Part 156: The Newcomer
Frank Lampard strolled out towards the main training field with him, a certain impatience in his gestures and body language as he led the way. His mind was still on the terse phone call he'd been engaged in at his desk when the club's latest signing was led in for their briefing, breaking Lampard from his brief and awkward chat with Terry. Not that it had been going anywhere, the two of them talking at cross-purposes: the Aston Villa second-in-command making blunt, difficult apologies for his aggression whilst utterly avoiding Frank's suggestions that they should meet soon for a drink. After their hasty and disastrous rendezvous at the weekend, it was as if neither of the best friends knew what to say to each other to make things okay.
Here I am again, Lampard thought uncomfortably, distracted from the task at hand just when things matter the most!
The Premiership season was over, but there was no time for jolly holidays in the Chelsea camp, and the lads in blue were hard at work in front of him; they had the impending Final of the FA Cup against their North London neighbours. And beyond that, a stab at the delayed Champions League coming up, based in Portugal, with a genuine shot at a trophy that could be their season highlight. Irritatingly, Lampard was still awaiting confirmation from the FA bosses that his players would get extended summer leave into September to compensate these extensions to their hard work!
Beside him, the team's new boy was fresh and alert, grinning quite enthusiastically as he was led towards the action, new tracksuit of bright blue clinging to his strong athletic frame. Frank found himself looking him up and down properly, the bristling energy of the young German breaking him from his moody career reflections and the increasing tension with JT. He let his eyes rove up and down the 5ft11 blond profile of Timo Werner, appreciating the power in his stride and the way his new Chelsea training top hugged the swell of his pectorals.
`Here I finally am,' the blond German lad barked in his soft accent, grinning eagerly ahead to the spaced out groups of players, arranged roughly by position and headed by a range of Lampard's underlings. So far, Werner had spent a pleasant first few days in Chelsea training since joining their ranks on Monday, but only alone and in pairs; now he was to be transitioned into the main squad regime, even though Lampard would not be allowed to play him until the official new season in September. For now, he was all dazzling Teutonic potential.
`Yes,' the ex-player said with forced brightness, hugging his arms over his pale blue shirt and frowning out at the somewhat lethargic training session underway; he couldn't decide if he'd been right to instruct a fairly relaxed regime this week, a lull as the men recovered from the intense late-season schedule, and begun looking ahead to the Cups. He paused at the line, arms still folded, and looked back at bright-eyed Werner.
It will be strange,' remarked Timo, rubbing his palms together and stamping his booted feet a little. I look forward to joining in, but so long until I get to play in blue, heh...!'
Strange, yep,' Frank agreed distantly, pulling his eyes back up from where they drooped, past Timo's long firm torso towards the front of his tight skinny-fit blue trackies. But we all have high, high hopes for you, Werner, we are all very happy to have you here, fella.' He gave him an odd, strained smile, the same slightly off dynamic he'd struggled with as they chatted at his desk; Frank was deeply conscious of his own odd behaviour, the absence of his matey patter and informal working relationships. He felt tense and awkward, his face still puffy and sore from his clash with Terry, his whole understanding of who he was in silent jeopardy. Still, the crisp handsomeness of this new signing seemed to cut through all that for a moment, with his rich brown eyes and angular blond-bearded jawline.
Timo grinned at him with a strange, determined expression. Oh, well, no pressure then,' he chuckled. Do not worry, Mr Lampard.' He leaned in a little, and there was something ferocious and meaningful in both his stare and his voice. `I am here to serve you, and I will not be letting you down, sir.' And with that, leaving Lampard momentarily distracted and aroused, the 24-year-old German striker bounced ahead and loped over towards the forwards and attacking midfielders to join the rest of the training session.
Mason Mount's response to the relative ease of this week's training schedule was to occasionally lose focus and daydream. This afternoon, completing a series of light runs between shooting exercises, he allowed his thoughts to drift indulgently to his accidental lie-in this morning: Dec had made him late to work at the Chelsea grounds by pulling him back into bed after he showered, fucking him deeply with that forceful new manner he had, pinning him down afterwards and just snogging at him for a full half hour even after they had both shot their loads. By the time Mount was re-showered and kitted for training, he'd been markedly late to the team breakfast meeting, flushed and self-conscious with the glow of young love. Declan, of course, had the day free to lounge in the flat, West Ham being all done for the summer!
