Part 170: The Mykonos Trilogy II
The two 21-year-olds emerged from the renowned restaurant walking closely side to side; Mason Mount kept having to resist the urge to a hook a slim hand into the big knuckled grasp of his partner's, keen to hang off his long muscular arm as they spilled down the warm sidewalk on the outskirts of town.
They were both stuffed. It had been a great meal, expensive but worth it -- the pair of them had bickered stupidly over who should pay the bill before acknowledging that their footballer salaries meant it was a drop in the ocean to either of them and just splitting it 50/50. The week had been full of this: gentle prodding arguments over silly little things, the testing of boundaries and expectations between a smitten young couple.
The two weeks and a bit he'd gone without Rice had been weird and difficult for Mason, while he and his Chelsea teammates finished up their ill-fated FA Cup and Champions League commitments, the young midfielder desperately trying to focus on his football in those last defeats whilst also realising it was the most time he'd spent without Dec since very early in the year. Obviously he'd been happy for Declan on his trips and reunions, but he'd also raced to the airport almost immediately once dismissed by Lampard, catching the first flight out to meet him in first Portugal and now out on Mykonos, the go-to destination for rich sun-seekers this weird summer.
And it had been the most amazing week. They were staying in a pretty luxurious apartment in the Old Town, spectacular views from every window and the most spectacularly private rooftop garden and pool for their own private enjoyment. Short of a disastrously positioned drone, nobody could have witnessed the long sun-drenched lovemaking that had taken up most of every morning, or the naked brunches that followed. Mason looked longingly at the taller young athlete next to him and treasured every mental snapshot of it, all the fun little moments and relaxed stretches of comfortable silence -- even the daft little episodes of bickering like over the bill just now. It was like being back in that brief pastoral phase of being locked down at Rice's family home in the Surrey hills, but without the vague terror of his parents or siblings always on the verge of catching them out. And better, the pressure of their footballing lives felt a million miles away, neither lad pushing themselves to work on their fitness until they needed to. They were young enough for their six-packs to stay chiselled even with a week of too much grub and booze.
The air was cooling slightly, but not a lot, the sky above creeping with inky blue as the day receded. Mason wished romantically that it was chillier, that he needed Rice to drape his long arm about his strong low shoulders and cuddle him warm a little as they walked along. But no, even if it was freezing cold, they weren't in a position to do that. He dared to bitterly wonder for a moment if they ever would be, if either of them might ever be comfortable declaring their truth to the world.
It wasn't just the general prying eyes of the world at large, or cliquey glamorous Mykonos itself, that they needed to be careful of. Mason had realised through social media a few days ago that a small number of his Chelsea teammates were present on the island on separate holidays -- it really did seem to be the chosen destination for half the Premier League this year, or the young party-minded players anyway. Mason had kinda assumed everybody would be in Ibiza and so on, that the glittering Greek destination would be more chilled and low-key at the minute. Nope. He'd confided in Declan the number of his Chelsea pals who were here at the same time, then artfully left one particular name out just to save an earful. But they'd both agreed to keep away from the busier spots and to try and avoid running into Mount's colleagues.
It's not that their holiday was a secret. The lads realised that their closeness and bond were well-documented and often commented on. But they wanted to project a casual idea that they were hanging with other people and not hiding away together, and besides, they just didn't want these precious days away in sunny paradise to be tainted by hiding anything, by mixing with other footy lads and having to hold away from each other. Sitting on the back of a jeep safari about the hilly parts of the island, they had discreetly stroked palms and fingers unseen by their driver; on a day cruise around the cliffs and caves on the coast, they had swam into a tiny inlet and snogged until Dec was rock hard in his shorts. Stolen moments that depended on their isolation.
`You wanna avoid the main strip?' Rice asked quietly, slowing them down without directly touching him. Mason looked appreciatively at his vague smile, seeing his understanding of the likelihood they would bump into someone they knew passing through the busier centre of the resort town.
You mind?' he asked. I'm sorry, I don't mean to ruin the fun of being here, or anything...'
`You don't ruin a thing,' Dec said, but discreetly quietly.
`I don't want us to feel like we have to sneak around... I mean, especially not on our last night here.'
Don't remind me,' the taller young player sighed. But it's cool, Mase. Hasn't it been awesome...?'
`Totally,' he agreed readily, but still with a wistful edge to his voice, thinking about a parallel life where they could stroll on down the strip of bars ahead, proudly hand in hand. Sometimes when he paused to imagine that he stopped and asked himself what was actually preventing it. Why couldn't they just shout from the fucking rooftops of Mykonos that 1) they were in love, 2) Dec had the most beautiful cock in the world and 3) he wanted it in his butt-hole ASAP. Okay, maybe numbers 2 and 3 were a bit much, but seriously...
