Part 227: Barkley & Co.
The message sat composed on his phone, a little cursor flickering at the end, waiting for him to type more or smack send. He did not. He stared at it self-critically, fed up of trying to get the words right, and then just deleted it character by character until the message box was empty instead. Sat on the couch with his legs stretched out onto a cluttered coffee table, the phone cradled in both hands in his lap, an action movie playing loudly on the TV screen opposite and going largely unwatched.
Ross Barkley heaved a sigh, nostrils flaring, and made to start typing in the box again, but stopped himself. How could he message him now, after leaving such a silence since his own birthday at the start of December...? It was a good six weeks ago now that he'd left Dier's place and rampaged with Pulisic and then Grealish and then the hooker. He grimaced to think of that pic he'd leaked of smirking Jack, a stupid gambit that probably hadn't even caught Eric's attention; how would he even know it was Ross who took that picture, really?!
Ross thought sourly of all the other indiscretions that had filled that time, the remainder of his dull injury absence and his battle to re-enter the Villa squad; a battle dragged out painfully by the prevalence of virus among his first team pals, keeping many of them on extra distancing measures and leading to at least one cancelled match this week. He thought grimly of the match that would have been his comeback to the Villa line-up, a match he'd been deeply conscious of throughout the Christmas period: they should have been travelling to London two nights ago to face off against Tottenham Hotspur, and Ross had been nervously fixated on who that might see him come up against on the frosty grass.
He glared once more at the unwritten message to his Spurs pal and locked the phone screen with a bitter click, thinking sourly of all the dirty deeds he'd done in his desperation to fill that void...
Like just the other day, visiting the training ground even though officially the Villa first team were still meant to be isolating at home for their fitness regimes; Ross had repeatedly tested negative himself, though, and been allowed to come in and use the facilities alone for an afternoon to escape the crushing boredom of his spartan new home not far from the training complex.
He'd been finishing up in one of the echoey gym suites when the office worker passed by and shouted the message at him through a patterned face mask: Assistant gaffer wants to see you before you go,' the young intern hollered at him. He says it won't take long but it is kinda urgent -- before you shower, he said?' Innocently, they walked off, but Barkley already suspected funny business from the specifics of that request.
Suspected, but hardly challenged. His attention had been immediately piqued. Pumped-up from lifting weights and testing his strength against various machines, the sweat-sheened attacking midfielder had been immediately intrigued by the prospect of visiting that dirty old bastard in his office; he'd heard from his captain and most immediate local buddy exactly what manly old John Terry was secretly into. He'd heard the story about the conference room session and the several players involved in it, including to his shock his old Chelsea crossover mate, Drinkwater.
Frisky with testosterone, Barkely had gladly brought his gym session to a premature close, sweating profusely in a sleeveless old England top and a pair of tight, mesh-lined shorts that clung tightly to the tops of his clammy thighs. He shoved the rest of his things in his kit-bag and swung it over one slippery shoulder, leaving the fitness rooms behind and sucking on a water bottle as he traipsed curiously onto the stairwell and up towards the row of offices where he knew the gaffer's right-hand man to be based these days. The Chelsea de ja vu of it was not lost of him as he reached the frosted glass of the door and knocked his knuckles roughly against it.
`Come in,' emerged Terry's distinctive East London snarl.
In he went. He had supposed that his sneaking suspicion could have been bollocks and maybe JT genuinely wanted to see him about something more casual or professional; walking into that bright rectangular office and seeing the mischievous expression on the 40-year-old coach's face, he knew he'd been right all along. `Close the door,' Terry instructed simply in that rough, demanding voice of his, and Barkley had paused before complying, unsure of the ground he was on but suspecting he might be about to get his rocks off somehow. It had been a few days since the last discreet prostitute he'd managed to get to his and pound.
`What's up?' the tall Scouse footballer asked in quiet grunt, shutting the door firmly behind him and letting the bag-strap slide from his shoulder before taking a few steps towards Terry.
I just heard you were on site,' the assistant manager said, hands stuffed into the pockets of his slim-fitting tracksuit bottoms, an open gilet over his t-shirt top. He shrugged his shoulders, still smirking with a telltale air of sleaze. Thought it would be good to see you while you were here, fella. Especially after you'd been... workin' up a sweat.'
