Part 198: The Other Side of the Story
The cold dark October night seemed to get to him through all his layers, infiltrating the vest and two t-shirts beneath his baggy plain hoody, and even beneath the close-fitting dark jeans that hugged his footballer's legs. He'd even tucked the bottom of his skinny jeans into his white tube socks to insulate his legs but still, standing out here in the darkness, the autumn chill was getting to him and combining with the overwhelming nervousness that had overcome him as he left the house and parked up not far from here. He'd tucked his flashy car away in a little local alleyway that he thought would hide it from curious eyes or petty crime, then scampered discreetly onto the silent silhouettes of the parkland, finding his way to this ill-reputed spot.
Perhaps, he thought quietly, the rumours he'd read online were bullshit, though. He'd been standing here, hands shoved into the front pouch of his hoody, for twenty-five minutes now, and not seen a soul, no matter what the dubious website had told him. Maybe he'd got the wrong park or the wrong public lavatories, or there was a way more complicated code of behaviour behind this dirty lark that he actually had no idea about. The prospect of his disappointment and failure made him shiver more at his vigil spot, the troubling notion that all the stress and anxiety of sneaking out here tonight would be for literally nothing.
After all, it had taken him too long to brave this idea, hadn't it? Well, assuming the questions had been there at the back of his mind for all this time, maybe they hadn't -- maybe he really had forgotten about the youthful uncertainties in the intervening years? Maybe, he thought, he'd left it all too late, he'd had his chance and he'd been too scared or indignant, too prejudiced or disbelieving...
The young footballer braced himself against another chilly wind whistling across the Liverpool park, seeming to cut at him as he pulled his shoulders forward and tried to hug himself with his layers of clothing. He'd already tried waiting inside the ominous block behind him but it felt even icier in there, and somehow it made him more afraid and nervous. At least out here it did feel like he could escape at any moment, hare off into the darkness in spite of the minor leg injury that was keeping him out of action in tomorrow's Merseyside derby.
Then he spotted a hint of movement passing by on the dusty path just beyond the neat row of young trees, a gently visible outline catching the thin shafts of lamplight that dotted that main route through the city park. He paused and dared to hope, unsure what to expect -- it could, after all, just be anyone on their way past, though it would be the first person to do so since he'd entered the park. He went icily rigid as he realised that the passer-by had actually stopped and was, it seemed, looking this way...
With a deep breath of hesitation, Jonjoe Kenny backed off from the edge of the covered section out front of the loos, edging step by step towards the heavy gendered door behind him, shoving at it with one elbow to open it so he could disappear inside; he could see the figure from the path coming slowly this way, and he felt an awful certainty that the information was true after all. This was a cottaging site and he was about to confront a stranger for god knows what anonymous relief...!
Another cold Liverpudlian night, but six years earlier: October 2014, the Everton training ground.
Colder, in fact, since Jonjoe's breath turned into big plumes of grey mist on the way out of his mouth and the tight thermals beneath his Everton training kit were doing nothing to stop his slim young physique from shivering and twinging even after a couple of hours of late evening practice out here. It was an exciting night for Jonjoe, in spite of these conditions: one of his first few training sessions with the first team after inking his senior contract with his local club. It was a night that would stick in his memory for the next six years, but not just because it was the first time he won any praise or encouragement from his senior colleagues after graduating from the Merseyside club's youth ranks.
At just seventeen, the young scouser was starting to make a name for himself -- earlier in the year he'd been a key part of an Under 17s England side winning an international tournament and there was a lot of expectation that he would work similar wonders in the Under 21s side. A proper professional contract and a slow start at the first team here had been his reward, and though he was yet to make his Premiership debut, even being coached alongside some of these fellas was exciting enough.
