Part 197: A Saturday Off
Stormy clouds brewed over the autumn colours of the land that swept back and a tinny detached voice announced their approach to the impending next station. The Saturday afternoon train was pretty quiet, thankfully, not too many passengers on board -- and the small Bedfordshire station they were wheezing into looked similarly deserted, proving this plan quite successful for now. They had agreed that London stations would be a little too attention-grabbing for them, and he had decided against driving his car down since an afternoon of beers lurked promisingly ahead, hence rattling into this discreet country town instead of the city beyond the green and brown horizon.
Still, Ross Barkley felt himself shrink into the comfortable chair, tapping his knuckles together on the thin table of the empty booth, glancing nervously out of the window onto the quiet platform; even in the black Nike mask that hid half of his face and the beanie hat pulled low, he feared recognition for reasons he couldn't quite put into words. He was just travelling down from Birmingham to the North London suburbs to visit a mate, that's all, just a few casual beers on a Saturday off, yeh.
The well-built scouser braced himself against these silly tremors of paranoia, clambering up out of the chair and grabbing his light anorak from the luggage rack above to pull on over his sweatshirt, unconsciously adjusting his package in the charcoal skinny jeans that clung to his legs and other assets. The 6ft2 man glanced up and down the quiet carriage -- just an elderly couple gathering their things, a small noisy family at the far end, a solitary serious-looking woman his own age who was lost in a book -- and then zipped up his waterproof before making his way to the doors and hopping down onto the faded sandstone of the platform.
For a moment or two he glanced about this part of the station, realising that he'd half-expected his friend to be awaiting him here, then suddenly feeling how silly and odd that was, it wasn't like he was turning up for some romantic weekend away...! And when he was ducking about and pulling his hat lower, why would he want his fellow famous Premiership bloke to be stood awaiting him under the eaves of this cutesy rural station. Dismissing the thought, Barkley pulled his hands into the pockets of his dark blue anorak and shuffled through the quiet milling on and off the train, sliding his card ticket into the machine to let him out into the small ticket office and then through into the almost deserted little car park beyond.
There he was. Well, there was his car. Ross made a quiet beeline for it, keen to be away from even the limited human traffic of this small nowhere station. He was halfway towards the big flashy BMW and its personalised registration plate before the driver's door was opening and the other bloke was looming out to meet him; with the same nervous energy that had made his buttocks clench when the train slowed and arrived, Ross looked at the numberplate `3R1C D13R' and cringed a little at the thought of people seeing them meeting here and asking questions.
The other footballer left his door open as he took a couple of steps over, a quite baggy woollen jumper of forest green draped over his long muscular upper body. He brought a hand clapping to Ross's arm, grinning a warm welcome. Hey there, stranger -- glad you made it.' He was moving forward with the faint physical suggestion of a hug to his chest and arms, but Ross pulled instinctively back. Ah, yeh,' purred Eric Dier, `not really hugging atmosphere, is it? You can get your mask off though, come on.' And with another grin, the 6ft2 Spurs man pulled back and into the front of his car, leaning over to pop the passenger door so that Ross could make his way awkwardly around to that side, already overthinking his awkward retreat the offered embrace.
He paused with his hand on the car door, glancing across the car park and at the low gunmetal grey sky that threatened them with more wet weather. He felt a real nervous tension in his body that was not just the lingering aches of the game last night and the 3-0 loss to Leeds United. He'd been excited when the idea was first shoved his way during a volley of texts midweek, yet the prospect of it had weighed heavily in his gut last night as he ran out with his Aston Villa teammates and struggled against the Yorkshire side; he'd been weighing up a little cancellation message to Eric in most of the pre-game preparations and even at half time as he recovered and glugged orange squash in the Home changing rooms of Villa Park.
But here he was, anyway, using his rare Saturday off to make a jaunt out of his new hometown and down across the home counties to the edge of London. Technically Dier's borough was under the higher restrictions at the moment and the visit was quasi-illegal, another reason for this strange meeting point out in the Bedfordshire countryside.
Oi,' came Eric's voice now from within the vehicle, you getting in or staring out at the fields all afternoon, pal? We'll go for a walk somewhere nicer than this, promise...' As if on cue, the yapping of Dier's Labradors sounded from the back of the long black car, reminding Ross of the plan and snapping him out of his indecisive daze for a moment. He blinked away his hesitations and swung down into the leather passenger seat, glancing reassuringly at the player who was picking him up, readying himself for whatever the afternoon might mean.