`Oh aye?' Ross said with a hesitant chuckle, weighing up what he'd heard gossiped about the Cockney bloke and his proclivities, versus might work out in his favour.
I just heard you get REAL sweaty after the gym,' Terry said, superficially casual but eyes bright with mischief. I heard you get a really sweaty arse in particular,' he added, a dirtier tone quickly layering his breathy voice. Ross stared hard at him, still trying to weigh up the situation and what might be on offer here, when an unexpected second voice joined the conversation as if from nowhere.
`It's delicious,' remarked the second voice -- also a bit older, a bit Cockney geezer. What the hell?
Terry smirked at him, backed off, took one hand from the pocket. Standing in front of his neat square desk, he reached for the edge of the laptop there, and spun it gently around until its open screen faced this way, and Ross was looking not just at the seedy second-in-command of his Birmingham loan club... but at the smirking, excitable chief of the one that still owned him. `Wotcha, Barkley,' sniggered Frank Lampard behind a webcam, evidently delighted with what the laptop's webcam could now see in front of it: 6f2 of throbbing muscle, dribbling gently with sweat beneath flimsy training gear, testosterone levels through the roof.
Not just that visit to the coach's office, he thought, but that fraught day over Christmas when he'd been just trying to get changed but that daft joker McGinn kept fussing about him in his ridiculous inflated turkey outfit, what a plonker!
Waddling about with his goofy face emerging from the giant outfit, getting in Barkley's way as he stood there in just tshirt and boxer shorts -- worse, drawing other cackling players this way so that the Scouse lad was briefly caught on camera in that state, pawing at the heavy package in the front of his white pants in the briefly viral clip...! How mortifying. Stupid tit. Ross did like John and his banter but he didn't quite share the appetite of many other Villa players for it, often as irritated as amused by the self-deprecating Glaswegian and his constant japes.
He'd glared impatiently at McGinn then even as he smirked, still fumbling and plucking at the uncomfortably settling of his cock and balls in white Boss pants, then shooting a warning glance at the lad who was briefly filming him. `Lovely,' he'd just remarked blandly at the team joker, trying to turn around and continuye unfurliung a pair of skinny jeans from his locker that he would pull up his meaty legs to cover them and his package.
`It's just a Christmas joke, misery!' the Scottish lad had laughed at him, nudging him in the back, making him turn around to face him, trying not to look too moody or annoyed but struggling to maintain the loose smirk of appreciation for the stupid prank.
`Well, it suits the way you run,' he taunted simply, because it was easier to fire back his own joke than to pretend he had much interest in John's; he faced him, still loosely grabbing at the full package of his boxer briefs, and then seeing John's wide eyes slip immediately down that way. He wasn't intentionally drawing attention to the dull semi and weighty ball-bag that were so visible in the white cotton, but John was staring quite openly down there for a good few moments.
Oi turkey,' Ross snarled moodily at him -- he'd had a difficult day, being told by the senior physio that he wouldn't be match-ready until early January at best, and would miss out on re-joining the squad in their next few games -- what's up, you lookin' for a stuffing, are ya, lad?' He'd just meant it as a dumb retort, a way to jokily show his frustration and impatience with the Scottish midfielder's constant attention-seeking humour, but... he saw John's mouth drop open a little and his eyes become beady and alert, his cheeks flush a little pink in the busy echoes of the changing room. Ross held his hand a bit more firmly against the front of his undies, giving his bulge a bit more of a tug, seeing McGinn's stare flicker back down to it then pull sharply away. Barkley smirked at him, warming to the idea: maybe this turkey did need stuffing.
And then there was yesterday, hanging out over at the skipper's place, technically against the role but they were both lonely socially distanced bachelors, what harm was there in the odd visit...? Especially when Grealish was so much more settled here, and had that awesome home gym for them to use, and was just really upbeat company on some of the more challenging lockdown days. But yesterday things had gotten a little out of hand in a way that the pair of them had been carefully avoiding ever since a sweaty little near-miss in the showers some time ago -- Barkley now knew exactly how serious the handsome Villa captain's tryst with a certain Chelsea newbie was, one of the men whose salaries had necessitated his own exit from Stamford Bridge. With Chilwell in mind, Barkley had avowed never to toy with Captain Jack again, for both of their sakes.