It was probably the newer Everton signings that were most exciting to square up against or simply watch. Romelu Lukaku had been a record transfer for the Toffees in the summer after a successful loan spell, and Jonjoe found him electric to watch on the pitch; he was also filled with awe and respect for Gareth Barry, fresh from several years at Manchester City, a true powerhouse and a defensive role model for the teenage right-back. But many of the more established faces, guys he'd been admiring around the training centre when his youth teams had crossed paths, still filled him with a boyish wonder to be on the fringe of starting his own career properly: guys like the very solid Phil Jagielka or Leighton Baines, two more giants of the Everton defence, or the number of young up-and-coming players only a few years older than Jonjoe who had already cut their teeth in the League.
It had been difficult for the wiry seventeen-year-old local to stand out in these sessions, though tonight he'd finally won some tentative praise from the head coach and a couple of other players, and he reflected happily on this fact as he bundled into the warmth of the dressing rooms with everybody else at the end of the training hours.
He planted his arse down on the central bench of the long locker-room, panting a little and glad that his breaths weren't turning into icy little puff clouds each time, god what a freezin' autumn it was. He stooped to push off his unlaced boots and then start rolling down the long training socks from his sweat-shiny calves. Around him bustled the other men, all older and more loudly confident with one another, full of hope and ambition after a top five finish in the 2013-14 season. Kenny couldn't wait to be one of them.
In front of him were two of the other young guns, kicking off their boots in the same way and yanking up at their Everton training tops as they spoke rapidly about how the evening of work had gone, excitedly anticipating their starting positions for tomorrow's League game. Jonjoe tuned in vaguely to their chat, pulling off his own shirt and then the tight ineffective thermals below, bunching the garments between his hands on his hairy lap; he looked up as the two tall athletes, lads he would need to compete with if he wanted to make his debut, bared their muscular torsos and flicked playfully at each other with their shirts, drawing his excitable eyes to the distinctive muscle tone of their bigger bodies -- nothing like his wiry pigeon-chested young physique!
He couldn't help but stall in his own undressing, worn out and giddy at the elite company of first-team training, and stare admiringly up at these two, both 20 and just entering the exciting start of their Premiership careers, and so fucking confident in themselves... down went their shorts, the pair of them just stood there in almost matching dark sports briefs and long calf-hugging socks. The taller of the two was laughing excitedly and yelping loudly at the quieter of the two, some kinda in-joke that Jonjoe couldn't quite follow -- but it didn't matter all that much cos for a moment he found himself staring at just how tight and exposing the underwear was and how confidently the two big players stomped about in them, packages almost swinging.
`Come on, race you to the shower, bell-end,' wheezed the slightly taller lad in his deep Barnsley accent, punching his mate in the six-pack and then shoving down at the hips of his black briefs, letting a long chunky sausage of flesh swing free below his neat brown pubes; Jonjoe blinked furiously and dropped his gaze a bit to stop himself staring at just how well-equipped the big centre-back was. John Stones had only been at Everton for a season and a bit, but he was being hyped up as a bright prospect for the club.
Almost instantly, his fellow 6ft2 well-built young player was doing the same, dragging dark green briefs down over thick thighs and hopping about a bit to get them down his lower legs and off, equally nude and exposed as Stones and -- gulp -- seemingly equally endowed, a thick prominent snake trailing from his curling untrimmed pubes. Jonjoe was more familiar with this guy, another local lad whose path through the Everton ranks was only ever one step ahead of his own, they'd played together a fair few times: and now he found himself really appreciating the physique and stance of the shyer bloke, curly-haired and grinning as he rushed to follow John to the showers. `Oi, out of my way!' Ross Barkley hollered at the Barnsley lad, speeding nakedly past him and bolting for the steamy archway into the communal showers -- Kenny watched them go with a nervous glance, eyes centring for a moment on the big rounded backside of the attacking midfielder as he overtook his mate and elbowed him aside to disappear into the steam.
`You wanna put those eyes back in your head if you wanna make friends around here,' barked a gruff manly voice to his right, breaking into his idle thoughts about the male body and how his own skinny little frame compared to some of these well-developed blokes. He looked sharply to the side, pulling his handful of sports clothes defensively to his pale smooth chest, spotting the big tall guy stood over him with his full training kit still on. Jonjoe looked up at him then caught the little smirk on his wide mouth, realising it was a bit of a teasing joke.
