Part 193: Derby Day
Unbeaten at home, but the derby draw against their Merseyside rivals was still hitting them hard. The whistle had blown and the game was over, and the Liverpool players drooped visibly in their postures and expressions as they banded slowly towards their frowning manager; glad for once at how empty the stadium was of their loyal following, if it spared them the misery of being present for this long difficult game and, in their eyes, deeply unfair 2-2 outcome.
The teammates made their way off the pitch, heat rising in little plumes of condensed breath from their mouths and from their sweaty red shirts, milling about the dug-out and beginning to pile indoors towards much-needed showers. The players had given everything to try and secure a win over the city's other team, but Everton were in fighting form and referee decisions had not gone their way. The manager was taking it with his usual simmering calm, but many individual players were loudmouthed in their disappointment and indignation.
Among the exhausted squad, keen eyes would spot three men who looked more upset than others, though quietly and inwardly.
The team captain was storming crossly for the tunnel mouth, not even engaging with his usual important duties of reassuring and helping the lads to lick their wounds. Jordan Henderson was smarting from a disallowed goal and from the heavy responsibility on his own shoulders as skipper, and his anger at letting the fans down was etched into his angry face as he marched away from the main group and led the movement indoors, almost tearing his captain's armband from one taut bicep as he did so.
The Liverpool squad's much younger star was not far behind, a crestfallen young right-back traipsing inside and shrugging off the consoling words of a couple of other footballers beside him, some in equally soiled kit and others still tracksuited from never leaving the bench. Each of them tried to chip in a helpful word to the distraught 22-year-old as he headed into the corridors of Anfield, but Trent Alexander-Arnold seemed inconsolable today. If any of them had stopped to look at his anguished expression too closely, they might have seen a strange guilt in his eyes as he swept inside.
And bringing up the rear, moping quietly in the chilly Saturday afternoon with the coaches, another player who had put in a full 90 minutes of exhausting fight for the team he loved, Andy Robertson looked sad rather than angry, and uncomfortable in his own fitness as he dragged his strong legs and fidgeted in his kit, limping ever so slightly as he made his way in after the others, bright red in his ginger-stubbled cheeks, rubbing at each of his arms and rearranging his shorts repeatedly. The Scotsman sullenly followed the drag of hot bodies indoor, glaring awkwardly at his own reflection in mirrored glass and lagging behind the group.
Three Liverpool players leaving the derby day game with the weight of the club's 1 point outcome on their shoulders, disproportionately crushed by a 2-2 result against the Toffees. Three Liverpool players who couldn't quite look their coaches or colleagues in the eye right now, escaping the overcast day and disappearing into the steamy crowded Home changing rooms. Three Liverpool players who were sure the failure to secure a win was down to their own performance, and more specifically, down to what they'd got up to last night...
Henderson had felt uncomfortable as he fed the post-dinner lies to his wife, although there was a seed of truth in what he'd told her; he was, after all, on his way to see a member of the team, and to `sort out' a minor issue between the lads. He was a naturally honest man and he felt himself go into unnecessary detail on the lie, his attractive spouse just smiling indulgently at him over the dirty dishes and nodding along, unsuspicious and uninterested; it had taken him the whole quiet drive into the city to shake off the guilt of this, and at several slow traffic lights he had wondered if he should just send a cancellation text to Neco and return home.
Honour and affection stopped him each time his guilt and confusion welled up. He owed the younger footballer this visit, this important conversation that had been delayed all week -- all week as they danced around each other in the intense Liverpool training sessions, returned from the international break and their separate English and Welsh battles there. At the training ground, the captain and the teenager had barely shared a private word, but in the late nights they would exchange furtive and ambiguous messages, each pushing for some discussion of the hotel bar encounter, taking it in turns to become uncomfortable or evasive.
Henderson had finally bitten the bullet and promised to come over tonight, though he should already be winding down for the night; often the management would house the players in a local hotel on a night like this but Klopp was feeling trusting at the moment and everyone had been allowed to rest at home instead, allowing him this opportunity to sneak across Liverpool and park up opposite the converted industrial block where Williams' swish city apartment lay. His two flatmates were living elsewhere at the minute, isolating separately in the harsh pandemic restrictions that had been applied to the Merseyside city of late, harsher than most of the UK.
The 30-year-old athlete climbed out of his car and crossed the quiet street, instantly reassured by the soft Welsh burr of the teen's voice on the intercom when he buzzed in and was welcomed. On the way into the block and its elevator, Henderson checked his watch, calculating how long he could afford to dally here and still make it quietly home to join his wife in bed and get the hours he needed to be well-prepared for tomorrow. He couldn't linger with Neco too long, he knew that; this conversation was important, but tomorrow had to be his priority.
In the lift, he rehearsed what he'd been wanting to say all week: just an excess of testosterone during the England build-up, too much excitement and brotherhood, a rash explosion of comradely affection... the excuses and explanations tumbled through the Sunderland bloke's head as he reached the top floor of the block, his freed arms hugged over the chest of his padded gilet. He sucked in his cheeks and chewed his lips, still unsure how to softly put things in a way that would be clear and unhurtful to the 19-year-old. Perhaps he was silly and arrogant to assume that Williams would think, expect or want anything more from the... incident, but he had to be careful how he trod here -- he was the senior player here, the older man, the one with the authority. He had to be careful how he treated the lad he'd grabbed at so inappropriately in the Hertfordshire hotel, and spoken to so harshly in Wembley that night...!