Mildly returning his focus to the work at hand as he stepped up and took his mock penalty then jogged aside for the next exercise, Mason thought idly on the `problem' of their different positions now -- it was a problem, in theory, but it was one he grinned uncontrollably to even think about. It was the stress of privilege, the cost of luxury -- to have his old buddy Rice lounging about pretty much waiting for him to come home to be fucked! But still... it wasn't sustainable to have the big sexy fucker bored in the apartment while he still had to keep up the daily grind of their sport. He wanted Rice to go home to his family or away, somewhere to refresh and enjoy himself... when he tried to suggest this, though, Declan insisted that he wanted to wait until they were both free for a holiday. At that point, Mount would always giggle as he protested and insisted, secretly loving Rice's refusal to leave his side.
The 21-year-old Chelsea midfielder was snapped out of his reverie by the thwack of boot on ball, the power of the shot-on-goal following his. With the rest of the gathering, Mason blinked appreciatively at the sight of Werner's strike arcing into the net, and the German's cool confidence and lordly wave as he circled from the penalty spot to join the others. Mason raised his eyebrows, professionally admiring his new teammate as the strong German lad jogged this way, the front of his blue tracksuit bottoms bouncing a little, and the shirt tautening over his broad chest. Okay, mostly professionally admiring; he blushed.
Suddenly, Werner was beside him, his breathing barely disturbed, a very clean and fresh scent pouring off his broad figure. Mount grinned foolishly at him, sensing the almost prickly awe of the men around them, having begun to see what the newcomer was capable of. Wow,' Mason breathed at him quietly, quite a kick on you, mate...' He hesitated over a handshake or a fist-bump and just grinned goofily at the new Chelsea man, who smiled guardedly back at him.
I watched your goal on Sunday, remember,' Timo told him simply. I know what you are capable of too, Mason Mount. There will be some competition for the goals in autumn.' His grin was light and friendly but also fiercely competitive.
Mount let out an almost flirtatious giggle of pleasure, something in the taller bloke's presence and charisma tickling at him. `I look forward to that,' he said, aware of spots of blush in his high cheeks, and turning away to face the dribbling exercise that they were moving on to, feeling Timo's intense grin almost burning into him from the side before he set off away from him with a ball at his feet, somehow flustered by the tiny interaction. God, you tit, he told himself, you need to calm down...! You're spoken for, and he's almost certainly 100% straight...!
Ruben Loftus-Cheek had been eyeing him speculatively from a distance since Sunday, when Chelsea's big signing had been welcomed to Stamford Bridge to spectate at their season-ending match against Wolves; there was something distinct and attractive about the 24-year-old, Ruben had quickly decided, even though not traditionally his `type'. Watching him parade thoughtfully about in the quiet stands before and after that match, he'd found himself curiously aware of the new man joining their club and the fuss his talent and charisma might cause next season.
Today, he found himself less curious about Werner's potential impact on the line-up and playing style, and a lot more curious about the way he filled out his brand-new training kit. Up close, in action, he was about 20% more attractive than the Londoner had previously estimated. Heh, a delightful new view, if nothing else! Ruben was perfectly capable of admiring and window-shopping without becoming hung up and obsessive... unlike some men quite close to his footballing life!
The mountainously tall London lad kept one eye on the frantic passing drill he was engaged in, and one on the diagonal position of Timo Werner. Luckily, the pace was slow enough for Lofty to neatly receive and reciprocate passes from his own partner, Tammy Abraham, whilst enjoying the view of another football dashing back and forth between Werner and Jorginho.
Ruben rarely went for blonds, in fact rarely felt very strongly attracted to Caucasian men, but he found himself somewhat fixated on the chiselled jawline and long sharp nose of Timo's determined face. There was also the bulge of his obvious chest muscles, forcing Lofty to speculate what Werner might look like sans footy shirt, and the supple speed of his long legs. It was probably just novelty, he rebuked himself, used to a more idle and composed appreciation of the fit men that constantly surrounded him -- a bit of a peek show was an occupational hazard for him, one that had only rarely led to any worthwhile fun off the pitch. He grinned smugly at the most recent and nearby success stories of his charms: Ross, Mason, Frank... even Danny Drinkwater was back in the Chelsea fold, for now, while his future after a poor loan spell was decided.
Oi, Rubes!' bellowed Tammy across the distance at him. What was that?'
