Part 163: Finding Timo
On an aggregate score of 7-1, Chelsea's place in the belated Champions League crashed away from them, leaving only Guardiola's City left to represent the Premier League. Like all of his teammates, Ross Barkley crashed to a halt, hands on his hips and blue kit plastered to his body. A rare start and full 90 minutes for the Liverpudlian midfielder, but he'd been no more able than any of his colleagues to battle Bayern's dominance in the game -- only his good friend Tammy Abraham had made a dent with his sad solitary goal at the end of the first half. Now it was over, and the scraped achievements of the season seemed diminished by two poor Saturdays in a row: the FA Cup lost to Arsenal and the European title fully out of reach.
Ross clapped magnanimously for the German team's players, mourning the lack of a travelling audience to bolster his mood, following the drift of his teammates towards the edge of the pitch in the sad anti-climax of a football season finished. Tonight, marked the beginning of his and everyone else's summer break, but right now that prospect felt cold comfort.
Barkley shared empathetic grimaces with more of the Chelsea players as one by one they ambled over the lien and past the dugout and into the tunnel mouth, patted and consoled by a dour Frank Lampard on his rounds, frowning away to an inevitable interview of stinging criticism. In trooped the men in blue, all sagging and drooping in their body language after their inglorious finish to 19/20. Injured young Pulisic grinned weakly at them from his crutches, everyone sharply aware that the out-of-action American could have saved them a scrap of dignity if he'd been in play -- and another unavailable figure stood by with an almost patronising half-smile as he made weak claps of applause at the door to the stadium's away changing rooms: Timo Werner.
Barkley found himself glaring irritably at their German signing, pointlessly present on the European trip despite being unavailable until the new season officially began. Why was he even here? What was the point? Smug German bugger, he thought sourly, planting his frustrated emotions on the angular foxy face of the new striker. Something in his slow clap and quiet expression cast aspersions on the existing Chelsea squad he was waiting to transform. For a solid member of the existing attack, Ross felt the slight against his performances and his contributions. He squared his muscular shoulders and bustled past Werner's patronising applause without engaging the newcomer, too moody to speak to anyone.
He stripped down and showered in a hurry, keen to blast water over himself and stretch out his aching limbs. He was in fresh undies and tracksuit before half of the Chelsea men had even stripped down from their sweaty kits, meaning he could be pretty much first on the coach and sulking alone in a rear seat when they drove across Munich towards their mediocre hotel. He even skipped the supper they were served, never usually a man to miss out on food -- instead he prowled up to his room and scrolled mindlessly through social media and emails. He was glad of the time alone, his roomie Antonio Rudiger still as busy as anyone else down in the hotel restaurant -- Ross felt a pang of teammate guilt not to be there with them all, lifting a German beer to the end of a tough campaign, but they would all be together for tomorrow morning's flight anyway. There would be goodbyes enough then.
Again, he thought irritably of the imposter in their midst. Timo Werner would be down there now, chipping in to discussions of the season gone as if he knew a thing, as if he'd been there, as if he'd earned his stripes here at Chelsea! Somehow, the thought of that smug intrusion riled him more and made him even more adamant he could just sulk up here on his own rather than eating his pride and joining the lads for a quiet bedtime beer. He sat in the single armchair by the window and threw his mobile phone at the bed, sick of looking at it.
God, what a year, even outside of the football! Flashes of conflicted interaction with his own manager, with certain teammates, with his ex-girlfriend... all of it played frustratingly on his mind and made him long for the freedom of tomorrow. A few weeks without any connection to the leagues and tournaments. He couldn't wait. He had zero plans and that was fucking amazing -- where would he be allowed to travel in the current quarantines? He pictured himself sweating on a lonely beach and lost in summer tranquillity.
It had been Pulisic who first jolted him with his tale of Werner. One evening in the build-up to their London derby for the FA Cup, he'd been relaxing on the sofa at the American's inner-London apartment, softly moaning his encouragement as Christian began to fondle the front of his black Adidas trackies, finding the shape of his cock and balls, stroking them with one hand while still playing a game of FIFA with the other... his sidelong glances of longing and unspoken intimacy were so distinct and recognisable, always the turning point in an evening spent at his place. Ross had been just getting into the moment, passively relaxing his football-tired body, spreading his legs a little, when the 21-year-old whispered his giggled account to him.