Jordan counted down the numbers of the three doors on this floor and at the end of the square communal area he heard then saw the door to number 19 click open, held ajar by the 6ft figure of his young teammate; Neco was in a simple black tshirt with a white Nike swoosh across his chest and baggy-fitting grey sweat-shorts that bunched about his long hairy legs. His expression was nervous and pouting, his hair fluffed into tight curls. Jordan paused a few feet away, in the middle of rehearsing his most cautious and supportive put-down in his head. It was fun for us both, I'm sure,' he wanted to calmly say, but we both know it isn't anything real, not between two guys like us...!' But he didn't say anything like that.
He just closed the gap to the doorways, pushed the apartment door more fully open, and grasped the front of the lad's tshirt. The door was still hanging open as he pulled Neco too him and slapped his mouth to those pouting red lips, but it slammed shut just as he wrapped his own muscular arms about his shoulders and snogged him more properly, forcing his tongue in and letting their stubbled chins rasp and scratch. The Welsh lad went almost limp against him as if stunned, just clinging to his gilet and breathing softly in against his pushy mouth -- following him keenly when he broke the kiss and retreated a little in the doorway, panting.
Jordan held him, lowering his eyes and thinking about all of the excuses and explanations he had been brewing all week, watching him from afar at the Liverpool training ground. They were both straight, both far more into women than whatever extra-curricular fun they had each discovered. They were teammates and this could get complicated. Their was the age gap and his own marriage and family, a million reasons why nothing could ever happen again, and yet-
Thanks for coming,' panted Neco now, derailing his thoughts. I was starting to worry. It's late.'
Jordan gulped, patted the exposed arms of the younger fella. Had to eat and stuff. Had to get away, didn't I? Erm.' He let out another sigh, patting his hands repeatedly against the lad's biceps, lean and firm where the black sleeves ended. I'm sorry if I kept you waiting,' he added in a more gruffly quiet voice, finally meeting the teen's eyes.
`It's okay, captain.'
I guess you don't need an early night,' Jordan mumbled, aware that the Welsh player had somehow not made the lineup for tomorrow's Everton clash. But I do. I can't stay long. I just came to... talk.' He heard the reedy stupidity of his voice there as he said it, so formal and clean, and so in clash to the way he'd stormed in here and kissed the boy. Not even checking if he was truly alone! And now holding him like this, tightly but tenderly.
That's okay,' Neco mumbled, his own voice deep with uncertainty. Where d'ya wanna talk...? Erm...' He turned his head a little, looking across the high-ceilinged open plan space of the apartment towards its big well-furnished lounge area. But Jordan looked to the right, at the other doors branching off from this entrance way, spotting the Welsh flag stuck to the nearest, marking its occupant so obviously. He slid a hand down the teen's arm and squeezed his hand, then pulled in that direction. Neco stared at him, his expression unreadable, and followed.
Another front door, another nervous arrival. But behind the opened entrance of his big suburban palace, Oxlade-Chamberlain beamed with that trademark gap-toothed smile and the pale freckles of his caramel cheeks. He beckoned him in with one hand, only briefly glancing past him into the silent dark of the street, aware that even one guest to his household was breaching the current quarantine rules while his popstar girlfriend was away.
As always, Andy took some reassurance and strength from the easy confidence of his injured Liverpool teammate, fixating on that big cartoonish grin and letting himself be led inside, the door shut behind and Alex's paws instantly sliding around the waist of his sweatshirt. He submitted to the greedy kisses and reached his hands across the loose dark basketball vest that hung from the midfielder's incredibly gym-primed torso.
Mmm,' Ox purred at him after long moments of kissing, am I glad to see you...?'
`Dunno, are ya?' the Glaswegian defender quipped back, following him through into the main lounge of the big Liverpool home, eerily similar to his own family mansion a couple of suburbs away. He tugged nervously at the sleeves and neckline of his grey sweatshirt, a couple of steps behind Alex as he led them towards the sofa, soft R&B music piping out from a device nearby, a flashy fire centrepiece flickering and glowing at the wall.
He wasn't seeing enough of Oxlade-Chamberlain lately, the muscled man missing so much Liverpool training due to his separate recovery program before he could rejoin the squad properly to help them compete. Strict rules made it hard for them to socialise at all, even with their female partners or other lads, so tonight's rendezvous was a much-anticipated and potentially risky bit of rule-bending to get time together alone. Well, almost alone.
Ahead of him, Alex was dropping his big strong body down onto the long sofa, his shorts riding up around his strong brown thighs and his shoulders and pecs bulging through the straps of the vest. He patted the cushion beside him invitingly and Robertson flopped down into that space against him, feeling the comfortable heat of the 27-year-old's physique against him, still chilly from the short drive between their homes.
`Did you mean what you said the other night?' the out-of-action player asked him in a half-chuckling murmur now, stroking the back of his neck and giving him a different kind of grin, more playful and private than his usual beamer.