The dogs ran ahead, off the leash, and he glanced fretfully up between the tree coverage to check that the downpour wasn't about to gush down on their outdoor walk just yet. He'd driven them a little closer in towards the suburbs, but not quite leaving the pastoral idyll of the home counties: this was a particular favourite walk of Eric's, a wooded route he often brought the dogs up to when he wanted some space to himself for thinking, or not thinking at all.
He supposed there was something oddly intimate about bringing Ross here, really, having always seen it as a solitary spot for his own wandering -- but that was a coincidence, really, he was only getting the exercise in here because it was a convenient spot on the drive and not too far from his own neighbourhood on the edge of the city.
Still, it felt very private and peaceful, trudging his boots through the faintly muddy track, feeling something of a country bumpkin in his moth-eaten old jumper and faded straight-fit jeans next to Ross's sleeker profile. The conversation was a bit stilted, after the slow build-up of their messaging, but he didn't feel overly worried yet; he found the northerner's slightly shy and jagged manner quite cute and endearing.
Yeah, they really ran riot over us,' Barkley was grumbling. Three goals to one man, fuck's sake, our defence were all over the place. Not to worry. We'll pick up. It's going well,' he said brightly, trudging along next to him, speaking a bit more confidently for a moment, `really not the weirdo move it felt like when Lamps was sorting it out, y'know.'
Eric smiled patiently at him, scratching his bearded chin and leading the way at a break in the path, opting for the more thickly wooded option that would ease them slowly back towards the National Trust car park and the rest of the trip to his place. But it was also a little more screened and sheltered, the air feeling closer and more silenced as they moved forward, Ross quietly repeating to him the arrangements he was making for his new accommodation.
They walked on and he half-listened, making the right noises of interest or agreement, but letting his eyes follow the distant antics of his glossy black Labradors disappearing into the undergrowth over and over, scampering away in their happy exploration, leaving them feeling even more alone among the tall thick trees for long strings of moments.
Good to have you over for a bit anyway,' Eric told him in a break in Ross's almost stuttering monologue. I've been wanting to see you for a while, y'know.' He gave him a twinkling sidelong look that made Ross blush a bit and lower his face, evasive or humble. I've got some good craft beers in at the house, anyway, so we can get through a few and watch the footy or whatever...' He watched the way the other rugged fella nodded and frowned. Or,' the 26-year-old Tottenham defender said slowly, `we can find other things to do, whatever...' He let his ambiguous promise hang in the woodland air, walking close by the other guy's side, watching the little flicker of understanding in his face then the sharp turn of his head this way.
`Other things,' Barkley echoed him in a voice of awkward playfulness.
Oh yeh,' Dier murmured back. I own a few board games, y'know...'
`Er, okay grandpa,' his visitor mumbled back, and they both laughed.
`Slow up a sec,' Eric suggested, pausing his own stride and the muddy squelch of his boots. He let the tips of his right hand fingers stroke a little up the rustling sleeve of the other lad's waterproof to about his elbow, steering him gently off the path; he hurried his step to twirl around him a bit, stepping up the shallow bank and backing into the nearest thick tree trunk as Ross automatically followed him, pulling closer. Immediately, the social awkwardness of the Liverpudlian footballer seemed to be swapped for animal instincts, pulling close in against him as invited.
Eric dropped his other hand and ran his knuckles gently against the waistline of the skinny jeans then down across the bulging front, brushing skin over the taut denim a little, while smirking invitingly into the intensely set face coming closer to his own. He reached forward to steal a kiss and, just like before, Ross pulled away, making him laugh softly at the frustration of the game; he pushed his hand a little more firmly against the bulging front of those jeans and leaned in closer, sighing his breath onto Ross's lips and chin, then snatching the kiss he wanted, soft and brief.
`Not here,' Barkley said in a little growl.
`What, the kiss or the fondle...?'
`The kiss...'
`Oh, right, fair, but THIS is okay...?' He rubbed much more firmly at the swelling mound in those tight jeans, winking slyly at the other man and pulling his own tall thick body back more against the tree trunk, still giving a very brief glance into the greenery to confirm they were truly out here on the remote muddy pathway. There was a crashing noise in the undergrowth but it was just his own happy dogs -- it made Ross jerk back a little and turn a cautious head, but Eric pulled on the front of his zipped-up anorak and kissed him again, his lips catching his bristly jawline and then his cheek and then finding his mouth again. There was a little moment of resistance before, like in the Spurs toilets that night, he seemed to give in to the fullness of their lips and tongues, tasting delicious.