Christian had seemed to mean it as some enticement or turn-on, some interesting confession that would add to Barkley's enjoyment as his nob was gently woken and stroked. Stupid kid, if he thought that; why would Barkley want to know that his dorky young admirer had been eyeing up someone else that afternoon? And the story itself felt like something out of a cheap sitcom, the new striker making his move on a middle-aged female physio while his young teammate spied through a window...! For fuck's sake. But the other part had excited him a little, he supposed: the seedy revelation that horny confused Pulisic had pleasured himself while he watched, right there in the corridor, hand in his shorts.
Barkley looked at him then through hooded lids, sleepy but horny, and appreciated a new daring or boldness in `Captain America', a lad so shy and awkward that the scene was hard to picture. Then he'd realised that the nervous pursing of lips and roving eyes were cues for more discussion; Pulisic wanted to talk more about his confusing desire for the straight German and the voyeurism he'd engaged in. Clearly, he wanted to address the elephant in the room, the fact his hand was reaching inside the tight front of black skinny-fit trackies and pulling at Ross's Scouse semi.
To curb discussion of Werner or anything else, Barkley had got up from the sofa, nodded imperiously at the door to Christian's master bedroom, and taken control of things again. In silence, he'd enjoyed another nervous oral exploration from the warm-hearted host, and slept it off in the guest room, only faintly troubled by the notion that Timo Werner might be somehow more appealing to young Christian.
But then there had been Ruben's tale too, after the weekend's galling loss to Arsenal. Barkley and Loftus-Cheek had been showering side by side after the next training session, a moment which always irked Ross gently with the physical competition of their bodies. Ruben was so tall and powerful-looking, so relaxed and sure of himself; though Ross knew well that he had mastered and possessed the tall attractive Londoner in full, he still felt the vague challenge of his physicality and his persona, this other man who had topped Mason Mount and played around with old Frank.
And just as Ross stood there, cupping and washing his fat balls and running the other hand up his six-pack with vague self-appreciation of his defined body, wondering if he maybe he should initiate some light play with the big 24-year-old, his thoughts were broken by a cheeky whispered confession that killed his rising mood of curious arousal.
You know that Werner?' Lofty murmured, rubbing soap suds from his eyes and dragging his long fingertips over his strong bearded jawline. Funniest thing happened, pal...' It seemed Loftus-Cheek had experienced his own little run-in with the ex-Leipzig goal wizard -- and he too thought that it would be a funny and interesting nugget to Barkley, for some reason!
As Ruben explained to him, he'd been working out in the gym yesterday on their nominal day off of recovery, and ended up trailing the same machines as Timo, who was putting in an extra shift since he'd not had the exhausting Final to play in the day before. And inevitably, Ruben admitted with a gruff chuckle, he'd found himself admiring the athletic newbie, watching his bare arms and long legs in action, then accidentally catching his deep dark eyes in the mirrored wall. By the end of their workout, the two young men were sharing fleeting grins in the reflection, Ruben dropping coy hints of his admiration without saying anything in particular.
He'd been on his last exercise of the session, he told Ross, when Timo approached him at the leg machine he was using and stood beside him making quiet conversation -- something innocuous and generic -- while letting his knees and shins rub against the side of Ruben's straining legs below the cut of his gym shorts. Slowly, he'd inched closer, one arm leaning to the machine, his position so close that every time Ruben crunched his legs and repeated his sets, he had to brush his knees and thighs more and more up Timo's thighs, disturbing the ruffle of his shorts and, eventually, brushing his leg against his bulge a little. All whilst the German forward just stood there beside him chatting about his hunt for a perfect London pad.
I thought I must be imagining it,' Lofty sniggered at him in the steam of the showers, glancing over his big shoulders to check they were alone in here for a minute before going on. But no...'
When Ruben had entered the showers, he'd found Timo just stood with his back to the wall waiting for him, and... at that point, Barkley cut him off, overheated and losing interest. He'd removed himself rapidly from the sleazy gossip, frowning at Lofty and hurrying through to dry off and dress. Fuck's sake, what did he want to know of Ruben's sex life beyond their own sporadic encounters and the tall Lewisham fella's occasional massaging of his fragile ego...?