What?' the Scotland hero mumbled back, still a little disoriented to be here in Alex's house, and at being back in Liverpool after a long week away with his national team before that, leading the Scottish boys to some great outcomes as their captain. What are you on about...?'
Alex dimpled with mischief. `When you said you wanted to make sure things were equal.'
Oh... that. Well, yeah, sure... I've told you before, I don't see why it should always be you that has to... I mean, obviously we have that handsome bugger Trent too, but -- He wavered, saying things he often said in the glow after a good shag, but struggled to settle in his mind at other times. `Why, you think we should try that tonight...?'
It's a good a time as any,' the hunk told him in a whisper. And I've been thinking about that pale Scotch arse of yours ALL FUCKING WEEK, Andrew.'
He chuckled awkwardly at the rough charm of his best mate, twisting against him and watching his hungry expression, his chocolate-brown eyes. `Have you now, well well... erm...'
Andy, you know I'd never push you,' Ox said now with a quick change of tone and expression, closing one of his bigger hands about his fist and pulling it up to kiss his roughly scratched knuckles. If I haven't made it clear enough before, I fuckin' love having you in between my cheeks, you sexy Scots bastard, so... I mean, I'm not gonna rush you, I've told you before, I'm a patient guy, so...'
If it was a deliberate strategy, it worked. Andy grinned at him, so deeply pleased to be here in some relative privacy, or anywhere in fact in this stud's company; he had many good friends on the Liverpool team, he was an uber-sociable bloke, but nobody knew him as intimately as this one, obviously, not even Trent. Trent... hmm.
I'll try it, obviously,' he muttered, but it has to be just us. I... I wouldn't be ready for him to... see that, or... I dunno. Does that sound mad?' He grimaced at his lover, unsure why the distinction was so important, or if he had the right to demand this. He loved the youngster dearly and knew that involving a third prick in their private adventures had done nothing but boosted their sex drives, even before Alexander-Arnold became a willing bottom for Alex's birthday in the Austrian chalet. But this next step for his own sex life seemed too important and private to be shared with that scamp, sometimes he did feel a craving to have Alex to himself -- even if there was so much of the muscular man that he seemed easy to share.
`That's fine,' Alex said. His eagerness and the sparkle in his eyes revealed the desire that lay behind his soft patience and gentle questioning. This was something he had wanted perhaps since before they had even broached fucking, that night in the gold club when the title was Liverpool's; Andy had never really expected this man's man to take anything up him like that, had barely been able to believe it each time he topped him in a hotel room. The reversal of it had always seemed inevitable but he'd let it push back and back, a can kicked down the road. Now he saw how much it had occupied his lover's fantasies and it both excited and frightened him.
`He'll be on his way?' he said vaguely.
Nah, not yet, you're early enough,' Alex grunted, and he was off the couch in a flash, pulling out of his basketball vest at the same time as finding his phone from a side table. He stood there, abs tensed and pecs, bulging, as he sent the dismissal message. He doesn't have far to drive, he won't have set out, and he'll hardly mind. He knows how things stand.' A shy grinning look back this way. `He knows what us two have, y'know.'
Andy nodded, partly agreeing, but worried by the speed of this. He could feel his surface guilt and empathy for Trent, shut out of their pre-arranged night of naughtiness, but he knew he was thinking about his own quivering virginity at heart. He got up from the couch, bunching his hands in and out of fists and pulling closer to his heartthrob. Poor Trent,' he murmured, thinking Poor Andy'. He stroked Alex's six-pack then played his thumbs over his nipples. `You'll go easy on me, won't ya...?'
Alex kissed him once on the lips, ignoring this. `Get your kit off, Captain Scotland, you've pulled.'
In fact Trent Alexander-Arnold had left his riverside apartment block and was well on his way to visit them -- concerned about the newspaper headline `Three Liverpool Stars Break Distancing and Curfew Rules', he'd decided that walking was best. His own ostentatious sports car could attract attention and public transport had its own risks of exposure or scandal; he didn't actually fear anyone discovering what they were up to, the two older blokes made him feel entirely safe in their embrace and their private taboos. But Liverpool was in a strict lockdown and such socialising could invite enough scandal and fuss even without the sweaty threesome he had been looking forward to for days.
So the text message, cute and apologetic as it was, hit the 22-year-old Scouser when he was already halfway across the city on foot, and struck with him with sour dissatisfaction. He was too sweet-natured and loyal to feel annoyed at Ox's vague cancellation and brush-off, he trusted that his two playmates would only cancel tonight's secret meeting with good reason or need; but he resented the situation and his own decision to walk, stuck now far from home with no other plans! He was on the edge of a major park across which he was about to shortcut, nowhere even near a bus stop or easy pick-up point for a cab, so what realistically faced him was a dull half hour walk in the dark back towards the trendy riverside area where he currently lived alone.
Like any solitary bachelor in the revived lockdown, Trent was feeling the strain on his social life. He knew he was lucky in his professional sportsman work to be surrounded by pals all day and to travel for work, but the evenings and days off had become so tedious to him, unable to safely visit local friends or family without endangering them and getting himself fined. It was an intensely lonely life for a 22-year-old to hit right now, and it had made him fixate on this sneaky plan with Ox and Robbo as a great night out.