Hey,' Dec murmured, nudging him, let's go the scenic way, then. Walk on the beach? We can get to ours that way, it'll just take longer.' He grinned, that slightly crooked dorky grin on his big sexy features that drove Mason wilder than ever. He almost grabbed him in an embrace right there, but laughed and nodded, and crossed the quiet road with him, their feet carrying them off the lights and background noise of town and onto sloping alleys down to the sea.
Another Chelsea player looked out to see - but surrounded by the reverberating music of the beach club he had just paid way too much money to get into. The view over the Mediterranean was jarringly peaceful and infinite compared to the sweaty world just behind him, of writhing bodies and pulsating beats. Okay, it wasn't quite the full nightclub scene, since the clientele were largely sat, stood or dancing in their little bubbles of containment, but it was as close to the old world of easy socialising as any of the footballers here had come in a long while.
Christian Pulisic turned his back on the sea and leaned his elbows to the railings, jerking his head in a slow nod to the dropping beat and watching his friends return from the bar with their tray of drinks. It was good to be out here with a couple of the lads on the squad, building up those friendships that could get neglected in a busy season. Had been neglected lately, he supposed, because he often allowed his evenings to be dominated by being a good kind friend to a lad in need and hosting the theoretically homeless Barkley. `Hosting'.
Having felt a fringe member of the Chelsea gang for a long while, Pulisic had been really stoked to be invited out here by Tammy Abraham and Fikayo Tomori. The pair of 22-year-old British lads had really started taking him under their wing in the second half of the season, helping him to socialise more in London and connect with the community. He was enjoying it a lot, was wowed by the beauty and cool of Mykonos, but there were still so many weird restrictions to everything and the vague threat that quarantine rules might change at any minute. It was hardly the free-for-all lads' holiday the three of them had loosely fantasised about as they splashed cash on their luxury accommodation and headed out here last week.
Plus, it turned out that Tam and Fikayo were the most stereotypically Premier League `players', in its more metaphorical sense. Almost every night one or both of the two attractive black lads would pull in the bars of the resort. At least twice, Pulisic had ended his nights traipsing back to the apartment on his own with a gyros in one hand and a bottle of fizzy water in the other, Skype-calling his American family in the early hours of the morning before fitful overheated sleep.
Christian had never been the smoothest with girls, he had to admit, but he now felt completely hobbled by the knowledge of what he'd been up to. He hadn't even kissed a chick since before lockdown, if he was honest with himself, and in the past six weeks or whatever the only thing he'd kissed had been the private regions of his team's Scouse powerhouse. Out here in the dynamic meat market of beach bars and private parties that Tam and Fikayo seemed well-connected to, his own slutty ways with his occasional houseguest felt more starkly illuminated, and worse than his private self-reflection was the undeniable fact that he quite missed Barkley.
When he'd realised Ross was in Mykonos too, he'd sent him a few faux-casual messages trying to recruit him on a night out with the three of them, a proper Chelsea knees-up -- apparently Mason Mount was here too, or had been recently. But Ross hadn't even replied. He was a bit crap with his phone and social media, but the little blue ticks told Christian that his words had definitely been read. Read and ignored. It stung.
He took his mixer drink from Fikayo and clinked glasses with them both, forcing a big party boy grin and joining them in a cursory scan of the dispersed crowd, eyeing up the `talent' of their company in this first bar of the night. Tammy was waxing lyrical about what looked like a hen do a few tables away on the other side of the dancefloor, but Fikayo claimed they looked a bit too old. Christian stared disinterestedly at the group in question and wondered where Ross Barkley was tonight, and if he needed any looking after like he often seemed to in London...
The group of them bustled down the strip of bars, a couple still discreetly swigging from hidden hip-flasks to preload on hard alcohol before the rip-off drink prices of the resort's swankiest venues, the kind several of them knew they'd get knocked back by in ordinary circumstances. But tonight they were partying with a genuine Premiership and England footballer, no bouncer or hostess was gonna give them shit!
Ross Barkley stomped along at the centre of the little gathering, made up of his brother and some of his closest Merseyside school pals, inhaling second-hand smoke with faint envy and digging his big hands into the tight pockets of his skinny black jeans. When they reached the entrance of what looked the showiest beach bar in a row, he slid to the front of the group and gave a big grin to the door staff, glad to be instantly recognised and acknowledge. As his troupe of lads made their way on indoors, loud Scousers on tour, he hung back and made some brief chat to charm and befriend the staff, knowing his mates and brother could get pretty rowdy and wanting to pre-empt the complaints.
Inside, he found a drinks waitress and ordered a big round, then joined his crew at the high standing table they'd settled on, instantly too hot in his jeans and tshirt in the fairly crowded bar, where 1m distancing didn't seem to be even attempted. The lads were all crackling with laughter as he muscled in beside them, and he instantly wanted to be in on the joke. It had felt good to be away with this lot this week -- he always preferred to holiday away from the football crowd, to get back to his `real' life and mates who'd known him before he earned big money. People who just knew him as a serious-faced little kit with a promising talent who could always be relied on to muck in, to work hard and play harder. It was just the summer break he needed after the fraught season-end Chelsea had endured.