He broke it though, to Eric's deep tingling frustration, their faces brushing in whiskery contact even as their bodies drew closer. He felt Barkley's crotch pressed with some urgency into his willing hand, felt the growth and stiffness there, the stretching of the skinny-fit denim down below... the heat of it and the obvious rapid excitement of his visitor, who had gone from polite chitchat to the real business of the trip as soon as Dier bothered to initiate a thing. He grinned triumphantly at him as he stroked his package and enjoyed the fretting expression on that rugged face.
`What?' Ross demanded with self-conscious challenge.
`You're getting so hard,' he told him quietly, almost tauntingly.
`Well you're making me,' the scouser grumbled back.
Oh, am I...?' He really squeezed at it, making a heavy sigh of his own, then felt Ross push closer, almost thrusting his manhood into his hand and at his thigh, and bringing his face in desperately closer as if, at last, turning around the little quest of Eric's hunger for kissing -- Ross's face moving towards his, lips parting awkwardly, eyes half-closed, an uncomfortable mask of passion -- and so Eric slide sideways and out of his grip in one movement, bringing his hand up to pat his firm chest through the layers of his clothing instead and hopping down onto the path with a deep laugh. We better get a move on if we're gonna catch the second half of the City and West Ham game, eh...?'
He whistled idly for the dogs as he took long muddy steps, then looked over one broad shoulder at the way Barkley hovered awkwardly just off the path, pulling down on the front of his sweater and waterproof, seeming to need them low to cover the swelling in the front of his charcoal jeans. Then he was ambling back onto the path in a nervous hurry, his face flushed and eyes cast low, adorably upset at the cock-teasing moment, following his host with an almost resigned slump to his gait. Eric turned away and grinned thoughtfully to himself, knowing he would make up for his intimate torture later... more than make up for it.
Ross stared at the things on the board below him, feeling for a moment like he'd never stepped foot in a kitchen in his adult life, though this was far from true. But there was something oddly off-putting about the big farmhouse-style kitchen of the suburban home and its views out onto the big back garden and fields beyond; something oddly off-putting about all the culinary gadgets and foodie books that were stacked messily about the surfaces of Dier's kitchen, none of the catalogue sleekness of the other footballer homes he'd occupied or visited. So for some reason he now stared at the red onions on the chopping board and the knife in his hand and wondered exactly how Eric wanted them chopped and prepped, mildly convinced that he was bound to get it wrong and do the opposite of what was expected, yet not quite comfortable to holler across the fragrant kitchen and actually ask the other 26-year-old athlete what he should do.
Instead he just hacked at them in his amateurish way, halving and slicing the red-tinged veg and glancing over as a humming and relaxed Eric made his way around the stove and back and forth to the big fridges. Like Ross, he'd peeled out of his baggy old jumper in the heat of the kitchen, and a simple white tshirt clung to his bulky frame as he busied himself over this lunch (Ross wasn't even sure he understood what the dish was, but he trusted Eric's assurances that he would like it). He looked so happy and capable in here, a tea towel tossed over one broad shoulder and only the odd pause to think through his cooking, running a big hand over the freshly cropped fuzz of his dark blond hair.
Barkley paused in the middle of chopping the onions to watch him, both admiring and uneasy in the moment, breathing in the smell of the casserole the more cultured footballer was stirring up for them, or whatever fancy Portuguese word he'd used for it. This was weird, Ross thought, a little bleary with a couple of cans of IPA already. What had expected from today as he got on the train in Birmingham New Street...? He'd known they couldn't really go to the local pub or anything, not under the social distancing rules here, but what had he thought they'd get up to in his visit to Dier's home...? He thought of his awkward boner in the woods, only really starting to fade as they were nearing the car park again, but then reinvigorated by the thrum of the car engine as Eric told him about the training session he'd been in earlier today down at the Spurs grounds -- and then stroking his leg a bit during a spot of outer London traffic, grinning cheekily as he encouraged Ross to get rock hard in the uncomfortable constraints of his skinnies.
Getting back to the house, Eric had knocked on the latest football on the big tv in the main downstairs space, fetched promised beers, but sat away from him sprawling on a different sofa, no attempts to touch him or pick up on what had begun under the trees. A little bewildered, Ross had just put a cushion over his up-and-down arousal and fixated on the draw between West Ham and Man City, vaguely pleased for Declan Rice and his lads, while feeling a stab of pity for his once close pal John Stones stuck on the subs bench yet again. When Eric had began talking about food, he'd expected a snack or a lazy takeaway delivery, not a full-scale culinary option in here with himself as sous-chef' (what the fuck did sous' mean? Onion?) and the other bloke strutting about like he was Gordon fucking Ramsey.