It was Gareth Barry, grinning slightly down at him as he unzipped his tracksuit top and shrugged it off, exuding a rich manly scent of sweat. Seriously,' he said through his half-smile, careful where your eyes wander, kid.'
Er, I was just, I mean, I didn't...' Jonjoe stammered out, double annoyed that he HAD been staring John and Ross down and that he had been CAUGHT. He was glad he was already red from the cold and his own efforts, hiding the blush in his scruffy-stubbled cheeks. He waited for the reassuring laugh of a full joke from Barry, but the 33-year-old defensive midfielder just gave him a slightly concerned frown as he took off his shirt, exposing the ripped white muscle of his long defined torso. The 6ft1 southerner loomed over him, raising one eyebrow sceptically. I didn't mean to stare,' Jonjoe spat out awkwardly.
Sure,' the team's big new defender grunted distantly, sure.'
Jonjoe looked gloomily at his bare toes, curling them in cringe, and then back up at the big experienced pro, a defender he'd always looked up to in the Premiership and on the senior England squad. Fuck, being caught looking in the wrong places by him, how was big Barry gonna ever take him seriously as a teammate now? What if he just had no fucking respect for him when Jonjoe eventually made the line-up and joined him at the back of the formation? He grimaced and hesitated to get to his feet, hoping Gareth would finish undressing and move on to the showers like everyone else -- maybe the rogue comment would be a forgotten blip, rather than-
The 17-year-old newbie looked up just as another of the undressed players passed by, and got quite an eyeful: Lukaku's long black meat swung freely as his thick brown legs stomped him past, a white towel over his shoulder, making Jonjoe's eyes follow his body; no sooner had he darted his eyes away from this thick-muscled Belgian peep show than another naked man was busying past in the process of tying a towel about his waist, but giving a big peek of his low-hanging balls and chunky penis as he did. Phil Jagielka pushed a playful punch into Barry's back on the way past before following Romelu away to the showers, making Jonjoe look guiltily to the right and instantly find Gareth staring down at him with that same cynical lilt to his expression. He said nothing, didn't need to; Kenny cringed awkwardly.
At the time, Kenny had decided it was just a phase. He was a fairly insecure teenager as far as his looks went: a skinny lad with bad teeth and a tendency to look scruffy no matter what he did with his hair or stubble. On the pitch, he knew he was quick and vicious and could prove himself, but he was intimidated by the confident worldly men his footballing career was mixing him with -- so it kinda made sense in his teenage brain that he should find himself physically admiring his new teammates so much, in the locker-room and in the shower and so on... it didn't have to mean anything weird, did it? He was just impressed and envious! Right?
More than anything else, it was the way Gareth looked at him then, caught in the act, that made him really paranoid about it, and he was still awkwardly turning the problem over in his head as he left the training ground for the night, freshly showered and swaddled in layers to keep him warm. It wasn't too bad a walk from the training ground, but he was still excited at the prospect of passing his driving test ASAP and getting his first car so that he didn't feel like a total loser tramping out of the grounds and setting off on his daily walk, kit-bag strapped heavily over his chest and hood pulled up to keep the cold drizzle off his hair and face.
One by one, the cars of teammates ran by, splashing through puddles. Perhaps, Jonjoe thought, a bit gloomy despite his successes on the training field, the footballers nipping past in their expensive cars didn't actually recognise him in his hoody in the rain, otherwise maybe they'd stop and offer him a lift... as if on cue, one of the passing engines dulled its growl and he glanced over to find one motor keeping pace with him along the kerb. Hop in before you end up looking even more of a drowned rat,' called the voice of Barry, stern and well-spoken. A window rolled down and the long blocky face of the big defender leaned out, a more friendly expression on his pale features. Seriously, kid -- you can't walk in this. Come on.'