`What is it?' he demanded loudly over the music, looking from one fella to another.
One of your mates,' wheezed his brother, the others all hunched about one phone screen, that tart Mason Mount, y'know...'
Ross paused, his grin slipping a bit and his hard stare fixing on the unseen screen they were looking at, which was then swiftly passed to him. Look at him, posing with Drogba, haha,' chuckled one of the other Scouse lads with him, and then his other mate said, And that one, him and that Rice wanker, fuck's sake, are those two bummin' each other or what?!' Much laughter from the group, all diehard Everton fans who loved nothing more than giving his London career move a good roasting whenever they drank together. Sober Ross always pleaded with them to leave footy chat aside and let him just forget it, but drunk Ross was powerless against their banter as the men laughed and shoved each other at their homophobic patter. Ross grinned uncomfortably.
Ah, he's just- he began quietly, immediately cut off. What a little puff,' one of his mates bellowed, and his brother loudly agreed, You can tell just lookin' at him, such nancies these London players, ain't they, not like our Ross here.... Haha...'
And at that moment their drinks delivery came, and the buxom waitress become the centre of everyone's attention. Ross, gripped by a sudden nauseous sense of being in entirely the wrong place with the wrong people, snatched two of the tequila shot glasses without waiting for anyone else, without waiting for salt or lime, and threw them back down the hatch one after the other. He needed to be drunk, and fast, before he said things he regretted.
On the beach, bare toes dipping into still-warm sand, Declan could be a bit riskier, and he slid one hand up the back of Mason's loose fitting oversize shirt a bit, feeling the heat and firmness of his muscle and bringing some intimacy to their winding stroll. They'd moved past the glaring lights and resounding beats of the beach bars and on to the quieter strip of coast that would take them around to the Old Town and a quick uphill walk to the building whose top floor they occupied for one more night. One more night! Dec could hardly believe that the week was more or less over and that he would be back in West Ham training sessions so soon, via a high-pressured meeting in London with representatives from Chelsea.
But for now -- quick glance to check the moonlit beach really was deserted -- he could play his fingers against the downy hair on Mason's back and lean in as they walked side by side, letting their heads graze and their legs brush as they tramped through the cooler damper sand close to the sea's edge, wavering and zigzagging to make the most of their night stroll.
You know you don't have to fly back with me tomorrow,' he pointed out for the hundredth time, looking at how relaxed and happy Mase was here. You could stay out a bit longer and enjoy yourself, or go somewhere different -- get a ferry to another island, or whatever.'
With a shifty glance of his own to check how alone they were here on the sands, Mason pulled in closer, kissing him on the shoulder through his t-shirt and shaking his head. `Nah, Dec... wouldn't be no fun with you gone. You got to be back at work and I wanna be back in London with you. You wanting rid of me?'
Yeah, yeah,' Rice chuckled back, something like that. Come on, you said the same to me when I was finished work and you were still playing. I just... I want you to have fun and enjoy yourself. Obviously.' He pulled his arm more fully about Mason's waist to cuddle him, slowing their walk even more and almost tripping over each other and into the lapping shallows of the tide.
You're just being sweet,' Mount mumbled at him, bucking and guggling a bit as Dec reached playfully for his arse in his long slim-fit denim jeans, cupping and groping his cheeks through the warm denim. But it'll be cool to be back... I might go down to the coast and see my fam for a bit or something, y'know, just a few days while you bond with the Ham lads, even though we're gonna steal you to play with us and then we get to see each other allllll the time... heh...'
Dec grinned and pulled him in for a tight hug, steadying them and craning his head to kiss the hooked bridge of his nose and then his lips. Oh, you'll be sick of me in no time if I sign for Chelsea, Mase, careful what you wish for, eh...' They snogged gently and he couldn't help but slide his hands under the tshirt more, feeling his firm abs and then scooping his fingers inside the tight belt of his shorts a bit to stroke at the upper reaches of his buttocks. God, I can't ever imagine getting sick of you,' he whispered with unusual firm sincerity, thinking of his own jokey comment and just wanting all of Mason all the time, as freely and lingeringly as he'd had all this week.
`Declan,' the other 21-year-old purred back, softening in his arms and reaching outstretched fingers down across the front of his baggy cargo shorts, finding the outline of his stirring prick, knowing just how to stir it more and bring him to life. Declan groaned back against his cheek and held him tighter. Not here, surely? But then... it was so quiet, wasn't it...? He pulled his head back to stare him in the eyes as they rocked gently against each other, water brushing their bare heels and the loose sandals dangling from Mason's free hand almost dropping out of reach.
