Part 194: Cum & Punishment
A quiet buzz of satisfaction filled the long bar of the Gateshead Hilton, looking out on the famous bridges over the Tyne: it was occupied entirely by the winning football team who had based themselves there for their Saturday night battle with the local hosts, a 4-1 comeback of fairly epic proportions, though not by the standards of this turbulent young season. The squad were not having the best run of games and their relief to be harvesting three points in the North East was palpable in the late evening charm of the hotel bar, spread with huddles and pairs as a round of beers bought by their satisfied manager were enjoyed glug after glug.
There was only one Manchester United player present here who was not in the mood for celebrating the result, though he would force a rueful grin for anyone who wanted to speak to him -- but not for long. Positioned a little away from the main sprawl of his colleagues, Luke Shaw was leaning one hand on the long wooden rail that met the curved windows staring out across the river at a misty dark Newcastle, an empty low-alcohol beer bottle in his other paw.
Was there any crime more humiliating for a Premiership defender than getting your name attached to an own goal? Only two minutes into tonight's game, Shaw had claimed his guilt in a goal given away to the other United, temporarily pitching the game as a doomed away trip and another dent to the Manchester team's once-great reputation. To Luke, it seemed largely irrelevant that things had been turned around, four of his teammates securing more legitimate goals and eventually smashing the local team into submission; his own sinful disaster in the defensive area was the defining moment of the game for him and was all he could think about tonight!
A hand brushed his upper back, stimulating his sensitive skin and muscle through the layers of his polo shirt and thin hooded jersey; its grip against him became firmer and quickly recognisable, make him arch and stoop a little at the coveted tenderness of Maguire's big hand sliding up towards the neck. The tactile gesture was a little much for this public spot even in a quiet corner of the bar and the momentary risk of that made Luke tingle and snigger and flash a strained grin at the taller man suddenly beside him on the edge of the room.
What's that, you fantasising about a night on the, er, toon?' jibed the tall United defender quietly, a man not without his own scandals and disappointments in recent weeks; but a man with a redeeming header goal tonight, something to silence the haters' after his summer shame and recent red card for the national team. `Hope you ain't still stewin'.'
Luke grimaced and shrugged the big hand from his neck where it was beginning to tickle the edge of his short-cropped air, scowling through his furry beard and brilliant white teeth. It's not that he didn't want to be stroked and tickled by Harry's long tough fingers, but he feared being watched judgmentally or suspiciously by some of their teammates or coaches, and he straightened up his posture (pardon the pun) to half-turn and watch the room warily as his secret lover squared up to him and loomed over him with his height and breadth.
Stewing,' he echoed irritably. I fucked up, man, I really fucked up.'
Yeah,' Harry said bluntly, you had a crappy moment, but...'
`Crappy is an understatement...!'
`I didn't mean that, I just -- you were unlucky, mate, and we WON, for fuck's sake, it's not like...'
`Yeah, no thanks to ME, mate, and...'
Come on, cheer up, let me get you another beer, Lukey, and-
Luke hated to be surly and daft with this special fella who knew him so intimately, but he wasn't in the mood for banal reassurances and patronising good humour, and he suddenly wanted to be out of the bar and away from the communally cheerful attitude. He began to move gently to the side but Harry was instantly snatching his wrist, and not gently. In his mood, the stern grip was obstructive and irritating, but as soon as he turned his head sharply and looked up into Harry's glowering face, it was also a little bit sexy. Maguire's strength and authority always struck him, no matter how many times he had been to bed with him now.
`Huh?' he mouthed.
Come on,' Harry growled, you need to loosen up...'
I don't deserve it,' Luke muttered, I was too shit, so...'
`Oh, don't you...?'
Just let me go and sulk,' Shaw grunted shamefully, suppressing a little sad smile at the persistence of his captain and lover, seeking him out so purposefully in a roomful of more cheerful faces and unwilling to let him stew on his own. I was so shit today and I fucked up and I...'
And you need... punished?' Harry asked in the same low gruff voice, only just loud enough for him to hear as his wrist was tugged on and the taller footballer leaned a bit closer to him. Is that it?'
Well,' Luke mumbled back, I was certainly shite, I really... I mean, I dunno if I'll get played for a couple of games after a fuck-up like that, so...'
I didn't mean punished by your manager,' Maguire said slowly and meaningfully, a smirk twisting his lips and a fiery little light in his dark eyes as he towered there beside him, his grip becoming almost painfully tight around Luke's forearm, it might need to be your captain first...'
Luke tried to pull his arm away, stifling a silly laugh at Harry's remark, rolling his eyes and -- but the grip was too tight, Harry really holding him tightly and pressing a little closer, dangerously close really given that anyone in the room could glance this way and see them framed against the Newcastle skyline beyond the windows. `Harry...!' he hissed with a nervous giggle to his voice.
