Part 185: The Great Dane
A hotel room somewhere in Germany -- Leicester were playing in the earlier rounds of a lesser European tournament and had narrowly lost out on the win they needed to progress into the next stage of knockouts. Sorrows had been drowned with a kind of affable half-interest by the players, their minds fixed more on the domestic league than their minor chances in this foreign competition. Their head coach had spied an opportunity for team bonding, had nudged them into drinking a little too much and switching from faintly morbid quiet to a beer-lubricated cheerfulness -- all part of the big plans to transform this mid-table squad and really aspire to compete for the Premiership title in the years ahead.
It was 2013, Leicester had yet to make their plucky underdog stab at the top spot, and the name of their 26-year-old missed-his-chance striker was not yet recognised across the UK, still a couple of years away from his belated England debut. For now he was still the rough-around-the-edges surprise on his way into the limelight, fighting his way into prominence after wilderness years in the lowest leagues. And he was a drunken mess.
His roommate watched him across the hazy warmth of their shared space, the late night shifting already to the early morning; they were both pissed, that was true, but Jamie Vardy was utterly wasted as he tottered about the room, almost scrawny in his shirtlessness, a decidedly contraband cigarette pluming smoke from his tight red lips and the bottle of water he'd snatched from the mini bar spilling messily as he made his way around, clinging to the night's revelry and not quite ready to let it all go. The promising forward was loud and obnoxious, retelling his single goal of the game, the Foxes' only real chance at success here tonight -- if only more balls had been fed to Vardy, the Sheffield-born scally loudly proclaimed yet again, then he would have bagged an easy hat-trick and put Leicester through to the serious rounds of the contest. His roommate could only smile indulgently and laugh along with the easy claims, sprawled drunkenly as he was on one of the two double beds that dominated the darkly decorated suite.
And then Vardy was on the bed with him, crashing against it in his tumble of energy, all wiry limbs and pigeon chest, grinning wickedly in his slightly spot-scarred face and crawling close... he stunk of booze, had perhaps spilled some on his scruffy tracksuit bottoms or was it just on his stale English breath... In bed, the Danish man stared dizzily at him, only half listening to his arrogant boasts and his excited claims about their league chances once home in England, how this time next year everyone would be chanting his name...
What time had it got to then, that dark drunken night of 2013? It was his third season with the East Midlands club, and only Jamie's second -- two men the same age, rated increasingly highly by their management team and by the footballing media. They were both being treated very well this year, enticed to stay put and commit to the slowly ascending club. Roomed together for that reason, in fact, so that they could be lavished as key stars of Leicester's future, two 26-year-old men entering their footballing prime...
It was hard to pinpoint at what point his large strong hand was on the other man's leg or reaching inside of his trackies, but it happened, there on the warm wriggling sheets and muffled laughter of their early morning conversation, eyes stinging with tiredness and throats aching with loud boisterous remarks. And somewhere in that, their legs brushed and their bodies did too and Vardy began to make jokey grabs and pulls, feeling at the muscular heaviness of his right arm, guiding it... teasing him with jibes about his famous father and how he needed to prove himself, how the whole footballing world needed to know if he could really cut it out there, could he really be a great Dane like his dad...
And there in the tumbling sheets he found himself touching it, feeling it, testing it, curiosity and amusement dragging him through the motions, laughing at the rasping insults and banter of the other 26-year-old, feeling one thin strong arm of Jamie's on his big bulky shoulders, and then... then the wet, warm release of something in his fingers, the surprise and obviousness of a man's seed squelching between his chunky knuckles and dribbling onto his palm, shocking yet inevitable, a queasy sensation reaching him through the hot dark haze of too much German beer... that night in 2013 where he'd first slipped into Vardy's web.
2020, and the guy was boasting again.
Tonight, they had won: 5-2 against Manchester City, a little to their own surprise. And at the heart of the Premiership win over Guardiola's side had been Vardy's hat-trick. As the longstanding Leicester hero was repeatedly telling anyone who would listen in the hotel bar, the legendary Spanish manager had only experienced such a loss three times since taking the helm at City. Once against his own former protegee Lionel Messi, and now TWICE against the lightning feet of Vardy...