`You're just a beautiful boy,' Declan sighed at him simply.
`Well, takes one to know one,' Mason mumbled shyly back, and kissed him.
He'd lost the other two already, to a handful of attractive German girls. While his two English teammates chatted loosely to their chosen partners for the night, Christian had made brief small talk with the third -- but her English was poor and his German non-existent, and he'd struggled to hold her attention while his own wondered. Now he was alone in the third bar of the night, the biggest and busiest place fully open in their resort town.
No sight of Abraham or Tomori now, the other guys having vanished to dance with the girls. He wasn't too fussed, he didn't want to cramp their style or have to try to hard to fake enthusiasm. The late nights here just hadn't done much for him, not compared to the morning jogs along beautiful clifftops and the chill daytime drinks by the pool or the beach. He was much more up for that than sniffing a few lines and banging the first attractive girl who showed interest. Embarrassingly, it was just the kind of UK soccer scene that had thrilled and lured him as a teenager coming over here for his youth trials in England and elsewhere, making his first stabs at top-level `football', as they insisted on calling it here.
Pulisic held on to a glass that really just contained dregs of ice water, deciding against buying another overpriced mixer from the roaming table service, just skulking about at the sides and wondering if it was too embarrassingly early to sneak off back towards their seafront villa. It was at least half 11 by now, practically midnight, and they did have a flight in the morning, to be fair!
The young American toyed with the thick chain about his neck, hanging loosely over his tight black tshirt, and peered about the huddles of revellers that dominated the sweeping spaces of the beach bar, largely outdoor or under awnings, at least marginally cooler than some of the venues he had been trailed in and out of night after night.
Then he saw him. He'd been almost seeing Barkley almost every night -- guys with close-cropped hair and similar builds, the occasionally bulge of thigh in skinny jeans in a trashy bar, a frowning square-jawed bodybuilder stomping past on the beach, face obscured by shades and mask. Every time he started a little bit and had to look twice, and every time he blushed stupidly at his girlish excitement and his willingness to see a familiar face in complete strangers. But not this time. It was him.
The Scouser was marching by on his own down the centre of the bar's open space, a beer bottle clutched in one hand but spilling a little, frothing from its neck in his tight grip as he passed. A pale khaki or green tshirt clung to his strong upper body, trailing over his tight skinny jeans, ripped in patches over the thick trunks of his legs. He looked red in the face from too much booze or too much sun, but so distinctively himself. Christian lurched involuntarily forward, dumping his finished glass down on a nearby side table and making a diagonal path towards the same bar area that Ross was moving for; the bars were the only areas where any `distancing' was in evidence, making them more ragged queues and confusing spaces. But Ross was aiming for this one, even though he seemed to have a fresh drink, and Chris presumed that he could cut him off, brush into him as they ordered, reunite with him very organically... he wouldn't even mention the ignored text messages he'd sent, the gentle suggestions that they might meet and chill.
But then he stopped himself. Ahead, Ross had bumped into another guy in just the way he had pictured, crossing paths at the huddle of drinkers who were trying to slip in front of each other and scan QR codes at the bar front to make their orders, an old guy in high-vis shepherding them clumsily about. The 21-year-old American lad stood there and watched as Ross threw his tattooed arm about the shoulders of this other bloke, who Chris vaguely recognised; something about his youthful bearded face, his height and build. Oh, didn't he play for Arsenal? He was sure he'd ran into him or seen him from afar this season, couldn't think of his name.
He watched Barkley hoot with laughter and clink bottles with this other lad he'd bumped into, and felt a little rush of... jealousy? Dude! He cringed at himself and cursed this shift in his feelings and desires. Why hadn't he just made a bit more effort with that plain blond German girl like the other two had? Why wasn't he dancing somewhere with her now down on the beach extension of this busy bar? Why wasn't he even vaguely interested in finding another girl to do so with?!
Pulisic grimaced at the effect his older teammate was having on him and exited the bar in a hurry.
Soooo fuckin' mad seein' you here,' Barkley trilled at him in the voice of a man far too drunk to know how much he's drank. Been aaaages, pal, aaages...' His rasping Scouse accent was far stronger than he remembered and it slurred messily over the words in a way that was difficult to follow but also a bit sexy, a bit dangerous. The pull of his arm around the shoulders was warm and heavy but, like the rasping slur, pretty thrilling. He really did look pissed, his eyes had that glaze to them and his cheeks were bright red in the heavy sculpted features of his rugged good looks.
Calum Chambers had always fancied Ross a bit, at a time when they were both up-and-coming youngsters making senior England debuts and working on a reputation at their Premiership and Championship clubs. This was at a time when he was still very much under Wilshere's toxic sway, those confusing few years where the cocky Arsenal colleague had been able to have and use him whenever he wanted. After the first few hotel room fumbles when Calum was still emerging from his teens into his twenties, there'd been a good few years where that laddish stud had been able to call on his `services' whenever he felt so inclined. But amongst the mixed emotions and deep confusion of it all, a younger Chambers had still found his eyes wandering, beginning to notice other men in the way Wilshere had quite forcibly opened his eyes to. And few England teammates or Premiership stars had caught his eye more than a sturdy young Barkley in the tight bright blue of an Everton kit or the even tighter navy of an England training tracksuit.
