Part 159: Trophy Boy
For everyone at Arsenal, summer holidays had begun, and the FA Cup winners were welcoming them in style with a private party, a big North London bar fully booked out for the players and coaching staff to toast their win. They had chosen a fairly remote boozer further out of the capital, needing to avoid the inevitable celebratory scenes that would be breaking out near the Emirates Stadium and their home turf, or anywhere near Wembley itself. Whatever discretion the move had bought them was probably lost in the raucous fun of the celebrations themselves, spilling out from the plush interior of the old pub into its walled off beer garden. Winning the Cup, against Chelsea no less, had been a dream ending to the 19/20 season for every single person here.
For Keiran Tierney, it was a deeply satisfying redemption to a troubled first year in England's Premier League, an uplifting reminder of the more local successes he'd toasted as a promising youngster north of the border in Scotland. Between his own fitness and the club's often lacklustre performances, this breakthrough season in the big league had seemed sure to end in frustration and mild regret -- but here tonight, throwing back pints and being lauded by everyone he spoke to, the 23-year-old Scotsman felt like the transfer was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Everyone seemed to have a good word to say to him or about him, even though it was obviously Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang who had scored the brace and unsettled Lampard's smug West London team. The cross-London rivalries only meant so much to Tierney, someone who had cut his teeth in the most sour and violent club rivalry in the world, but he could see how it lit a fire in the more established Arsenal figures, and the more local Londoners who made up much of their support staff. Everyone from the physios who had worked with him on their injuries to Mikel Arteta himself seemed keen to take the young left-back aside and force a fresh drink on him whilst using phrases like future captain' and just what the side needed'. He spent a good half hour downing Scotch whiskey with their seasoned goalkeeper Emiliano Martinez, who was dripping with emotional tears after his long slog to be part of a winning Arsenal team; he spent another half hour trying to teach Cedric Soares and Mesut Ozil how to dance some ceilidh moves for their TikTok.
By the time Kieran realised how drunk he was, he had a thin enough sliver of sobriety to appreciate that most men here weren't drinking QUITE as much. It was a case of Scottish standards versus English and more international ones. If this had been Glasgow and they'd won the league or the cup, his own swaying tipsiness would have been nothing next to the comatose state of some older teammates and bosses!
Fortunately, Kieran was at exactly the right pitch of lager- and whiskey-fuelled joy to not give a single fuck about being the most obviously pissed fella in the place, or that the party had a fairly strict end time and he would be swaying into a solo taxi to his apartment block while still peaking and ready for a wilder night. Fuck, what he'd give for a naff nightclub dancefloor of potential pussy and shenanigans!
Still, that was the other good thing about Arsenal, apart from the glistening FA Cup trophy that sat on the bar after everyone had long tired of posing with it for selfies and group photos; life here had taught him that strictly speaking, you didn't NEED some local pussy to find a spot of fun, not when you were in great need or greatly deserved it, to paraphrase the wisdom he'd gleaned from Granit and Alexandre at different points. And seeing as everyone he bumped into seemed to want to grab in a hug and explain to him what a legend he was who deserved all the best, surely he deserved a bit of...?
Lacazette, he blearily noticed, was always at the centre of the fun tonight. He was best mates with the goal-scorer and the two French nationals were currently fizzing another bottle of champers at each other and a huddle of other footballers near the bar. Xhaka, on the other hand, was out in the leafy twilit heat of the beer garden, seeming momentarily alone. Kieran, pint in one hand and Scotch chaser in the other, fixed his blurred vision on the Arsenal midfielder, and made his way outdoors, almost tripping over the doorframe in his clumsy rush. He recovered, balanced his drinks, and shot a reassuring look at the nearest revellers, a couple of whom did not look reassured. By the time he'd reached the Swiss player at the far end, propped up against one of the high tables without a stool, it was obvious that Granit had watched his approach.
`To the FA Cup fuckin' champs,' Kieran slurred happily. He bashed his pint momentarily against the mixer drink poised on the table, almost upending it over the other man's chest, then leaned heavily on the wooden surface to face him, grinning.
`To us,' Xhaka agreed with what seemed a fairly lacklustre smile on his tanned Albanian features.
Well have a drink then, you can't toast and then not drink,' Kieran told him bossily. They clinked glasses again and took notably different sips and slurps on their beverages. Again, the composed cool of the 27-year-old ex-captain seemed to jar against Kieran's own slippery grasp of the night, making him feel more faded and out-of-control. He rested his twin drinks and steadied his palms against the table, grinning daftly and letting out a quiet burp. Why you over here on your own?'