As much as the sex, he had been excited for the company: the warm banter of the two more experienced men who liked to share and tease him in their bed, had done sporadically for months now since discovering each other in the summer. But tonight was not to be. The local lad sighed heavily and dug hi hands back into the pockets of his tracksuit top, pulling his dark slim outfit tighter around his chilly wiry body and turning on his heel. Back through the patchy lesser park he'd just crossed, and then into the silent city streets that wound into his converted dockyard area.
Shapes loomed imaginatively about him as he crossed the parkland. Climbing frames and slides briefly looked like phantom monsters in the shifting lights of the nearby city, the fading moon above between the clouds, his own blinking eyesight. A block of public loos ahead of him on the edge of the parkland seemed for a second to be some imaginary huge animal crossing this open land, another product of his bored imagination and adjusting eyes, making him smirk and snigger at his own boredom levels as he muscled on his way.
Then another shape in the darkness clarified with a little uncanny jolt; was that a figure beside the loos, actually, waiting in the shadows? Some tiny streak of half-forgotten horror movie fear scampered across his chest and was gone, reminding himself he was an incredibly fast runner and if there was a guy there and he was dodgy, then he could most certainly outrun the cunt better than your average Liverpudlian night walker!
But did it make sense, his tired and overworked mind asked, that some petty criminal mugger would loiter about in this deserted patch, skulking in the shadows like that? The chances of a casual passer-by like himself were low to say the last! What sort of guy hangs around outside mens' toilets late at night, for fuck's sake? No sooner had the athletic young Scouse lad mentally asked the question than he found he knew the sordid answer, and he shook in his tight-fitting tracksuit with a new burst of fear then intrigue.
As if in answer to his inner dialogue, the shady figure vanished. It looked like a guy of about his own height, maybe a little thinner, disguised in a hoody that made them appear so ominous and dangerous, but he couldn't get more detail than that, because they'd disappeared inside the door of the squat pebble-dashed facility. The sound of the creaky wooden door was deafening in the quiet night of the little city park and it made Trent pause, staring intently at the nearby building and the half-visible rectangle of the entrance.
What sort of guy hangs around outside mens' toilets late at night, for fuck's sake? He himself was doing just that now, hands in pockets, lips pursed about the chewed zip of his tracksuit top, beanie hat pulled down over his short afro. He realised he had been standing still for too man minutes to pretend that he wasn't tempted or interested. He was still staring at the squat concrete block of the public lavatory, not at the simple straight path that would lead him home.
Fuck, fuck. Now his trainer-clad feet were carrying him off the path and towards the rectangular door, and his hands were pulling out of the pockets and cracking knuckles quietly at his sides. He was grasping for the door handle and pushing inwards, moving into the dim electric light of an interior that somehow felt more cold and hostile than the October night outside. And there he was, the hooded figure, partly revealed by flickering electricity, stood with his back to Trent -- oh, he thought, maybe he did just need a piss, looking at the blue back of his hood and top and the loose dark denim of his jeans, then...
The fella was turning around, away from the urinal trough into which he had not been pissing. Beneath the hem of that hoody and between the open denim flies of his jeans, a solid white cock stood fully erect, foreskin pulled back over its red-pink head. Trent gasped, staring at it alone since the face of the figure was largely disguised; a combination of cloth face mask and the deep blue hood gave a certain anonymity to it that he himself probably lacked. But your beanie is pulled low and this light is weak, his lust told him, promising him safety if he just followed destiny here.
And before he knew it, his feet were carrying him forward again, and he was on his knees, planting his full lips to the veiny white erection and tasting its manly sourness, falling into a sordid clinch against the crotch of a stranger, finding the cure to his loneliness in a public loo.
And so did Neco, his face pressed once more into his captain's crotch. Jordan watched him, unable to stop himself from gasping repeatedly how good it felt, the brush of those thick lips on his sensitive thick saft and his balls tingling with the rub of his sharp chin. He could relax into the pleasure more this time, lying back as he was on the warm laddish-scented nest of the 19-year-old's bed, his own clothes all but discarded nearby, just his white socks on his feet and his underpants lingering stretched between his ankles while he lay there.
Neco moved with a wildness that surprised him, one of his hands pushed up against the tight core of Jordan's abs while the other ran roughly up and down his tattooed thigh. He was clumsy and awkward but desperate and delicious with the attention he was giving, mouthing at Jordan's cock like he never wanted to stop, more forceful and sure of it than he remembered from last time in the empty hotel bar, both of them poised to stop at the slightest interruption. Here in the lad's bedroom, it was different, he had lost all sense of time -- whatever caution had gripped him on the way here or in the elevator was abandoned. He had no idea how long they'd writhed on this bed, kissing and grabbing, or for how many minutes the Welsh sensation had been down there between his furred thighs.
Several times already Henderson had felt his sensations soar, orgasm approaching, and he'd done what he could to forestall it, tensing up and even pushing Neco's face away for a moment to let himself edge and linger; each time, the Welsh boy looked hurt and upset to be denied his mouthful, staring questioningly up his body at him, but then descending to his work obediently when allowed, saying nothing but moaning through his treat.