On the short drive, the former City and Villa legend was quite friendly and encouraging, picking up on the positivity that Kenny had inspired during the training session, partly allaying his paranoia after being caught stealing forbidden glances in the changing room. But just as Jonjoe was directing him down the last couple of streets, Barry ignored his instructions, taking them further on down the road of terraced houses and onto the quiet lane beyond it -- he felt vaguely embarrassed about the humble address he and his family still lived at, wanting to explain how carefully he was planning his improving finances and hoping to buy a new pad for his family at the start of next year -- but he was side-tracked by the way the older footballer ignored his nervous instructions and parked up at the quiet end of the lane, beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight.
Gareth smiled patiently at his confused expression. `I know, but we need to talk before I drop you off,' the experienced footballer told him in a deep quiet voice, turning off the engine and resting his large hairy hands across the top of the steering wheel. He was such a broad and powerful looking man, from his outstretched arms to his large head and simple dark brown hairstyle.
Er, do we?' He instantly knew what the issue was, saw that same suspicion in Gareth's dark eyes beneath his heavy brow. Erm, I dunno what you mean, I'll just...' He lifted his right hand to the door handle but Barry let out a sigh and patted his other arm.
It's okay, Jonjoe, but you have to stop it,' the 32-year-old told him simply. You can't be looking around like that as a man on a football team, it's just the rules, okay? The way you were staring at Stones and Barkley, I'm surprised you didn't get beaten up...'
The teen could hardly keep in his panicked yelp at this suggestion. But they were just there,' he said, wriggling back against his passenger seat awkwardly, I was just sitting there, and... They didn't know, did they? I mean, I was just...'
A little grunt from the seasoned pro. John and Ross are real lads,' he said dismissively, you wouldn't see two fellas like them staring about checking out who's got the biggest tool...' He was staring quite seriously at him now and it made Kenny feel distinctly uncomfortable. Why were you staring at them?' he demanded sternly. Why were you checking out Lukaku and Jagielka? It's not right, kid.'
The young scouser quailed at the implications of these harsh words, feeling trapped and worried in the passenger seat of this big car. He stopped glancing at the tall broad defender next to him, hanging his hands glumly between the legs of his thick jogger bottoms and staring miserably out of the windscreen into the shadowy bushes ahead of them. He struggled for what to say in his own defense or explanation when he didn't even know what he was really thinking right now.
Some laddish curiosity?' Barry barked next to him. The England star was staring fiercely at him. I've met a fair few lads with those curiosities as they start out -- but it never lasts, because it isn't helpful to a fella, not in our world, Kenny. You understand that?'
Jonjoe squirmed to the left to look at his softened expression, hearing the wisdom and supportiveness behind the fierceness. Curious?' he murmured awkwardly back, hating the word but knowing it was a fair assessment of the way he kept checking out his teammates since advancing into the senior team last month. He scratched his chin uncomfortably. I'm not curious, erm, just -- look man, please, don't tell anyone about this-`
Of course I won't,' Barry grunted. And I suggest you don't either!'
Some faint relief for the 17-year-old, but he sensed there was more to come. He watched the big broad player in the driver's seat, the rise and fall of his big chest behind his buttoned up plaid shirt, the gentle bend of his weighty arm. Then he watched his hand move down into the lap of his dark bootcut jeans and sit there for a moment.
You need to get over it,' Gareth muttered seriously. Lads in this footballing world can't become so fixated on... this.' At that word, he squeezed the package in the front of his jeans and Jonjoe felt his brows raise in surprise at the exposing gesture; but his eyes bulged more and his jaw dropped as Barry proceeded to knead his fingers upwards and begin to undo the belt buckle at the front of his waist. He stammered noiselessly and gave up, just watching as the jeans were briskly opened and the big hand reached inside, and then it was out, unfurled from the man's jeans and underpants, his long snaking member spilled onto the denim canvas. He stared at it then lifted his eyes up to stare into Barry's big impassive face. What the actual fuck?
Go on,' the England defender grunted. Give it a good look, like you were in the locker room, lad.'
Barry,' the teen murmured awkwardly, what are you...?'