And now here he was, leaning heavily on him and slurring overexcitedly back at him after Chambers had recognised him in the queue and got them talking. They'd pulled away from the huddle now, hunched at one of the corner tables overlooking the lower level dancefloor and the beach beyond, a beautiful view that neither man was sober or focused enough to enjoy. Ross stunk of booze and aftershave and sweat and all of it was making Calum giddy. He'd lost sight of his Arsenal teammate and holiday buddy, Rob Holding, half an hour ago, but that problem was forgotten now he was catching up with Ross fucking Barkley.
Calum had gone years without touching another guy after Jack left Arsenal. He'd really pushed the seedy youthful memories away and dismissed it as the boisterous antics of hormonal young men under a lot of pressure. And then there'd been that incident at the Emirates early this year, that retirement do, while he was injured and smug chunky-thighed Wilshere was just visiting like a returning hero... like butter, the 6ft Arsenal defender had melted into subservience all ago and gone on his knees in the trophy room. Since then, thoughts of it had plagued his lockdown and road to full match fitness. Even on this holiday, he'd found himself ogling Rob around their villa and on the beach tanning in the afternoons.
Alcohol loosened that repressed desire and he stared lustfully at Ross as he gibbered on, slurring and rasping so badly now that he couldn't really understand him. They were close enough in age but Barkley was just so powerful and imposing looking, a bit like Wilshere he supposed, and there was something wild and unpredictable about his manner tonight. Chambers supped on his voddy-and-coke and stared hungrily at the thick neck and square jaw, the little bead of sweat making its way down his rugged brow as he spoke on and on about... what was he on about now? His break-up, apparently, his missus now his ex-missus, and... what, was Ross fucking Barkley really leaning against him stinking of manly excitement and complaining that he hadn't been laid all week in this Greek party hub...? Calum felt a little shuddering thrill of possibility.
He wasn't as ridiculously drunk as the Liverpudlian, but he was pissed and he struggled to follow the conversation, both Ross's mumblings and his own responses. Something about social distancing making it harder to pull; some complaining from Calum about celibate lockdowns; Ross muttering summat else while he grabbed the crotch of his jeans; Calum making vague comments about how attractive and hench the other guy was, how he refused to believe it was tough for him to pick up birds, etc. etc. etc. And then Ross's arm was really tight and squeezing around his shoulder and they two mid-twenties footy lads were really hunched close at this table.
Barkley spoke in his ear and his slurring speech was much much clearer for a moment. Come on, Cal, giz a blowie, will ya?' he muttered with such filthy clarity that Chambers wondered if he'd passed out in a drunken coma and was actually in a dream. Got such big pouty lips, ya queer, bet you're well good at it...' He stared into Barkley's glazed highs and his hulking shoulder muscles, the slow sway of his confused face and the rippling strength of his arm muscles. He nodded, transfixed, and led them towards the restrooms.
Mason wriggled back against the sand, his shirt thrown wide open and unbuttoned, his chest and tummy bared so that Declan could kiss at it, curling his strong tongue about each nipple until they were as hard as the rock cliffs behind them. The bigger lad pressed down on him, rubbing his body into the beach, grinding his crotch over one of Mason's legs, his dick so hard in those shorts now. He wanted nothing more than to pull it out and feel it, kiss it, suck it... but Rice seemed to be moving quicker for the main prize.
He was wrangling with the buttons and zip fly of the denim shorts, literally fighting to get into Mount's pants. He grinned and sniggered at the urgency of it, pulling up on his lover's tshirt, wriggling it up his long torso and then over his shoulders until it was off and tossed beside them, baring every firm freckled muscle of his upper body. This allowed Mason to kiss lovingly at his broad shoulders while his own shorts were yanked down and, moments later, his clean white undies too. His buttocks tickled against cool soft sand and made him giggle more.
It took him back, the tipsy passion and the dark beach setting. Dec was murmuring hungrily in his ear, cuddling him down onto his back and licking up the side of his neck while still fidgeting with his undies to get them down, to reach for and squeeze his arse cheeks and take hold of his hard bone. Mmm, always wanted sex on the beach,' Rice grunted, especially with YOU....'
Mount scratched his hands down Rice's back and chuckled enthusiastically, `Yeah, so hot... you just gotta watch out for getting rogue sand in your pants, haha... this isn't my first rodeo...!'