The 6ft3 midfielder paused in sudden realisation that he had been nutmegged by Abraham's gentle pass, and almost tripped over his own long strong legs as he spun round to retrieve the ball; he burst into playful laughter, quick to cover-up his distraction and error, and booted it a little forcefully back at his training partner so that Tammy had to really lunge to meet and control the pass, some balance restored between the two players after his own error.
Careful, boys,' Werner called over jovially, I hope my arrival is not too distracting for anybody! Ha ha...' Tammy and Jorginho burst out laughing at this and Ruben joined in less enthusiastically, stopping a return pass from his partner beneath his boot, and rolling his eyes.
Bloody hell, mate, he addressed himself, don't get so overexcited about a fresh face in the squad...!
Danny Drinkwater watched the new player closely as they left the training ground in sparse clusters, thinking that Timo Werner was just yet another reason for him to feel pessimistic about his chances of re-joining the fold; he was a midfielder himself, rather than attack, but the likes of Timo made it harder to picture Lampard and his management circle needing to draw on `spare' talent.
It had been a pleasant surprise to be even included in this week's training work at all, Danny would admit, but he suspected he was just here filling up space, someone for the more settled Chelsea players to bounce off and work with. Like Werner, his loan deal would mean he wasn't actually an available option in the Champions League or FA Cup games ahead, simply a spare part earning an embarrassingly good salary without entering a match. In moments of positivity, Drinkwater could tell himself that his inclusion in this week's Chelsea training was somehow connected to his `meeting' with Lampard not so long ago, but... old Frank had barley given him a second look since he arrived, stomping about the place with a deep frown, looking like he still hadn't got over the argy-bargy of the night in Liverpool. It was hard for Danny to believe he'd made much impression on the gaffer despite the interesting kink they'd shared.
Following the other guys indoors and thinking that he would almost certainly head to the gym alone to work on his incredible six-pack, Danny took a last bitter look at the departing outline of Werner's figure, a similar height and build to himself, but carried with the confidence of an expensive transfer deal from RB Leipzig. In a brief flash of hot mood, Danny's thoughts went from football (Fuck's sake, everyone was cooing over his shots today, the smug bell-end...') to something else (Jeez, the arse on those trackies is a bit tight, ain't it...'), and he was looking at the departing German with a mild semi in his own baggy undies, thinking about how wildly fun it had been to smack Frank Lampard around the glutes and be intimate with a bloke again like in the past.
Dammit, Danny! Stop thinking like that... you know you only took part in any of that dirty business to try and win favour, nowt else... He grimaced and bunched his fists and rolled his shoulders, irritable and restless, breaking away from the group and determined to put in some solo gym hours instead of spending any more time hearing about how fucking amazing the new guys were, both Werner and Hakim Ziyech.
It was exciting, seeing new talent join them for the first time, but also faintly intimidating; Ross Barkley had faced a surprising and unpleasant dip in his match appearances in the final fortnight of the 2019-20 season, returning for a substitute appearance in the closing game against Wolverhampton. As a result, he found himself regarding Timo Werner with a sort of cautious expectation, glancing sideways across the changing room whilst pulling up at his tight blue under-vest and rolling its lycra over the toned muscle of his tummy and chest.
He couldn't help but stare competitively for a moment at the pale pink flush of the German lad's bared torso at the other side of the row, seeing the tight definition of his six-pack with a hint of envy; Timo was a lot more heavy-set above the waist than him, the paleness of his skin seeming to accentuate the rippling definition of his athlete's muscles, against the deep mixed-race tan of Ross's own leaner upper body. Still, they were footballers, not bodybuilders...!
Pulling his eyes away from the sight of the new lad laughing deeply and punching at Ziyech, Barkley realised that he wasn't alone in shooting idle stares over that way; just to his right, the next player along this row was looking Werner's way with a slightly glazed-over expression, even as he brought one trainer at a time up onto the bench to undo his laces. Looking at the slightly hunched figure of Christian Pulisic and his innocently ogling expression, Ross failed to suppress a little scoffing noise; he'd already watched Mason Mount spend a good ten minutes giggling and blushing with their European arrival in the middle of the day's work.