Kasper Schmeichel could hardly resent the other 33-year-old sportsman his enjoyment of this achievement, but he wasn't keen on hearing it again, or massaging the bloated ego of the working-class hero. Instead, the mature Dane kept to the other side of the bar, nursing his third pint and holding back from getting a little rowdier like some of the younger players present. Schmeichel was quietly chuffed at his own solid performance and his part in holding off the majority of attacks from Manchester.
But soon he was deciding to quit the bar area and leave it behind. The wood-panelled and old-fashioned saloon in the ground floor of the suburban hotel rang with the loud excitement of the match's two other goal-scorers: young Belgian Youri Tielemans and Vardy's more British crony James Maddison. The few quiet drinks in the Manchester venue were turning into a self-congratulatory piss-up, marking the fact the win that shunted them into joint first place in the league, a meaningless step at this early stage.
Kasper left the bar and wound his way up the stairwell to the third floor in heavy steps, questioning his own mood and his reluctance to really engage in the celebrations here. Danish as he was, he was nearing a decade at Leicester and the club's fortunes meant so much to him. The new season was failing to excite him, though, he was longing for Copenhagen and an escape from the strange brutishness of English footy.
Things had turned in summer, he supposed, when that leaving party had gone a bit further than he could stomach. He thought about it on his way down the corridor of garish local art, counting down the room numbers and seeking his own: what a strange night that had turned into, his twisted friend Jamie lolling at the centre of it like some seedy puppet-master. Kasper had lost control that night, bidding goodbye to their experienced mate Andy King; he cringed to think of how things had developed, no, spiralled.
Schmeichel let himself into his own large shared room and shut the door firmly behind him, leaning into its heavy wood frame a little with a sighing yawn of drunkenness, pushing away the confusing images of another hotel room and that busy summer night when they'd given King his send-off, without the promised FEMALE prostitutes of Vardy's leering boasts in the week before... Nah, no women present, he remembered bitterly, but sluts aplenty.
The big goalkeeper's private interactions with the England striker had happened sporadically over the past seven years or so, starting on a much more drunken night at an international tournament, but continuing in fits and starts in a number of Premiership away weekends. In the years of Leicester's surprise glory, random fumbles had kicked off between the two of them almost every other weekend -- there had been so much to celebrate, so much beer guzzled and white powder snorted.
The 6ft2 hunk of Scandi blond and primed muscle had kept a faintly open mind about it all, he was not totally weighed down with British repression -- but he was definitely confused by it, confused by his own sudden desires in the drunken dark and by the seemingly relentless lust of this supposedly heterosexual teammate who turned into a different animal when the lights were off and no girls were there to catch his beady little eyes. Schmeichel had only `ended' things with his fellow football stud because 1) the team rotation meant they no longer often roomed together and 2) he had a brief affair outside of his otherwise happy marriage and realised that he couldn't comfortably keep touching up another guy's dick without feeling it was still cheating. He had, essentially, written off the dozen or so episodes as silly sporting banter.
But he had assumed it was just between them. This summer, in those strained post-lockdown weeks when it had felt so great to be in a goal again and with the lads, his perception of what had happened had been blown open. Firstly, because loose-lipped and dirty-minded Vardy had `outed' his behaviour to several of the lads in that crowded seedy hotel room, and secondly because it had slapped him around the face with the knowledge that the team's prolific forward was dabbling and messing around with plenty of different lads. A stream of awkward drunken handjobs, never reciprocated, suddenly felt so much more demeaning and emasculating, so much more taboo and adulterous. It wasn't an eccentric quirk of his close friendship with the Yorkshireman, he was just another tart on Vardy's roster of satisfying pairings.
The big Viking man pulled his way out of his long-sleeved Leicester training top, shrugging away the vest beneath and padding around the quiet hotel room with his upper body exposed. In the bathroom, he brushed aggressively at his teeth and spat huge mouthfuls of menthol wash down the drain, performing all of his nightly rituals with the sluggish lumber of a man who hadn't drank three pints so rapidly in a while, not after a hard shift in the football stadium.
Back in the main room, he changed from baggy blue tracksuit bottoms and his tight white Bjorn Borg underwear into a pair of leg-hugging pyjama bottoms that clung to the shapes of his physique and felt satisfyingly snug. He stared out of the window for a while at the roiling clouds and obscured city view, then clambered onto his bed and fingered at a remote to flick through the TV channels, sick of their dull Englishness or brash Americana, feeling fresh pangs of homesickness for Denmark. The thought that trailed his anti-Vardy moodiness this month was frightening but consistent: was it time to quit Leicester and get out of the Premier League?