I think you do need a punishment,' the big Sheffield bloke said, a little more loudly, a special kinda punishment...' A simple tug from him spun Luke around a little, back to the windows, and finally the grip ceased (he imagined red marks on his wrist and forearm where the bigger man's hand had clutched him) and the same hand was smacking firmly into his arse where his soft sweatpants clung to its muscular curve, unseen by the room. `You've been a bad boy, scoring that own goal.' His deep voice rumbled into Luke's ear, close by.
Harry,' he sniggered again, rubbing his own sore wrist, anyone might...'
So get out of here,' grunted the United captain, so I can smack your bottom properly.'
He suppressed the giddy laughter that swelled up at this dirty talk solution to his gloomy shame, amused and distracted by Maguire's spin on his night of disaster; after all, Harry himself had been moody and distant since Mykonos, even after being rescued from that ordeal by Luke himself, so it was a bit of a relief to find him playful and interested, even in this almost sinister manner! He glanced sidelong at him, unsure how seriously to take the joke, then nodded his head, calling his bluff. Alright,' he replied as calmly as he could muster, if that's what daddy wants?' He smirked at the silly sexual nickname, their ages so close and his own blond twink days diminished by his rugged beard and close-shaven head.
It's what captain needs,' Harry said. His voice, excitingly, was almost a snarl. So get a wriggle on.'
Luke felt a flash of deference to the tall brooding figure of the dark-haired defender, pulling fully free of his bigger body, holding his wrist and smiling his puzzlement at the excitement figure of Harry and his beery breath, high on the redemption of his 23rd minute goal, the equaliser that had corrected his own mistake. Afterwards, Maguire had roared towards him on the pitch to celebrate first, a gesture that had briefly cut through his self-loathing and disappointment, and an image that returned to him now as he backed off and put his empty bottle down on a nearby table, snaking out of the room without drawing close to any of the group tables and catching the attention of the other dressed-down United men who were reliving every detail of the 4-1 comeback. At the archway into reception, he looked over his shoulder and saw Harry advancing behind him, slowly but assertively. Oh, yes.
Across reception and into the lifts. His late evening low was not exactly dissolved but it was shunted aside; all he could think about was the firm feel of Harry's hand on his arm and that brief slapping squeeze of his bottom, the menacing look on the skipper's face, and... he looked over his shoulder again on the way into the lift and saw the 27-year-old brute of a centre-back march rapidly across the lofty foyer like an avenging Terminator. And then, with a slow drawl of breath, he was in the lift with him, punching the doors closed' button with one long digit, then grabbing the lapels of Luke's hoody and shoving him into the side of the lift chamber. Oh...!'
He felt his back forced against the silvery wall, his feet imbalanced by the push, and he angled his face upwards, seeking the much-needed kiss but getting just tickling hot beer breath against his lips and beard hair; Harry leaning his face down to his but holding it an inch away, denying him lips on lips, just pushing him hard into the wall and sighing at his mouth. `You think you get a kiss after that own goal?' Harry muttered darkly and he sniggered awkwardly with a mixture of shame and arousal.
`Please,' he whispered, part playful and part utterly desperate.
`Hmmm...'
As Harry held him there, the lift clicked and whooshed between the floors of the squat riverside hotel, then ping, fourth floor. Just in case the doors opened on a witness, Harry was releasing him and pulling back and Luke was scrabbling at the hoody and the collar of his white polo shirt, coughing out some awkwardness and wondering where his Adidas face-mask was tonight. But the corridor beyond the sliding metallic doors was empty and so immediately Harry was pulling at his sleeve and leading the way, out and around the corner and towards their shared room at the far end. Luke sniggered again, a softly swelling semi developing in his fresh black CKs, unsure what Maguire actually had in mind...
In the bedroom, he got a blunt push in the lower back while Harry shoved the door shut, making him gasp and laugh breathlessly, then steady himself against the wardrobe before scuttling into the centre of the room. He was about to speak, to say something flirty and (hopefully) witty, when his order was barked at him: Get the kit off then, Shaw.' None of the slowly developing tenderness was there in Harry's voice tonight, it was all the brusqueness and conflict of their earlier encounters -- a fact that both stung him with the remembrance of harder times and fizzled him sexual tension. He gawped at Harry for a moment as a result of these mixed feelings but then the command came again: Strip naked for you captain, Own Goal, get that sexy body out.'
Luke shrugged the hoody off in seconds, fixating on a rushed strip, Harry disappearing from view as he did so. Off came the polo shirt, catching about his neck and chin since he'd hurried too much to undo the buttons at the neck. But with a drag and a wriggle it was off and his thick sturdy torso was out, he wishing that Harry's big hands would grab and hold at it but no such contact coming yet. Throwing the tops down on the carpet, he turned to look at Harry, disappearing around the far side of the beds and over to his own luggage, but -- Turn around, lad.' He laughed and did so, pulling rapidly on the tied drawstring at the front of his sweatpants while he kicked and fought his feet out of trainers and then tube socks. Down went to the sweatpants and then he grabbed at the branded waistband of his Calvin Kleins, unsure if he was supposed to be naked or just nearly... Harry...?'