Taking a moment,' Xhaka said with a fuller grin, straightening up a little in his soft white shirt, changed out of the relaxed sporty gear as soon as they exited Wembley. To Kieran, he looked every bit the cosmopolitan European fella, a bit of his tattooed arms on show and an inquisitive expression on his quite angular features. He admired the man's resilience at the club and his tenacious style of play; more-so, he admired what he'd found out the Swiss bloke could do for him when he really needed rewarding'. `Are you enjoying the party?' he asked now with bland politeness.
Aye,' the Scottish lad agreed readily. So fuckin' sick to be drinkin' and havin' fun and that. I mean, I'll miss the footy obviously but... fuck yes, summer is here...!'
`You got big plans?'
Driving up to Scotland in a couple of days,' Kieran told him quickly and eagerly, then a break with a family, then bit of a lads' holiday with some of my Galsgow pals. Can't wait. You?'
`Taking the wife and family to a couple of places in Europe.' Granit smiled at him and to Kieran it seemed he was smiling at the same lurid thought that struck him, the odd knowledge that this was a proper normal fella with a marriage and family and yet Kieran had had him on his knees and... jeez. Life down here really was an education. Was this the sort of thing men got up to at his age? He blinked and rubbed at his numb face and repositioned himself against the table.
`Cool, cool,' he said, not particularly interested in hearing more. He hadn't sought out the midfielder to discuss pandemic travel arrangements and rules of quarantine, had he? He leered at the dark-haired older bloke and hoped his purpose was somehow evident in his sheepish grin and blushing drunk face. Granit looked back at him coolly, taking another controlled sip on his coke-and-whatever. Kieran laughed a bit awkwardly and scratched his chin, lapsing into silence -- well, silence blurred by the rise and fall of their hollering teammates nearby and inside the pub.
For fuck's sake,' Kieran grunted in moody, impatient Scottish accent, don't make me say it.'
`Say what?' Granit smiled wickedly at him.
In a lower voice, forcing a matey grin, Kieran slid an arm over the table and thumped his elbow flirtatiously. You know what, big man... heh... I mean...' He looked warily about them. Come on, Xhaks. I played fuckin' sweet today, everyone says so, don't they, heh... They're gonna call me summat other than Tesco Bag, soon, haha. Or Scotty.'
Don't you like those nicknames?' toyed Xhaka, still reserved, shifting away a little and stroking the wispy hair on his strong chin. Spit it out, Tesco, what are you looking for over here...?' His dark eyes twinkled and he angled his head calmly.
Bit of... y'know. A treat for it.' Kieran fell quiet, his voice mumbling and slurred. Fuck's sake, mate, you know what I'm on about. A bit of relief like cos I... cos of my... cos I played...' He stumbled to an end, the logic of the helping hands' always seeming so much clearer when it was murmured seductively at him by Xhaka or, the first two times, Lacazette. Their European knowingness and greater age made them seem wise and urbane and anything they did seemed... kosher. Now, lurching next to the 27-year-old and aware of the beer garden getting busier behind him as inside became too hot and stuffy, the sporadic doubts resurfaced: should he have been more shocked or annoyed when the French striker first touched him up at his place after a bad gym session? Should he have been more concerned when Mustafi had no idea what this extra help' was? Should he really have shot his load in Granit's mouth not once but thrice in the last few weeks?
Xhaka smirked and then chuckled. Of course I know what you're talking about, Scotty,' he murmured in his silken accent. But I am shattered. Its ha been long week! I think... well, we ALL deserve helping hands tonight after what we achieved so...' At this, Kieran coloured deeper and leaned back a bit, distancing himself from the grinning Swiss-Albanian. Oh relax, Tesco, I know you wouldn't... I'm not suggesting that you...' He chuckled again, making Kieran feel more silly and brash. But then Granit was leaning in a little and reaching for his arm. I don't think I am the man to, er, help you tonight, not really...'
Tierney grunted irritably. But there's not a single girl here,' he complained, and where is gonna be open? What am I gonna do?' He heard the brutish and mindless lust of his voice, the physical greed of what he was saying; he was embarrassed and thrilled at himself all at once. `I've seen Alex, mate, and he's...'
Nah, nah,' muttered Xhaka now. Not him, not me. I was thinking, Tesco Bag, that... well...' He nodded across the beer garden and Kieran, taking a much-needed slurp of lager, followed his gaze. Their dazed, victorious club manager was wielding the trophy again and posing with that and a bottle of fizz, cackling victoriously. You see Senor Arteta there, HE will be really pleased with you, won't he?' purred Granit coolly. More than ANYONE here. I think that HE will...'
Kieran flashed an alarmed look back at his close new friend. You're not sayin' the fuckin' gaffer will give me an, erm,' he coughed uncomfortably at what he was so blatantly demanding, a helping hand or whatever...?'