When finally the pleasure was too much and he would truly need to release, Jordan wanted it to be mutual. Not QUITE mutual: the thought of putting a dick in his mouth made him queasy and almost angry at the situation. But he pushed Neco away from his dick for the fourth or fifth time and gripped it himself instead, pulling on the shoulder of the lad's tshirt to drag him up the messy bed towards him. He could see the naïve confusion on the defender's face but he ignored it and wriggled their tall 6ft frames side by side then shoved his hand inside those sweat-shorts so he could take hold of it, pull it out into the air, wank it hard.
He locked lips with Neco and tasted his own dick there, which also made him tremble and feel queasy, but his desire to kiss the handsome Wrexham angel far outweighed his repulsion at trying such taboo new things. He kissed him more gently than before, focusing his energy instead on the handjob he was giving, difficult at this angle on a different guy, so unused to it even now (his third time, was it, maybe fourth?) -- and Neco responsively taking hold of his own meat to match his rhythm, their long limbs clashing and their torsos rubbing every now and then.
Here in the teen's bedroom, dark and moody with its Wales and Liverpool memorabilia and its framed black and white photography, Jordan felt himself reach the much-delayed crest of his enjoyment, unable to hold it in any longer or force the teenager's hand off his dick. He just thrust upwards with his hip, feeling Neco tighten the grip there, and exploded -- he felt his cum splatter down his own thighs, over his knees and shins, but much of it must have fell damply against the bedding or struck Neco's arm, body. He writhed and bucked as he came, squeezing and pulling harshly back on the Welsh cock, kissing more roughly at the same time.
Then, with a burst of manly control, he pushed Neco away from him, again making him pout and frown in confused worry, but he had no intention of stopping. He turned him on his side and spooned him from beside, his bare chest on the back of his tshirt, his hands both reaching around his slim body to jerk his dick doubly, nosing at the back of his neck and smelling his fruity shampoo. He made his boy cum, spooning him and jerking him all at once, pressing his own strong form into his and listening to every quivering raspy syllable that burst out of the younger bloke's gob. He felt smears of it on his knuckles, the wet evidence of satisfaction, and he kissed the top of his spine roughly.
Neco's orgasm was louder than his, more yelping and longwinded, and he wondered if some of it was performance for him, or was that just a female habit? Were men more authentic in their sexual noises, unused to faking it? He clung to the trembling frame of the muscular youth and kept his dick in his hands even as it began to soften and shrink, spunk drying on his fingers and his own mouth and nose still nuzzling at the teen's beck and hair, enjoying his scents.
Eventually their bodies were still and quiet other than their shared ragged breaths, both chests rattling with it, slow to recover from the intensity of this long session in the bed, the same lines crossed as last time, but with more passion and intimacy than the rushed explosion of captain-player lust a week and a half ago.
`I'll have to go,' Henderson said eventually, breaking the beautiful quiet of it.
`Okay,' Neco said from where his face buried into a pillow, but he pushed his body back a little more against his as he said it, some half-conscious protest that made Jordan grab a bit more fully at his upper body and lift one heavy bare leg to wrap over his. Neco's thigh and calf felt cool and vulnerable so he covered them more fully with his own muscled limb, clinging to him in this spooning position.
The wife,' he murmured. The derby tomorrow.'
Yeah,' Neco agreed. But... stay a little bit... cap'n?'
`Mmm. I dunno.'
`Please?'
`Just a bit.'
`It's nice to... cuddle.'
`It... is. Yeh.'
The Liverpool skipper nestled in closer, burying his face in the back of the lad's dark curly hair, throwing more of his body about him in this tight embrace, exhausted and dazed by his own explosive ejaculation and the effort of dragging Williams to his; content and comfortable in this new bedding, away from the marriage bed he SHOULD be nestling into, but the guilt and shame of that transgression left somewhere downstairs beside his parked car. Like Neco said, it was nice to... cuddle. And just a few minutes. Just a few minutes more. Just a little longer. He cuddled into his boy and slipped into the fuzzy half-sleep of the sexually sated.
It had been this that first seduced him back into Alex's manly grip, hadn't it? When he'd been intent on keeping their friendship purely platonic and NORMAL, this dirty trick had been what lulled him into accepting that his sexual appetite couldn't be entirely satisfied by his missus. The thick long tongue of the Ox was just too good, too powerful, too new... and right now it made him writhe and gasp on the same bed in which his teammate ploughed his hot Little Mix minx, a thought that only made the feel of his tongue in Robertson's arse all the more incredible.
As instructed by the muscled bloke, Andy had lifted and parted his strong but training-weary legs, laid out on his back with a mound of pillows and cushions behind his neck and shoulders, bollock naked in the big bed while his equally nude lover buried his face down below his package and rimmed his red-haired arse-crack for him. Sure, it was preparation for something much more worrying and invasive, but right now the Scotland hero could only grip at the bedding and roll his head to side to side, yawning out long gasps of pleasure as his crack and hole were licked and poked by a tongue as strong-muscled as every other bit of Alex's body.