It wasn't just impatient sexual frustration that made him feel suddenly panicked and annoyed there at the worktop, slicing onions in what he now assumed was the totally wrong way, more the surreal domesticity of the moment: the rural station, the country walk, the yapping dogs now dozing by a small fireplace in the other room, the foody smells and the seasoning dirtying his rough fingers. It freaked him out suddenly, the charm of it all and the wrongness of it -- it had just been a dirty blowie in a station loo on a night of disappointments, what was he doing here in his home helping him prep a meal, like...
Ow, fuck!' he yelped, missing his target and nicking the side of his hand with the sharp kitchen knife, provoking Eric to quickly abandon whatever he was doing and hurry to his side, a hand pressing against the back of his own black polo shirt and leaning in next to him to inspect it. Ross stared regretfully down at the little burst of crimson staining the onions and board, shaking his sore hand and struggling a little with Eric's forcefulness as he steered him to the big deep sink. You need to wash it,' Dier was saying, but his touch felt too pressing and intimate and Barkley shrugged him a bit aggressively aside so he could splash on the taps and run his cut hand under it himself, setting himself defensively and resisting any fussing intervention from the Spurs player. `I can do it,' he insisted crossly, more loud and angry-sounding than he really wanted.
He sensed Eric hovering just out of sight, surprised by his tone, then felt him vanish for a moment, leaving him to rinse the cut and take a deep sigh of just-controlled frustration. But the defensive midfielder was back in under a minute, beside him again but less close and tactile. He was just peeling open a plaster and holding it forward silently -- Ross turned and opened his hand, glancing apologetically at him as the little bandage was gently applied to the side of his palm and wrapped about the sides of his hand, which Eric held quite softly between his own two paws. The two men stood there by the quiet sploshing of he cold tap, Ross's booming tone seeming to hang about in the garlic-scented kitchen air.
Sorry,' he grunted. I think I should go.'
Eric took a moment before he said or did anything. He brought a single hand up to clap against the side of his thick neck, but didn't lean in for some stupid romantic kiss like Ross briefly feared, keenly aware of how much this other guy seemed to seek that intimacy. Before him Ross had only shared the briefest and most experimental of kisses against another man's mouth, for all the other things he had allowed himself to engage in over the past year.
It's all good,' Dier said in a gentle, confident voice. I like cooking for friends.' There was something helpfully definite about the word friends there. Just go sit down, keep me updated on the footy scores, I'll be through in a minute when this is all in the oven... it'll be good. Don't go, mate.' A hopeful, reassuring mateyness to his voice and expression there. All good, right? We're having a cool day, yeah...?'
Ross nodded his head slowly, not 100% convinced, but embarrassed by the little hot flush of neurosis he'd experienced just now, when really there was nothing weird or alarming about spending a weekend afternoon cooking with a pal. He stood there at the sink as Eric disappeared from him again, tending to a pan or two and then popping to the fridge. He returned only to press a freshly opened can of ale into Ross's un-cut hand, and to nod sideways to the lodge. `Go on,' he encouraged, and Ross nodded again, then left him to it, guzzling back some more craft beer and convincing himself that he was pretty hungry after all, and he wanted to see if the guy could cook as well as he claimed.
On the screen, Manchester United and Chelsea were engaged in a fraught and aggressive evening beneath heavy rain, just like the weather now lashing at the windows of the house; on the long low coffee table between the sofas and the television, a collection of half-crumpled cans had gathered around the stack of dirtied plants from the late lunch or early dinner, Eric had lost real track of time to decide which.
His feet were propped up on said table as he slouched comfortably in one of the two large sofas, pointedly separate from the way his guest draped physically across the other; Dier's eyes slipped repeatedly from the damp footballing action on screen to the way Barkley had slowly and settled, happily well-fed and supplied with booze. He had been quite gushing in his compliments about the dinner in his inarticulate way, though Eric wasn't sure he'd seasoned the food very well and knew he'd rushed it after the little clumsy chopping incident and the big ominous question mark over whether this was a couple of mates hanging out or something different.
Fuckin' hell,' the Chelsea star exclaimed from his reclining pose, waving a disbelieving hand at the screen while his estranged teammates battled beneath the downpour against United. The tackles here are outraged, is Harry Maguire actually transferring to fuckin' wrestling...?'
`Happens at both ends,' he pointed out fairly with a half-smile, having witnessed the same ridiculous headlock grabs by his pal Maguire onto the Chelsea captain Azpilicueta, but also similarly aggressive grasps by Chelsea defenders in return -- they just weren't as physically gargantuan as the United captain, who Eric now found himself picturing with idle fantasy, remembering their fun time with young Winks or the surprise party for Luke Shaw. He was still adjusting his thinking to encompass the idea of a slightly romantic Maguire who had set up that brilliant little party for his partner, and mentally comparing to his own former Harry who had never so much as surprised him with a kiss without fraught planning and cautious alibis.