Why not?' Granit asked gently. He knows the game. He played here long enough. You think he doesn't understand the needs of his footballers?' Xhaka patted his shoulder and drained the last of his own drink. Just go over to him when you get a chance, explain how happy with yourself you are, hint at what you deserve, and... ka-boom.' He gave a tinkling laugh. He is a very happy man, and he is going to be very very happy with YOU, Tesco.' Kieran stared hard at him then gave a wavering look over at the beaming figure of the Arsenal chief, hugging the trophy to him and then swigging champagne from the bottle, as lost to the celebratory cause as any of his squad tonight.
Ganit Xhaka had a plan. Well, he needed to; his recent private conflict with the man who had rescued him this season might otherwise threaten to ruin what was one of the greatest nights of his footballing career to date. He was not going to sit around and sulk while his secret lover dwindled out of his grasp amidst the FA Cup celebration!
Xhaka was not naïve enough to assume that Mikel Arteta was the only other lover Lacazette had taken, man or woman. He had some understanding of the loose, playful gent he'd entangled himself with in those chilly winter months when his place at Arsenal had temporarily seemed so bleak. But that didn't mean he was strong or careful enough to prevent the growing feelings he held for the attractive little Frenchman and his bedroom talents, no. Whatever else lay around them and their extra-marital adventure, the gaffer himself was the current obstacle. Since Xhaka chanced on a tryst between striker and manager, Arteta had more or less blanked him, and it added fear of career uncertainty to his barely-acknowledged heartache.
And so tonight he had a plan.
He watched as drunk, gullible Kieran Tierney edged his way across the crowded beer garden and joined the gaggle of older players and senior coaches who were celebrating with the Spaniard. Granit knew that even big dumb Tierney wouldn't be bold enough to make a move in front of anyone, but he watched him sidle closer to the gaffer and chip in to their conversation, laughing deliriously and joining in their fun in a forced and bullish way. The idea was planted, the scheme was in motion.
For Xhaka, it was simple: Kieran could distract the boss, and that would leave lusty Alexandre in need of alternative attention. Familiar, known attention. Without fresh fun from another close source, the French fucker would be grabbing at whatever else was available and ready and adoring, and all three of those words perfectly described the Swiss player. So what if Lacazette needed to play away a little, to experiment with others, to keep his options open... Granit just needed to show him that there was something more between them, that he was worth sticking with (worth sticking it to, for that matter). So, with Arteta likely to be indisposed, now to find and move on Lacazette...
It was a while before Kieran got the boss on his own. The party was rapidly thinning as last orders approached and the curfew of their booking. It had seemed for the last hour that whenever anyone disappeared from beside them, another one or two men replaced them. But eventually the lull did come, and the young defender and his relatively young boss were alone but for the looming presence between them of the trophy itself, poised on a low wall.
Arteta, a bottled Spanish beer clutched to his chest, turned and grinned at him, resuming the pep talk he'd been giving him a few hours ago as the drunken night first unfolded. You stick with us, boy,' he intoned, and we will see you go places, we will see you a big part of Arsenal history. Eh?' The dark-featured Spanish manager gave him an intense and affectionate look, so much so that Kieran rapidly found it much easier to believe in Granit's salacious claims. He leered back at his boss, borne along on the heady confidence of booze.
Oh aye chief,' he said, I'll stick with ye, and I cannot wait to be, er, history.'
I know you have had your doubts,' the 38-year-old said, leaning conspiratorially closer over the trophy that separated their bodies, but you did the right thing, moving to London. We will look after you, make you a star. I know you love Scotland, but...'
No regrets,' Kieran assured him rapidly, going to drink from his pint glass but finding it empty. None, now, boss, honest. So happy, man.' He grinned awkwardly at the paternal smile of the head coach and realised how quickly he would need to initiate this. Someone was bound to join them to propose a toast any minute now. He felt Arteta's fierce knowing gaze rest on him and he leaned closer to meet him, coughing out his muttered hint. `You'll be really proud of me today, I guess?' the Scottish player suggested.
Arteta raised both thick dark brows. `But of course, Kieran. Is that not what I have been saying?'
Aye, aye,' he mumbled rapidly. But I mean... like... extra proud, like... you wanna reward me?' It sounded daft as soon as it was out of his mouth, crass and arrogant, or so ambiguous as to be meaningless. He hovered there, big arse perched at the low wall, empty glass clutched in both paws, watching for some reaction from Mikel other than the dark brooding stare he was getting.
I am not sure I follow,' the manager said eventually. My English is...'