Pulisic turned sharply this way, blinking and staring at him. What was that?' he asked quietly in his rich Pennsylvanian accent, straightening up and wriggling out of his training top, all lean toned muscle and thin chest hair. Ross, watching the affable American struggle a bit with his tight-fitting gear, reached dismissively across and yanked the top off for him, checking himself a little at this almost affectionate gesture and tossing it down on the bench between them, shifting his eyes around to see if anyone had noticed his intervention. Nothing,' he returned, looking away from Christian's gawping face, `nothing at all.'
He focused simply on the wall ahead of him and rubbed at his lightly sweaty face, comfortably stretched and drained by the training today, but knowing he could put in more work if needed; he was confident his fitness and performance was going to bag him a key role in the remaining tournament matches, as long as Lampard's weird moods and evasive behaviour weren't somehow weirdly connected to anything they had gone through in the past.
Hey,' murmured Christian, leaning a little closer in the safe' 1 metre between them. `Are you still crashing at mine tonight, dude...?'
Ross glanced at him, unable to keep the slightly aloof and defensive expression from his own rugged face, but then sagging somewhat at the sight of the American's wide brown eyes and nervous half-smile. He could hear himself about to cancel the plans with blunt dismissal, Nah, better offer' or I don't think I feel like it', but he stopped himself short and just tutted out a sighing and faux casual `Yeh, lad, why not?'
Still without a permanent residence since his break-up, Barkley essentially rotated between his kindly loaned spare room at their captain's place, and Pulisic's inner-city pad. He was pretty sure that if he wanted to, he could stay more permanently at the American's luxury apartment, but something was holding him back: evenings and mornings there were good, Pulisic seeming oddly keen to cook for him or take him out to London eateries, then quietly and unassumingly initiating nightly oral sex without ever daring to speak of it in the warm al fresco breakfasts that followed. Ross Barkley was keeping the sweetly innocent younger footballer at a careful arm's distance; what he couldn't decide was whose benefit or protection this was for, Christian's or his own.
Now, hugging loose arms at his slightly hairy chest and lean body, Pulisic grinned a bit more firmly and nodded. `Ah, cool, that'll be good, I was gonna make a Thai curry and stuff, heh, so erm...'
Ross nodded slowly, one eye on Christian, and one on the business of the room beyond him, and shrugged his shoulders in a non-committal contradiction of his agreement. `I like that,' he said vaguely, though Thai food was one of his faves, and he knew the nervous lights-out blowjob that would inevitably follow it would ease him into another great night's sleep. Guiltily aware of his dismissive attitude, he cracked a smile at Pulisic and saw his dark eyes light up in relief at some subtle confirmation of the plan.
With this settled, Christian moved away from him, grabbing and hugging a folded white towel to his front, disappearing through the shifting huddle of half-dressed athletes in his tight grey American Eagle underpants; in his absence, a long cleared view was exposed for Barkley, the several men separating he and Werner's changing spots going to shower, so that suddenly the two athletic men were staring right at each other down the room. Barkley started when he found his moody, resentful eyes meeting Timo's for a moment, the handsome blond German paused at the far end of the row in just his dark blue Under Armour stretched lycra pants, clinging to his thick hips beneath the sharp rows of his abdominal muscles.
Aha, Ross Barkley,' called Timo warmly, lifting one hand in a slight wave; they hadn't been properly introduced out on the training ground, Barkley not rushing to change that in his flustered inner thoughts about Lampard's likely team selection in the new season, and the slipping influence or value of his position as an attacking midfielder. Tell me, what is a "Scouser"? I kept hearing the men call you that as we trained, Ross...' Stood tall at the end of the row in his tight lycras, Werner grinned lightly this way, in the middle of neatly folding his blue training shirt.
Ross could see the friendliness of the newcomer's conversational gambit, could see the unreasonable tension of his own selfish reaction, but he felt oddly provoked by the look and the question. Staring back at the blond newbie, all he could see was a flashy handsome imposter, swaggering into the club he'd worked hard for, stealing the attention of manager and teammates. Certain teammates in particular, went the faintly suppressed line of thinking, possessive of the attention he was slowly becoming accustomed to...
Hard to explain,' he grunted, as he pushed down on his Chelsea shorts and sports briefs in one go, whipping up a towel from the shelf and slapping it over his shoulder before strolling down the room, bollock-naked with thick loose cock swinging aggressively, but you're looking at one.' Refusing to crack a welcoming smile at Timo, he strolled arrogantly past him, his tanned body bared and downstairs assets all on show, set to intimidate any rival. He didn't bother to look at Christian's reaction to this showy nudity, just bowled by him towards the busy showers, aware of his petty gesture and the base need to assert himself after all.