I'd rather you looked at mine now than got in trouble looking at Barkley's or Lukaku's,' he muttered. So go on, give it a good look. A man's cock. A big prick. That's what you were so keen to see, right?' Something faintly brutal and accusing in the words and tone, making Kenny shudder and frown but, as instructed, stare at it, the weighty flop of it and the tangle of foreskin, the edges of bush appearing at its base. It was big, not as big as Romelu's or John's, but perhaps the same size as Ross? It was hard to say, Jonjoe hadn't got quite so close and clear a look at the other pricks as he was now, sitting across from Gareth's flaccid thing. He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, deafening.
`It's big,' he said stupidly, because what else was he supposed to say?
`A bit above average, maybe,' he was told, dismissively.
`Oh. Right. Um.'
`Do you want to touch it?'
`Huh?! Mate...?'
`You heard me. It's there, if you want to. You need to get this curiosity out of your system, Jonjoe.'
Wouldn't you freak out if I did that?' he asked shakily, and he knew even from the tone of his question that his subconscious urges must show in his thin freckled face. He gulped back his fear and stared from the chubby penis to the big craggy face of the stern man. I can't do that, Gareth, it'd be wrong, I'm... I mean... I can't stop looking but I don't think I should...'
If you do it now, you'll know not to try it later,' said Barry, introducing a logic that kinda worked in the teenager's panicked brain. I'm just trying to help you here, kid. Give it a feel. See how weird and wrong it is to touch it. I think it'll help.'
`Er, okay.' He reached his hand over, finding his own scratched knuckles and bony fingers quite small and delicate in comparison to the burly defender next to him, an old man to Jonjoe and by footy standards; he laid his cold thin fingers on the chubby thing and stroked it like a pet. He expected Gareth to laugh or scoff or push him away, despite being the one to suggest it, but he did and said nothing. He just sat very still and allowed Jonjoe to rub and prod at his length. It did feel weird and wrong, that was true, but it was interesting -- so fleshy and warm, so electrifying to take hold of and... and... well, it felt even bigger than it looked, or was it getting bigger? Bigger... and stiffer?
He twisted his neck and looked fearfully at Barry, awaiting censure -- but the footballing man just stared at him with a distant sternness, and then nodded. You see?' he demanded, almost crossly. It isn't right, is it? It's not something you should be doing, talented lad like yourself. Mmm.' Kenny looked back at the thing in his hand, the extended length of it and the greater firmness against his fingertips. Accidentally, he was arousing and stiffening the older man's equipment, fucking hell, surely this was him going a step too far...? Surely he'd be chucked out of the car in moments...?
`I should stop,' he said in a trembling voice thick with his local Liverpool accent.
`Only when you're sure,' said Barry almost disinterestedly.
Since he was allowed to, he closed his hand around it more, feeling just how hard it was becoming, how thick. He tested jerking it a little, pulling at the skin halfway up it, seeing the way the foreskin rolled back and exposed the slightly pointed tip, something about its sight or texture making him shudder a bit as he leaned over from his own seat.
Jerk it a bit more,' his senior suggested deeply. Play with it. See how it feels.'
Jonjoe did so, jerking awkwardly at the long thick thing, moving it back and forward, tightening his grip a bit. He realised he hadn't breathed properly in minutes and he tried to right that, but still shivered fearfully, slouched across the divide between their seats, the gearstick rubbing at his inside arm and his elbow digging into the hard muscle of Gareth's thigh. He stopped, staring at how naturally his grip fitted around the hard-on. It felt a lot like jerking himself off, except... better?
And just as that thought struck him, Gareth's strong fingers were pushing at his, breaking his hand away -- he thought he was in trouble, he thought the inevitable was happening and that Barry was truly angry at him for what he'd seen him doing, ogling those other defenders. But nah, he was just grabbing his cock himself to jerk it more forcefully, more urgently. Jonjoe held his hand limply close by, resting it against the hip of his jeans, watching transfixed as the well-built defensive player put all the strength of right arm into it -- finishing off what Kenny's shaky hand had begun.