Better than mine,' Kieran joked quickly, chuckling dumbly. I just meant...' A few pints less in his system and he would have pulled back now, raced off to find Granit Xhaka and told him he was a fucking mischievous prick for setting up this nonsensical prank! But... he was wasted. He leered greedily at the gaffer and leaned a tiny bit closer. `Well you know, like... helping hands, and all that, boss... haha... I know how it all works now, y'see, and erm... well, I thought you might wanna reward me for being such a good defender, haha...' Momentarily oblivious to the packed pub garden around them, the drunk defender broke one hand from his pint glass and clasped it awkwardly against the crotch of his tight blue jeans instead. Arteta's dark eyes flashed down to follow this gesture then back up to meet his. He stared at him hard then, eye to eye, his expression utterly unreadable.
In his inebriated state, Kieran's doubts were insubstantial and mercurial; perhaps it had been bullshit, perhaps Arteta knew nowt about what guys like Xhaka and Lacazette got up to, but... well, what could matter on a bleary night like this? He'd just fuck off and get another drink and go find a lassie in the nearest boozer who wanted his big Caledonian prick, or...
Kieran,' breathed the Arsenal boss in a hot rush, blinking rapidly, are you suggesting...?' He coughed, sounding shifty, looked about, then firmly back at Tierney. He murmured something, presumably to himself since it was in Spanish.
Kieran, slowly regaining awareness of the crowd near them, squeezed then let go of his crotch and put his pint glass down on the wall next to the trophy with an exaggerated pantomime of care. He laughed disarmingly and scratched his chin and neck, seeing the way Arteta's eyes flashed and followed his motions, fixed on him in an almost predatorial fashion. He grinned stupidly and happily, seeing that this was no prank or ridiculous joke. He was not being set up. This shit WAS normal, everyone seemed to be at it, then... well!
Poised on the wall, one hand resting on the trophy for comfort, Arteta cracked a thin smile and nodded at him. You do deserve to be rewarded,' he muttered, each syllable rasped breathily out and lisping away. Kieran, wait here. I will get you another drink. And then I will order taxi. Si?'
Kieran leered drunkenly at his boss and gave him a sloppy nod of the head. `Yes, boss.'
Alexandre Lacazette leaned on the marbled surface of the interior bar, waiting for the young lad behind it to be finished serving the head physio a couple of metres down from him. He twitched his head to the right and caught an odd sight in the quiet suburban street beyond the painted glass: the black-suited impish figure of their manager, Lacazette's latest plaything, dashing along towards the open rear door of a waiting taxi.
Odd, Alexandre thought, of the boss-man to fuck off without saying a goodbye to him; but then there were so many goodbyes to be made, and Arteta was a paranoid, shifty sort of fella, not someone who seemed innately comfortable with his sexual fluidity. The player-manager dynamic seemed to add terror rather than thrill for Mikel, though it greatly aroused and amused his French striker; spunking in the mouth of his head coach had been a minor fantasy of his since he was a horny teen on youth teams, hyper-aware of the delicate power dynamics he was entering. The first time he'd laced Arteta's dark facial hair in his jizz had been an empowering moment for Alexandre, and each time after that!
He watched as the dark-clad figure of the head coach disappeared into the taxi, then raised his thick dark brows as another man seemed to skitter down the pavement afterwards, this one in tight-fitting old-fashioned denims and a dark green Adidas-striped sports jersey, the FA-fucking-Cup Trophy held in his arms. The figure was laughing and joking as he lurched into the taxi, trying to avoid scratching the car door with the cup in his arms. Blinking at this surreal moment, Lacazette straightened himself against the bar on both arms, shook himself, and murmured his thoughts aloud. `Well Kieran, you cheeky Scottish fucker...'
Grinning wistfully at what he suspected was happening there between boss and newbie, he folded his arms and leaned back against the bar, catching the eye of the young local lad serving. Just as Alexandre was about to open his mouth, the young skinhead grunted this way and waved both hands. No service, mate,' he barked. All done now, you've all been warned. Kick-out in ten minutes, okay?' Red-faced and frustrated, the barman dashed off to issue the same begrudging message to others lingering nearby, leaving Alexandre to look blinkingly up at the clock and growl his disappointment that the night's fun was more or less over.
Before he could leave the bar to figure out which of his Arsenal pals were still actually here, he felt a presence settle to the other side of him, and turned. There he was; the tall handsome prick of a midfielder who had kept him entertained a lot this season, giving him those puppy-dog brown eyes and a lopsided smile of secret desire. Alexandre laughed softly at the sight of him. `I thought you weren't speaking to me,' he said in French, casual and clipped.