Just as it had in his face, Harry's hot breath now tickled at the nape of his neck and made him shiver and press gently backwards with his own 6ft2 frame... those strong hands were on his upper hands after all, stroking down his biceps and past his elbows and then... a little click and brush and cool metal, and... were those... HANDCUFFS? `Oh...! Harry...?' He tried to right himself and half-turn but the hands held him in place and he felt his wrists brought firmly together, another firm click... he heard a long raspy sigh from his captain and then the hands were on the waist of his undies doing that for him, since his hands were now cuffed tightly behind him. He stared down his front at the sudden exposure of his soft semi and low furry balls, and the thick fluffy thighs beyond.
Harry, this is new,' he breathed, stepping obediently out of the dropped black designer undies, then trying again to turn... thwack! Oh...!' THWACK. The second and third spanks on his bared bottom made his chubby cheeks judder and ripple and he let out a yelping little laugh of pained delight. `Harry,' he gasped.
`Call me captain tonight.'
`Oh, captain...'
A fourth heavy slap on the bottom that send him a few steps forward, giggling stupidly at the way this was developing. Then just as he was about to turn, the cuffs at his wrists were grabbed and yanked backwards, pulling his body back in against Harry's fully clothed body. He thought he was about to be cuddled and held in a reassuring way but no, he was dragged backwards and then pushed heavily aside, tumbling onto one of the double beds. He laughed and sucked in breaths, rolling and wriggling, pulling his head up a little and staring over his bare body just as he saw the two dark thongs in Harry's hands, his big brutish lover not even bothering to look at him before snatching one of his thick hairy ankles and strapping it to the bedpost. He kicked playfully at this measure but felt his leg pulled firmly into obedience and then the thong tightened. When Harry had done the other too, his legs were parted at a wide angle and his hands pinned numbly behind his lower back, keeping him trapped on his back, his dick lifting slowly into erection from his scruffy short pubes.
Harry now stood at the foot of the bed, smirking at him. `How's that?' he grunted.
Errrr... limiting...? Harry! Where did you even get these?' His head kept dropping back against the bed, struggling to lift his neck and shoulders with his body trapped and bound in this way. When he next managed to crunch his core and lift his torso a little in a sit-up, he realised that Maguire was retreating backwards from the bed, still leering at him with a menacing quiet, a hotel room keycard clutched in one of his massive hands. Luke gawped his way, began to mouth the question, but the door was opening and he was gone. The door shut and its gentle slam drowned out his What the fuck?'
Luke Shaw lay there for about five minutes before he risked a tremulous `Harry? Mate? Captain...?' aloud, to which there came no answer. It turned out the United skipper was NOT just hovering in the corridor outside of the door, winding him up with this little taste of bondage! No, he was actually abandoned here, strapped to the bed with his hands cuffed and his clothes in a heap far beyond his reach. Had Maguire even locked the door?
It was another five minutes, perhaps longer, before he even bothered pulling at his leg muscles and testing the strength of the leather straps that kept his feet against the posts and rail. Another few minutes before he wriggled more and tried to shift his arms and wrists, failing. He really was stuck in this position, his dick wavering idly between flaccid and stiff, and nobody here to play with him...! So Harry had abandoned him to have another beer with the guys, letting him sulk alone in this imprisoned state, forced to wait untouched and crave his away trip treat... the cheeky fucker!
It was five minutes more before he began to feel really frustrated by this, not just from physical discomfort but from the stretching timelessness of his imprisonment. He didn't know if he'd been lying here naked and restricted for five minutes, fifteen minutes, or over an hour. It felt like the latter. He was both amused and annoyed, excited and fed up. When he heard the footsteps in the hotel corridor outside, he braced himself for a witty remark or dismissive review of the game, hearing the steps cease at the door and then the twist of a handle -- but not the click of a lock, the bastard had actually left him totally vulnerable like this!
Someone was coming into the room, but he sensed immediately that it wasn't Maguire. (Did he really know that man's pace and sounds so well?!) He turned his head but couldn't quite see the guy sloping about the edges of the hotel room and towards the bed, not for a few moments, but he was tall and... oh, it was... Scott,' he breathed, the squad's other beanpole northerner looming into view above him, grinning ear to ear across his long freckled face. Scott, you bugger, what are you...? Give us a hand, will you, and get my...'
`Skipper says you need to be punished,' breathed Scott McTominay, the Lancaster-born Scotland player and towering Manchester midfielder. He leered down with a look of almost goofy excitement, eyes bright and tongue flicking excitedly across his lower lip. Luke stared back at him, sensing that no rescue was imminent, and feeling a little throb of understanding and excitement in his cock and balls, wishing a hand was free to reach for them.
Standing over him, Scott now did just that. The tall 23-year-old reached one long arm over and stroke Luke's semi, instantly prickling it with energy and excitement; Luke stared awkwardly down his own broad faintly hairy chest and watched his fat cock lifted against the pale hand of the midfielder. Oh cheers,' he murmured, bit itchy down there...'