This had gone on for ages now. Either fully aware of Andy's nervousness or just intent on enjoying every second to the maximum, Alex had spent quite a while downstairs kissing and teasing him, stripping him down and licking his nipples, kissing up and down each limb, counting the freckles on his shoulders and massaging him with hands and chest and limbs. He'd tried to carry him up here afterwards until they toppled on the first landing, giggling and interlocked, getting their hands on one another's cocks; even once bursting into the master bedroom, Alex had treated him to a long blowjob for ages on the side of the bed, until he'd almost shot his load and needed to return the favour for a while instead. Now he was on his back and the main event was drawing inexorably close, and though Alex was doing his best to prepare him with tongue and fingers, he knew this was not going to be easy.
Alex's face hung over his now, the rimming over. His lips shone with saliva and so did part of his cheeks and his chin, so handsome but almost menacing in their intention and desire right now; Andy felt so much love burn up in his chest, he couldn't derail what was happening, he couldn't bear to disappoint or frustrate this gorgeous fella who had made his life feel so complete this year. Nah, he needed to let him do this, needed to make it happen...!
So when he felt it down there, huge and solid between his cheeks, he hid his face by leaning in to kiss and lick at one bulging muscular shoulder of the other guy's body, not wanting to look him in the eye or kiss him on the lips now. He braced himself, but knew that tensing would make it worse, feeling the thick strong presence between his shivering cheeks, exploring the wet canyon of his hairy crack. It wasn't QUITE fair, was it? Yes, he'd fucked the other lad a dozen times since their first time on the floor of that conference room, but... well, Andy wasn't ashamed of his cock, but he knew it wasn't the biggest, whereas Alex was... he knew how thick and long it was, had seen it enough, held it and tasted it so much too, but still... it felt even more massive and intimidating now it was nudging his wet little hole and Alex was groaning in his ear, purring his desires: `I want you SO MUCH, Andy, you rugged sexy fucker, I want you all night long, I never want you to go back to your bird, just STAY... mmm.... Fuckkk, you feel so TIGHT, oh god...'
If he might have put this off and delayed it more, the dirty talk cancelled that thought; he could hear just how excited and ready his Ox was, so keen to push it in and fuck him for the first time, to be his first, to deflower him like a maiden. He was terrified but he was in love. He wrapped his arms about Alex's thick back and kissed his neck, bracing himself against and feeling his arse muscles tighten obstructively as he did; the big juggernaut thing at his rear entrance pushed in and he felt nothing but a burning displeasure. Oh holy fuck! Why did Alex and Trent let anyone do this to them?
Trembling, he clung to the thick-bodied top and tried unsuccessfully to relax, the lube and spit on his arse seeming to do nothing against the impossible proportions of big veiny cock and tight virgin hole. But somehow, fuck knows how, he was opening up for it, things were stretching, the burning sensation intensified... GOD YOU'RE RIGHT,' howled Alex into his ear, so fucking TIGHT, Andy, you sexy bastard... ohhhh...!' Again, hearing that almost boyish excitement from the 27-year-old dispelled the urge to push him away and settle for oral, to cancel the plan and admit his hesitation; he just clung to his lover and stretched his thighs even further apart, willing the pain to subside and become pleasure, but... oh holy god it felt HUGE and... aaah... ohh... Bit by bit, he knew that Alex was inside him. The sensation was so overwhelming that he kept thinking the big bastard must be fully inside his hole but then there would be another juddering thrust and he would feel himself open more to accommodate the big cock he'd become addicted to, and he'd feel more intense pain down there where he'd never been touched.
Oh yes,' gurgled Alex in his ear, you feel SO GOOD... SO TIGHT... oh FUCK...'
Andy found himself unable to respond, blinking back tears of pain, just biting into neck and shoulder with teenager-like kisses of passion that might leave bruised hickeys in the morning... his arse feeling split open by the physical force and power of this man he loved, and then... his head was being turned to the side by a pushy hand and he found himself suddenly eye to eye with Alex. That handsome smiling face was just a frown of wide-eyed dismay, and he realised how obvious his distress must be, realised how misted his eyes were with tears. Fuck,' rasped Ox, I'm hurting you...'
`No,' he tried to croak, but it came out as a whimper; just like that, Alex was pulling back, he felt a burst more pain and then a removal, a retreat of the massive thing working its way inside him, leaving his ring stinging with relief and lingering agony. Suddenly Alex was beside rather than on top of him, pulling him around and holding his face.
I'm so sorry,' he whispered close to his mouth, I didn't... I thought you would... fuck, Andy, I'm so sorry I've... are you okay...?' Full of innocent horror, his man kissed at his cheek and brow and brought a thumb up to wipe tears and eyelashes of his blotchy cheeks.
You big bugger,' Andy croaked awkwardly at him, ashamed of his failure as a lover. You don't know your own fuckin' size, Ox... jesus...' He turned his face away, embarrassed by the tears rolling down his face and the shaking of his pained body. He glanced down the rippling muscle of Alex's body and saw the offending beast of his cock, reaching to touch it, reminded of how familiar it was to him, just NOT being pushed into him. He looked regretfully back at Alex, expecting a frown of disappointment or annoyance, but seeing only a gentle grin and hooded eyes.
