Part 164: I Can Resist Everything But Temptation
Morning brought dazzling light into the ground-floor hotel room, sneaking around the lazily closed curtains and blazing against the consistently white interior. Somewhere central in the room, one of their phones was chiming brashly with the 7.30am alarm, and was then joined by the other's; two mobile phones belting out their electronic crowing and reverberating in the 18-year-old's ears. He made his generic teenage groan of dismay but then grinned automatically at the fact the irritating chiming really just marked the start of another day doing what he loved: being paid a large amount to kick a ball about and perfect his skills alongside athletes he loved and respected, in the latter stages of an international tournament.
Grinning like a creamy cat, Mason Greenwood threw the overly thick duvet away from his bare brown chest and tilted his head to smile across the hotel room at his parallel roomie, who was going through the same early-morning rigmarole of reactions. Greenwood caught the other teen's eye and they shared a sleepy, thoughtful smirk, as amused today by their separate beds as they had been since the weekend. From his pillows, Brandon Williams' cherubin young face beamed with the wry amusement at their separateness and the unspoken yet deafening longing for this to be otherwise.
It had been Mason's own idea, but it was one he was struggling with.
The lean young striker climbed from the comfortable bed and moved to the windows for a moment, peeking out into the courtyard gardens of the German hotel complex beyond, bathed in early golden light, then back across the room at the stretches and yawns of his United roomie. Brandon was now lunging for the coffee table between their beds to silence both mobile phones, ending their wake-up cacophony. Fuck that noise,' the 19-year-old Manchester lad groaned, pushing at buttons and then grimacing at their iPhones, we need to change those alarm tones, Woody...!'
Mason lingered at the windows in just his crotch-hugging stripy boxer shorts, taking a private moment to enjoy the `we' pronoun in his teammate's grumbles, patting and rubbing his palms together and blinking sleep from his eyes. Williams was swinging from his bed, a little more dressed in the baggy grey vest that draped from his thin shoulders and a longer pair of bed-shorts drooping from his waist. His dirty blond hair was messed up and jagged from the press of pillows and he fiddled vainly with it in the mirror for a moment even though he would soon be leaping into their spacious wet-room shower anyway. Mason grinned indulgently at these little touches of metrosexual vanity in the scally Mancunian he had so closely befriended and appeared behind him, grabbing his slim hips and grinning into his reflected face, pink-cheeped and droopy-eyed.
Stop fussing,' the Yorkshire-born teen muttered at the defender, holding him from behind, letting his smooth toned front rub against the bed-warm fabric of his vest. You look lush, mate. Here...' He squeezed at his side, pressing his body in more, grinning wickedly into their shared reflection. `Since we were good boys and didn't snooze the alarm, maybe we could...'
Mase,' tittered the other young United player, pulling loose of his gentle touch and pouting a bit at him from beneath the messy fringe of his hair. I'm showerin' first,' Brandon barked at him, sliding away from his reaching fingertips. `Calm down, Woody, you know I can see your boner in those wee panties, you dirty prick.' The cheeky 19-year-old winked coyly at him and disappeared past him to his set of shelves. Grabbing up fresh clothes and his towel, the blond rushed by and vanished into their en suite, leaving Greenwood stood on his own by the mirror, glancing down to confirm the accusation: his eager teenage hard-on visible and prominent in the stripes of primary colour.
It had been his own idea, and it was for the best.
Greenwood knew he'd had a fantastic first season of senior football. But he also knew that people were lining up to criticise and mock Man Utd these days. He fully recognised that the Europa league was hardly that of the Champions, this second rung of cross-European footy competition, but to a fresh-faced 18-year-old Bradford lad, it was massive. He wanted his squad to win this, for their fans and for his colleagues, but also for his own rep, his own career, his own myth-making; he saw a long future for himself at Old Trafford and the excitable young starlet could see himself scoring the winner in a Europa League final, cementing his place in club history before he even reached 19.