More terrifying: was it almost time he ought to RETIRE?
33 was well into the `middle age' of professional football, though he knew his goalkeeping position gave him far better longevity than, say, Vardy, whose speed and agility would quickly wane in the next couple of years. He snorted vaguely at this thought, not paying attention to the news broadcast, finding some bitter satisfaction in besting that manipulative pervert in that regard at least.
He must have dozed off in front of the television, because he went from slow placid thoughts of this career turning point and disinterested observations about the politics on the screen to a jolting sensation and an awareness that he was gripping the TV remote too tightly in his right hand, the other resting lazily in the folded crotch of his PJs. A light wooden tapping sounded and he realised that was what had broken him from his dizzying late night nap after all, somebody was at the hotel room door.
He swung his heavy legs off the bed and made a vague tutting noise, glancing at the other bed and his roommate's belongings there, scattered in the space between it and the wall. Fucking hell, Danny, what time was it and where was his key? Danny Ward, the Wrexham-born second keeper and his current regular roomie, was normally one of the quieter lads on away trips, but clearly he'd been led astray or come out of his shell -- a glance at a digital clock on the desk by the window told him it was well past midnight now, and much further past the boss's curfew.
He undid the lock and pulled the door inward, stalling in the act of the humorous disapproval he'd mustered for the younger Welsh goalie, jolted more out of his naptime stupor by the lean 5ft10 figure hovering in the doorway instead, grinning at him beneath the soft glow of the corridor's nightlights. Kasper stood there with both hands on the door, taken aback by Jamie's appearance at his door, looking as wired and excitable as he had a couple of hours earlier; still in a half-zipped training top over his tshirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms, a half-finished small bottle of vodka in one hand.
`Where is Ward?' Kasper asked immediately in a neutral tone.
Passed out in my bed, the lightweight,' Jamie muttered at him, jerking his head back down the corridor simply. Little afterparty in our room but the big heavy cunt passed out on my fuckin' bed, y'know? He's snoring like a beast. And my roomie Madders is out for the count too, and the Belgians are laid out cold on the floor, bunch of weak pissheads, the lot of em...' He nodded into the room. Well, can I come in and use the only bed going free, Schmike, or do I fuck off and kip in the lobby, eh?' And in he bundled, sparky with chaotic energy as always, brushing past Kasper's big bare arm in the process, leaving him to push the door begrudgingly shut and blink sleep from his eyes.
Behind him, Vardy was chattering on in his strangely energetic manner, about how messy things had got in the bar and who had almost had a punch-up with who, and where had Schmeichel sloped off to actually, why hadn't he been there? Kasper just smiled weakly at him and shrugged, still in just the pyjama bottoms, too tired and beer-warmed to engage in Jamie's speech -- he sounded like he was high, not just drunk, and it was weird that the Dane's slightly bitter reminiscence had conjured him out of the hotel night like this, evidence of just what a messy human he was.
He moved over the room with a growing wariness, watching as Jamie unzipped and pulled off his top, down to a white vest that clung to the lean tight muscle of his torso. He looked a little different -- shorter cut to his hair, more pronounced mousy brown beard around his jaw, it seemed to make him look younger rather than older. He was fiery with his confidence or cocaine, meeting Kasper's eyes and grinning at him between the two beds.
`Been a while, huh?' Vardy asked meaningfully.
Schmeichel just made a vague scoffing noise. `Huh. I was asleep.' He picked up the remote from his bed and switched off the quietly droning television, still watching as Jamie paced between the beds, pawing at his vest and kicking his feet out of the sweaty trainers, peeling away socks one by one.
`Were you, old man?' chuckled the other 33-year-old.
`And I would like to get BACK to sleep,' he added heavily.
`Hey, I won't stop ya,' the other guy chuckled at him.
`You know what I mean,' the Dane grumbled. He scratched at the hard muscle of his tummy and turned away from the bed, going to place the remote on the desk and keeping his back to the other guy, trying to settle down his irritation and the slight drunken burn of resentment. This guy here was still one of his best mates on the team, one of his closest friends over here in the UK; just not like this, not in one of his fits of dirty desire and high-wired curiosity.