Oh, fucked on the beach BEFORE,' cooed Declan, nuzzling cheek to cheek and then turning to spit on his hand, slicking his saliva down the length of his now exposed hard on, clearly readying himself to take Mason in a hurry, to fuck with little foreplay. They were pretty exposed out here after all! But I bet you've never been fucked on the beach,' the West Ham warrior was muttering now, something bullish and dominant in his dirty talk. Why didn't Mason just whine and nod and gasp a big `No'? Why didn't he just play into the excitement Dec clearly felt in pressing him down in the sand and preparing to roughly take him?
Instead, he giggled out in a high-pitched voice, `That's what you think!' even as he started to feel the hot wet tip of his boyfriend's cock against one buttock and Dec's arms really closed about him, pulling his body into position. He heard the gritty chuckle die in Declan's throat and heard his own strange, distant laughter as he held on and things suddenly paused, body on body, sand rustling and sea lapping close by.
Who fucked you on the beach?' Rice asked, looming over him and pulling his face back a little. His expression and voice weren't annoyed or demanding, just dully surprised and curious, but then they quickly became a frown. Oh, right -- HE did...' He held there, staring quite bitterly down now, holding Mason tightly while his cock rubbed ambiguously against Mason's ball-sack and the edge of his crack, smearing spit onto his smooth skin.
`What? I didn't -- I've never -- just, come on, we were...'
`Barkley fucked you on the beach,' Declan announced rather than asked in a hollow, sulky voice.
What? Well, yeah, kinda, I mean, it was-
`Great. Just great. Thanks for that, Mase...' And just like that, he was pulling away, loosening his strong hands from Mason's upper arms and his chest, his face retreating into the silvery moonlight, the pressure lifting from his own stripped body. He reached wrigglingly down for his undies, rolling over in a fluffy slap of sand, hurrying to his knees as his lanky boyfriend struggled away and upright, muttering incoherently to himself. Mason grimaced and felt his drunkenness turn quickly to a headache, realising how clumsily and easily he'd broken the magic of the night.
Lying in bed with the wall-mounted fan on its highest setting, Pulisic pushed the last of his clothes away from his sweat-sticky athletic body and just lay very still for a while, before magnetic forces drew one hand down his tight hard-earned six-pack towards the looming semi of his circumcised prick. With a sorta defeated sigh, he took his manhood in hand and teased lazy pleasure into himself, enjoying the alternating heat and cool blast as the fan turned on its repeating journey back and forth around the room. Its brief jets of air caressed his growing hard-on, which he teased aimlessly, not quite wanking.
His head was a little picture-show. The first time by the pool, the curious touching. The way Barkley had led him into his OWN bedroom in such a masterful and imposing way. The evenings sat side by side on the PlayStation where he would wait for his guest to become sleepy and passive, then reach over to nervously and hopefully touch the front of his trackies, see how he -- or his big cock - would react. He thought too of Timo Werner, of watching him in action with that woman at the training ground, the way he'd played so riskily with himself at the sight of it.
The dark peace of his bedroom was disturbed by thuds of the villa's main doors, the loud whispers of drunks trying and failing to be quiet. Christian was surprised; he'd barely got back to their accommodation himself after a slow and lonely stroll from the club, so whichever of his two holiday pals was stumbling around in the dark out there with his pick-up girl had really worked fast. By the stomps and slams and proximity of noises, he guessed it was Tomori, who had the room next to his. The walls were not particularly thin, but the doors were, and he felt like he could hear everything. Every giggle and kiss, every zip and button. Every groping touch from her or him and the sighs and inaudible words it provoked.
The American lay there, still teasing his hard-on in the dark, annoyed when occasionally the buzz and hiss of the electric fan covered the vague erotic noises from beyond the wall. Fikayo, that hunky Canadian-Brit, was maybe going down on her or something, because the female voice was pitchy and warbling and sounded like she was cursing in her own language. Then there were thumping noises, aha, actual fucking now, wow...
He listened and he wanked, pumping his dick more firmly and tickling his own balls with his other hand. He was no longer thinking about big Ross, or enigmatic new Timo. But he was not thinking anything about the busty and attractive German girl he assumed Tomori had hooked up with, the hottest of the three chicks by far. No. He was picturing the dark brown muscles of his 22-year-old colleague, gleaming sweatily as he mounted and thrust inside his conquest. Oh fuck, Christian Pulisic realised silently in the dark. I'm gay.
He thrust roughly forward, feeling his cock really push at the roof of the bloke's mouth and at the back of his throat, oh yes... oh yes... booze had numbed his body and even his long thick member, but still he fucked his face in a clumsy frenzy, one arm pressed supportingly to the chipped marble tiling on the wall, the other reached down with fingers slid into the soft brown curls of the fella's hair, much longer than the short crop he'd ever seen Chambers with in the past.