Bet you are,' said Scott coolly, teasing and pulling his member and standing aloof, other hand fiddling vaguely with himself in the front of his tracksuit bottoms, sniggering a bit. Bet that feels good...?'
It really bloody did. Luke had been lying here in a state of prolonged and neglected excitement for what felt at least an hour, and now the big pale hand of the honorary Scotsman was nudging and fondling his prick in slow gentle movements, frustratingly slow and irritatingly gentle in fact. It didn't pick up any pace or get any firmer, it just teased and played and idled, and he let out several huffing breaths of urgent lust. Come on,' he said, bit more than that please, you can see I don't have a hand free myself...'
Leaning over the bed a little, McTominay smirked at him. `Captain's orders.'
Luke gritted his teeth and huffed at the tall handsome figure of the younger lad, gently fondling him like this and playing whatever amusing role in Maguire's planned `punishment'. Luke could feel his cock getting harder, and as it did, the softness and almost disinterest of Scott's touch seemed to fade more until he was barely brushing it with fingers or palm, just leaving the tall veiny erection to stand at its respectable length and impressive thickness, rising away from his body. And then McTominay stopped touching it altogether and just rubbed himself in his trackies.
`You can't,' Luke protested simply, watching his own cock throb.
Harry doesn't want you blowing that load,' the 23-year-old told him simply. And I don't think you have much choice but following orders tonight, do you...? Now... captain thought you might enjoy this in the meantime...' And out it came, this other young stud's hard-on, whipped from his trackies and tugged a few times in his own grip, then brought close and thrust down towards his waiting face; Luke's lips parted instinctively and he couldn't help but crane his head forward and to the side to meet it, pushing his tongue against the red tip of the long Lancastrian tool.
It was not the best blowjob Luke had given in almost a year of increasingly confident experience, given the angle and the restraints on his body, but still -- he rose to the challenge. It excited him to imagine the plan unfolding: the way Maguire must have approached McTominay discreetly in the bar, or caught him in passing, and whispered to him that the team's failed defender was tied up and awaiting his punishments for an own goal. The disaster itself, in Luke's feverish arousal, was becoming part of the fantasy itself, an exciting excuse for kink rather than a career-ending fuck-up that would haunt him for the rest of the season. He sucked lavishly on the big bright youngster's long firm member, in some way sucking Harry off by proxy, understanding the nature of his torment.
Every now and then Scott would touch his dick again, but briefly and so softly, just enough to keep it tingling hard and upright, then abandoning it again; leaning more fully over onto the bed so Luke could take more of his length into his hungry mouth and slaver against it with his wet tongue, moaning pathetically at the intermittent stimulation he was getting and wriggling his thick shoulders in vain attempts to release his arms. He was being punished and loving every second of it.
And then even that pleasure, the satisfaction of another tall footballer's hard prick in his gob, was taken for him, leaving his head and mouth reaching that way -- but Scott was stood squarely at the side of the double bed jerking himself off, deliberately making no real contact with the captain's prisoner. All Luke could do was lie there, watching as the fully clothed sportsman wanked over him and, after an agonising couple of minutes, exploded with cum that arced and dribbled over his soft abs and the spread of his hairy thighs and flecked lightly at his sensitive hard-on. A long sigh of completion from the Scotland player, a shake of his still rigid meat. `That felt good, haha,' sighed the less experienced man, whose mouth Luke had one fucked in a Spanish training camp when a dodgy bet had first dragged McTominay into the sexy underbelly of the club.
And now, without another word, just long weary breaths and affectionate chuckles, he was withdrawing, piling away his spent dick, leaving Luke imprisoned and spattered with his load. `Mate,' Shaw gasped frustratedly, but too late; the gentle thud of the closing door (UNLOCKED!) and alone once more in the hotel room, unable to do more than wriggle and huff and grit his teeth and feel the spunk cool and dry on his warm trembling flesh.
How long before the second visitor? Luke couldn't even say with confidence how long McTominay was in the room with him, it might have been fleeting and the big lad might have spunked rapidly, or it might have been up to an hour?! How late was the hotel bar even open, surely it was past 10pm now and the curfew was in place? Had Ole sweet-talked some night manager and ensured a little more liquid comfort for his fragile winning team?
This time he was sure the footsteps in the hallway would be Harry, but again when the door opened he could tell from some rustle of fabric or shifting of weight or just smell that it wasn't his boyfriend but another of the United squad. Still, Bruno Fernandes long crooked features still surprised him a little, and the playful smirk on the Portuguese star's face gave him a fresh little thrill. On his way to the bed he'd stooped to pick something up, but Luke didn't see what it was at first. He grinned and flashed his pretty eyes at the second visitor, began to speak -- Bruno! How nice of you to drop in, you wouldn't mind just- -- but then his own black CKs were being thrust into his open mouth as a cloth gag or a rather extreme pandemic precaution.