When Kasper glanced over his broad pale shoulder, he saw that Jamie was grinning at him from the edge of the bed, legs pulled up under him, a smirk curling his lips and his eyes wide with alertness, a little red-rimmed. He looked as electrified now as he did as he'd booted in his third goal of the game and humiliated Guardiola's squad.
`Don't give me that look,' Schmeichel told him simply and curt, his Danish tones clipped and severe.
`What look?' Vardy demanded with the most unconvincing mock innocence.
He dropped his voice to a stony murmur. `You should have stayed with your other drunk pals.'
`That ain't very kind of you, mate.'
`Don't try anything, Jamie.'
`Mate, you are being frosty as fuuuuck...'
`I know what you're like,' he returned sharply.
Leaving it at that, the Denmark goalkeeper moved away again, crossing the suddenly silent room, disappearing into the bathroom just to take a moment. A bit of him was thinking about all of those nights in other situations, the times he'd reached across and folded one of his strong keeper's hands about the contents of his friend's pants, taking it on as if it was his own, for fuck knows what reason...! In the square grey space of the en suite, he stared at himself in the mirror, at the hard set angles of his frankly handsome face and the pale silvery blond of his slicked back hair, a little fluffy where he had slipped into sleep against the pillows.
`You wanna drink?' slurred the other player's voice, muffled by the almost-shut bathroom door.
Kasper saw himself flinch in the mirror, and he knew angrily that part of him wished he was drunker, lost in the boozy fug that had somehow led him to share the same bed as his good mate on certain occasions -- but no, he wouldn't do that again, not now the extent of Vardy's debauchery was exposed to him, not after he himself had- He stared angrily at his own stony-faced reflection in the bathroom mirror and clasped his hands to the rim of the sink.
`I'm pouring you one,' he heard Vardy chuckle.
`No, leave it,' Schmeichel barked, thumping his big bare feet back into the room at where Vardy, stripped down to tight black trunks of boxer shorts, was sloshing the remainder of his little cheap vodka bottle into two mugs and screwing the lid off a small lemonade bottle from the mini-bar. He did looked decidedly ripped and muscular, such a small built man but so dense with the strength that powered his attacking moves -- and glaring tattoos crawling about the sides of his pale midriff as he stood there mixing two drinks, turning to grin warmly this way.
Go on,' Jamie said to him. Just the one. Eh?'
The pale white mug of overstrong vodka and lemonade was pressed into his big hand and the pair of them stood there, face to face, six inches apart. He loomed over the striker, bigger and broader, his chest a powerful stretch of muscle lightly haired with white-blond flecks. Jamie's was smooth but for a little dark growth in the middle. He was grinning in that unmistakably knowing way, the intimate leer of someone who knew too much.
`Relax,' this evening's hat-trick told him in a quiet mutter.
No fun for you over there?' he retorted less intimately. No fun with that little slut James Maddison?'
The grin on Jamie's face intensified as if, he looked as if he heard envy in Kasper's muttered comment, and laughed under his breath. Madders?' the Leicester ace told him in the same quiet rasping voice. Nah, he's still too lovesick at his boy Ben moving to London, you know that. I mean, we all miss Chilly, but only one lad on this squad who's not smiled since...'
Schmeichal stiffened his posture at this more blunt talk, snarling a little at his friend. Leave it out, there wasn't anything between them,' he said in the faintly Midlands accented English of his long time in the team. Chilwell is seeing some girl in Birmingham, you know that, he is always visiting her. He and James were not...'
Never said they were,' Vardy cut him off, almost irritably, but another thing altogether in the kid's head, methinks...' Another leer and chuckle. Summat's up with the kid, anyway.' He seemed to move closer without shifting his bare feet, leaning in a little so that the undressed exposure of their upper bodies felt more strange and unwanted. His abs and chest were tensed, tight-packed with muscle as he leaned in, hands to his bony hips, a smirk framed by that dark growth of beard. No, no fun for me with those pissheads, they're all pissed and asleep, I told ya... why do you think I'm here, eh...?'
Here it was, Kasper thought, the inevitable move, although in the past the things between them had always been unspoken, initiated only by clumsy touch and never a moment's eye contact shared. As if to stop both Jamie and himself, the big Dane clenched his hands into fists, closing himself off to the idiocy of touching up this arrogant fucker in the night, tensing even more as one of Jamie's hands ran up the fluffy white blond hair of his forearm and to his elbow, sending little tingles through his bicep and shoulder. `Don't,' he said warningly, thinking he would hit this prick if he started getting too friendly now, he'd made it clear enough!