And so, the plan... since the lads had returned to training from their brief respite after the Premiership season ended, a matter of days before they were back to work for the Europa, he'd proposed this to Bran. A sex-ban. Sure, everyone knew about the official sex bans, written into their professional contracts in polite euphemisms -- everyone knew that sportsmen like them weren't meant to tire themselves out on the eve of professional clashes by wasting their manly energies on the wrong activity... footballers' attitudes to this universal rule varied as much as their choice of boots. But this one was different: he and Brandon Williams had promised not to touch each other at all until the Europa was done and the trophy was theirs.
Convincing Bran had been easy: they were in the same boat, lads at the outset of promising careers with everything in their favour. So much to gain from a European win this summer. And just in case there were flickers of worry or resentment from Williams, Mason had been painfully honest in his concerns: `If we don't make a pact like this, Bran, we'll be all over each other from the minute we fly outta Manchester Airport. Think about it, buddy, we'll be sharing a room and together like ALL the time... neither of our girlfriends about, not your parents or brother or sister getting in the way, not my flatmates... it'll be carnage. We'll fall asleep on the pitch...!' Both teens had sniggered and smirked at the image he painted, then shook on their celibate deal.
It made perfect sense for them both, it was definitely for the best. But if it was for the best, Greenwood asked himself in the hotel room mirror, why was it so fucking tough?
With the Semi-Final approaching on Sunday, United's training preparation was pretty intense. Brandon spent each day tired but excited, soaking up the south German heat and enjoying the scene change of this small fitness camp where the lads were based for the duration of the tournament. It seemed a lot less sophisticated than their Manchester home set-up but the whole thing was like an exciting boot camp -- for players as young and energetic as Brandon, it already felt like their summer holidays had begun. When he would see the various shirtless pics of their mates at other teams living it up in European beach resorts, he didn't feel the lazy envy of some older colleagues, ecstatic to be here as the temporary first-choice left-back, Shaw still home and injured -- and besides, the view here was better than some Ibiza beach bar...!
The view, right now, consisting of the lad at the next exercise mat on the dark green pitch they occupied this morning, running through the same mix of yoga and core strength exercises as him, but everything looking that bit more elegant and poised thanks to Mason's slender 5ft11 physique and the rich brown gleam of his bare legs. Even as he listened to their coaching from Carrick, Brandon could not help but look that way continuously, seeing the way his Greenwood flexed his limbs and slid from position to position, an expression of such intense and youthful focus on his handsome but maturing features. His shorter hair and his new tattoo certainly gave Woody an older and less geekily teenaged look to Williams, who felt familiar and inconvenient stirrings in his own shorts as he rolled onto his front to pull into some push-ups.
He knew Mason was right about their little sex-ban. It made complete sense to him. He'd been so thrilled at the idea of them being away together in Germany for the tournament, especially once the pain of Luke's ankle problem became apparent and he knew he was likely to start every game -- two teenagers at the heart of an international tournament squad, totally trusted by manager and fans! It was all so fucking exhilarating and Mason was so right: they needed to focus and give it everything they had, they needed to bring their A game and really make a mark on the Europa stage.
But still...
Bending his elbows and stooping towards the mat in another push-up, Brandon twisted his head and smiled over at the parallel grace of Greenwood's body, his arms so much stronger than their wiry appearance indicated; he dipped up and down in rapid militaristic press-ups, grunting audibly with his own exertion. As he did so, his tight black United shorts pulled about his small but shapely backside and dug into his crack deliciously. Brandon wished he could crawl beneath and just lie there, letting his drooping bulge sink down onto his own face with every dipping press-up, yum... fuck, stop it, your shorts do not have room for an erection right now...!
Yep, the sex-ban was for the best, but it was still... HARD.
The canteen of the sports complex they had invaded as their home-away-from-home rattled with the noisy clink of cutlery and the busy chatter of sportsmen on a break. It had been a long and fairly sweaty morning, lots of different fitness set-ups before the afternoon's more skills-focused workshops. The Sevilla match and their shot at a Cup Final was still several days away but the intense focus of the coaching team and everyone involved made the hot air thick with tension.
