for them. The noise of the Liverpool celebrations on TV seemed to pull him out of a separate little world against Alan's stocky frame, and he wriggled out of his grip.
`We should get back to them,' he murmured, seeing the lingering twitches of anger on Alan's face, the low ragged breathing of his surprise at their kissing. Quickly and too hard, the other man was grabbing about his wrist and holding him, shaking his head.
`They said we could watch the trophy giving.'
`It's almost over...'
`It's not quite.'
Shearer began to sit down in the comfortable armchair that lay beyond the tangle of gym stuff, an oddly solitary chair that marked the privacy of his `study'; no spare seat or more spacious couch for others, this was his space away from his wife and grown-up children. He curled back into it but tugged on Andy's wrist so that he found himself sinking back onto his lap, held from behind, both of them facing the wall-mounted screen and the red fireworks over Anfield. Andy, conscious of his weight at 6ft4, reached from the arms of the seat so that his bony form wasn't totally crushing the older guy, but he was being held and gripped firmly, pulled onto the man's lap so he could feel his raging hard-on against one buttock, imprisoned but impatient. And then Alan's hands were on his cock at the front, pulling it from his undies and tugging on it. He gasped wordlessly and relaxed back into Alan's body, angled to the side a little, folding one arm about his neck and stroking his chest a little through his half-open shirt.
On screen, one of football's top prizes was handed out to gleeful athletes; in the armchair, one of football's greatest legends gasped beside him and pulled heavily and forcefully on his throbbing, veiny length, his big Geordie tool. Nearby, he knew, either Billi or Lainya or both would be cursing the men's absence and running out of things to say without their shared ground of the two Newcastle forwards there. Or who knew? Maybe they were happy as larry, gossiping away, and he could stay here forever, curled against Alan's strong hold, his cock pleasured and his hole twitching in anticipation of something more.
Oh Al,' he groaned, oh fuckin' hell, man...' Alan pulled in and kissed his neck, pressing lips and tongue against his long throat, pawing at his exposed pecs through his open shirt, still working his hard shaft with the same forceful rhythm. Andy began to move his arse in this same rhythm, feeling the intense hardness of Alan's cock beneath it. He twisted his head, enjoying the raspy feel of the older man's kisses on his neck and on his tight model's jawbone. Fuck,' he whispered at him, oh fuck...' He threw his head back, knowing his bun was coming loose and tresses of his dark hair were tickling at Alan's bald head as he nuzzled him, holding his chest tight and pumping his boner. I want you to fuck me,' Carroll was moaning aloud, his latent desire escaping in a burst of heated honesty. I want you to fuck me so hard, Alan, man...'
Shearer didn't answer in words but his fist seemed to tighten about Andy's massive cock and his kisses were almost bites. Carroll ground his firm muscly arse over his crotch and purred with pleasure, gigantic striker made pussycat. He could feel himself getting close, but he wanted so much more than this handjob and cuddle, he could feel his tight muscular ring relaxing and hoping for the rough fingering he'd received before, submitting to Shearer in the stadium, mmm... oh god, the thought of that brought him even closer, his balls seeming to pull and tighten below his big veiny member, wanked and pulled by Alan... `Fuck me,' he begged in a hot puff of air.
Not here, not yet,' Shearer muttered in his ear. Cum for me again, cum for me you slut...'
Andy may or may not have moaned `yes sir' as he did it, unsure what ran through his head and what left his lips. His pants were thin and dark and would have stained terribly, but luckily his orgasm was explosive enough to fire beyond that, a jet of white cream dashing between their taut legs and against the sideboard of trophies and medals, hitting gold and silver and dark wood. He pushed back, circling his hips and tight cheeks, now forcing his full weight into the man who held him, and... there was no mistaking the low animal groan in his ear, the way Shearer held onto him, the sensation of dampness against one buttock. He'd ground him into orgasm just sitting on his lap. Fuck! The seedy reality of it shook and thrilled him and he was slow to move off Alan's body, their waiting spouses seeming utterly distant and irrelevant in the moment.
`Huh,' remarked Alan indistinctly, looking down at the darkening wet patch in his jeans next to the huge and unmistakable lines of his hard cock down their leg. Andy touched the arse of his own pants cautiously but they seemed okay. He was careful as he forced his rod back into his undies, not wanting to smear anything telltale on the linen. The reality of their risk taking and taboo hit him all over again but held strong, turning to half-listen to Carragher's excited narration on the screen, unable to meet his host's shifty, sensitive eyes.
When they did join the women, it occurred again to Carroll that there had been no rush for them to leave the privacy of the study. The two ladies were curled up on an intimate couch in one of the house's three lounges, talking animatedly, and joined now by Shearer's attractive daughter too. Oh there they are,' cooed Lainya, sounding quite drunk, the man of the moment...! Darling, we were just talking about the August do, you know, and...'
Carroll traipsed into the room, sure his indiscretion was written on every inch of his tall figure. He'd given up trying to retie his long hair and it fell about his face in the long curls of a Romantic poet, seeming to suit the intensity of what he'd just experienced. His cock ached in his underpants as if he'd just been fucking a woman for hours, rather than simple wank from another bloke. The arse of his boxers felt soaked in his salty sweat. He was hesitant as he sat down on a chair near Billi, sure she would smell the wafting pheromones of post-orgasm from his body; by contrast, Alan moved smoothly past him like a lion returning to his pride, stooping and kissing his wife before pulling up the pouf footrest and sinking his buttocks onto it.
`Of course, I've told Bill these these two MUST come to it,' Lainya was continuing effusively.
Alan nodded slowly, grinning. To my 50th? Aye, sure, they have to.' He cocked his head lightly at Andy. I've been meaning to ask you for ages, and a few of the other players. You'll be there, won't you?' His sea-blue eyes burned fiercely as he smiled. `Andy?'
Oh, we wouldn't miss it for the world!' erupted Billi, reaching across the narrow space and clamping ah and around Andy's, grinning excitedly from Shearer to Shearer. He matched her with a nervous grin, unable to take his eyes off Alan's, picturing them all at whatever black tie event the old legend was planning for his big birthday. He huffed out a weary laugh and nodded. Sure,' he echoed, `we couldn't miss that, guys. Cheers! Hah...'
Getting into the taxi two drinks later, Andy ignored the respectful admiration of the Geordie driver and the excited chatter of his fiancée, punctuated by her slow yawns and indulgent strokes of her pregnancy bump. He kept his strong chiseled face angled at the passenger window and across the driveway to the house, where the Shearers stood comfortably on the step, Alan's arm about his wife's slender shoulders, holding her to him as they both waved. Andy's eyes met Alan's in the glow of the taxi headlights, and he stared at his hero in wonder.
`Fuck me,' he'd begged him, spewing cum on his lap.
`Not here, not yet,' Alan had moaned into his ear. Not here, not yet.
Then where? When? He bit his lip excitedly.
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