But he didn't make it easy: strutting about the place in trackies so tight they may as well be leggings, mumbling along in that sleepy Brummie accent and entertaining Ross with casual gossip about his large Catholic family and the latest exploits of his several siblings. Okay, not so provocative: but perhaps Ross was just in a particular mood of sexual frustration yesterday, sitting in his kitchen drinking from a freshly prepared green health juice, watching Grealish strut about the place with his round arse bouncing in his dark maroon bottoms, his hair pinned back and his thin beard a little overgrown after so long in isolation.
`What's that look for?' the 5ft10 winger had demanded across the kitchen, pouring the last of the vivid green super-juice out of the blender and into his glass. He smirked this way in that whimsical fashion, all knowing grins and shifty eyes, as if always on the verge of bursting out laughing at some inner joke nobody else was in on.
`Nothin',' Ross had responded instantly, slurping his juice.
`You checkin' out my arse?' his captain demanded bluntly.
`What? Fuck off!'
`Yeah you were.'
`Fuck off, Jack.'
`No shame in it,' Grealish pointed out, strutting to the side of the kitchen table to stand over him in those skintight trackies and the baggy oversized tshirt he'd wore for their little home workout session together, Ross following his own recovery programme with his headphones on while Jack darted restlessly between weights and exercise bike with no apparent purpose or targets: just that insatiable puppy-like energy that drove him madly on through any training or game.
I wasn't looking,' Ross muttered defensively, unwilling to joke around more today, now that Jack had crossed a line and teased him like this. Just leave it, J, and go find that takeaway menu you promised, eh la'?' He looked away, pushing and pulling at the tall glass of juice, and pouting sulkily where he sat, annoyed that Jack had picked up on his wandering thoughts today.
Grealish went quiet then, so he looked back at him, and the footballer had half-turned away, displaying the way his stretched tracksuit bottoms held and coddled his perfect cheeks, slapping one of his own hands against it and letting out a string of giggles. `I'm just messing with ya, Barkers! Jeez, lighten up, hehe...' He slapped him on the shoulder then pinched his ear and walked away, perhaps knowingly, so that Barkley's eyes followed the up-down bouncy swagger of his meaty buttocks.
Restless, Ross got up from the table and rubbed his hands together, feeling a little hot under the collar of his tracksuit jersey, wondering if maybe he shouldn't be hanging about here for dinner after all; the restlessness was something else, a kind of deep-under-the-skin horny sensation that he just couldn't seem to quench in the mornings, jerking off in bed, or at night, trying the numbers of various escort agencies until he could book a discreet enough girl to come over and join him. Normally he could hang out and chill with his favourite teammate and the fact they were two such hot-blooded fit blokes seemed irrelevant to their tight connection as players and pals; today every little move and gesture of the Brummie lad seemed to catch his eye and cause a little disturbance down below...
Jack was stood in the kitchen with a drawer open, rifling through some colourful papers in there, snatching out one at a time then shoving it indecisively back in. He pulled loose flops of his highlighted hair out of his eyes, adjusting the hairband that held this sweep of brown back against his head, then glancing over as Ross ambled over to join him, arms folded stiffly against his chest and face still moodily expressionless.
`What you fancy eating, then?' Barkley asked in all innocence, resigned to staying for food, since it would be so rude and unappreciative to fuck off now, when Grealish was being so kind and welcoming to him during this very lonely phase for them both.
But the question was not taken innocently. The talented 25-year-old grinned playfully back at him, toying with the knob of the drawer full of takeaway menus, chewing his lip and stifling a little laugh. `What do I fancy eating?' he echoed quietly.
Ross tried to ignore the innuendo. `We should get summat ordered soon, erm.'
Soon,' Jack agreed distantly, but maybe not just yet.'
`Hmm?'
Ross, mate,' Grealish said, I really really want to suck your cock.'
On the webcam screen, Frank's face was a little sweaty too, the top button of his shirt undone; it looked like he was at his own desk in that authoritative office at Stamford Bridge, the one Ross had made his own special visits too in his time. `That's it,' wheezed the Chelsea boss into the camera with his Cockney geezer slur, as Ross took up position in front of the desk and laptop, and peeled his England vest up and off the pale brown architecture of his torso.