Then the big rugged transfer player was cumming, oozing thick white liquid from that pink tip in a series of bubbling jolts, spilling it into the palm and fingers of his other hand to protect his jeans and the car-seat. The sounds he made were low and long and so very manly, the sound of them reverberated through the teenager's bony body and made his mouth hang weakly open. He looked at the veiny shaft still clutched in one hand, seeping spunk over its head, and the tight knuckles of Gareth's fist beside it. He looked up his body to the way his head now rested back, teeth gritted and eyes briefly closed. Then he looked politely away, terrified by the intimacy he'd been allowed there, touching and watching and... he could smell it too, the rich musty odour of manly spunk filling up the interior of the expensive car like air freshener, or its opposite.
Here,' Barry said in a gurgling sigh, one more thing.'
What's that?' Jonjoe asked, staring dumbly at him. Gareth lifted his left hand and offered it towards him in the narrow space. What?' he asked again, confused and a little disturbed.
You need to taste this and know how wrong it is,' Barry grunted. It'll make you sure. You don't wanna be a dirty lad, getting' up to no good -- it'll ruin yer career, kid. Here.' And he pushed his fingers closer and the cum on them glistened in the silvery light. Jonjoe hesitated, mortified by the idea of it, but the past ten minutes had left him totally entrusting himself to this strange brutish man. He looked down into Gareth's fingers, which pushed closer, then stuck out his thin pointy tongue and licked them -- it was still warm, but cooling fast, and SO salty, intense and strange, a tiny amount of it seemed to fill his mouth with its flavour and make him cringe back. Gareth pushed his fingers a bit more against his lips and responsively he licked a little more, then pulled back properly, screwing up his face -- his expression was met with a resounding, satisfied laugh.
`Gross, huh?' he was asked, as he wriggled back on the seat and pulled up the sleeve of his hoody to wipe over his mouth in case any of the strong-flavoured cream was lingering in his fluffy youthful moustache. He winced more and flickered his eyes, seeing the clumsy hand gestures of a dick being shoved back into button flies and underpants and the rattle of a belt re-buckled. Some fidgeting and adjusting of the driver's body in his seat, staring ahead and grinning slightly.
Jonjoe didn't know what to say, but his self-appointed mentor here didn't seem to expect him to say anything. He reached his hot right hand out, the one that he had watched jerk so ferociously on his cock, and patting his shaky shoulder with it now. I caught you out there tonight,' he was informed quietly, but it's all good. You know to behave now. No more of that, Jonjoe.'
`No more,' he murmured back.
Don't put yourself in danger,' said Gareth, quite dismissive in his voice but a hardness in his eyes as he leaned over a little. I don't want you getting funny ideas in your young head. Stick to girls, you'll be safer, and life will be easier. Okay?' He nodded silently, gawping at this big man and his frankly mixed messages, confused and scared but seeing some trace of comfort and certainty in the words he listened to. He stared searchingly into Gareth's big assertive face. No more of that curiosity,' he was instructed firmly, put it aside. Behave yerself. You'll go far.' Another pat to the shoulder, and it was like a rewind -- suddenly the 32-year-old was talking again about the tackles he'd put in during training tonight, the moment he'd stopped a likely goal during their mocked up match, the way the coach had praised his tenacity and resilience for a fairly slight young thing.
And in moments, Kenny was staggering from the car, nodding and smiling uncertainly at Barry's encouragement and assertions, traipsing out into the dark cold and back around the corner onto his own street. He waved weakly as the more experienced player's big car vroomed past him and off the quiet street of terraced houses with an ostentatious snarl of its engine. He waited out on the pavement for a minute more after the car was out of sight, adjusting the strap of the bag on his shoulder and fingering nervously at the point where his hoody and jacket met the front of his sweatpants, feeling the constricted hardness of his teenage erection there, the one that had burned in his pants from the minute he was allowed to touch his teammate.