Still, Mason swaggered from the room with his cheerful air, refusing to be cowed or worried by the pressure since their Quarter-Final victory on Monday night; his own plucky goal had been disallowed and it had been up to Bruno to secure the win in extra time, a real sweaty late shift for them all, but to Greenwood it had still felt like a sensational moment for him. He anticipated at least one goal in the Sevilla game on Sunday, floating out of the canteen high on his own confidence about what he could achieve, leaving behind the heavy echo of men talking in his hurry to be first back out in the sunshine. He wanted a football at his feet and though he ached already from the morning's workouts, he was desperately happy at the prospect of a few more hours' training, banging in goal after goal against one of the big squad's minor keepers.
`Oi, bud...'
He half-turned with a little grin as his Brandon scuttled out of the double-doors after him into the broad sweeping corridor that led back out to the field. Like him, he still had a faint sheen of sweat to his brow and bare arms, dressed in the same tight dark training gear as everyone else, new for the approaching season. Mason had felt a little guilty as he chose not to join Bran at his canteen table, but they had agreed that limiting their interactions during each day was important to the plan. Even so, he was delighted to have Williams come chasing him like this, stealing a moment... he felt his hand brush behind his wrist and his grin widened.
Sneaking off?' the Manc lad hissed playfully. Hope you ate up all your greens first, kid.'
Kid,' Mase chuckled back. What are you, thirteen months my senior...'
Old enough to be your daddy,' Bran joked, stroking up to his elbow as they walked side by side down the hallway, then suddenly grabbing a little at the close-fitting fabric of his shirt. Mason slowed and stopped and grinned at the shorter footballer, then back towards the doors just in case anyone else was finishing lunch early and might spot them in a fairly intimate pose. And daddy is hungry,' muttered Williams now with a mischievous glint in his elfin little face. `Uh, that sounded less creepy in my head. Come on, training doesn't start for another thirty mins.'
`And?' Greenwood asked, though he knew exactly what was meant. He brushed Brandon's hand from his shirt but stroked his knuckles gently as he did and smiled happily at the handsome little fucker beside him, every bit of strength he had needed not to drag his training top up off his slim pale body right here and throw him against that wall of healthy eating posters. He'd watched him across the canteen while barely listening to Rashford and Lingard discuss their summer holiday plans, wanting to throw crockery off the table and plough him there while his mouth was full of German sausage.
Come on,' murmured the 19-year-old. This is getting unbearable. I saw your mornin' wood.'
Don't know what you mean,' Mason teased. I'm doing fine. All discipline, me.'
Mase...! I'm dying here. You know I've been watching you all fucking morning? Seriously, were those squats meant just for my personal entertainment, bruv, or...? Stop playin' with me, come on, we can find a quiet spot now and-
Greenwood arched his brows, leaned in and stole a single kiss against the other lad's cheek. We have a deal, mate,' he said simply and coolly, denying every bit of his temptation. And we're doin' so well. So go pour a bucket of ice water over you and meet me out on the pitch. I'm gonna be on fuckin' fire this afternoon, just you watch me.'
Brandon gave him a funny mix of scowl and smirk. `Oh, I will be watching, you can be sure of that...!'
And watch he did. All through the frenzied afternoon of small-group exercises, which at least meant that the pair of them were not constantly together, side by side, an arousing little preview for Brandon to ogle. He was with the other defenders most of the time, focusing on passing work and a variety of crisis scenarios. He fluffed passes from Bailly and accidentally gave Wan-Bissaka a nasty kick in the calf whilst losing focus on some tackling practice; a couple of short stern lectures from Maguire punctuated his hard work and sloppy focus, but Williams didn't take them to heart. It was obvious how strained and frustrated the big captain was with his lover-boy back in England as they worked hard over here -- he and Greenwood had noted his obvious tension several times already this week and in spite of all previous misgivings about the bullish alpha male of the squad, Brandon just felt a dollop of empathy for his skipper. He was being driven wild by tournament celibacy, but at least he got to enjoy Mason's company almost 24/7.
Stolen glances at Greenwood robbed the afternoon session of any enjoyment or satisfaction for him in the end and he was pretty relieved when the afternoon heat was declared too much, and the session was brought to a marginally early close. He just smiled loosely at a few half-joking criticisms from his defensive colleagues and trailed off the field with everyone else, ready to unwind on the row of picnic tables. Some guys looked utterly shagged out by the heat and their group's activities, draped about the tables in various states of physical defeat, but others were still doing idle keep-ups and other tricks with the ball, playing about for the attention of one of the team photographers who was trying to capture every detail of the Europa trip.