Later in the week, Barkley had visited Lampard in his office to politely ask about his likelihood of a start in the upcoming Bayern match. Okay, it was hard just a polite enquiry; he'd known as he marched his way through the management suites of the training ground, still in his bright blue training gear, bounce bulging freely in the front of his tracksuit bottoms, that appearing in the office doorway like this at the right end-of-day moment might be, er, helpful to his match prospects. Ross had no intention of falling back into the awkward to-and-fro of earlier this season, but he'd enjoyed reconnecting with the boss after the Arsenal defeat, and he had been pretty desperate to get a slice of the club's last-ditch attack on the Champions League.
At first, when he pushed the door open without knocking and caught Frank in the act, he'd been pretty delighted: the middle-aged Chelsea hero was stood by the desk with his back mostly to him, something clutched in his hand and brought up to his face. His other hand unseen but dipping down his front. It was pretty obvious that, alone and content, Lamps was indulging in a cheeky sniff of his pants from the weekend that he had left with him after their consolation fun. Pausing in the doorway, marvelling at his boss's recklessness, Barkley had felt a thrill of superiority and power, realising how appreciated his gift had been, how much impact he still made on this old married bloke who seemed so fixated on his... assets.
Even when Lampard looked over his shoulder in shifty panic, Barkley had just gritted his teeth and gave a bashful grin at the gaffer, pushing the door shut after him and trying to convey his amused delight at what he had accidentally interrupted. The Chelsea manager twisted a little where he stood, blinking awkwardly and looking past Ross to make sure the door had closed properly; as he turned, it was obvious that he had at least a semi in the front of his tight navy blue trackies, pressing visibly across the front where he had been touching himself up as he sniffed the pants in his hands... oh. They weren't the pair he'd gifted him after Arsenal, a grey pair of Puma sports briefs that had been drenched in his sweat and bunched up into Frank's pale hand as a dirty token of his loyalty... nah, these were Calvin Klein by the look of it and a pale baby blue, a little scuffed and stained seeming as they draped among his shaky fingers in his lifted hand at chest-height. Oh.
Barkley must have visibly wilted, hovering there all hot and bothered from an afternoon of tough drills, his full Chelsea tracksuit quite taut over the strong muscles of his legs and chest. He paused awkwardly, some vague half-formed tease dying on his dry lips, some knowing remark he hadn't yet settled on at how much Lampard enjoyed a splash of eau d'Barkley. Instead, he just huffed awkwardly at the older man and stood there in the centre of his office, eyes fixed on the unknown garment in the embarrassment of his arrogant assumption; Frank was eyeing him with a deep shame that seemed to cover both the discovery of his pervy moment and the obvious surprise or disappointment in Barkley's own eyes.
As a result, the two men just stood there not quite looking at one another. Caught in the misunderstanding, Ross quite forgot that he'd been innocently poking head in here just to flex a bit and make suggestive questions about Saturday's away trip. Now he was watching as Frank guiltily lowered his hand to his side and then thrust the briefs in amongst the mess of paperwork on the edge of the desk, doing a terrible job of hiding them in his files. He left his hand over this overhanging mess and looked away from Ross for a moment before glancing back.
Er, caught in the act,' huffed Lampard quietly with the same shy acceptance of their loose dynamic as when had Ross had visited him up here the previous Saturday night. I really need to learn about locks on doors, I guess...' He spoke with distracted discomfort and with his other hand he shuffled and rearranged at the tenting front of his pants. `Still, good job it was you, Ross, eh...' His grin was apologetic and a little pleading. Barkley just stared uncomfortably back, wanting to immediately disentangle himself from this strange encounter.
Coughing and rubbing the back of a hand against his mouth, Lamps narrowed his eyes a bit at him. `Can I help you with something?' he asked, colouring a little in his cheeks. The more serious and managerial look was returning to him as he calmed and recovered from another slip in his discretion; Ross just shook his head dumbly and took a step back over the office, then looked at the spare seat on this side of the desk. A brand new Chelsea shirt was strewn over the back of it, neatly folded with the name just visible at the top. Big white letters spelled out Werner's name on the new 20/21 Chelsea home kit, resting where it had been draped. Ross paused, looking at it, and then back at Lampard's surreptitious posture by the desk, one hand still resting on the crumpled piles of work, a sneak of blue fabric showing between files.
`Werner is fitting in well, don't you think?' the manager said in a gravelly murmur.
Ross just scoffed, shrugged his shoulders, and took his sweaty post-training body to the door, wrenching it open to let himself out into the cool foyer, embarrassed by the blush rising in his rugged cheeks as he speculated on how those stained skimpy pants got into the gaffer's hand.