You idiot,' Alex murmured at him. Why did you let me force it?' And then Alex's mouth was over his and he was being rolled onto his back with the big strong body over his again, and a firm hand being clasped around his nob. Their dicks were pushed close together and the other footballer rubbed back and forth on top of him, finding each of his hands and pinning him back as he ground down on him, body to body, mouth to mouth. Andy, still in pain but distracted by this weighty stimulation, just gasped into his face and let his cock be rubbed closer to much-needed satisfaction, their swords crossing and stroking and pressing together until... oh... yes... oh... YES...
Cum smeared between their tummies where they met, Alex's mouth wrestling with his for many moments more, until he lifted a little on his elbows and stared down at him. `You weren't ready,' he said, sounding more regretful than accusing.
`I wanted to give it to you,' Andy told him weakly.
`You give me so much already,' was all Oxlade told him, and he sunk his face down to the side to kiss at his neck instead, ticklish and teasing and making him giggle and writhe beneath him, distracted from the burning pain of his bottom, and so utterly relieved that he hadn't ruined everything after all.
Trent jerked his own slim prick through the fabric of his trackies, conscious of cold and risk and urgency, not wasting time by pushing down his trackies and getting it out. He just tugged it through the fabric against his leg with one hand while his other clutched the side of the lad's jeans and his face pulled backwards and forwards, desperately pleasuring this manly snack.
`Oh yeh,' rasped the stranger. Like Trent he had a distinct Scouse accent, strong and scratchy and suddenly very sexy, in the context of this anonymity and transgression. He hadn't said much else but a lot of moans and gasps. Every now and then his hands would grasp at Trent's hat and pull on it but he would push up and move them away, fearing the exposure if it was removed and his fairly distinctive hair could spring free and visible and make his face more apparent... his desire not to be seen by this local cottaging chav made him even more intent on his blowing, keeping his face down and close and driving the man wild with his tongue and lips.
Okay, it wasn't the cosy and laddish night in he'd hoped for chez Oxlade, but it was the excitement and physicality he'd found himself craving in his flat alone. The cock felt so big and delicious in his mouth and though he had so little sense of who he was even sucking on (the anonymity in itself was a great new thrill to him!), he felt lithe and strong beneath his jeans and hoody, a real intense masculinity about his form and his noises and his urgency as he pushed his dick deeper into his hungry mouth, clearly nearing climax after a long wet sucking from Trent.
He needed to swallow his load -- not just because he was consumed with guilty lust at doing it, but because if he allowed the man to cum anywhere else, he knew he would have to sit back and have his face more fully and slowly exposed in the light, risk being recognised by a Liverpool fan or, worse, an Everton lad. The nagging fear of that grew bizarrely alongside his own horny enjoyment, his own physical satisfaction interlocked with that terror.
Either as a result of Trent's skill or his own desperation, the lad was cumming soon -- it was thick and creamy against the roof of his mouth, explosive and wet, and his enjoyment was only diminished by the knowledge that he had to flee this scene as soon as it was over. He clamped his mouth around the bloke's shaft, tasting his salty delight and pulling furiously at his own hard-on where it jutted down the leg of his trackies, willing himself into uncomfortable orgasm and spurting his own manly seed in there in a sticky hidden mess. He licked and lapped at the anonymous cock as long as he could, remaining on his haunches there, feeling the guy pull back against the urinal divide, grasping and groaning and reaching again for his hat.
He pushed the hand away and tried to do it quickly: pulling his cum-sticky pout away from the still-throbbing rod and turning his face to the side, shuffling his knees away and making an upwards lunge, panting for air and still tasting the salty intensity of this stranger fill his mouth. But he wasn't quick enough, because one of those rough grasping hand's was on his beanie hat before he could get up, and it pulled loosely away from his tightly curled afro hair as he reeled back and turned sideways a little, hoping that in the dim flicker of the exposed strip light above he could-
`Trent,' rasped the other guy's voice, and his stomach lurched.
He whirled around, his cock chafing against his sticky load in the leg of his trackies and his knees sore from the hard dirty tiles of the lavatory floor. He coughed, feeling his mouth cloy with the remnants of the other guy's load, and he heard his noise barked once more by the voice of the other guy -- he was lurching for the door, desperate to drag it open and tumble out there into the night, leaving this risqué encounter where it belonged, in his fantasies and the shadows... `Trent!' barked the stranger a third time, less questioning than before, and he suddenly felt his hand on his sleeve, on the collar of his tracksuit top, pulling at him as he scrabbled for the door. He shoved an elbow backwards and looked over his shoulder, hating how bare and exposed his youthful face was now, but...
In the struggle, the lad's hood had fallen back, exposing the ruffled strands of his dark brown hair, shaggy on top but cropped close at the sides; a mask still covered much of his face but there was something instantly recognisable in his sharp features and the pale murky blue of his eyes, staring intently at him beneath the dim flickering. Trent stared back, both hands grasping at the door that led to his escape, as he heard his name rasped out more quietly for a fourth time by the other lad, who was younger than he'd imagined, surely about his own age, and... he was... he... was it... he looked a bit like...
`Fuck,' whispered the stranger he'd sucked off, still tugging at the material of his tracksuit top, pulling back at him with a wild and frightened look in his features where they showed; then letting go as if he'd had an electric shock, releasing Trent's clothes and taking a stagger backwards, wrenching at his own baggy hoody and trying to pull the hood back up to shadows his clear features.