He heard the wheezy Portuguese snigger of the tall midfielder, the 26-year-old Latino who had contributed another of the four winning goals, and who would be stepping in as captain on the midweek European match now that Harry had been offered a rest by the bosses. Luke was startled by his presence and the heavy curious touch of his hand on his knee and thigh and tummy; Bruno did the opposite of Scott, touched him quite firmly, but heavily avoided the monument of his crotch, muttering under his breath in his own language.
Had Fernandes ever touched a dick? Luke wasn't sure. He was only dimly aware that he and the other Portuguese playboy of the team, Diago Dalot, had been present during the prank bukkake of McTominay, but he had no idea how fluid or experimental the new United hero actually was, especially now that his fellow Portuguese man was away on loan and whatever mutual wanks he fantasised had occurred in their hotel rooms were off-limits. But here the tall dark midfielder was, touching up his chest muscles and his tummy and his inner legs, tracing the sticky remains of McTominay's load with one pointing finger. Luke watched but uncomfortably, his mouth still stuffed with his own underpants, the only noise he could make little snorts of his flared nostrils.
Then he felt the long tough fingers of that exploring hand slide more firmly down the inside of his thigh and -- ohhhh! -- tickle into the crease between, pushing against the fluffy lines where his buttocks clenched despite the enforced spreading of his thick defender's legs. Luke tensed a little against the bed but his dick, rock hard and upright, quivered with fresh attention. In between the chubby crease went Bruno's finger and he looked over his mouthful of CKs to see the dirty leer on that tanned bearded face, heard more dirty murmurings in Iberian tongue he couldn't understand as -- ohhhh -- he got a rough few prods of finger into the tight warmth of his buttocks. There was something excitingly unpractised and experimental about the way Bruno did it, as if he was as naïve and untested in man-on-man fun as Luke suspected, had never done anything but jizz on McTominay that day when so many of them were crammed into one shower-room in Spain.
It was graceless and rough, but exciting. Luke tried to spread and relax his legs and cheeks more, letting Fernandes poke and prod at his crack and his neglected ring for a while, then feeling his hand brush his sensitive ball-sack as it retreated, still not reaching for his aching cock at all, but patting him gently on the tummy inches above it instead, and then... aha, yes, just like Scott... out came the cock, thick and sandy brown and with a lot of foreskin, which pulled back and revealed the crimson bulb that now thrust at his parched lips. For the second time tonight, Luke craned his head to the side and serviced Harry's envoy: clumsily lapping at another guest cock sent up here by his lord and master. He gave up struggling at the cuffs or ankle-straps and enjoyed the extra sensitivity this submission gave him, his cock absolutely throbbing and trembling as he licked and kissed Bruno's tanned bone.
At least this time, with his second visitor to the room, he got the mouthful he craved. Bruno did some of the work, jerking at the base of his quite long and curved scimitar, but Luke knew his full lips, tickling beard-hair and talented tongue were mainly responsible. The cum that oozed over his mouth and slicked across his lips was intensely salty like seawater and made him both grimace at the strong flavour and thrill at the dirty pleasure. Above him, another tall stud was sighing and gently chuckling and muttering a breathy thank you to the absent captain. This time, Luke didn't bother trying to say or ask or joke anything, just lay back gasping on the bed he couldn't leave, listening to Bruno's retreating steps and the shutting of the door.
He recognised Dan James' arrival without needing to see him. Perhaps it was the sprightly lighter footwork of the hurried 22-year-old, or his rapid excitable breathing, or the faintly familiar scent of his trademark aftershave. The gap between visitors seemed longer but could really have been a minute, Luke was so dazed by the thrill of Bruno's visit; he lolled his head and watched the Wales national approach the bed, fingering at the zip of his tracksuit top and sucking at his teeth, eyes lighting up at the buffet spread in front of him of Luke's bare bound body.
Luke tried a `hullo' but his mouth was full of his own undies. He saw Dan stare conflictedly at him, perhaps wanting to remove the opportune gag, but resisting. Again Luke could imagine the instructions from a stern-faced Harry, who he knew both intimidated and aroused the nervous bottom bitch who both of them had entered in the past.
Dan wasted no time in leaning down and kissing him on the tummy, just above the belly button. The sensation made Luke writhe with ticklish pleasure, laughing awkwardly into the mouthful of cotton that he could not spit aside no matter how he tried. He felt Dan's soft lips and the tickling brush of his unshaven chin, boyish bumfluff on that twink's features, rove across his midriff and briefly up his chest... and then his nipples were getting a feverish licking, thirty seconds on one and then thirty on the other...! If Luke's thick hard-on had wilted at some point during his suck-job on a Portuguese sausage, it returned to full mast now, skilfully brought to attention by the speedy young player.
When Dan touched his cock, it was with brushing fingertips so teasing and insubstantial that it made McTominay's earlier efforts seem ham-fisted and generous. James could fondle and caress his balls and his erection like a feather, so delicate despite his youthful excitement. And simultaneously planting kisses around his pelvis and his hips and the tops of his thighs, making him shudder and writhe and breathe heavily into his makeshift gag.