Not wanting to waste tipsy weekend thoughts on Kane, he looked again at Barkley, his loose physical presence hanging across the other surface, one leg lifted so that his thigh bulged tightly within the jeans; his black polo shirt was dragged halfway up his midriff as he stroked or scratched at the toned tanned skin around his navel, and one arm was pulled up behind his head for comfort, accentuating the pale tattoo of his bicep and the quiet strength there. Watching the Saturday games, he looked more relaxed and happier with himself, none of the bristling anxiousness he'd shown all day. It reminded Eric of the times they'd played together for England a few years back: Ross would always be tense and uncommunicative until his boots were on and he could express himself through his footwork and strength.
It was hard to pin down why Barkley was suddenly so attractive to him now. Yeah, he'd noticed him before, of course he had, though perhaps some instinctive sense of his absolute conventionality had blocked him ever considering him as an... option. But maybe even then he'd admired his sharp looks and distinctively well-muscled lower body. He was so different to Harry, he thought idly, straying again to his handsome Londoner ex who he would have to reunite with at the training ground again tomorrow, prepping for Monday night versus Burnley -- it was this odd fall of fixtures that had freed the pair of them up for today's hangout, Villa playing Friday and Spurs Monday, creating a rare Saturday off for both lads, though Eric had faced a short session this morning while Ross and his teammates were in post-match recovery. But Villa had early and long training tomorrow, and so a train home to Birmingham beckoned at some point tonight in the dark autumn rain.
The night was young, though. Plenty of time before the last train into the Midlands.
He slid his large hands over his own muscular front, patting at the hint of well-fed tummy beneath his six-pack, fixing his eyes on Ross again, and resolving to make something happen. Enough teasing and anticipating today, as fun as it had been. He took his bare feet off the table and down to the rug, then rose up to his 6ft2 height and moved closer to the other sofa, sticking a single hand downwards. The Merseysider was slow to turn his eyes away from the 0-0 battle between the team that owned him and the beleaguered Red Devils, but when he did, Eric could see the little spark of excitement in his dark brooding eyes. His hand came up quite slowly and uncertainly to grab at Eric's, and he helped to pull him up onto his feet beside him, away from the broad sagging cushions of the comfy furniture.
It's gonna end goalless,' Dier told him quietly. Come on. Upstairs.' He pulled gently on his hand and then left him, zapping off the TV and walking smoothly out of the big lounge into the stairwell and up towards his master bedroom that occupied much of the back of this big modern house. He heard the gentle double-creak of the stairs as his guest followed and then they were both passing through into the warm bedroom, its big bay windows lashed with rain that only made its cosiness more pronounced.
Barkley moved into the master bedroom with a certain wariness. He'd been teased and provoked enough today with the odd loose touch or more urgent fondling of the woods, and now he'd been fed and given a fuzzy contented heat by the strong hipster beers. He followed Dier across the room with a strong feeling that he needed to get what he'd come here for, and finally it was about to happen. In a move of beery assertion, he grabbed the ruffled hem of his shirt and rolled it up over his lean tight-packed abdomen and over his chest and shoulders. He dropped it gently aside and approached the bed shirtless, opening just the top button of his tight jeans and seeing the little smile curl behind his friend's short rugged beard.
He moved in on the other burly sportsman at the bedside and when Eric leaned in for a kiss, he did nothing to resist or deny it, seeing the new intimacy as the necessary price for other attention, and too lubricated with IPA to really question why he should miss out on something that felt as curiously good as Eric's strong mouth and tickling facial hair. He kissed him quite sloppily in his louche drunkenness and pulled at the clean white fabric of his tshirt, dragging it upwards and encouraging defensive player to join him in showy shirtlessness. Up and off it came and he rubbed his hands against Eric's thicker biceps a little while twisting his neck to the side to allow the kisses to roam from his mouth to his cheek and jaw and stout neck.
He stood firm and allowed himself to be held in the disconcerting firmness of Dier's hold, the same muscular pushiness that had freaked him out a little bit when they scurried into that cubicle together at Liverpool Street Station -- but what he remembered more distinctly from that night was just how good his mouth felt, actually the best blowie he'd ever received, probably. He pushed a hand down the front of his jeans, in against the crotch of his blue Jack Wills undies, feeling his stirring cock again as Eric's mouth moved down onto his chest, kissing down the furrow between his pecs then leaning side to side to run his tongue in circles about his nipples, not something he was used to in a lover.