`Jonjoe?' he asked breathlessly, watching as the hood came up and then, in comically wrong order, the panicked lad grabbed at his wilting erection and tried to force it away into his jeans. He saw the fresh panic in those blue eyes that confirmed his suspicion, even in these blurred recognition, and he wasn't sure if he was more scared or reassured by the mutual horror of the epiphany. Their eyes were locked for a moment but the moment was so awful in the jarring afterglow of cumming and he needed to be anywhere but here. He saw the lad shift forward as if to come for him again, still fastening up his flies, but he dragged on the door and burst out into the shadows as fast as he could, launching into a sprint in what he hoped was the right direction.
He'd just risked everything to suck off a stranger in a public place, idiot! And worse, not quite a stranger... so much worse... Trent, lifelong Liverpool fan and dedicated player at the only club he would ever want to represent, had just noshed off Jonjoe Kenny, parallel young right-back for Everton... the night before derby day. FUCK.
Liverpool had played well, had been so closely denied the 3-pointer, but there were three men in the Anfield showers who could not have been convinced of this by any commentator, pundit, coach. Three Liverpool players were dousing themselves down in the hot water, backs turned to their colleagues, lost in guilt and shame and, in one case, pain.
Andy twitched sensitively with every step, horrified by how damaged he felt by his first foray into giving up his arse. It had turned into a good night, even after the pair of them spunked on each other's six-packs and cuddled and kissed; half an hour later, recovering, Alex had bent over for him and he'd resumed his position as top dog, thrusting inside the stud until he spilled a second messy load right inside him and almost fell asleep on his top, remembering just in time to take his shower and escape to the car and drive home like a good husband, lingering kisses in the porch beforehand. But on the drive home he had struggled to sit comfortably, feeling so sore and tender from what they'd tried; the pain had resurfaced in the warm-up and throughout the match and though he'd done his best to defend against Everton's surprisingly effective attacks, he didn't feel himself at all. He needed to ask Alex -- or better yet, Trent -- for advice on how long this pain might last, and how he could soothe it! Though he knew Alex forgave him and wanted to fuck with him in whatever way he could cope with, he felt like a failure; he hadn't realised it would hurt quite so much to take a cock, or just how above-average his lover's equipment was. And undoubtedly the stabs of pain in his rear had got in the way of his defensive action today, had contributed to the resulting draw against Everton.
Across from him, Trent buried his face guiltily in soapy palms and still avoided looking at anyone else in the shower block, sure that his own moments of weakness or indecision had been a big factor in allowing Everton those goals. Everton! Every time he'd looked at one of the blue-kitted opposing players, he had pictured the blue-eyed face of Jonjoe Kenny staring at him across the toilet parks; had it REALLY been him? It was hard to say. He'd been briefly relieved when the match line-ups were announced and he remembered that the Scouse Everton defender was still recovering from some minor injury, unnamed on the squad of the day. But the night had been sleepless for Trent and he found that every Everton player who came into Liverpool's half of the pitch seemed to suddenly have Kenny's head on their shoulders, vivid daydreams of the chavvy randomer he'd stooped to blow in a risky public location like a complete reckless fool! He felt like a traitor to his club, a dirty idiot who had led an EVERTON player spunk in his gob... he may as well have got on his knees for every single one of those dirty Toffees like the stupid slut he was...! He'd hated Everton since he could remember kicking a ball, and now he'd... ugh!
And their captain stared vacantly into the roiling steam of the showers, back to the wall and hot water gushing down his spine and muscles, head tilted to one side, a regretful frown sagging from his handsome bearded face. How idiotic, he thought, to have got so little sleep; to have lingered in that apartment, slipping from brief naps to more kissing and playing, becoming more and more familiar with the contents of that other man's shorts. Wanking Neco off a second and third time, trying for a fourth even when his poor balls were empty and their dicks both hurt from over-use, until they laughed and ate ice cream and watched re-runs of a 90s comedy on a laptop in the teenager's bed, both suddenly too shy to look at each other or think about the hand- and blow-jobs that had stained the bedding beneath them with their salty cum. Jordan drifting home in the early hours of the morning, facing a confusing and much-deserved inquisition from his wife, resulting in him being late to meet the lads at the training ground and catching the coach here to the stadium... dazed from lack of sleep and struggling to focus on the big match against their local rivals. Staring at the substitute bench every now and then in the game, wishing Williams was sitting there cheering him on, then sighing guiltily into his fists and trying to concentrate on the game instead, unable to properly lead his teammates because he was so wrapped up in his nocturnal adventure.
Three players who had done their best to get Liverpool the draw and maintain the unbeaten home record -- but who left those showers questioning their secret life choices and the impact it might have on their profession, distracted and guilt-ridden by the sexual escapades that had stolen their focus on the night before a massive local derby. But when each of the three of them thought back to what had happened, the men they'd lain with or got on their knees for, the cocks they had touched or tasted, the hands on their own bodies... they knew they'd take the same risks again, and let their careers be damned. And that's what made all three of them so afraid and angry at themselves.