And then last night, flying into Germany for the game, chilling in Heathrow on the way out of the UK: Mason Mount taking him aside, tugging a little on the sleeve of his baggy white hoody in the waiting lounge where the men were spaced out. Ross, slugging back water from a bottle, turned in his hard plastic chair to eye the other footballer a little impatiently. Settling into the chair beside him, the slim handsome 21-year-old leaned in his way a little and murmured his request. `Can we have a chat, Ross? You got a minute?' There was something needling and irritating in Mount's voice that evening but the needy wideness of his eyes and the gentle bite of his lips made Ross start. He nodded silently and followed him away from the stiff rows of chairs and the darkening view of the runways.
`What?' the 6ft2 Scouser demanded quietly when they were over by the disused vending machines. He shoved an elbow against the glass front of one to lean, frowning a little impatiently at his younger pal and trying not to think about how adorably cute he looked there in an old England hoody over his retro Chelsea tshirt, slim and youthful and clean.
Mount flicked a nervous gaze back towards the scattered forms of their teammates, spread out over the rows of seating in the quiet waiting lounge for their private flight. He turned back Ross's way and the clear worry that filled him struck Barkley with a moody sympathy. But he held back, trying to control his feelings. He needed to stop letting himself get so... sentimental about the loveable dweeb.
What?' he repeated. What's wrong?'
Aw Ross,' muttered Mase quietly. Fucked up, mate. I did a bad thing.'
`Huh? What's up? Oi, what you talkin' about, lad...?'
Mason groaned and seemed to regret starting the conversation -- but he soon explained. Barkley listened impatiently to the fragmented story; he soon found himself looking back across the sparse gathering of their colleagues, his eyes finding Werner at the centre of one cluster, seeming to entertain a few of their fellow Chelsea players with whatever story he was telling, more animated and jovial than Barkley had yet seen him. Mason was a poor storyteller, his nervous regret and clear embarrassment creating a jagged tumble of events, but Ross pieced it slowly together.
It had happened the day before at the training ground, it seemed, in the showers to be specific. Realisation dawned uncomfortably on Barkley when he felt the direction of the tale, Mason's awkward justifications for how frantic the training had been, how riled and frustrated he'd been that day, how rushed he'd been all week since the cup final etc. etc. etc. Mason squinted at him and leaned in really close beside the vending machine. I can't believe I did it,' he said in a hot whisper. I feel so shit, Ross, I can't believe I betrayed Declan like that...'
Barkley felt a little envious or provoked lurch in his tummy. He did his best to stare placidly and non-judgementally at his friend but straightened up a little, patting his hand against the Perspex screen and rubbing the other fist over his chin and lips. Mason was going into detail: how exhausted and sweaty he'd been as he finished a last few shooting drills and the little joke he'd been having with Timo about who would score the most next season, and- I don't need to know,' Ross grunted a little frostily, but then warmed as he carried on. Mate, you don't have to tell me all this, okay, it isn't my... it ain't my... Look, just... what you gonna do, tell Dec...?'
Mason groaned. `That's what I don't know.'
Ross hated the trie-hard sensitivity of his purring voice. You know how tight you two are, lad. He'll be ok with whatever. But like, you don't have to say nothin' if you don't...' He trailed off, hearing the indecisive uselessness of his advice. I mean...' He scratched the rough stubble of his cheek and then pulled his palm back over his short-cropped hair, staring at Mason's dismayed drooping expression. Ross just looked dimly at him, lost for what to say -- he was actually a bit shocked by Mason's stulted confession, the rather romantic image in his head of the 21-year-old lovebirds suddenly tainted, and his own loyal resistance seeming rubbished. He'd fought so hard to pull back from every touching or teasing Mase since he'd realised how close he and Declan were...
He was rescued or exiled from this sudden intimacy with Mason's turmoil: Giroud and James were joining them, full of burly laughter and chat about some transfer rumour about a former Chelsea teammate. Ross and Mason pulled instinctively away from each other and the Scouser looked away again, his eyes finding Timo's profile, bursting into smug laughter and shaking one hand at the players to his left and right, enjoying himself as an inactive guest on this Champs League outing.
Why was he here, for fuck's sake? No need.