In and out of those plump red lips he slid his dick, loving the gurgles and snorts of what seemed to be an experienced but rusty cock-sucker in front of him, down on his knees on the grimy cubicle floor, the door rattling a little behind his back, too tall and physical to be cramped into this space and going down on another tall athletic footballer like this. All practical issues that Barkley was way too drunk to give a flying fuck about, horny sweat trickling down his neck and along his muscles beneath the baggy tshirt, his jeans rolled down his thick calves and his thighs bulging ostentatiously for Calum to cling to as he sucked and gobbled and gasped for air.
Barkley's brain was all fireworks and chaos. So drunk, and coked up if he remembered rightly, and utterly riled by the bullshit comments of his so-called mates, his own brother. Slagging off everyone he played footy with, but Mason Mount more than anyone. Mason. Fuck's sake. Barkley's synapses exploded with stress, doubt and heartache and he fucked every inch of frustration into the handsome hungry face of the recovering Arsenal player.
He laughed to himself to see it, Calum's mouth open so wide around the base of his dick, his eyes bulging as he tried to swallow more of it, his jawline framed with manly beard and his curls all sweaty and dishevelled. Numb as he was from too many tequila shots and bottles of beer, Barkley knew he was close, knew he could soon paint that cute 25-year-old face with his own seed, leave his mark on the men of yet another Premier League club, haha.... High on substance, sexual gratification and the temporary release from his own loneliness, the Chelsea midfielder emptied his balls, pulling back as he did so it didn't just spew onto Calum's rolling chin, but flecked his beard and his puffy cheeks and the tip of his button nose. Ross jerked on his cock and flung a string of semen into his hairline, really oozing his salty cream up and down his face like a patisserie chef with a masterpiece. He groaned loudly and leaned heavily into the tiles of the wall, snuffling a laugh into his own arm muscles and feeling like he might pass out at any moment.
And then Chambers was gasping and whimpering and snatching loo-roll from the holder to wipe and dab at his messy face, seeming all stressed and upset with himself in a way that irritated Barkley, made him feel accused or judged, like the submissive Arsenal lad hadn't been well up for it and practically dragged him in here to this toilet cubicle!
Ross, his brain cells all over the place, held a hand to his burning brow and leaned weakly back, shoulders slumping to the walls, watching as Calum clambered slowly and noisily upright, still wiping spunk from his chin. Ross giggled a little to watch it, loving the mess he'd made of the oddly innocent features of this fellow London footballer, his occasional England teammate from a few years back, a guy he never thought he'd be balls deep in on a night out in Mykonos.
Then suddenly a voice, booming. Greek but in English, accented but authoritative. `Gentlemen! Open up! No drugs on this site! Gentlemen!' The international and unmistakable roar of an angry bouncer, the same in every nation, in every bar and club. Ross blinked hazily and looked at the terrified face of the guy who'd just noshed him off, a trace of vulnerability in his wide eys and quivering lip. Oh for fuck's sake.
Barkley went into a kind of drunk, heroic autopilot. `Pretend you're looking after me,' he mouthed almost silently, then hunched over immediately, pushing his face down towards the bowl of the toilet and making a hideously loud retching sound. He grabbed Calum's hand and pulled it to his upper back in a weird supportive pose, just as the thin pathetic cubicle door was yanked violently outward to expose them as coke-sniffers or cock-suckers or whatever else the security wanted to get arsey about tonight. But no, all it exposed was one guy hunched over to puke and his friend looking wide-eyed innocent and supportive. Before Ross could recover from the dizzying effects of kneeling down and pretending to be sick, he was yanked by the arm and tugged roughly out of the cubicle, dragged away from Calum's horrified stare.
Even as it happened, he was in a kind of familiar autopilot, as if this was a London or Liverpool club or any other city in Europe, same old drill. He was manhandled out of the bathroom and through the busy bar area, shoved and barked at. Too drunk, too messy, too aggressive-looking. Yeah yeah yeah. He saw Chambers burst out of the gents' hurrying after them, caught his eye and shook his head, even as he took an elbow to the ribs and was dragged more urgently forward towards the exit. Don't follow, he silently told Calum, leave it or you'll be kicked out too... Maybe he shouted that, but probably not. It was all a blur.
In moments, he was out on the street, shoved along and swore at in Greek, or who knew what Eastern European language, cast out on the pavement as a drunken threat, Premiership star no longer. Either they didn't know or they didn't care. Barkley staggered away, holding the sore spot where he'd been struck in the ribs, realising that he could taste blood too, at some point they'd bashed his nose and he was too drunk and high to notice. Ohhhh bugger.
With a long sigh, drowned out by the feminine squeals beyond the wall, Pulisic shot his load, emptying cum over his knuckles and wrist and on the bedding at his hip. He gasped and lay still and felt the sweat ooze from him at every pore. His head swam with dehydrated blur and he held on to his quivering tool as the last droplets of his spunk trailed down the helmet and onto his thumb.