He wrenched at more buttons of his fly, but Eric's hands stooped to do the work for him, taking hold of the jeans where they hugged the top of his arse and moving them downwards. Ross growled his enjoyment and reached for one of those hands, pulling it in against the bulge of his exposed undies, thrusting forward with his body and dragging them onto the bed, pushing Eric's more thickset shoulders down onto the creased sheets.
He pushed up on the other tall lad's hairy chin and squashed his mouth down on his in a kiss, enjoying the little wrestle of their tongues, lying atop his mate and feeling his jeans dragged further down by the strong pushy hands that briefly squeezed his big glutes through his boxer shorts, the big globes that his Chelsea manager used to obsess so madly over.
Kissing with Eric just made him more conscious of how strong and wet those lips were and he wanted them on his nob. He rolled off him onto his own back, pushing down at the branded waist of his blue pants until his dick sprang free, rising up at 90 degrees from his short-trimmed pubes, foreskin pulling back over the swollen glossy head. He squeezed the base of it to needlessly exaggerate its size but then Eric's hand took over that, grabbing and stroking him like he'd wanted in the woods; his broad heavy chest pulling over Ross's as he snogged him some more.
Barkley pushed firmly down on those meaty shoulders, impatient to feel the lips lower down his body, but Dier was so much less malleable than the hungry and lustful other guys he had dominated with his newfound attractiveness. Up he went on his knees to unbuckle his belt and open his own jeans, shimmying them down to bare his thighs and tight black underpants before sinking down beside him again, cuddling their bodies together and gnawing at his shoulder.
He was taking Ross by the hand and pulling him in to feel the matching hardness in those black trunks, but Ross was greedy and impatient. He held the top of Eric's hand and pushed firmly down over his chest, lifting his strong arse cheeks off the bed to pronounce the big dick swaying there, waistband curled tightly under his heavy ball-sack. Mmm, come on,' he breathed bossily, your lips feel so good...'
But,' Dier gasped, kissing him in the middle of the six-pack before rising up on his knees over him again, so do YOURS...' He reached inside his undies and removed his big prick, thick and long and well-matched for Barkley's own tool. With some hesitation, Ross reached for it, more than willing to jerk it off if it hurried along the blowjob he needed; he struggled upwards into a sitting position with the kneeling hulk straddled in front of him, holding their cocks in a hand each and then leaning in to kiss Eric on the chest, teasing him with the rasping pull of his own lips. It felt so strange, the soft hairiness of it and the tough muscle of those pecs, though when he found his way to broad dark pink nipple he felt on safer ground, like he was sucking on and teasing the breast of a woman. There was nothing womanly, though, about the deep throaty groans it released,
But then he felt a surge of panic as Eric's hands fell on his own bare shoulder and the back of his head, pressing softly but firmly downwards. He looked down those bulging abs at the way his thick erection loomed out from the front of his undies, and pulled back away from it, falling back against the bedding in his wriggle. He shifted a bit, pushing down more fully on his undies so his cock and balls swung free, then looking eagerly at Eric who was descending towards him for a kiss. Suck me,' he commanded needily, come on, buddy...'
Mmm, maybe,' drawled the other man, wriggling out of his pants too so they were both fully naked with their big sturdy bodies rolling across the bedding, but first, it's your turn...'
What?' He couldn't hide the selfish alarm in his voice, grabbing at Eric by the waist. Nah, lad, I don't.'
Don't?' Now Dier nuzzled at his neck again, tickling him with his facial hair, running his tongue gently on his skin to make him shudder in pleasure before reaching back up to kiss him hard. Why's that? You know how good it feels...'
`I'm not into guys,' Barkley blurted, lying naked next to one.
Mmm, come on,' Eric said, shifting onto his back and grasping his big thick dick, you aren't the only one here who needs it...!'
Ross stared at it then up the long muscular path of his body to his grinning face, unsure of himself and the moment. But the Spurs player was reaching for his cock at the same time, stroking and squeezing it, then tickling at his balls comfortingly. He opened his mouth to speak then stopped himself and then looked back down at Dier's dong, feeling himself on a precipice of experimentation. He could shove the idea away, he was pretty sure this rugged Premiership hunk wanted him badly, the way he'd fussed over him today, was confident that his own hand of cards here was strong -- and YET...
Mmm, those lips you got,' came Dier murmuring at him, still teasing his prick and reaching up for his neck and shoulders, you must go down on your girlfriends so good, you dirty cunt-eater...' Ross nodded dumbly at this label, still staring indecisively at the rigid pink too while folding in against the side of the other man. You dirty scouse beast,' chuckled Eric into his ear, kissing him on the cheek, why don't you show me what that mouth really does...?' He turned and looked at him, eyes wide with panic, but then smooth-talking Eric sealed the deal: `You first, then I'll go wild on yours...'