Williams sat on the edge of one table, beside a huffing young Martial, and trained his eyes on the light-footed figure of his roommate and lover, happily posing and practising for the camera. He found Greenwood deeply attractive every time he caught sight of him, but why was he even sexier with a ball at his feet? Something about his mercurial lightness or his sheer excitement. Other men looked angry and violent in play -- Harry Maguire looked ready to commit a massacre and Brandon was vaguely aware that his own boyish innocence seemed to vanish when he got to work -- but Mason just looked playful and overjoyed. His beaming grin as he played was probably a weapon to them, it made opposition defenders expect so much less from the boy wonder.
Brandon sat there, resting his back to the wood of the table, and feeling his own wood begin to press at the mesh of his shorts, while little rivulets of sweat coursed down his cheeks and neck and pooled at the collar of his black top. Calm it, he told his penis firmly, you're being ridiculous!
Mason's penis hung loose from his overheated body as he stripped down like everyone else in the changing rooms, getting themselves cleaned off for a couple of hours downtime before their communal dinner. Across from him, Marcus Rashford was loudly reminding him of the little FIFA tournament the younger lads were going to have in the common room and how the young activist was 100% sure of his win.
Greenwood grinned at the more experienced player down the row from him and nodded with a `yeah yeah' laugh, pretty sure he could give Rashers a good run for his money, or any of the other PS4 enthusiasts who would soon be huddled around bean bags in the hotel's games lounge while they wound down from their day's work. Laughing at him, Rashford disappeared among the other bare bodies of the room, white towel about his waist, leaving Greenwood to pluck his own folded towel from the shelf and throw it down about his naked body.
He stepped through the busy changing rooms, rubbing shoulders with a sun-reddened and hairy-chested Juan Mata and then pausing briefly at the distracting sight of Dan James' big white-clad booty as he bent forward to pick something up; he grinned happily at a passing compliment from the captain, Maguire stripped to the waist and pausing in his chat with Pogba to reach over and grab him on the shoulder, all rippling smooth muscle from neck to naval. Greenwood slipped past them all and to the doors of the communal shower, already half-full, cursing the little tingles of frustrated excitement between his hard-worked thighs. Wow, he hadn't actually been without sex for this long since he lost his virginity a few years back...!
He and Brandon had hardly had the opportunity to become anything more than sporadic in their encounters, thanks to fucking lockdown and all the rules and weirdness since, but the closing weeks of the season had allowed them fairly regular opportunity still, and normally he would satisfy himself with the highly available enjoyment of his sweet girlfriend, never allowing himself to become this starved or randy. And in fact, sharing a room with the guy he was staunchly resisting sex with meant he wasn't even masturbating much -- he'd had one cheeky wank in a toilet cubicle on Monday night after the game, that was it since they'd left the UK...!
Thinking of his girlfriend as he hung up his towel and found a space in the showers made him feel the guilt again. He envied Brandon: things seemed to be very casual between the Mancunian teen and his rather showy, reality TV wannabe of a girlfriend, as much a pairing for Instagram as anything real. Williams seemed to find no problem in casually dating her and whispering sweet nothings in his ear in hotel beds. But Mason's teenage romance was a bit more serious, had been going on for almost a year before he even caught his first taste of homo-fun at Maguire's seedy invitation -- speaking of which, there was Dan James and his chubby arse again, lining up at the next showerhead, giggling away at some joke another guy was making further down the line -- and Greenwood felt terrible at the lies he sometimes had to tell her, or the fact that he wished he could bring Brandon with them when they went on holiday to the Greek islands later this month. He never actually felt guilty while he fucked one of them -- Brandon, or his girl -- but the contradictory life he was starting to live gave him troubled moments that he didn't know how to deal with.
He squeezed strong-smelling soap between his palms and pushed away those awkward thoughts, issues for another day -- more pressing in his young problems was the risk of springing an actual boner in the midst of so many older men. Just imagine the jokey bullying he'd get for years to come, even from lads here he knew had got up to far more exposing things...!