Pulisic rubbed ineffectually at his left arm as he made his way down the quiet corridor to the treatment rooms, dully conscious of the minor injury he'd picked up in a Wolves tussle on Sunday as the Premiership rattled to a close. It had panged a bit with pain during today's training again, so he was glad of the scheduled session with one of the club's experts to check it out and give him a slight physio over it, though his mind was already out of the suburban sports complex and back in his city-centre apartment, plotting his kitchen efforts and the prospect of Barkley's company for another sporadic weeknight visit.
Christian was, very slowly, coming to terms with the twist in their casual football friendship. What had happened between them several weekends ago, first in his outdoor pool and then in the shadows of his bedroom, had floored him, a complete shock. The small-town American had suffered inevitable bouts of homophobia in his youth, soccer' generally seen as the effeminate choice in the burly high school environments of his youth; many times in his early teens, Pulisic had marvelled at the persistent banter', briefly questioning his own masculinity until coaches and teammates and then European contacts reassured him that this was prejudiced bullshit.
But now... staring at Ross that day and being allowed to delicately explore him... it had been a bolt from the blue. And since, rather than feeling worried or guilty or ashamed, he felt more relaxed, even relieved. True, he couldn't work up the confidence to really ASK Barkley about it, to meet it head-on and question what the hell was going on between them, not in the harsh light of day, but he continued to tentatively invite the other Chelsea player to crash at his whenever he needed... and each night the Liverpool-born footballer had spent either in his guest room or passed out on his sofa, something had happened.
And, he figured with nervous pleasure, would happen again tonight.
Ahead of him were a row of doors to the treatment rooms; he paused at the middle of the three, hearing Gary's voice leak through it as he finished up with whoever he was seeing. The American rested where he was, cooling down in his baggy shorts and tshirt, fresh and rosy-cheeked from the showers. Unconsciously, he moved a little to the right, catching the softer and female voice that sounded very faintly from the next treatment room. He found that if he angled his head a little to the side, he could see in through a sliver of a gap left by the parchment blind that covered the door's little square window. Through it, he realised with a tiny thrill of voyeurism, he could see a sports massage take place: a man was lying on his front and a woman (was her name Karen? Janet? He couldn't actually remember) was working her hands down his back. The guy's head was lifted and angled slightly from the treatment, and through his tiny peephole of innocent espionage, Christian recognised the novel features of their new signing.
Timo had, inevitably, caught his eye at points in the day. He was a striking dude and Christian enjoyed the soft music of his German accent. He seemed like a pretty exciting addition to Chelsea's roster; Pulisic supposed that Werner was a vague threat to himself, but he knew his own youth and inexperience, and welcomed the challenge and teamwork of a talented European striker joining their ranks. Probably he could learn a lot from a guy like Timo Werner! He knew enough of his career, how he'd been the youngest player ever to score in the Bundesliga. An impressive guy, he'd thought all day in training, guiltily noting that he was physically quite... well, aesthetic, too. The notion of being attracted to men was a dazzling novelty to Christian right now, the heart of his pleasant confusion.
His eyes followed the physio masseuse's hands down the smooth sweep of Timo's back towards the plump rise of his bottom, hugged tight by black briefs, making Christian's eyes bulge attentively; he was quite alarmed when the nearby door to Gary's physio room rattled open and disturbed his spying. He shifted guiltily away from his secret view and smiled at Mason Mount, emerging from the treatment room looking satisfied and serious, snatches of his conversation with the masseur interrupting Pulisic's thoughts. They were discussing some knee trouble or something, and Mount was very earnest and professional about it, but then leaving, giving Christian a friendly wave and nod before marching happily off down the hallway.
Chris,' sighed Gary a little wearily, how are ya? Give me a few minutes, will ya? I have to speak to the gaffer briefly. Few minor worries about Mount's knee, that's all. Need to update him.' The physio, a guy in his early 50s or so who had been Pulisic's regular go-to this season about a series of minor concerns, patted him on the arm and headed off. Christian made a vague no worries' or sure, bud' and then hovered a little closer to the adjacent door, turning his head back to peek in through the fortuitous gap. Left alone, he couldn't resist peeking a little longer, and- Oh!