Inside, he moved quietly, careful not to disturb the quiet domestic scene in the front room where he could hear a movie playing loudly and his parents and siblings chattering under its swelling soundtrack. He went upstairs to his room, only recently his own after an older brother moving out, and dumped his bag down by the bottom of the bunk beds. Then, standing in the middle of the room, he pushed his hand into the front of his sweatpants and the fresh undies he'd donned after his shower, and fondled his own cock -- it was a big one, he knew that, felt more sure of it in comparison now to having held another. It was certainly not some shy penis envy that made him look at other dongs at football, though that might be true about the impressive muscular physiques. No, he knew he was fairly lucky down there, felt the hugeness of it as he rubbed and stroked it inside his pants, pushing them down a bit at the front so he could get it out properly.
He wanked himself and thought of the strange intense encounter in the car -- the authority with which Barry had addressed him and his latent curiosity, the ease with which he'd allowed him to touch and experiment, but also the fierce sternness with which he had been warned and advised. He tried to blink it away, tried to shut off the sights of the dressing room: Ross and John undressing in front of him as they laughed and bantered, horse-hung Lukaku striding past like some ominous symbol of his subconscious desires. He followed Barry's advice as he stood there in his boxy little Liverpool bedroom and jerked his big teenage cock -- he did his best to picture a girl instead, thought about the birds off the estate who he'd fingered and fucked and gone down on during illicit nights out when he could get away it, slipping a bit of booze if he knew he didn't have training too early the next day. The scouse teen closed his eyes and tried to picture 19-year-old Stacey, a hot lass from the nearby block of flats, who'd been his first shag about a year ago now, up against the back of the chippy with the taste of gravy still in his mouth.
He grunted and moaned to himself, body tingling and sensitive with all of tonight's fear and drama, and jerked himself to messy completion...
...spilling his creamy load into the ravenous mouth around his long thick prick, emptying his balls and his worries at the same time; the tongue of the anonymous cocksucker worked furiously over the thick head of his meat as he spilled more of his load forth and whined loudly into the echoey chilly quiet of the public bathroom. His fingers clasped roughly at the beanie hat on the lad's head, feeling the thick springy hair beneath, curious to see more of this sweet-smelling stranger on his knees for him, gurgling and drooling about his big veiny dick as he oozed with salty juices.
Jonjoe felt one of his hands pushed away from the fabric of the hat, felt the lips slide messily from his dick, gasped loudly again and rested back against the cold porcelain of the sink, gripped by the feverish high of his own orgasm. Eyes half-open, he tilted his head down, keen to get a look at the face pulling away from his privates, and... he recognised that soft caramel skin and the big puppy-dog eyes of the face... he swiped his quick hand again and tugged at the rough wool of the beanie, wrenching it from that head to release the springy afro of black hair, and getting a better look at... `Trent,' he rasped in fast recognition, and saw droplets of his own cum sparkle on pink lips as the fresh young face retreated quickly from his crotch.
The other lad moved as if stung or bitten, jerking rapidly away from him and onto his feet, while Jonjoe reeled against the support of the sink and staggered forward, cock bouncing and swaying heavily from the front of his pants. `Trent!' he barked, becoming more sure that it was him, racing forward to grasp at his sleeve as he made for the door. He pulled at it and then reached for the top of his tracksuit, dragging him backwards with desperate fear and curiosity, but only getting an elbow in the nose for his efforts. When the lad turned and looked at him, panic-stricken, his suspicion was confirmed, but his eyes exploded with fireworks of pain at the blow to his nose.
He realised then that his own hood had fallen back off his head, either now or while he was groaning out his climax, and he must be as exposed as the fresh-faced Liverpool player standing between him and the door, glaring in outrage at him. Fuck,' he said, seeing the recognition in Trent Alexander-Arnold's eyes, seeing the terrifying risk of everything he had done tonight. He'd been the one barking out the other young footballer's name but now he was dragging his hood up, scared of his own exposure, and feeling a gut-wrenching disgust at himself when he heard his own name murmured breathlessly by this enemy footballer: Jonjoe...?'