In the twisted logic of his hormonal brain, he turned his back to the wall and the shower, tilting his head back and letting hot water cleanse is short fuzzy hair and his broad lean shoulders, coursing down over the tight muscle of his tall slim body. If he kept his crotch angled to the room, he was at more risk, and social awkwardness would hold back his loose semi-arousal more than a shy hidden boner pointed at the wall. It was fuzzy logic but it worked. The intimidating vista of his older teammates made Mason's cock shrivel back against his low balls and close-trimmed pubes and he stood there soaping his chest in thoughtful quiet, while other low voices mumbled against the hiss and clank of provincial plumbing.
But Greenwood's eyes still found the alluring sight that he'd struggled to look away from every day since they'd flown out to beat LASK in the middle of last week, since the two teens had shaken on the deal: no sex til the Europa cup was theirs, a glittering marker to their blossoming careers. But Brandon's naked body at the far end of the busy shower glistened more than any trophy could. He was tucked between the much bigger forms of Pogba (soap suds trickling over his long muscular back of dark brown) on one side and gigantic pale McTominay on the other (skin flushing hot pink in the steam as he sang a mocking song about another player's missus). Between them, the 5t7 left-back seemed slender and vulnerable, though his short frame was packed with lean muscle that bulged and relaxed as he washed his mop of hair and scrunched up his handsome face, turning a little so that Mason could catch a glimpse of the swing of his privates between his legs, so chunky and grabbable, and then gone again as he turned back to the wall in the lurid slow-mo of a shampoo advert. Greenwood choked down the lusty little gasp he wanted to emit and slapped his soapy hands to his face, blacking out the melee of wet bodies.
On his left, the goalkeeper Sergio Romero was loudly protesting some generous accolades from the other players; on his right, Bruno Fernandes was talking to him (but really himself) about the quality of their dinner, poking fussily at the meal and longing for more interesting menus than their temporary German base seemed capable of providing. But Brandon was listening to neither, staring across the broad dining table at the smirking figure of his roommate, who was similarly ignoring his neighbours, dinner half-eaten and fork poised lazily in one hand. The two young men locked eyes for a dangerous moment more before Bran lowered his gaze and finished the last mouthfuls of his grub, aware that his lust for Greenwood probably showed in his pert cheeks as he busied himself with the last of his main course and slurping pithy orange juice from a plastic cup.
The 19-year-old defender tried to readjust to the busy, jovial atmosphere of the hotel refectory, recovering from the dazed little moment he'd shared staring across at Mason's relaxed posture and disarming smile. It was like the chatty rumble of the full dining room had faded out to white noise for a minute then came rushing back, making his head ache and his cheeks flush and his fingers drum impatiently on the edge of the table.
He turned to Fernandes, trying to engage with whatever the Portuguese primadona was talking about now, but still thinking idly about how difficult it was going to be returning to that stuffy hotel room for yet another night of abstinence and caution, trying to focus purely on the Semi-Final and not his own perky semi.
Three or four different large screens were set up across the bar and games lounge, allowing the sprawling posse of the United squad and their accompanying staff, Ole's entire tournament entourage, to sit in clusters and patches, enjoying the top-flight entertainment of Paris Saint-Germain versus Atalanta in the Quarter-final of the Champions League. It was only half an hour in, but Atalanta were leading 1-0 and the men who had placed their cheeky bets on such an outcome were rapturous, while those who'd put their money on the French were tense and giddy. A small minority that included the most senior figures there were actually watching a different game on one of the screens, a Dortmund summer friendly where the attention was not on the teams or any bets, but on Jadon Sancho and the question of whether Old Trafford could finally lure him home to England.
Mason's money was on PSG, but his concentration was not half so intently on either game as it seemed to be elsewhere in the room. He sat in a cushioned seat with his legs outstretched and a sugar-free soda in one hand, sucking on a paper straw and watching the big flatscreen view of the Lisbon-based football match without really registering anything. Uninterested by a near-miss from Neymar, unconcerned by tight possession from Atalanta; he couldn't even find any interest in the sharp jibes of competition between the men either side of him, Maguire and Lingard. Harry was hunched over with his big square chin in his hands, glaring intensely at the screen as, like Mason, he'd plumped for the Parisians with his wager. Jesse was catlike and gleeful, legs folded under his elbows on the chair, slating the PSG manager and so-called star players just to wind up their moody captain.