We don't have to speak, Alex,' Granit murmured. We just have to sneak out now and find a quiet spot.' An artless wink and a leering chuckle.
Well,' sighed Lacazette, when you put it like that...'
He stared at their dim reflection in the metallic lift doors, just half-formed silhouettes against the brassy surface; it was hot in here and sweat prickled at his neck and under the shirt and blazer of his managerial suit, though he'd long since shaken off his tie, probably hanging around the back of a chair somewhere in the pub. His tense quiet thoughts were disturbed by the sloppy animalistic noise of the lad next to him stuffing a portion of takeaway chips and gravy into his face, half-slouched against the lift wall, sniggering in between mouthfuls.
Mikel Arteta looked at him and pulled idly on the collar of his shirt. He was still in two minds about leaving him here, now he'd seen the overly drunk Scottish lad back into his building. That had been no mean feat, since Kieran had struggled to direct their taxi driver and then gone mad trying to find the nearest open chippy to grab his starchy snack. The dizzy time that had elapsed since that electric moment in the dimly lit beer garden had slackened Arteta's appetite and resolve; what the hell was he doing here, in this lift, an FA Cup winning footballer manager at the start of a hopefully illustrious career...? Only a couple of years ago he'd been retiring from his football career and then beginning to cut his teeth as an assistant to the great Pep Guardiola...
The Spanish ex-player undid another button of his shirt and wafted the lapels of the blazer, hot and bothered. He realised that Kieran was leaning this way and offering him a chunky deep-fried chip speared on the little wooden fork. Behind it, Arsenal's left-back grinned foolishly at him and had to elbow the wall to keep himself on his feet. Ah, no,' Mikel said politely, then reached over to dab fingertips over the lad's chin. Just a spot of... sauce,' he said, uncertain.
They were at the right floor, apparently. Tierney staggered ahead and dumped the half-eaten takeaway in a communal bin before foraging through tight jean pockets for a key. Arteta found himself staring at the big chunky backside of the strong-legged footballer, the tight pull of worn blue denim over that low centre of gravity. They weren't even proper skinny jeans, he thought, but they hugged those tree trunk legs like a piece of art. For the sixth time since exiting the pub, lust battled with tipsy doubt and he lingered behind the young guy while he fumbled unsuccessfully at the lock. Wiping at his mouth, Kieran lurched around a bit and forced the key into his hand. You do it,' he grunted, then added with a snigger, boss.'
The flat was kinda nice, but felt small to Mikel, used to his sprawling outer London family mansion with the wife and kids. Still, it had good views of the city, and... for fuck's sake, you aren't here as a real estate agent. The 5ft9 Spaniard strolled through the blandly chic openness of the lad's apartment and dropped the keys noisily onto a coffee table, pulling awkwardly at his sleeves and catching another sight of his vague reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over London. He rubbed at his gently stubbled chin, anxious at the lines he'd been starting to cross lately.
He stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the view without really seeing it, thinking about how easy it would be to slip back out and leave the Scotsman to collapse drunkenly on bed or sofa and just pass out -- he seemed close to it! -- and slip into a fresh taxi out to his villagey patch on the edge of the city, crawl back into bed with his woman. He whistled out an indecisive breath then wondered where his `host' had got to and half-turned. Kieran had flopped onto the sofa and was sitting there with his tightly denimed legs spread, but the flies of his jeans tugged open. His big pale cock was out, flopped loosely between his jeans and the hem of his zipped up green Adidas top. Mikel stared at it, flaccid and thick, long and snaking; for a second he thought that the randy young chap had tugged it out then fallen asleep, but the reclining figure jerked with a drunk chuckle and he lifted both hands vaguely.
`Come on then, chief. Come get it.'
Fuck. Even if his gruff Scottish accent sent a shudder of excitement through Mikel, who was still not quite used to the varied tones of the British Isles after many years playing and coaching here. He hadn't known a lot of Scotsmen but he found the growling shifts of their speech very rough and exciting, especially on a powerful young fuck like Kieran Tierney. At the surly command, the powerful manager melted to his knees, willingly approaching the beer-wasted slouch of his defender. He rubbed his thighs a little, palms on the coarse denim, delaying the delight of getting to touch and feel that soft white monster. He undid a couple more buttons and shrugged away his blazer to cool down then took it in hand, shocked by its weighty feel.
Aye,' grunted Kieran distantly, suck me off, will ya...? It's what I deserve, right... treat for playin' well, an' that...' He wasn't totally coherent, and if Mikel had been sober or less turned on, he might have wondered where the spouted nonsense came from, what this thick jock was actually on about! Did he think sucking off skilled athletes was part of the head coach's job, or something? Not at all, it just so happened to be Arteta's sporadic hobby...!