No fun down there at all,' Vardy sighed at him, tickling his elbow and up his bicep, no matter how much booze we got through... bunch of wet lettuces ain't they, really...'
Kasper thought angrily about the other men in the room that night. What about JJ?' he demanded heavily, angrily. He'd been so bewildered and surprised to see James Justin, the young defender, become so uninhibited on the night of that party'... Or Harvey?' he pushed menacingly. You sure seemed keen to invite him over to King's goodbye, and-`
Jamie made a simple tutting noise and brought up his other hand, holding each of his palms to the thick tense muscle of Kasper's upper arms. Schmike!' he sang. Those boys are idiots, don't know how to enjoy themselves, not like real men like you or me...'
Or Fuchs,' he snapped, what about that dirty fucker?'
`Christian went to bed ages ago like the boring fart he is,' the striker said with a giggle to his voice, pulling in close, making Schmeichel so frustrated and tense, but he held still and clenched his fists and stared down the provocative impish face of the other experienced sportsman, determined to hold fast against his playful humour and bisexuality.
Staring angrily down at him, Kasper could not help but remember the spiralling events of that goodbye party, the way this sleazy fucker had initiated things and made his moves, got each of them excited and experimental. Schmeichel could hardly believe how hard he had gone, swilling back cheap beer and following his host's guidance, how he had... he shuddered to think it, but then shuddered with new sensation, feeling the fingers against the looser front of his tight pyjamas, playing against the fold where his bulge sagged heavily forward, tracing and identifying its shape and making little tickling sensations run through his lower body.
He stared down at the man's hand, then up his chiselled front and into the wicked glint of his eyes.
`What are you doing?' he demanded hotly, but keeping his voice quiet.
`Returning a favour I've owed for a long time,' he was told in a hot whisper.
In all those sweaty nights, he didn't think Jamie Vardy had ever really touched him back -- none of it had been thoughtful or measured, it had always been a confused rush, and it had only been this year that he ever thought about the creepy one-sidedness of their play. He'd grabbed at and jerked this smug fucker, full of some grudging excitement that enough units of alcohol seemed to unleash in him, but he'd never pushed to have his own big Scandinavian weapon played with, just jerked them both, hadn't he... and now... now he could feel Vardy tracing the outline of his dormant cock, drawing out the excitement he didn't know had been building. It stretched and flexed at his insistent touch.
`Jamie,' he breathed.
There was no fun for me down there,' the striker purred at him, his voice so low that Kasper leaned closer instinctively to hear it. But there's so much in here for me.'
Kasper bit his lip and closed his eyes, willing himself to resist. He could feel his semi pressing at the front of the PJs, making the patterned cloth stretch more at his broad hips and muscular behind, clamping around his thick manly thighs; he felt the exciting newness of a man's fingers there again, compared to the domestic familiarity of his wife's. Now he was holding his strong flat hands to Jamie's upper arms in a pose that might have been on the verge of pushing him away, or pulling him closer, but for now, just keeping him in place, his fingers finding their grip.
`Relax,' Vardy told him again, forcefully.
`I need to sleep,' he told him dumbly.
`This'll get you to sleep, mate...'
A thumb was hooked into the front of his waistband, pulling forward slightly as Jamie moved; Kasper shifted with him, long heavy steps, their two muscular forms heading for the nearest of the beds, his own. Jamie stopped with his back to it and his legs brushing the edge of the covers, and dipped his hand right inside the PJs now, taking hold of his manhood and making him shudder and sigh.
`Jamie...'
`Kasper, mate...'
Very gently, the striker leaned in and kissed him dead centre on the chest, brushing his lips in the furrow between his pecs, still gripping and pulling on his growing erection as he did. Kasper stood there, still and resistant, as his teammate slid into a sitting position on the bed in front of him, and manoeuvred his lips down the front of his tall powerful body and... the inevitability of it made his whole being seize up with anticipation and then relief, as the lips brushed over the short curls of his dark blond pubes and onto the veiny shaft of his cock. For several moments he held his head back and kept his eyes closed, then had to crane forward and stare down to believe it was really happening: the filthy womaniser and sexual deviant was sat in front of him chowing down on his big Danish cock, lips parted as wide as they would go and still somewhat struggling.