Ross kicked off his trainers in the hotel room and brought both hands to his clammy face, reliving the gloomy moment the whistle had blown and their 7-1 defeat over two legs had limped to its inevitable close. The big northern midfielder got up from the stiff little armchair and kicked about the room, which felt far too hot and uncomfortable to be wearing this team tracksuit in. He went and pushed open a window, unimpressed by the air-con, and poured himself a glass of water from the bathroom sink.
He had a good mind to go and find Timo now, he thought. That prick needed a talking to. He thought about the ostentatious way the German striker had strolled into their end-of-season training sessions as if he owned the place, quiet and thoughtful in his observations of how everyone played, standing on the side-lines and chirping along with Lampard like they were best buddies. Fuck that. He thought about Timo's pants ending up in Frank's hand, that stupid childish blue of the briefs, what the hell...? He pictured him and Ruben in the gym, too, the confident flirtiness of big Lofty; he pictured him and the physio, he was pretty sure he knew exactly which woman Pulisic meant now, and he pictured him cornering Mason Mount in the showers, and...
He punched the wall in front of him stupidly, fist smacking the pale green paintwork on the short space beside the bathroom door. He regretted it instantly, cradling his hand and blinking back the pain, swearing under his breath at his own foul mood and inability to control his feelings tonight. His temper was only making the stuffy hotel room feel worse. Perhaps it was cooler down in the bar, holding an icy beer bottle in one hand and taking solace in the grumblings of his colleagues...
A rapping knock on the door cut through his moment's indecision. Barkley looked that way with a huff, bracing himself -- who would have been sent up to fetch him, to corral him into a nightcap? Perhaps the captain, that sex-mad lunatic whose spare room he essentially `lived in' for the price of hearing him plough his wife twice a night? Perhaps Pulisic, all needy and American, or Giroud or Kepa or... maybe it was Mason again, here to spill more gossip in his lap and give him puppy dog eyes of boyish guilt. Ross stormed to the door and undid the inner lock before yanking it inwards and staring harshly at the visitor in the threshold.
Timo Werner met his stare with a bemused and sugary smile, hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his dark blue tracksuit bottoms, the jersey and tracksuit jacket of the outfit eschewed for a close-fitting white vest over his sturdy pale torso. Barkley,' he coughed in his oddly formal accent, softer than Ross was used to in German tones, may I...?' The other player lingered stiffly in the doorway while Barkley backed off awkwardly, momentarily convinced that his own ire had summoned Werner out of the night by some dodgy magic.
`Come in,' he grunted crossly, trying to convey all his rattling annoyances in the phrase. Who was this smug foreign prick muscling in on the team and thinking he was billy big bollocks? The vague jealousy that had been building resentfully in Barkley's chest seemed to take clearer form as Werner entered the room and shut the door quietly behind him. This prick was too much, too full of himself, he was not what Chelsea needed. He was not what ROSS needed in his life.
Surly and caught off-guard, he retreated over the room, allowing Timo to drift into it, then folded his arms and gave him a stony look. `Was hoping to talk to you, actually,' he grunted. He puffed out his chest and squared his shoulders. He didn't have the heaviest or most built of upper bodies but it was hard and strong and he knew the thick weight of his thighs would be obvious in these close-fitting tracksuit bottoms now.
Oh?' enquired Timo conversationally, stepping slowly his way. That is good, because...'
Aye, a quick chat,' Ross barked, cutting him off. I wanna know what your problem is, mate.'
Timo raised his dark blond brows. `My problem, Barkley...?'
Aye, your problem. Fuckin' about Stamford Bridge like you've been here years.' Poorly controlled temper and the heat of the disappointing night broke down inhibitions and brought his feelings out in the open. Timo fuckin' Werner, the future of Chelsea Football Club, please...' He hugged his arms tighter to his chest and rolled his wide eyes. `We'll see about that.'
Werner paused at this onslaught, shifting a bit from foot to foot, lifting his fingers from his pockets and holding his hands a little awkwardly in front of himself. The 24-year-old seemed surprised but not upset by the sudden violence of the comments, a bland smile on his lips as he swayed foot to foot. Oh Ross,' he began, let me...'
You keep away from Mase,' Ross snapped instantly, reliving that brutal alleyway confrontation in which he had made things clear to Jack Wilshere. You keep your hands off that lad, he's a good kid and he's got a bright future, he don't need no one interfering and worrying him. That understood?' He glowered at his chosen enemy, the target of all his frustration, waiting for an answer. `Do you fuckin' understand me, Timmy?'