He rapidly obliged. Lips around the fat tip, tickling the balls, mouthing down it and feeling it respond. Kieran's heavy half-vocal moans. The rub of the hard laminate floor on his knees and the feel of those thick sturdy Scotch thighs when he rubbed them. More moaning, groaning, grunting. The taste of his beery sweat around the growing, stiffening tool. Mmmm. He looked up, watching the dull grind of Kieran's aroused body, the way he tugged at his top and his collar, eyes half-open, lips pouting and glistening in the lamplight. Fuck, he was a sexy bastard, wasn't he?
Granit pressed his knees down into the soft earth of the churchyard and concentrated on wrapping his lips more firmly around Alexandre's stiff French weapon, long and curved and delicious. He wanted it fully inside him, properly, but he'd settle for it hitting the back of his throat. Above, the striker grunted and purred his name, pressed back into the thick shadowed tree trunk, away from the prying eyes of the suburban street that they'd crept from.
Xhaka scooped his hand into the tight black denim to fondle and pull at the black man's sweaty balls, loving the soft moist feel of them on his fingers, sucking even more eagerly and willingly on the cock that he'd fallen for over the past seven or eight months, familiar with every inch of its length and girth. He slid his lips back down it to kiss and lick at the pinkish tip, rolling his tongue in sensual circles and eyeing the shadowy figure of his standing, quaking lover, hearing his ambiguous moans and gasps, feeling his rough fingertips stroke through his short dark hair and down his stubbled cheeks. Oh yes, he thought, the plan was working!
Kieran enjoyed the pleasure of it through a fug of drunken numbness and lost control. He was on his feet now, pushing his long white hard-on into the pouting red lips of the football manager, staring blearily down at the surreal sight: this respected and powerful man who he'd been obediently following every order of for almost a year, now on his knees, gagging on his chunky Scottish prick, whimpering a little as he licked around his foreskin and drooled down his veiny shaft. He kept wanting to laugh at the weirdness of the image, unsure if it was really happening or not.
He'd climbed up off the sofa, wearied by the passiveness of slouching back and letting Mikel work on his tool. Now he was on his feet so he could stroke his hands roughly about the man's small ears and through the short blackness of his hair, scratching a little at his scalp and skin. He could thrust a bit with his hips and arse muscles, pushing his meat inside the eager mouth, making Mikel snort and splutter and need to pull back for breath. Even that was fun, that reaction to his size and force, and he suppressed laddish sniggers of enjoyment as he did it.
He'd pulled off his Adidas jersey and the sweat-damp tshirt below it, baring his lean pale torso, dotted with dark freckles in places. He let out beery sighs and gasps, strangely exhausted in his head despite the sudden feeling of ferocious energy in his aroused body. He pushed his cock in again, letting it go deep in the man's mouth, his balls knocking a little at his chin, tickling on the thin stubble, and then he giggled stupidly at the prospect of it all. Fucking his manager in the face! Haha! MADNESS.
He pulled back, tingling all over, and pulled a bit on the side of Mikel's neck, encouraging him to follow. Past the kitchen area, the door into his big solitary bedroom was wide-open. Inside it, he kicked clumsily at the Lacoste trainers on his feet, failing to get his feet out of them and falling sideways onto the massive bed, laughing. He felt hands (Mikel's? he was beginning to lose full awareness of who he was really with here, sometimes he imagined it was a girl from one of his fave pornos, sometimes he pictured Alex or Granit, sometimes he remembered it was, hilarious, the boss!) loosen and drag off the trainers and then his matted socks.
`Just the jeans!' he chuckled dimly, kicking his legs about aimlessly and reaching for his aching boner. He wanked himself lazily and felt hands tug weakly at his jeans then give up. They were too tight against his legs. Lips were on his cock again, though, kissing the tip, licking up and down the shaft a bit. He moaned softly in happiness at this tender touch. Kieran stared for a few swirling moments at the blank ceiling of his bedroom and then, regaining a bit of wakefulness, he reached down to push the man's head further into his crotch, fucking his mouth again with slow deliberate upthrusts.
Come on girl,' he muttered half-jokingly, slipping between versions of reality, reaching for the loose remnants of the cocksucker's shirt, pushing it away from him and dragging him onto the bed in a muscular wriggle of limbs. Kieran pulled away and began pushing at the waist of his tight jeans, wanting them and his pants off, wanting to be fully naked; he felt so hot and horny and raging. When he managed it, kicking them away down his sizeable calves, he focused on the figure in his bed and laughed when he remembered who it was, that deeply tanned thin face, all serious frowns and comically thick dark eyebrows. You,' he chuckled, `boss... hehe...!'