Luke grunted noisily into this, pushing up a little with his crotch and hoping Dan's mouth would move from his body to his erection. But no such luck. He knew how soft and delicious Dan's mouth could be, remembered it on his member in the early days of their experimenting, and in the brief spate of intimate fucking at the end of lockdown when he had discovered how much he liked to be a confident top away from his captain -- a rugged role that seemed silly and distant now he was cuffed on a bed being tormented by anyone Maguire could find to play along...!
The nearest this encounter came to a blowjob was an agonising couple of minutes where Dan let his nose, and not his lips, brush at his bollocks while he kissed him on the insides of his thighs, one hand tickling down his hairy shin and towards his strapped ankle. Luke lay his head back on the bed, staring at the ceiling; he heard the rustle of nylon and the creak of zips. Dan, excited as he was, wasn't even claiming the blowjob Luke would gladly and appreciatively have given. He didn't need to twist his head to see that the short youthful winger was jerking off beside him just looking at him. Luke imagined himself through Dan's admiring eyes -- the attention of these Manchester teammates was certainly doing a lot to erase the fat-shaming and self-esteem issues of a few years ago. But right now it was Luke's aching neglected hard-on that drove him insane and made him whine with frustration as he listened to Dan's throaty excitement and rapid climax, more fresh hot spunk dropping on his shin, his knee, his thigh.
Sorry Luke,' Dan murmured, just out of sight, Harry told me not to touch you. Said you'd go off like a rocket if I did. I think he's right!' Shaw could only make a muffled whimper of protest or disagreement, answered with a nervous little huff of laughter. `This is so fucking kinky. God. I wanna stay and see what he does to you!' But as he had clearly been instructed, he didn't; he shuffled and hurried away and Luke was alone again, used and abused by three teammates in a row and aching with hellish anticipation for the main event.
When Harry Maguire did enter the room, Luke thought how distinctive the stomp of his feet was, and the rich scent of his approaching body. He turned his head and stared lazily up at him, fixing him with excitedly accusing eyes, seeing the drunken sheen to his captain's big blocky face as it stared down at him. He was still fully dressed and he had that sight tipsy glaze to his eyes that said yep, the curfew had been ignored and at least some of the United men had occupied the bar for far longer than lockdown rules allowed -- but here he was, back in the room, towering over Luke, who had lain in a fugue of sexual pique since Dan James hurried out.
How are you doin' in here?' Maguire muttered at him, a tipsy slur to his voice. Luke didn't even try to answer, sick of trying to speak through the CKs. A dark heavy peal of laughter. Y'know... didn't even tell the bugger to gag you but... that's brilliant. Fuck. You sexy bastard, Luke. I can see cum in your beard, you slut. And down your leg. Fuck.' Luke grunted into his mouthful, so turned on by Maguire's dirty talk that he thought his prick might actually explode now. `Love to see you like this, my dirty boy, punished and patient. Waiting for ME.'
Yes, waiting for YOU, Luke thought, wanting the straps to be ripped from his ankles and his arse to be fucked with all Maguire's magnificence tonight! He whined quietly into his gag and shuffled his body again, testing the limited movement his position allowed, failing to gain an inch. Harry laughed again, a softer sound now; footsteps as he moved more fully into view at the foot of the bed. Luke hoped for a fragile moment that he was leaning down and forward to untie his bare feet from where they were strapped, but no... Harry stooped with one hand sliding up each shin, tickling over his hair and then his knee and onto his thighs, and...
In another moment of false hope, Luke thought Harry's face was coming down into his crotch, but it fell short. Strong hands parted his thighs more fully and the feeble efforts of Bruno's single finger were forgotten. Luke's legs were lifted and parted and Harry's big face dipped lower beneath the silhouette of his own painful erection. Luke felt his nose press into his sack and his tongue dart into his crack and his back arched on the bed. He was strapped in and silenced and a rimming from his man had NEVER FELT SO GOOD. Not that a good arse-licking from Harry didn't utterly melt him every time even as it was, but right now, tied down like this and so so desperate for release, well... wow... oh... fuck... jesus... this was... heaven? Hell? Purgatory?
For about four minutes, the 25-year-old Kingston boy writhed and twitched and panted in his bondage, his cheeks and crack licked and lubricated by the long muscular tongue of the hottest man he'd ever seen. And then it stopped and he knew what must surely follow. But the heavy grunts and the thick presence of that monster cock did not replace the wet tonguing. He opened his bleary eyes and stared at Harry, stood silently over the bed wiping his mouth on the back of one hand. Luke tried to question him with his own blue eyes, but the gutting explanation cam in a breathy whisper: Got to go back out now, lad. De Gea knows a great brothel just a few streets away, handful of us are popping over incognito. Geordie hookers are cheap, we'll buy their silence easy. Wait here, will ya, while I fuck some local talent...?' Luke's wide eyes and flared nostrils must have spoken loudly of his horror, because his captain smirked menacingly down at him, lost in the roleplay: I knew you'd be cool with that. Don't go anywhere. We aren't finished.'