Timo Werner, it was definitely him, was rolled over onto his front now; his hard white six-pack and pectorals on show as he lay there, and... well, did it just look dodgy from this angle, or... the gentle manicured hands that had worked down his strong back were now... Christian leaned hesitantly closer to the Perspex and peered through the narrow gap. Yes, yes she was really... oh wow. The physio lady whose name escaped him was firmly handling the front of the man's briefs. He couldn't hear her voice now, too low, but he could see she was giggling and twirling her hair with a finger of her other hand, and...
He hovered indecisively where he was, suddenly hot and flustered. He was defo seeing something wrong here, this was totally unprofessional and taboo, surely? But then... any Puritanical judgment that his American upbringing left with him was balanced with the coy knowledge of what he'd been getting up to lately with a teammate. Was THAT professional, really? Caught in this moral maze, he found himself trapped there, peering curiously through and holding in a gasp of shock as he saw it progress. Timo had grabbed at the woman (early 40s? he struggled to guess) down towards him and they seemed to be kissing, though her hand was still on his crotch, painted nails shifting over the black mound between his thighs. Christian bit his lip tightly.
He glanced back down the corridor and at the half-open door of Gary's physio room, wondering how long `a minute' really meant in the old Chelsea employee's jargon. Lampard's office was two floors away, for a start. Pulisic looked quickly back through his peephole and saw that Timo was sitting upright on the treatment bed now, holding her close, DEFINITELY kissing. The 24-year-old was reaching up with his strong chin and snogging the vaguely MILFy physio lady, his hands under her top and reaching... Christian could only stare. Stare and gawp. Stare and gawp and feel a voyeuristic tingling inside his loose shorts, where his cock and balls were held in place by the thin mesh inner lining. Jesus.
More nervous glances into the corridor, frightened of being caught in the act of watching, more worried about his own behaviour than the obvious transgression of `treatment' going on in there, but equally unable to stop watching it. There was something inevitable and obvious about the powerful way Werner was handling and stroking and kissing the lady, just like his style of play in their training exercises. In response to what he saw, the American's circumcised prick trembled and swelled.
Timo was stripping her now, the top was off, and her bra too! He had his bearded face down between her large, drooping tits, kissing at each of them and sliding his hands round her curvy bottom. Then, Christian saw, he slid OFF the bench, and was down on the floor, peeling away her knickers, and... he couldn't QUITE see the action now, but he could see an angled profile of the sharp German features burying between her legs, kissing into her private parts, holding her thick doughy thighs. Pulisic could hear his own breathing and heartbeat clamorous and perverted, but he could NOT stop watching.
He rubbed the back of a hand over his dry mouth, blinking repeatedly as if it might either make the sordid sight go away, or take a proper mental photograph of it for later; he couldn't decide which he wanted. He would be seeing this image in the night when he closed his eyes, he felt, or before then -- when he lay down with his head in between Ross Barkley's big monster thighs and began licking anxiously at his member.
He couldn't hear her gasps but he could see her enjoyment, the physio lady (Elaine! That was it) tossing back her head, her short blond bob shaking and fluttering, holding and stroking her own big tits as she lifted one leg up onto the side of the bed and Werner's face shook aggressively from side to side as he licked her fanny. By now Pulisic's cock felt almost totally hard, constricted and made uncomfortable by the lining of his shorts. He touched its outline unconsciously and then took another cautionary look down the corridor. When his eye return to the sliver of visibility, they had moved around again, were kissing deeply, as Timo picked her up and plumped her onto the bed where he had lain for his massage. Both he and she were fingering down between them, at her cunt or his bulge or both, it was not all fully clear or distinct here. Oh my...
Christian's dick ached for attention.
Biting his lip and knowing he was made, he pushed his hand inside his shorts and rested the other on the doorframe, holding himself carefully in place to watch the private show, fingering his chubby hard-on and controlling his excited breaths. He wanked himself inside the shorts as he watched, unable to stop himself.
Werner was inside her now. He had her back on the bed, curled over it and against the wall, and he was pressing in between her outstretched legs. The main thing that Pulisic's eyes fell on was the firm curve of his backside sliding back and forth, the strong bulge of his arm muscles as he held her, the sharp outline of his long nose and jutting chin, the tufty blond halo of his hair. He wished, filthily, that the door was thinner or open a crack, and he could hear their moans, the noisy evidence of their secret tryst. (Timo had been here, what, three days? Had he even met Elaine before? Had he literally seduced her in the space of one massage???)