As if just to avoid looking him in the eye, Mikel was kissing at his chest now and playing his lips and tongues about his nipples a bit. This made Kieran giggle and twist, ticklish and a little confused. He reached down and fully yanked his jeans from his ankles, then grabbed at Mikel's leaner body next to him, throwing him down a bit, rolling over him, pulling at what remained of his shirt and then stroking his hands down the hard toned sides of his torso. He acted without quite thinking, manhandling the Arsenal coach about the spacious soft world of his bed, occasionally grabbing and tugging at his big boner, and sometimes feeling his guest do the same.
The Scottish footballer was on a drunken horny autopilot, and Arteta responded helpfully. His suit pants and underpants were off, and Kieran's hands were settling on a narrow soft backside, cheeks a little downy with hair. It didn't matter. He'd been with girls who didn't like waxing or whatever. Girls. Was this a girl? Can't remember. Don't care. Horny. His brain was mushy with beer and physicality. When he pushed his cock between the cheeks, all he felt was its hot tightness and the trembling motions of the body between his hands. It was wriggling away a little bit, groaning something in another language. He heard a spitting noise and then felt a slick wet hand rubbing his cock to give it some semblance of lube. Kieran just moved on, wanting to feel that tightness, pushing his barely slicked bone in between the cheeks, finding the hole, pressing into it like some cheap tart's vag at the end of a Glasgow night out. Push in, god it's tight, god that feels good, god you're a big hung bastard ain't ya Kieran, haha... fuckkk...
He fell forward, consumed by the sensations around his massive prick, wrapping his body over that of the fleshy figure in his bed, arms around arms, face resting against neck and hair, biting rather than kissing at the scruff of a neck. Push deeper, oh yes, fuck them... He grunted wordlessly as he rammed his cock deep and pulled back, then thrust in again, over and over, growling out his enjoyment of the tightest and most satisfying girl's pussy he'd ever been in, oh my god... His lover, whoever they were, whined and yelped and spoke in words he couldn't understand. Possibly another language or possibly he was just completely fuckin' wasted, or both?
Regardless, Kieran Tierney fucked like a beast, holding them in his limbs and pounding his big Scottish meat in and out of that tight hole until he was screaming out swear words and emptying his seed inside another grateful whore. Slowly, sweaty and a little nauseous with the faint beginnings of tomorrow's hangover, he pulled away, rolled into the sheets... and snored.
Granit Xhaka panted for breath, letting a couple of streaks of Lacazette's spunk roll over his bottom lip and onto his chin. Slowly, using Alex's legs and then his shirt as leverage to get himself neatly up to his feet, he chuckled his pleasure and rolled his tongue over the bottom lip to catch most of the salty excess, tasting it slowly in his mouth before swallowing and catching his breath.
`Lovely,' murmured Alexandre in French.
`So lovely,' he agreed lightly, giddily. His own cock throbbed in his linen pants.
`But we should catch our taxis,' the striker pointed out, still resting on the tree and half-holding him on one side. Granit tried to look him in the eye, but he was staring vaguely past him into the spreading shadows of the churchyard and the twinkling streetlights through the trees.
Oh yeah,' the Swiss midfielder said slowly. But...' He grabbed loosely at his bulge, laughing uncertainly, stroking one of his man's arms. `But first...'
Alex shook his head, shook his body, shook him off somewhat. `Not in the mood, Granit. I told you. I just wanted sucked. Thank you.'
Oh, yeah, erm...' Granit let out more slow hungry breaths and leaned back a little, keeping one hand on the sleeve of the other man's shirt as he steadied himself, found his balance. But I'm just... ugh... wish you could come back to mine... maybe if we used the downstairs bedroom and then...'
`We need separate taxis.' The Frenchman's voice was blunt in the dark.
`Right...'
`I've told you, Xhaka. This is not a thing.'
`Not a...?'
This is jut fun.' His tone was a bit sharper, more dismissive. You need to understand that.'
`Yeah, I know, you have a woman, so do I, but...'
`You don't get it. This is fun, NOTHING more. I like you, you're a good mate, but that has nothing to do with how good you are on my cock. We can't be meeting up all the time, carrying on like teenage girls. Fuck's sake. The way you acted when you found me with Mikel...'
`Alex...?'
You're too much. This is too much.' Suddenly Lacazette was gripping the lapels of his own shirt, squaring up to him despite his lower height. They were in the deep shadows of the dark churchyard and he could only properly make out the glint of his threatening eyes. You suck good dick, Granit Xhaka, but I don't need more from you. Get it? If you can't understand that, then you aren't getting my cum again, you bitch. I can't have you stomping around sulking at me. I'm a man with needs. Get it? Eh?' He was shaking Xhaka a bit and the 27-year-old barely knew how to react. He pulled away, trying to straighten the front of his shirt.