The goalkeeper stared down. He was too amazed and shocked by what was happening to really question it himself. He'd learned in the summer how many of these dirty lads could be enticed into using their mouth in this way, felt his Dutch ally Christian Fuchs go down around there, seen slutty Maddison in action, and Justin, shockingly... but not Vardy, never Vardy, surely, but... oh... there was something inexperienced and uncomfortable about the way he did it, but that just made his big prick feel even more sensitive and delighted.
Now Vardy was slurping back off it, closing his fist about the saliva-slick length of it, and grinning triumphantly up at him. Yeah, how'd that feel, mate?' he muttered, licking his upper lip. How is it? Eh? Come on...' And then his hands seemed to be all over Kasper, stroking his sides and yanking on the waistband of those PJs, peeling down the side of his leg. He lumbered awkwardly forward, breathlessly aroused but uncomfortable, tumbling onto the bed beside the other man, his hair falling out of place and silver-blond strands brushing just above his eyes. He grabbed at Jamie's shoulders and neck and pulled him to him, forcibly guiding him to carry on -- and there it was again, the tight warmth of that man's dirty mouth, dripping over his thick pale cock, mmm.
Just as he had in the other hotel, he could feel himself letting go, giving in to the open-minded wonder of it, almost aggressively. He'd fucked Christian in the mouth then and now he wanted to do that to Jamie, but it was different -- the guy's mouth felt so much smaller and less soft and inviting, and he struggled for breath as Kasper pushed up with his hips and thighs and pressed more of his girthy thing in against his narrow tongue. Jamie gave up sucking on it and just lapped and kissed at the sides and below the base, which felt so good still, precum oozing around the fat purple-red head.
It was only then that a sort of dull wariness seized him again, pulling his body more fully onto the bed and kicking the tight pyjamas down his shins and calves and over his ankles so he was naked, Jamie crawling up with him and tenting in his own black trunks. It occurred to Kasper in horror that nothing came for free, maybe Vardy would expect the same oral treatment from him, and he felt adamantly that he wouldn't degrade himself like that... but no, all Vardy was doing now was kissing at his tummy and nuzzling one of his pecs in a weirdly submissive way, clinging to the trunk of his leg and moaning with uncharacteristic neediness.
Schmeichel felt incredibly turned on, the great Dane grabbing and pushing at Vardy's head and hair and slapping at the back of his shoulders. His cock ached and throbbed, he wanted to fuck his mouth properly, wanted to really punish him for all his dirty talk and arrogant boasting... he wanted to shove his dick inside him so deep, but... he realised exactly what he wanted just as Jamie seemed to realise the same thing, climbing up his body and sitting over him now, still in his undies. Kasper lay there in an awkward position and felt the rubbing deliciousness -- Jamie mounted him at the waist and rubbed his clothed arse over his hard-on in a frustrating series of grinding motions that made him shudder and grunt.
`Damn it,' the Dane growled.
Vardy just laughed, rubbing back and forward, legs spread over his own thighs, reaching down to grab and pin at his torso as he rode him through his undies, rubbing the hard peachy muscle of his cheeks through his underpants and making Schmeichel's cock leak and buckle.
`Fucking hell!' the Leicester keeper shouted, reaching for him, pushing his hands away, grabbing at his lean tightly muscled middle, pushing his cock up against his clothed backside, biting his lip, feeling the lust that had seized him when he'd been the third or fourth to mount and plough little Maddison that night, the moment of unquenchable lust that he had been trying to blank out for months; but now all he wanted was to feel it again, and even better, inside this smug twat!
He wrestled with him, both big 33-year-old men panting passionately, Jamie grinning eagerly into his face as he twisted with him and pressed him back down into the bed. Go on,' the smug striker yelped into his face, go on and shove that up me you big dirty cunt, I wanna feel your-` Heavily, he clamped his hand over his mouth to silence him, wanting to shut that boastful voice up, so taunting and frustrating; he pressed down on him, squeezing him to the bed in missionary position, jabbing his wet cock at his bottom and fumbling at those undies, leaving them on at the front but dragging them up over the smooth globes of his butt so he could press in there and find the angle. He didn't want to sully his fingers, he just put his cock straight to the fold of the cheeks and pushed, weighing his body down onto the sleazy fucker, pressing at him and growling and panting over his face, feeling him bite and lick at his palm where it silenced him...