In the couple of hours that had passed between Harry's slow stomping exit and the reopening of the bedroom door, Luke must have flickered in and out of a kind of half-sleep, his dick rising and falling constantly as his unsatisfied erection plagued him. Every time it wilted and drooped, the thought of his own imprisonment and of the way the men had entered and exited the farce of sexual delight just drove him mad and then his shaft was standing up like a flagpole all over again. Halfway through the time of Maguire's brothel-visiting absence he started impotently struggling against the cuffs and straps again, but by the time Harry was back in the room, he was weary and defeated and just slumped back in his nakedness, the prospect of sexual release seeming impossible and forgotten.
But then he was watching Maguire strip off through half-open eyes, seeing the slow reveal of his sweaty body as if in a dream of erotica. The tugging off of a tshirt and jacket and the pushing down of jeans and underpants, the little telltake streaks of dark lipstick staining one pec muscle and the side of his neck, the grimy sheen of his loosed cock -- how deep inside a cunt had it been just minutes ago, he wondered hungrily? When Harry climbed naked onto the bed and lay on top of him, he stunk now of cheap feminine perfume and whiskey as well as the earlier tell-tale beer and aftershave. Luke lay weakly still and sighed into his mouthful of underpants as Harry's heavy form covered and held him, hot and clammy over him, sighing into his ear.
`You waited for me,' groaned Harry stupidly into his hearing. He couldn't tell if it was a joke or forgetfulness, but his indecision was brushed aside as Harry pushed his mouth into the crook of his neck and began to kiss him there, lips and tongue slapping wetly against sensitive skin and roving from neck to shoulder and back again. Luke's dick went up like a flagpole and brushed at one of Harry's thighs, or between both of them. He whimpered and -- FINALLY -- the gag was pulled aside. Harry's fingers brushed and played over his dry lips and then the man's face hung over his, staring into his eyes.
You've been so good,' Maguire told him with the same debauched casualness. Such a good lad.'
Harry,' he pleaded faintly, this is insane, I think my nob is gonna drop off if you don't-`
Shhhhhhhh...' A single long finger placed across his lips to silence his complaint. Shush boy. Punishment almost over.' Harry's big foolish grin in front of his face, heavy breaths tickling his mouth, once again tantalising him with a kiss that didn't come. The weight and feel of him alone was exciting and arousing and also crushingly unsatisfying. Luke wanted to hold him and touch him and kiss him, not lie here so close yet so far, trapped beneath him but unable to... to... to anything!
You shoulda been there,' Maguire muttered into his ear, and for a second Shaw really did think he was so drunk and stupid that he'd forgotten what he'd done to him, trapping him here and teasing him all through the night...! But no, his dirty talk revealed his cruel foreplay... It was so dirty, Luke, you'd have loved it... seeing De Gea fuck his third whore in a row, y'know, what a rough bastard that Spaniard is... bet he'd shag you hard, if we could turn him, hehe... and god, that new lad, Donny... not as innocent as he looks, I tell ya... you should see what HE'S packing... the squeals from her when he was.. hehe... but I fucked a couple hard myself, y'know, really deep and hard, made them cum... made them scream... made them beg... but...' His lips brushed Luke's earlobe damply then pulled down to kiss him noisily on the cheek. `I didn't cum in any of those cheap sluts, Lukey. Saved my big balls all for you. You gonna lick my dick clean before I put it in you?'
`Dear god yes,' Shaw whimpered, utterly bewildered with sleepy lust.
Up Harry went, up onto his knees and shuffling forward. He hovered over Luke's collarbone, one big hairy thigh on either side of him, that big prick angling down towards his face. Luke opened wide to take it, gagging a little at the unorthodox angle as his favourite meal was pressed in between his lips, tasting of cunt and lube. He licked it, sucked it, cleaned it good. Harry loomed over him, resting hands on the headboard as he pushed his long monster in and draped his sweaty balls over Luke's ticklish bearded chin. Luke just swirled his tongue and mouth against the dick, enjoying the filth of it, unsure how accurate or true Harry's narrative was but loving the thought of it, loving that one or more local hookers might have been ploughed by this weapon but now it was all for him... ohhhh YES...
When Maguire prepared to fuck him, his ankles were released but his wrists were not. He hadn't even realised how tight or sore the straps had become, yanked closer by his own struggling, but his feet and legs throbbed with weird dull pain once freed. His legs were lifted, Harry's hands replacing the leather about his ankles, moving into position. Luke's hands still bound behind his back, all he could do was smile with giddy anticipation, staring up his chest and tummy as his body was lifted and positioned and then... oh there it was, the push of that thick rod between his plump cheeks, edging into him... his arse seemed to have been twitching expectantly for HOURS and the feel of entry had never been so INTENSE for him...