Of course,' he muttered. Of course I understand, just...'
For fuck's sake,' snapped Lacazette, now in blunt harsh English. You understand nothing.' He did up his zip fly and re-buckled his belt. This has to end. After the summer, I will deny we ever touched each other. Get over yourself, Xhaks. This was a laugh, but it ends with the season.' Instantly, he was brushing by; Granit almost instinctively snatched at his strong arm, but he shook it off. Stop it,' he snapped at him, louder and more aggressive. `We are just friends, we were never more. And who I feed my cock to... it isn't your business, Granit. Understood?' Another hard glinting stare in the darkness, and then he was gone, marching back through the thin trees and undergrowth and climbing smoothly over the low wall onto the pavement beyond.
Mikel stared at the pale figure across the bed for him for a while before realising he must be awake too. His deep chainsaw snores had ceased and he held his body a little differently, something deliberate in the way he faced towards the windows and kept his back and shoulder screening him from his bedfellow. Arteta lay looking at him for a while longer then edged away in what space the broad bed really offered, fingering at the edge of the duvet where it hung over his chest hair and red nipples. Beneath bedding he had a hard-on, one he'd woken with in the early hours and been unable to shake; was it just a bit of morning-glory, or was it the thought of the most rugged and aggressive fuck of his life?
But his erection was losing out to the overwhelming pain in his head and, more monumental than either, a mixed guilty regret at coming here in the first place. When the pain and nausea had stilled enough, he dragged himself to the side and out of the bed, his limbs stiff with post-drinking dehydration and soreness. He found his red designer briefs somewhere on the floor and pulled them about his socked ankles and up his lean hairy legs. He continued dressing in silence but for his own heavy breaths and the soft purring murmurs from the other side of the bed. Perhaps he WAS still asleep.
Arteta staggered a bit at the challenge of his suit trousers and his shirt, looking around for his tie and blazer in a sleepy daze but seeing nothing in here. They must be in the lounge. He paused at the bottom of the room, stood between the bed and the fitted wardrobes, and looked over at the hulking shape of the lazing footballer who had smashed his arse to pieces in the night. It stung now but the pain was a beautiful reminder of what his fuggy memory couldn't quite reproduce. All he remembered was the force and the Scottish slurs.
Very gently, almost secretive, the prone figure on the bed twitched and turned. Kieran's head tilted a little on the pillow, screened partly by the pale curve of his shoulder, and darted his eyes nervously this way. Mikel stood there, doing up his shirt buttons and collars, and met that nervous gaze out from the bedding. Silently, he closed his chest hairy away beneath the white shirt, musty with last night, smelling mainly of Kieran's chippy. He sighed, long and slow, and groaned a little at the pains in his head and somewhere below his chest. He was too old for those sort of nights, that level of drinking!
Still, Kieran was staring at him, his expression not quite readable in his hunched, sideways position, hugging duvet and pillow to him. His face almost looked green it was so washed out and sickly. His eyes were a little bloodshot as they followed Mikkel's slow movements to find and pull on his leather shoes. When he was done, he took two steps closer to the foot of the bed and smiled anxiously down at the curled-up figure of the Scotsman. Neither of them said anything.
Arteta left the room but decided against the immediate exit he'd planned as he slid out of bed. He went into the open plan kitchen area and poured a Tennants pint glass full of cool water, then dug about in a cupboard for some soluble painkillers. He carried them reverently back into the bedroom and placed them carefully on the bedside table next to where Kieran was hunched. He'd shut his eyes again but was clearly awake, lying on his side with a strip of chest and tummy visible where the duvet was disturbed. Even in his hangover fragility, he was an attractive lad, Mikkel's trophy boy. He hovered between various gruff sentences ranging from Enjoy your summer' to That was incredible' to `Don't worry'. He said none of them and left the bedroom, this time pulling the door shut behind him.
In the main living area, he saw what he'd initially missed. Placed on the central glass coffee table by one of them last night, and utterly forgotten until now: the FA Cup trophy that he'd sneaked away with him from the pub. It would need to be delivered to the Emirates today, but for now... it looked so hilarious there in the minimalist bachelor pad, greasy finger-stains on its curved sides and sparkling handles. The prize for his hard-fought season and tournament, soon to be installed in a trophy cabinet beside his office. As he slowly and painfully exited the apartment, picking up the trophy in both arms and dreading the taxi ride out of the city, he couldn't help but smirk to himself: he'd never be able to look at this glorious Cup without remembering the night he'd been fucked by Kieran Tierney.