He was shifting his big bare body over the sheets in an instant, his dick in sore need of that mouthy attention, and a strange provocation coming from Dier's dirty talk. But once he was close to it, hunched sideways at Eric's waist, he looked at it fearfully -- could he really do this? It was one thing having his big veiny prick lavished by the mouths of hungry bi or gay guys, from drooling Frank Lampard to cheeky Harvey Elliott, but to return that favour... he twisted his head to the right, saw Eric prop himself up on both elbows so that his arm and chest muscles strained attractively, his head tilted a little as he grinned encouragingly over at him. `I'm gonna make you cum so bad,' the England stalwart purred at him, and down he went.
It was the hottest thing Eric had seen; the last time he'd had a lad so burly and masculine and unsure go down on him was when he was a precocious young buck making his England debut, pushing his cock into the gob of another Liverpool scally. But this stud was no Wayne Rooney. Even in his nervous clumsiness, Ross's lips felt so incredibly soft and full against his throbbing dick, his throaty gesture enveloping Eric's girth quite quickly and enthusiastically for all the gentle persuasion it had taken. The immediate moan of appreciation that Dier gave was sincere and full, feeling and watching that novice mouth close about the upper half of his shaft and then pull back, trailing saliva from his curled back foreskin.
He watched the indecision on Barkley's face as those deep-set eyes stayed fixed on his meat, like some wild creature deciding if it liked the taste of a new fruit; but then back down he went, pushing his tongue against the head and then opening his pouting lips again and sinking down a little lower, making Dier moan once again. Fuckkk,' he panted, fuck that feels good...' So long since he'd been blown, really, and so delicious and satisfying to be sucked off tonight.
Normally, he liked to go quite rough and ready, loved grabbing a guy by the hair (stop thinking about Kane!) to shove his dick into their sluttish mouth, but he knew that wasn't going to be right here. He gripped the duvet and kept his hands to himself, just stretching his 6ft2 frame of thick defensive muscle over the bedding and letting Barkley explore for himself. It did feel amazing, and it looked so hot -- the tentative jerking of that head and its short zero-fade bobbing experimentally about, wrangling with his dick and spitting messily against the shaft in breaks between applying his full soft lips.
For a moment the intense pleasure was paused and Dier, who had sank backwards with his head falling to the bead, had to crunch his abs and look down his body again -- he thought something was wrong, saw Ross hovering with his head just over the tip of his dick, bottom lip shiny, wondered if he was freaking out. But all the scouser had to say was, Is it okay? Am I doing it right?' Eric could barely gasp out his affirmation, pushing up a little with his hips until his dick brushed the chin and lips and then into the receiving mouth. So fucking perfect,' he gasped into the air, `you're amazing...'
As the clumsy mouthing and lapping continued, he had to really press his hands and wrists below his sweaty lower back, trapping them there so that he didn't reach for and grapple too much at the nervous stud between his parted legs, licking and spitting at his cock and then trying to take a little more of it inside his gob each time.
Ahhh Ross,' he moaned out at the top of his voice, you're gonna make me cum...'
He was disappointed but not surprised by the way that made Barkley recoil from his crotch, panting, obviously alarmed by the idea of a mouthful; but he was also surprised and quite moved by the way the stud instantly took hold of his dick to jerk him while staying hunched between his spread thighs, lifting his face to stare this way with brooding intensity that finished Dier off completely. He convulsed and gasped wordlessly and exploded, firing his load up the sides of his thighs and spattering down the scouser's six-pack in three or four hot jets of spunk.
But no time for the Tottenham midfielder to stay on his back panting in ecstasy, because he was a man who always kept a promise. Almost instantly, he was pulling himself up, licking his lips, and shoving Ross backwards so that he almost slipped off the bed. Eric grasped the sides of his middle and dropped down to lick his own spunk from the ridges of his abdomen then bring his salty mouth to that big scouse schlong, rolling his tongue about the head in circles that made quick heated breaths sound out loudly from his lover.
Still shaken by the deep pleasure of his own orgasm, Eric went to town on him now, taking his cock deep into his mouth and bobbing his head up and down rapidly, stroking his meaty thighs and then running his hands up his sticky abs instead, loving the quick ragged panting noises of his wordless pleasure, eager to bring him to the same creamy completion he'd enjoyed. He licked and lapped on Barkley's boner like it was a lollipop, enjoying its rigidness and the deep bestial sounds every trick of his tongue could produce from this sexy northerner.