Pulisic pulled on his dick and held in the squeaky excited noises he wanted to release, the muffled whimpers of secret and shameless enjoyment that he could make in the night when he was tasting around Barkley's foreskin or weight balls or licking anxiously down his perineum. This, here and now, was a silent passion, a secret thrill. When he came inside his shorts, he was ashamed of how quickly it had happened, and the silky goo on his fingers and in the rustling mesh, ashamed of the perversity of spying on anyone. He stood there, eye fixed to the gap, watching the repetitive drilling motion of the German's body, then closed his eyes and pulled his face away, letting out a long whistling breath of shame!
Chris, Chris...' Gary, rattling down the corridor with a clipboard in hand and an apologetic smile on his grey-bearded face. Instantly, Pulisic tugged his hand from his shorts and shoved it in a pocket, thinking rapidly how dark the blue of the shorts was and how almost sure he was there would be no visible stain, nor too obvious a hard bulge in their baggy folds... but as his regular physio stood before him, gripping the clipboard and grinning curiously his way, he wrinkled his nose. What is that smell?' he demanded with a vague flicker of recognition in his eyes. `Can't be you, you're just out of the shower...! Huh, Mason less hygienic than a Yank like you, maybe...' He was grinning loosely, dismissing the sickly salt scent between them, and pushing open the door into his treatment room. Christian stared at him in guilty shock, feeling the cooling smear of his juices in the palm of his clenched fist in his pocket. Thank god handwashing was an international obsession right now.
Come in, come in,' Gary was saying. Now, I will be ready to look at your shoulder ANY minute, I just... I'm out of those daft gloves, y'see, let me see if Trish next door has some...' (Aha, THAT was her name...) He bustled back through the doorway and Pulisic acted fast, stepping forward and barring his way and then shoving his right foot clumsily aside to kick the base of the other door. It thudded and rattled and he made a bashful, apologetic expression at the old guy.
`Oh, don't worry, no rush,' he mumbled, and then kicked his toes into the door one more time before pulling back, his breath and heartbeat still deafening in his ears. Gary frowned briefly at him as if worried about his mood, then pushed over to the side and reached for the door handle. Christian stared at him, meeting his eyes and grinning goofily his way, then past him, no longer able to see through the rolled down blind. Gary hesitated, hand on the door, looking him up and down. (He can see a stain, he can see a stain, he can see I'm sweating, oh fuck, he can smell my jizz...)
`You're in a lot of pain, aren't you?' the middle-aged therapist asked tenderly.
`Hmm? Oh, y'know, actually, just these past ten mins... kinda...' He reached up for his shoulder and nodded slowly, pouting innocently at his physio and stepping back a little bit, self-conscious of his wilting hard-on and staining cum in his shorts. And then, by Gary, the door was jerking inwards and it was Trish herself, hair swept back and clothes a little rumpled, smiling broadly at her colleague and paying zero attention to Pulisic. Just faintly, behind her, Werner could be seen, adjusting the front of his shorts, a Chelsea shirt pulled over his upper body, looking for all the world like he was just flushed and relaxed from a deep-tissue massage.
In a brief farce of casual workplace conversation, supplies were handed over, niceties exchanged, and the two therapists were disappearing into their separate treatment rooms while Pulisic hung between them, hovering in the corridor, pulling the dirtied hand from his pocket and thrusting it to a hand sanitiser pump on the wall between the two doors. The minty clean smell of the hand gel eclipsed the spunky odour around him (well, hopefully) and he rubbed his palms with Macbeth-like guilty glee. Werner was emerging from his treatment, red-cheeked and grinning complacently; something in his manner suggested he had managed to finish just in time, or he was so pleased with his endeavours that he didn't care. Christian did not dare look down at the front of his blue shorts to find out.
Gary was mouthing something about being ready for him, telling him to come on in and take a seat, but the American hovered where he was as Timo dropped a large hand to his shoulder and smiled at him. A grateful, discreet wink. `Good man, Captain America -- I hope you enjoyed what you saw?' he teased in a low, purring whisper, full of continental assurance, and then he brushed past and marched on down the corridor, leaving Christian to stare momentarily after him and then limp guiltily in for his check-up, a caught-out voyeur racked with shame.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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