I do,' Werner said, though his tone hinted otherwise. Mason Mount? Well, he is a lovely gent, and...'
You keep off him,' Ross snapped. You hear me? He's in pieces over what happened.'
`What happened?' Timo said with a laugh -- the gentle music of it sent shudders of annoyance through Barkley as he heard it.
And Ruben,' he added stupidly. Lofty is a good mate of mine, I dunno what you think you're doing with him.'
Timo frowned now. Ruben Loftus-Cheek, my friend...? Well... he and I just... aha, when you have to relieve yourself, you have to...! You must know this, Ross, it was just...' He gestured with courtroom innocence. Ruben and I wanked off in a shower after a tough gym session, it was good to see someone look after their muscles like I do, and...' An odd grin. `We did not touch each other, if that is what you mean?'
Barkley barrelled on. And trying your luck with the gaffer,' he growled. Lettin' the old fucker sniff yer pants, you desperate prick... is that how you're gonna guarantee all your match-starts in September, is it? God, how pathetic, whoring your dirty keks out to try and-`
My pants? The boss?' murmured Werner. Is that where they are?! I lost a favourite pair of mine in the changing rooms this week, you know, and-`
Barkley went on ferociously. Don't be teasin' young Christian, either,' he almost shouted, loosening his arms and pointing an accusing finger at Werner. You know he saw what you were up to, you troublemaker, takin' risks like that and dippin' your wick at the training ground, for fuck's sake...'
Werner laughed brightly. She was crazy for it, and it had been a long time for me in lockdown,' he said, almost yawning out his dismissal. Of course I saw the American watch me, I didn't mind, I certainly didn't encourage it or... oh Ross, let me tell you, this is all very-`
Keep off the lot of them,' Ross yelled at him, stepping forward and shoving the finger of accusation into the centre of his chest. Keep your mitts off my pals, keep your stupid nose out of our business. You need to earn your place at this club. I dunno who the fuck you think you are or how they do things in Leipzig, but you wouldn't last a second on the streets of Liverpool...' He heard the shaky stupid anger in his voice and a moment of self-awareness took some wind out of his sails. He returned angrily to his first point. Mason is a vulnerable lad,' he railed. He's trusting, he's sweet. He's easily put in trouble by dickheads like you, so if you fucked him, then-`
God,' gasped Timo. Is that what you think happened?'
Ross paused, blindsided. `...Isn't it?'
That laugh again, that chiming playful sound. `Gosh no, my friend. Mase...! It is so silly... you know, the poor boy, he simply drops his soap in the shower, nothing more... and then he is bending down, and... well, I was there, you see, and... for a moment, yes, he was touching my cock, my balls, yes he gave them a feel in confusion, he looked so lost, but... nothing more, Ross, nothing more than that...' The benevolent apologetic smile was the most frustrating thing Barkley had seen in his life. But he realised just how cloudy his sense of these events was, how little he had really listened or taken in. He glared furiously at the younger and slightly shorter man, affronted by his casual little smile and the loose frame of his strong body, arms and shoulders bare.
Just back off,' Barkley demanded staunchly. I don't care what happened. These are my pals, my people. I worked fuckin' hard to be here, to stay here. I don't need a fella like you up in my business, messin' around with my mates, and...'
Now Timo was really laughing, a hearty belly-laugh. Ross held his finger lamely at his chest and felt it brushed aside as the other man closed the little gap between their bodies, their mutual heat rising off their athletic figures as they came face to face. Oh Barkley,' sighed the German. You are quite slow here, you know? You are not quite... how you say this... joining the dots?' Frustrating flash of perfect white teeth and arching of those thick brows over his deep brown eyes. Yes, they are your friends, your people. Of course I take interest in each of them.' Then his hands were down low and resting just above Barkley's hips. How else do I get close to you?'
Ross froze. His perceptions spun and his head throbbed and the gentle warm touch seemed to lance excited discomfort up and down his tall frame. His knuckles the grazed the warm chest of the white vest where his pointing hand had been brushed back, the other hanging in a fist at his side. He looked down into Timo's eyes, standing a couple of inches over him now. You think I not notice you?' Werner said more quietly, something different in his gentle German voice now. You think I not see you even before I hear Chelsea offer big money? Ross Barkley, England's bulldog...' He sucked in his breath with a whistle. `When I arrive in London, one thing I know first... I must have a taste of this.'