Kenny grabbed at his annoyingly large tool now, trying to push it away into his jeans, his scared blue eyes meeting the rich brown ones of his lavatory paramour. Filled with a desire to beg for secrecy and discretion, or for explanations and understanding, or any kind of communion at all, Jonjoe lunged forward, in the middle of fastening his flies, but too slow -- the door was pulled open and Alexander-Arnold was exploding out of it into the night like a dog at a race-track. He followed the other young scouser out in the cold, stumbling out whilst also fighting with the top button of his jeans fly, but it was dark and his eyes stung from the harsh lighting inside; Trent had vanished into the shadows and his footsteps were a diminishing tiny thump of noise in the distance.
Jonjoe was left gasping and shivering on the steps of the toilet block, hugging his arms across the front of his hoody and feeling the little dull after-ache of his serviced dick, stuffed uncomfortably into his pants and jeans, still too large and swollen to be in there. It shrank on the slow walk back to his car, diminished by a mix of the low temperature and his gloomy fear. Inside the vehicle, the heating system could tackle his chilly shivers, but not his existential crisis.
It had been the night at Pickford's, that had been the trigger. For years now, Kenny had lost himself in relentless pursuit of attractive girls, utterly priding himself on being able to bed very attractive women who would probably have been out of his league without football -- on his various loan spells from Everton, he had made himself the `player', the womanizer. He'd followed Gareth Barry's advice to the letter, never really looking below the waist in those awkward naked scenarios that sporting life kept taking him into. Six years! Six years of fucking every pussy he could, still a skinny gawkish teen in his head, the same clueless lad who'd fumbled at Barry's prick in the front of his car; and all of it undone in a confusing blur when he'd shared Pickford's missus with that handsome bastard Dominic Calvert-Lewin. It had only been the most passing of moments when he'd accidentally taken hold of Dom's big thing, when he'd leaned on his muscular back during a change of position, or felt his thigh brush his at some point mid-thrust -- just passing moments in a most seedy and adventurous of nights, but enough to leave him sleepless and uncertain for the rest of the month.
Culminating in tonight: the fruit of his nervous browser-history-deleting searches. All he'd really wanted was to touch another dick a bit, to remind himself of the lesson he'd learned from Gareth Barry. Dicks were weird and scary and he wasn't REALLY fascinated by them, he had a whopper of his own! He'd just wanted to get a bit close to a guy and let himself be scared and freaked out, that's all he'd been after really... it had been risky and stupid but he'd set out tonight with a clear goal, and it was to be freaked into pure uninterrupted heterosexuality. He hadn't expected to blow his load in the silky talented mouth of a... scummy Liverpool player.
Sitting in the car, the heater on full blast so that the windows were already steaming, he stared at nothing and sat in a complete daze in the driver's seat, dwelling on those fragmented memories of 2014 -- the naked views in the changing rooms, the stern authority of Barry, the lesson he'd thought made sense. He thought about tonight, about how good it had felt to lean back and let his dick be pleasured like that, feeling a man's mouth on his equipment for the first (last?) time. He thought about the frightened and angry look on Alexander-Arnold's face.
He took out his phone and opened up Instagram, hitting the search icon and thumbing the Liverpool starlet's name in quickly, finding his profile. He hit the messaging logo in the corner and started typing. Deleted. Typed some more. Hesitated, typed a little more. He stared at the draft: `hi trent, I kno we are not friends but that was weird and...'
Delete! He wiped it all, and then stared at the empty message box and the flashing cursor. He started typing again. Your lips felt good lol' -- DELETE! get ready to get beaten tomorrow lol, maybe we could-DELETE!don't u fuckin tell anyone about...' -- DELETE! All wrong, so wrong. He started typing again, more slowly...
`mate... dunno what to say, think we both freaking out now... can we talk??? I'm so scared mate, I think it would help if we...'
He looked at the pleading message of the terrified boy he was, took a deep breath, and yet again, pressed DELETE.