And then Jamie was fighting back, giggling stupidly as he did, using Kasper's uncertainty and awkwardness to get the upper hand, rolling them across the bedding and back on top, rising up on his knees -- winded for a moment, the Danish man lay there, trembling with his own guilty passion, his own forceful lust, his dick so long and hard and eager to be used. Jamie was reaching behind himself, playing with his own arse, readying it before sitting back down and -- ohhhh -- riding him properly now, his cheeks feeling cool and firm but then his hole so warm and tight and -- ohhhh! -- Kasper could feel his cock entering him, stuck on his back with the other lad sat astride him, descending onto his fat Scandi meat. He gripped at the hairy curve of Jamie's upper thighs and began to push up as best he could against the weight of the 5ft10 Sheffield bloke on top of him. Up and down he flexed his hips and arse muscles, pressing his fat prick into that tight cavern, fucking one of the greatest strikers in the country and breaking open his sweaty drunken hole.
It was one of his favourite positions with his wife, this cowgirl pose -- such a strong and authoritative guy, Schmeichel did love to power-fuck and to dominate his petite Danish wife, but he also loved the switch, the passivity of lying back and just feeling someone else take over the work, his big body laid out and his cock utterly pleasured. The rise and fall of Vardy's body was insanely pleasurable and staring up at his lean muscled front, his chavvy tattoos and his gurning bearded face, wow...
But only for so long. Once more, there was a rugged tumble of their bodies, flipping across the bed as Kasper's strong hairy limbs wrestled with the lithe form of his target. Pressing and pushing onto his back, dick still in him, locking him into that missionary again and gaining pressure so that he could really push more fully into him and slam his cock there, slam him over and over like he could so clearly remember doing to dirty little Madders, that English boy... he held him down, his arms bulging with strength around him, no longer looking him in his sleazy face, just closing his eyes and pressing his brow down against the bedding, thrusting and retreating then thrusting more powerfully.
Cum in me,' whispered Vardy in his ear. Shoot inside me, man...'
Yeah,' he growled back, oh yeah, oh yeaaaah...'
It may as well have been his wife he was fucking, or any woman, there was something so smooth and supple about the striker's body in his hold, slimmer and shorter than his own, all of those tight muscles relaxing in his grip as he powered into his hole and drooled over his shoulder. And soon the tightness was too much and the forceful thrusts of his own body did the trick, and he was emptying his load inside him, squirting his cum deep in the Yorkshire slag, owning this smug deviant who until now had seemed to dominate the intimate lives of so many men on the team. Fuck that, Kasper thought, I'm in charge here, I'm a fucking Schmeichel, mmm... He pounded his last ounces of energy into the dirty chav and filled him with his spunk, panting and coughing and growling.
Vardy lay there with his hole twitching and aching around the girth of the other man, so much thicker than his own slender hard on now leaking cum against the inside of his pants and the base of his tummy. He'd slithered a hand in there to finish himself while he braced himself against the sturdy fucking of the Danish goalie, crushing him down against the bed in missionary, their faces so close that he'd almost craned to kiss his neck and cheek. Lying there beneath him, cum oozing against his navel, he reached up and dared to stroke and fondle the floppy pale hair of the Viking god, feeling the strange reverse pain of that chunky prick being dragged out of his burning hole.
It was true he had taken bigger, and harder, but still it had been an intense feeling, everything he wanted and needed in him.
It had taken him a few weeks to embrace the knowledge that he wanted to be fucked again; in fact, it had taken him quite a few weeks to physically recover from losing his cherry. Perhaps if it hadn't been to Harry Maguire, the consequence of his hubristic end-of-season bet, then it wouldn't have left him limping and wincing for quite so long, but that was how it had happened, and so... yeah, in all honesty, he'd been craving another big dick in him all summer long, even on the beach with his wife. For a man as sexually liberated as Jamie, bottoming to Maguire had been an utter revelation; it was as if one chapter of his sleazy bi experiments was closing and another just beginning. All these years of playful domination, usually over naïve younger lads, and now...