Next door, oblivious, his teammate continued to rail her, making her scream and whine. He didn't want to hear her, he thought dimly, he wanted to hear the man's grunts. He wanted to see his big arse bouncing up and down and his dark muscles rippling as he did her in all these different positions. He wanted to see how big and thick the other young sportsman's cock was hard, he'd seen it dangling about in the showers enough. He found he was picturing his other holiday buddy too, big tall Tammy, and then other men at work, not just Timo and Ross but his good friend Mason and the captain and their goalie and even Lampard and...
In an agony of realisation, Pulisic held on to his wilting hard-on, letting his cum trail down his fingers and hand, full of the sudden awareness of how much he wanted all those men, all of them, and how little he'd ever really felt for the women he'd slept with, how mechanical and stupid it had always seemed to him. He'd always felt something was missing. Turns out, the something was another cock.
Declan stomped three strides ahead, leading the way up the steep alley into the high stone streets of the Old Town and the foot of the building they occupied. Mason hurried after him, still trying to do up the top button of his denim jeans, his bare feet scratching on the rough road since the hurry of his boyfriend had led to them ditching their flip-flops by the sea's edge.
Dec,' he called, come on, let's just sit down and...'
`I don't feel like talking,' the other lad shouted awkwardly without looking back.
This is mad,' Mount insisted, I just... I wasn't even comparing, or...'
`I just don't know why you'd bring him up like that when we're about to make love.'
`I did NOT bring him up, actually, so just...'
`Oh no, you NEVER bring him up, Ross this. Ross that. Ross Ross Ross, fucking Ross...'
`What the hell, Declan? Where's this coming from?!'
On they went, winding up the street and then into the broader square and its central fountain. The block that was topped with their apartment rose up above, silhouetted against the moonlit sky. Declan stormed on, clearly in no mood to pause and contemplate this beautiful sight, and Mason rushed on after him, catching up, grasping the sleeve of his tshirt. Dec!' he pleaded as firmly as he could. We NEED to talk about this, I never realised he bothered you, I just...'
He doesn't bother me,' Rice railed at him, glaring over his shoulder, shaking off his grip, looking 100% bothered. Oh for fuck's sake Mase, you're so... so... naïve, fuck!' He seemed to shake with anger and for a horrible second Mason actually thought his precious Declan was about to swing back and make a move to hit him, but he just launched off again at his quick stride. He hurried after him and tugged on his tshirt again, skittering around to block his path and plead with him, painfully conscious of their echoing voices in the empty night0time square.
This is mad,' he told him again. We can't just fall out like this, not after this beautiful week...!'
He's always there,' Declan spat at him. Always there, Mase, always hanging over us, I know you think of him, it's obvious he's on your mind, you just...' Mason tried to talk over him, to shut up his nonsense paranoia and envy, blocking his path, tugging at his arms, but pushed aside. But even as he lunged furiously away, Rice seemed to slow and punch the air and just cry out in his own frustration. Mason caught his wrist and held on, dragging him face to face and earnestly whispering to him. `Please, you know how much I love you, just listen to me when I say he is JUST A FRIEND... you're my everything, Dec, haven't I shown you that...? Seriously...?'
Rice was beyond words now, either with anger or just a wellspring of emotion. He didn't shake Mount off this time but his face and his body language seemed distant, almost crushed and defeated. As one, linked by Mason's tight grip of his wrist, the lads moved forward, turned the corner, headed to the large open stone stairway that would take them halfway up to their own private entrance in the side of the building. Mason began reaching for the rear pocket of his denim shorts, seeking the key that he responsibly looked after on both their behalf. But then Declan was halting, a step ahead of him, stopping and making an odd mirthless laugh. Mount pushed up next to him and then past him, staring up the steep stone steps that led to their door, key clasped in his hand.
Ahead of them, just five or six steps down from the small wooden doorway they headed for, was a hunched male figure, drooping against the rough stone of the wall, head cradled in both hands. It could have been anyone really, any drunk reveller of the Greek island, lost on their way back to a hotel or apartment. But a dreadful certainty told Mason exactly who it was, and he knew Declan had seen it too. The slumped figure shook a bit and looked up from his hands, much of his face stained red with bloody and a wildness to his drunk eyes.
Mase,' slurred Ross Barkley from his hard seat, trying and failing to prop himself up on one hand and begin to stand, Mason fuckin' Mount, lad... yesss... good to seeee ya...'
Declan made a loud and vitriolic scoffing, then reached a hand down. Not, as Mason briefly hoped, to take him by the hand, but to drag the key from his knuckles and march on, bypassing the drunk on their doorstep as if he wasn't there, and making straight for the door to the apartment. For fuck's sake, Mase,' he was saying without looking at him, do you see what I fucking mean?' And Mason just stood there, blinking and staring at the messy distressed figure of his teammate where he slumped, filled with panic and horror and empathy.