Barkley stared blankly at him, lost now. And then, with no further ceremony, Werner was going down to his knees. Ross looked down on the spiky dark blond of his hair, the broad pale bulge of his shoulders. He felt his fingers hook inside not just his trackies but the black boxer briefs beneath, and pull down. A moment of cooler air hit his heavy semi-hard prick as it and his fat balls were swung into view, but then the hot hungry breath of an approaching mouth caressed them instead. Ross gawped down in silence as his nob was taken into a mouth in one deft movement, played against bottom then top lip and over the rolling moist strength of a tongue. It took Ross a long few moments to let out the building moan of surprised pleasure.
Ross pushed his sweaty hands down and clasped them to Timo's strong shoulders. His cock twitched and stretched, filling the wet space of a man's mouth. He felt lips drag back over the veiny shaft then push under it to kiss down to its base and then against the wrinkled moist skin of his bollocks. He threw his head back on his thick neck and let out another moan, and another. That strong tongue travelled back up his shaft and onto the foreskin and then the sensitive head below. Ross growled out his enjoyment into the still hot air of the hotel room, no hint of a breeze creeping in through the open window.
Werner's blowjob was as strong and precise as his football. He knelt there, holding each hand gently but precisely against the curve of Ross's hip, just above the drooped waistband of his layers, and he let his lips and tongue do the work. His head bobbed a little, but not much. The rest of his strong 5ft11 body, kneeling there, barely seemed to move or flex. He knew what he was doing. Ross quivered and purred and rolled his thick neck as he let his eyes flutter open and closed. He thought about the strange misunderstandings or overreactions that had made him so angry, but they were out of his grasp, as if they'd never been very real at all; instead, he thought of the cups they had lost, the tournaments that had crawled away from them. The season was over and they had a lot less to show for it than he felt he deserved. But summer was here, and freedom... freedom to... let go...
Sweat pooling in every crevice, Ross let go, spilling his thick sour load on Timo's bizarrely talented red tongue. He felt and heard the German slurp at his long thick rod, still calmly hunched on his knees, and he kept his hands to the warm slope of his shoulders, until the younger athlete began to pull gently back and slobber his lips away from the sticky tip of the Barkley boner. Ross closed his eyes, unable to really watch as Timo climbed upright and stood calmly in front of him, patting his lean muscular flanks through his training jersey, feeling the hot sweat that dampened the nylon.
Delicious,' reviewed the hot new signing quietly. Ross, eyes still closed, seemed to hear him lick his lips and make a little appreciative gurgle. He felt another pat, to his upper arms, and then the release of distance as the visitor backed away from him. When he opened his eyes properly, Werner was halfway out of the door, looking as cool and collected as if nothing had happened at all. Sleep well, my friend,' Timo told him, `our flight is rather early. See you at breakfast, eh?' A strange polite wave of one hand and he was disappearing through the door, which rustled slowly shut behind him.
Ross stood very still, his own sweat cascading down his abs and down his thighs, his cock slowly deflating where it projected between them. He blinked as sweat trickled past his brow and towards his red-rimmed eyes. Very slowly, he pulled up his undies and then his trackies, then took a moment to adjust the ungainly contents at the front. Then, in a blind daze, he went into the bathroom and stripped, and stepped under a cold shower, the water seeming to sizzle on his worshipped body, from shoulders and pecs down to the round prominence of his much-admired rear. Barkley threw his head back and let the cold water gush over his face, cooling his temper, his lust, his ego. He was, after all, apparently `delicious'.
FULL APOLOGIES FOR THE PUN IN THE TITLE! HOPE YOU ARE LOVING THE LATEST CHAPTERS... I AM HOPING TO DO SOME SUMMER HOLIDAY SPECIALS NOW ALL OUR FAVE FOOTY STUDS ARE STIRPPING OFF ON THE BEACH ETC BUT THE EUROPEAN TOURNAMENTS SURELY DESERVE MY ATTENTION FIRST? SEE HOW FAR MAN UTD AND MAN CITY CAN GET RESPECTIVELY... LET ME KNOW WHIC CHARACTERS YOU NEED TO CATCH UP WITH IN THEIR SUMMER HOLIDAYS ONCE THAT'S OUT OF THE WAY