Schmeichel was pulling off him, grunting and looking away. He looked shaken by the force of his own behaviour, but not necessarily regretful. When Vardy stroked his thick arm and patted his side, he just sighed and nodded, his energy spent, his cock dangling from the beautiful downy fluff of his pubes, swinging as he rolled aside and into his own space, heaving out a snoring sigh and then going onto his front, his bare back and arse on show, a little greasy with his sweat.
Still throbbing and aching in his inexperienced rear, Vardy slid from the bed and clambered over into his own, adjusting his dishevelled black undies and throwing himself against the bedding with his own satisfied growling moan out to the quiet hotel room.
Fuck,' he sighed, mostly to himself since Schmeichel already seemed to be sinking into sleep on the other bed, or feigning it to avoid any post-coital chatter. Fuck...!' Utterly liberated, Leicester's filthy predator lay on his back and adjusted his position until his sore bottom felt better, staring up at the ceiling and spreading his long wiry limbs. He grinned to himself, delighted by the success of tonight's seduction; yes, he had tried to angle at other, younger players, he'd been gagging for anyone's attention tonight, but he'd long suspected big Kasper was his best bet.
As he'd told the Dane, he was pretty sure James was lovesick for Ben; he suspected Maddison was fully homosexual and really quite smitten with `Bulging Ben', he'd moped and sighed and been useless since the slick southern lad made his move to Chelsea at the end of the summer break. Besides, Jamie had been craving a manly man, a powerful bloke like the Manchester United beast who had deflowered him with the help of his subservient teammates. He'd considered Christian Fuchs but he had already made a bitch of that other big strong Dane on the Leicester squad -- and similar issues with JJ, whose beautiful soft lips he had spunked on three or four times last season. Really, big Schmeichel, the other old man of the squad, was the only option, and... well, Jamie felt more sure than ever of his seductive talents and irresistible libido.
He looked across at the snoring bulk of the goalie, unable to stop the other thought of his summer reflections drifting back to him. It wasn't just the fucking role reversal that had shaken him this year, if he was honest, though that was a lot -- years of casually exploiting horny blowjobs from other footy lads and learning to pound them like he once had his gorgeous best man, Dave Nugent -- no, it was also the things big Slabhead had said to him when Leicester lost to United on the final day of the 19/20 season.
So big Harry and his mini DILF Luke were really in love, were they? He'd wanted to laugh at that notion at the time, the two big masculine blokes with their partners and their children, their utterly ordinary hetero lives rattling on while they pranced about together in the shadows. It had seemed ridiculous to him, not the adultery of it, but the fluidity and quiet joy; but Harry's words had shaken him and left him wondering.
Was he missing out? Were his meaningless dirty exploits with lad after lad becoming dull and soulless? Was that, he wondered, the only reason he was having to go further and further to find a taboo thrill in lad-on-lad fun? Why else was he suddenly gagging to be topped when he'd spent all that time insistently remaining the one in control, with everyone from Raheem Sterling to Ben Chilwell...?
He glanced at sleeping Schmeichel again and jeered internally at his uncertain longings, sure that the answer didn't lie here. There was something gorgeous about the big Viking, his sturdy frame and his glittering hairline, his strong silences and powerful mood swings. And they were close friends. But it wasn't more than that, lust and friendship and alcohol. There was no spark of anything more intimate or magical there, no... just the lingering pain in his ravaged arse.
Jamie Vardy lay back quietly, pulling the sheets over his clammy body, and tried to think instead of the glorious match that had seen him score thrice and really triumph over Man City, the arrogant tossers that they were; it was Leicester's turn to really compete with Liverpool, he decided, nobody else's. He tried to focus on that, on his empowered place as an experienced striker still breaking the statistics at 33, the Messi of the Premier League. But try as he might, his thoughts diverted and until he drifted into the deep sleep of the sexually satisfied, he wondered if Maguire was right: did he need to find a more meaningful bloke to enjoy this stuff with after all...?
AGAIN, APOLOGIES FOR THE SLOW PROGRESS... FINALLY A NEW STORY THOUGH, A BELATED TALE ON LEICESTER'S BIG WIN LAST SUNDAY OVER MAN CITY. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK OF THE NEW SIDE TO DIRTY VARDY, UNLEASHED BY MAGUIRE... COMING SOON, SOME 'BEHIND THE SCENES' STORY BEHIND THE ODD EVENTS OF THE RECENT CHELSEA-SPURS CLASH...