Increasingly blind to all this, Mason looked at intervals towards another huddle of their friends, around a sofa and single armchair at a smaller screen. Brandon was sat in the armchair a little to the side, legs up on the cushion and knees hugged by his arms, face fixed thoughtfully on the match and the hazy lights of the screen playing on his pale features. Mason glanced from this view to the game, feeling aroused by both: while the almost angelic profile of his 19-year-old lover stirred days of uneased tension between them, the match itself roused his ego and ambition and a kind of generalised physical awe at the players on both teams. Every time the camera lingered on someone like Neymar, princely and handsome under the floodlights, he pictured himself in their place, sweat-sheened and ready for action, as he would be on Sunday against Sevilla.
And then just before half-time, something in him snapped. The trigger was innocuous. The two of them had shared a couple more glances in here as they avoided sitting too close and selected different buddies for the duration of the games, fleeting smirks passed over the attentive room; there was no reason why the latest glance this way from young Williams should do anything different to Greenwood's resistance, but it did. Playing with his own fluffy washed hair, Brandon sprawled almost sideways in his armchair and yawned, lifting his t-shirt to scratch his tummy and wrinkling his nose with sleepy contentment as the lads beside him all roared and hollered at a missed penalty. And then their eyes connected again, and Mason knew with sudden and unarguable clarity that he needed to fuck that boy as soon as possible.
Brandon stared back, seeming to sense something sudden and urgent in Mason's expression or posture. He froze in his languorous position then slowly began to climb off the chair, not saying anything to his companions. Watching closely, Mason took a last suck on the paper straw and then put the glass of soda down on the carpeted floor, straightening up and adjusting his baggy hooded top.
Next to him, Captain Harry's eyes flickered distractedly from the game and rested on him for a minute. Greenwood felt oddly caught in the act, sure his vivid fantasies (urgent to be made realities) must show all over his face and unfolding limbs. He paused, meeting the steady gaze of the club captain and hesitating to get up from his chair. But Harry's tense features seemed to have softened, forgetting the game on the screen for a minute. He followed Mason's tense stare over the room then looked back at him and nodded once, captain's approval.
`Where's he off to?' demanded Lingard nasally as Greenwood got up from his seat and cracked his knuckles.
`None of our business, leave him,' barked Maguire sternly, ending all interest from anyone else in why Mason now marched hurriedly out of the room and was quietly but indiscreetly followed by Brandon Williams less than a minute later.
`But, we promised,' he sniggered, glancing back down the narrow dim hallway and feeling his left hand clasped tightly in Mason's right. He grinned, zero commitment to his quiet protest, happy to be dragged alone, loving the determination and victory on the younger teen's face as they disappeared around a corner and crashed into the door of their shared room. Brandon watched Mason fumble with his key for a minute then slide his own from his loose sweatpants pocket and took over, opening up and leading them into the silent white space, the last shreds of late sunlight streaking the unmade beds and their half-organised belongings.
Immediately, Mason was grabbing him, pulling up on his tshirt and leaning over him, all grins and fluttering dark lashes. Brandon giggled again, so surprised by the inevitable breaking of their secret vow, so ready to trash the promise and fuck the consequences. He slid his hands under Mason's hoody and stroked his abs, thumbed over his little belly button, scratched at the skin below his pecs. He opened his mouth to say something dumb but was silenced by a flurry of fabric as his own top was pulled and stripped from him by the other lad's pushy hands, which immediately rubbed and held at his smooth torso and pulled him into a cuddle. Then lips were on his and they were snogging, their first kiss in near two weeks. Brandon just relaxed into the hold, clinging to the folds of the hoody and resting in the strong grip of long arms; Mason's tongue invaded his mouth and sent shivers of sensitive arousal all the way down his body.