Only when he was sure that Ross was pretty close did he pull his mouth off it and drop his mouth to his balls instead, flicking his tongue across them and letting his hairy mouth tickle them as he jerked furiously on the thick monster above -- and then, wondering where this manly man's limits really lay, he dropped lower, darting his tongue against his gooch and a little lower, brushing the grey-brown hairs of his crack, really making him twist and squeal and then... the first hot drops of cum splashed his brow and shaven hair and he reared up hungrily, clamping his mouth around the head to take the second burst of salty liquid in against his tongue. He sucked and sucked, allowing Ross to whine in delight and really empty all of his balls into a submissive throat, both men sated.
In the aftermath, the thought of dressing and travelling in rain to that remote train station had been galling and easily dismissed. The big kingsize was so warm and comfortable and, even after his creamy load was spent, Eric had kissed at his softening prick and his tingling balls and up and down his robust thighs, right up his six-pack to his nipples again; he'd come in close for a kiss but Ross had mumbled excuses, somehow still scared to taste his seed on that full bearded face. He had rolled over but then been cuddled up to by Dier beside him and drifted into nap, no much more than a nap; he supposed it wasn't continuous sleep, since he was waking now in a totally different position, head buried in a mound of pillows rather than lolling off the side of the bed where he'd lain to be sucked off so luxuriously.
It was morning now, of sorts, they'd never shut the curtains so the big windows opposite the bed showed a grey day rising over the treetops at the foot of Dier's big garden. How early would those trains run on a Sunday? Fuck, fuck -- he needed to be at training today, he hadn't ever planned to stay overnight, that wasn't something they'd mooted. It had been all the food and beer, never mind the blowjobs, making him comfortable and lazy.
He was on his back but next to him, Dier was on his front, his face fully nestled down into a crevice between pillows, his powerful back muscles showing briefly above the line of the duvet; one of his musclebound arms stretched out over Barkley's chest, distressingly heavy. He lifted and pulled it away from him with a mixture of cautious pragmatism and conflicted regret, then slid out of the bedding and onto his feet. He stopped still where he was and looked down at the guy in the bed first, the other 26-year-old Premiership lad who seemed to have brought out a wildness and willingness in him that nobody else had managed. Well, not since... Mase.
As he collected his underpants and socks from the floor and tugged on his polo shirt, he sensed the undertone of fuck-boy rudeness in what he was doing, but he told himself it was better this way -- kinder to Eric, apart from anything else, since he probably needed his sleep and a restful Sunday to get him ready for his Monday night match for Spurs. Ross left the bedroom with his jeans bundled in his hands, waiting until he was downstairs for the clumsy acrobatics of getting his tree-trunk legs into the skinny denim. He tiptoed around the messy lounge, seeing the remains of their beery evening, and found his sweatshirt where he'd left it in the kitchen, next to the bloodstained chopping board where he'd stupidly cut himself in a moment of panic.
He was just dragging on his big black trainers in the entrance hall of the house when he heard the soft creak of feet on stairs and glanced to the side, a little guilty awkwardness welling up in his throat. Eric stood halfway down the stairs, a furry blue robe tied loosely somewhere about the waist so it remained largely open over his broad chest and much of his hairy blond legs. He had a sleepy look on his face, seeming to take in Barkley's clothing and rushed manner, perhaps realising that he was never meant to wake and find this sneaky exit. Ross cringed at himself, unsure whether a `Thank you' now would sound caring or callous.
Gotta go,' he grunted. Training.'
Dier just nodded his head. `Oh, yeah. Think we got... carried away.'
Yeh,' Ross slurred through a dry mouth. Stupid lads.'
There seemed to be a thoughtful pause from the robed lad on the stairs. Still raining?' he questioned sleepily, and Barkley nodded his answer. Right, well, wait there. Lemme pull on some trackies or something. Won't be a minute.'
Ross spoke gruffly and distantly. `No, don't, just get your rest lad, I can walk to the station, or get an Uber, or...'
Sunday trains,' Eric said simply before turning his back on him to climb the stairs. I'll drive you to Brum, mate, just hang on. It's no bother.' He looked over his covered shoulder and a little smile cracked his puffy sleepy face. `That alright, Ross...?' Barkley, full of appreciation he didn't have the words for, just nodded silently and relaxed his posture a little, giving in to the kindness and realism of the offer, and leaning back against the hallway wall as Dier disappeared upstairs to dress and ready himself for the little road trip. Barkley held himself still against the wallpaper, blinking sleep from his eyes and bunching the waterproof coat in his big hands, impossibly glad that he hadn't been able to slip out of the house unseen into the rain, but caught and held a little longer in the comforting safety of this Saturday trip.