Luke had never felt so passive or powerless in a fuck, though Harry was always so overwhelming and strong. But he couldn't reach out with his arms, hold him or grip him, he just had to lie there with his legs and the air and become a human toy to the thrusts and strokes of the beast, and it felt incredible. He let the blurring images of the three other visitors drift in his mind in between staring up at Maguire's broad chest, pointed nipples, the rivulets of sweat coursing down the centre of his abdomen. He pictured eager goofy McTominay; sleazy experimental Fernandes; excitedly apologetic James. But he also pushed away the memory of their visits as if not entirely convinced it had even happened -- nothing seemed real except the hugeness of Maguire's dick pushing repeatedly inside him in long slow shoves.
He was vaguely aware that hands-free orgasm was a thing, had heard it joked about, but he couldn't quite believe the body-shaking sensations that ran through his entire heavy physique when his dick spurted its load out against Harry's torso in silvery flashes and smears, despite neither of them putting a hand to his swaying erection. Luke gasped wordlessly into the air and rocked with the final few thrusts of Harry's big body. Down he came, body to body, into missionary position, slapping their mouths together in the kiss Luke had been powerlessly chasing since the elevator. As they kissed and grinded together, Harry's arms followed his behind his back and, AT LAST, clicked open the cuffs with a metallic scrape. Instantly, Luke wrenched his aching arms to the sides and threw them around the endless plateau of his lover's back, holding onto him as he was humped and fucked and pounded for a few minutes more, lips locked and eyes squeezed shut -- Harry came inside him with a thunderous growl in his face and then they lay just like that, holding each other tightly, until sleep claimed them both at the same time.
In the morning, Luke woke first, or dragged himself out of bed first. It was with some difficulty and reluctance that he pulled his face away from its favourite resting place in the centre of Harry's chest, unfolding a long heavy arm from about himself and rolling out of the sweaty bedding onto his feet, arse naked and shivering in the chilly Tyneside morning.
He padded to the windows and opened their thin curtains, confident in the anonymity of his nudity since no buildings looked in on the elevated riverside hotel. He grinned at the view of Newcastle, St James' Park cathedral-like in the early morning skyline. He saw it and thought not of his own mistake but of the 4-1 outcome and the old-time dominance his side had eventually shown. And he knew he was part of that outcome in more ways than the foolish own goal, he had made one mistake but he had fought hard to make sure his stupidity was the only goal Newcastle were allowed.
He closed the curtains again and moved back to the bed, throwing himself down on his front and stretching out alongside the sleepy giant of his lover, who immediately folded that same arm about his head and neck to pull him into a musty cuddle. Oi,' Harry groaned, not opening his eyes, I ain't heard our alarms go yet.'
Any minute now,' Luke warmed him in through a yawn, stroking his chest and playing his fingers over a fine chain and crucifix there. So don't get too comfortable, H.'
`Ugh. All I want for breakfast is your arse.'
Well I've heard it tastes much better than Weetabix,' he mused, staring at Harry's ruggedly beautiful face beside him, thinking excitedly of last night and the agonisingly long edging that he'd experienced throughout the night. That was insane,' he concluded quietly. `Is this going to happen every time I score an own goal...?'
Maguire opened one eye. `Every time...?'
Joking,' Luke tittered. But thanks for my... punishment? It was... wow. I dunno what to say. I, er, never thought I'd enjoy being...' He struggled for precision. `Tied up? Erm. Hah. That was... something else. You dirty bastard, Harry. I knew you were a bit overexcited when you told me about tying up Kane, you pervert. How long have you been hiding those cuffs in your kitbag...?'
Harry turned his face to his and opened both eyes a little, a smirk curling the edges of his mouth. I like to surprise you, Luke. And distract you when you're beating yourself up, you bell-end.' He pursed his lips and Luke leaned in to complete the kiss. You never need punishing, you're perfect,' Harry told him in a gruff breathy contrast to the dirty talk and dominance of last night. `But you do look fucking sexy strapped to a bed. Waiting for me. Begging for me. Hehe.' Luke grinned happily as the sleepy beast rolled over and held him properly. They kissed again.
`I did let the team down though, didn't I?' he sighed.
You gave those fools false hope,' Harry corrected him. And I fixed it twenty minutes later. You think I'd ever let you struggle? I'd have broken every leg on their team if I needed to after I saw you fuck up and suffer like that. Luke. I'm always gonna protect you.' Another kiss, sloppy and lingering. `Now... do I have time for your sexy arse for breakfast, or is Weetabix gonna have to do...?'
Somewhere close by, their two mobile phones buzzed and thrummed and bleated in unison, signalling the beginning of the day's tightly managed schedule and the start of the journey back to Manchester fresh from last night's win. A day off before training resumed tomorrow, but one that would be dominated by their other halves and their precious family commitments. They eyed each other and laughed quietly, then kissed again, enjoying a final moment of togetherness before they had to separate, shower, behave. Luke relished the taste of his lover's mouth and the memories of his punishments in this bed, unsure he'd ever experience a fuck that intense again for the rest of his life.