Next he was pushed against the bathroom door and Mason was going down on him. Brandon gasped and pulled his arms up to hold the sides of his head, feeling his sweatpants yanked all the way down and then his cock teased out of the button fly of his boxer shorts and into Mason's lips. He'd never known his Woody so greedy or rushed and he loved it, feeling a wet tongue curl over his bell-end and then dive back and forth along the short sturdy shaft of his member. Gasping again, he brought his hands down to stroke at the short fluffy crop of his lover's hair and stroke down his long neck and inside the warm cowl of his hoody, which needed to come off. He pulled up on it and Mason's hurried suck-job was only very briefly interrupted as the garment was removed.
Brandon was jealous of his own blow-job. Once Mason was back on his feet and the two shirtless youths were kissing again, he pushed and steered him towards his bed and almost pounced on him as they fell into the tumble of sheets, kissing down his tight narrow abs and thrust hands inside his tight dark trackies. Quickly, he had it in his lips, the thin chocolate-brown length of Mason's veiny tool, as rigid as anything and already tasty with a leak of precum.
The pair of them writhed into a complex 69, side to side on the bed and slurping noisily at each other's cocks. Bran sucked as deeply as he could on the fleshy treat, spitting on it and licking it and wrestling with the lad's pants to get them down and off his horizontal legs. They pulled apart with intimate chuckles, tugging at their own socks, stripping completely naked before coming together again, there kisses now flavoured with each other's pricks.
Brandon felt himself pushed down more fully, held in place with Mason's hands on his and lips on his, cocks brushing lightly and shooting pleasure into them both like poison darts. He brought his legs up and wrapped his lightly haired thighs on either side of his lad's smooth brown torso, desperate for his arse to be brought into play. But Greenwood was unready, and kissing down his neck and chest, back to his cock once more. He stretched up one arm and held Williams down at the chest while his head descended to continue his blowjob, pinning and sucking the short left-back until he was repeatedly gasping his name and he could feel his arsehole throb for attention.
Eventually he got his wish, felt Mason's always surprisingly strong hands flip and manage him, one now on the back of his neck and pushing his face down into a crevice between pillows and duvet while he lifted his pert pale backside into the air and longed for it to be smashed. He made muffled groans into the bedding as two wet fingers found and worked his tight eager hole, snatching and tugging at bedsheets on either side of him as he writhed into this treatment. Fuck me,' he yelled into the thick soft bedding, fuck me baby, fuck me...!'
Mason fucked him in a number of positions. Face down on the bed first, pressing inside him with little lubrication and shagging him hard into the duvet for a good ten minutes, quickly finding a rhythm it usually took him ages to establish, surprised at the raw strength of his own primed body. In this position, he loved looking down on Brandon's powerless form submitting to him, enjoyed the force he could put into his thrusts -- but he wanted to see that pretty face.
He slid out and pulled Brandon over, launching down to kiss him, then pushing his legs apart and fucking him in a new posture, kneeling down low and shoving himself inside that tight little arse while their taut torsos spread at a perpendicular angle. He made the mattress bounce with his sharp little shoves and now he could see Brandon's red face and his wide eager eyes, better hear his gasping dirty talk. `Fuck me harder you big stud,' gasped a teenager who'd learnt everything he knew about sex from online cheap porn.
Minutes later Greenwood tossed him onto the other parallel bed, pulling both of them onto their side and hugging his arms tight around his waist while he fucked him more slowly and carefully, kissing his neck and cheek and biting a little at his tongue. But slow and sensual just restored his dirty eagerness and he was soon dragging the Manc youth off the bed and pushing him to the wall beside the window for a stand-up fuck, rogering him against the frame of it in such a way that if anyone had passed too close to the ground-floor window and looked into its lazy curtains, they would have caught a delicious angle of the two lithe bodies working hard.
Brandon squatted in the chair now, leaning forward over it, hugging its back to his chest, legs spread and Mason powering into him from behind. His fringe flickered at his eyelashes and sweat rolled down his face. He felt and heard his cheeks slap at the repeated movements of the taller lad's body, could hear the quickening of his grunts and whispers. `No,' he pushed with sudden force, puling a little forward and pushing back in the middle of Mason's torso to separate them.
`I'm gonna cum,' rambled Greenwood plaintively as he turned and kissed him, scrambling off his knees and almost breaking the chair in the process.
Face to face now, arse throbbing, he reached down and clasped Mason's cock in his hand and kissed him beside his Adam's apple. Not yet,' he commanded breathily, not yet...'
`But I'm close,' whined the striker into his ear.
`Not yet!' Brandon insisted, squeezing at his nob and then stroking it really slow, agonisingly slow. He stood there, finding control, watching Mason's face flicker as he edged him.
`Oh baby,' moaned Mase and now he was almost trying to push forward and fuck the curl of Brandon's hand, so close and desperate to climax. He gripped him by the upper arms, still strong and eager, but Williams sniggered and wriggled against him, trapping his twitching cock in the most excruciatingly gentle and controlling of pulls, turning their bodies as he did, guiding them to one of the beds, flopping backwards.
Stop it,' groaned Greenwood, on top of him, trying to reach down and take his own cock in hand to finish, frustrated and howling as Brandon just milked it gently and wriggled beneath him, guiding his hand instead to his. Ohhhh...'
See,' Williams hissed in his ear. See? We DO have control...'
`Oh babe, I...'
We were just worried,' Bran muttered, we were just worried we couldn't stop ourselves, we'd go too mad... but look...' He stopped his strokes and just squeezed his nob. You see? We are fuckin' athletes, mate, we have discipline... we can enjoy ourselves and stop...' He grinned into Mason's confused face, knowing his explanation was shit, but understanding his own point, his own realisation. He let his fingers linger agonisingly on the raw ready meat of his lover's dick, kissing him on the lips. And now, babe, you can cum...' He squeezed it more tightly, kissed him passionately, and yanked on him. Lying awkwardly over him, Greenwood grunted fiercely and reached his delayed peak of pleasure.
Brandon felt his lover's spunk splutter on his tummy and he closed his hand around Mason's, on his nob, so that they jointly wanked him until he blew his own wad, creaming up Mason's abs. As they cuddled and kissed, their sticky fronts rubbed and mingled and their sensitive dicks brushed and rubbed. Brandon kissed whimpers out of his lad's mouth and pulled down on his body, rolling them tightly into the bedding.
When either of them had recovered enough to even think about moving, the first thing Mason did was to find a remote and switch on the small wall-mounted television. He stood naked in the centre of the room, their mixed cum crusty above his waist, and eyed the final minutes of the PSG-Atalanta match with slowly rising interest. 1-1 now, someone had claimed an equaliser for the French team.
`Hmm, I thought I'd won for sure,' sighed Williams lazily from where he still lay, playing with his soft cock and balls, his hair deranged and his body marked with little red finger burns and bruise-like puckers of kissing.
`Huh, yeh,' sighed Greenwood half-interestedly, so glad that he had spent the remainder of the theoretically interesting game in here, piling into his precious boy and not listening to the droning patter of men waiting to win small money.
One glance at the bed and Brandon's bare body was enough to drag him back, unwilling to leave their cuddles and kisses. He climbed over him, taking over the fondling of his soft satisfied privates and planting two kisses each on his scarlet cheeks. He pulled hair out of his eyes with sticky fingers and grinned down into his cute face. `I love you,' he told him, aware he didn't say it enough, always scared of how insincere it might sound. And as before, as he said it, he felt twinges of guilt, knowing how odd it was to say it to him but also to say it on the phone to his girlfriend in Manchester. He grinned his complicated emotions down into Brandon's face and the other guy just beamed calmly back.
Know you do,' teased Bran, who wouldn't?'
`Fuck you.'
`You just did, big boy.'
Their play-talk was interrupted by commentary gasps and a swell in the fake crowd noise. Holding each other, they both turned to look up at a replay of PSG's second and winning goal slamming in, 2-1. Greenwood giggled victoriously, pinning and cuddling his boy, and thinking of the petty prize he would claim from the squad's unofficial sweepstake, the gambling victory utterly meaningless next to the real win: lying here on top of the most handsome and funny lad he'd ever met, his favourite teammate, his favourite human.
SO MANY REQUESTS FOR THESE TWO... JUST HOPE IT SATISFIES THAT ITCH!
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share