Fit bloke,' muttered John evaluatively, somewhere beside him; he traced a hand carefully over Barkley's shoulder muscles and against the back of his neck. He was behind him now as he muttered: You sure you're gonna be okay watching me do this, Franco, you won't cum in your pants before I say you're allowed to...? He he...' The filthy dominance of his tone and comment registered with Barkley's curious ears, but there just wasn't much surprising in discovering this secret connection between Chelsea's once-great double act.
Ross turned his face towards the laptop's camera and just flashed a simple, toothy grin for his former (and perhaps future) boss and then turned to the side, sliding his hands down his sides to hook at the tight waist of his gym shorts -- but his hands were made redundant as Terry's took over instead. Instead, Ross brought his paws up and hooked them behind his thick warm neck instead, jutting his elbows into the air and exposing the thin hair of his pits, enjoying once more the exhibitionism and ego trip of being coveted by old Lampard.
At Terry's strong pull, down went his shorts, and glancing down the front of his body, he could see his flat strong chest and tight six-pack joined by the exposure of his thighs and his heavily drooping privates, all on show for the webcam. But that was not the star attraction, was it? He could hear JT's admiring gasp behind him and a glance at the screen confirmed Lamps' main interest. He squeezed and tensed his own mighty backside, momentarily losing any of his typical shyness on the matter; he could feel JT's breath against his cheeks and the top of his crack, heard the rustle of tracksuit as the horny old dog got down to his knees behind him -- and then spat loudly between his muscular buttocks.
Barkley's body jolted at the sensation of it -- scratchy stubble against both globes and the sudden wet pushiness in his crack -- but he steadied himself and stood strong, hands behind his neck, elbows in the air, tall body stiff and exposed and a little shiny with workout sweat. On the screen, Frank could be seen staring intensely, his hands wandering out of shot. Was he wanking already? It sounded like it. Horny fucker! It was strange to be reunited with that lust, that desire that he had both submitted to and tried to control in his favour... god, what fucked up shenanigans...! And getting more fucker up by the moment...
His cheeks were prised apart so that, behind him, the older man could properly lick up and down his sweaty crack, pausing occasionally -- probably to leer at the laptop and drive Frank more wildly jealous -- then diving back in, spitting and blowing against his hole then pushing his tongue on it with the same fervour he probably serviced a dozen players' wives. Poor Wayne Bridge.
Ross was not 100% sure, but he disappeared from the changing rooms to use the toilet first, and stood pissing loudly at a urinal until sure enough the door opened and in he came, struggling through the doorway in that stupid blow-up fancy-dress. He laughed nervously and their eyes met in the mirror, Barkley still holding his cock and letting his piss splash and echo down the porcelain while he watched McGinn struggle out of the costume and stumble about in just a thin white tshirt and a pair of striped boxer shorts, sniggering weakly at himself and kicking the costume to the side. Then he stood lamely in the centre of the room as if waiting for instruction, making those some puppy-dog eyes and staring hopefully this way.
Ross turned his way without putting his cock away, leaving it draped heavily over the waist of his white undies, staining their front a little with a couple of drops of urine. He stood like that, scratching his tummy through his own slim-fitting black tee, and enjoying the nervously desperate way the other midfielder stared down at his exposed meat.
`In there,' Barkley muttered simply, nodding past him to the cubicles.
McGinn nodded. `God yes,' he whispered. He hurried on into the furthest stall and Ross followed.
`Against the wall,' he ordered, warming to his own command here.
`Yes SIR,' the Scottish lad drawled.
`I'm gonna fuck you,' Ross had told him simply in a demanding, merciless growl.
`Please,' gasped McGinn, as if he had been waiting for this moment for months; maybe he had.
And he did. He moved in a rush, careful not to make too much noise, but shoving McGinn quite roughly forward and yanking the tshirt halfway up his back before pushing down the striped underpants and giving one of his lean pale cheeks a good slap. He toyed with himself, stroking at his cock and rustling down the white pants to free his cum-filled balls. He spat on his prick and rubbed it up and down the growing, thickening length, then spat into his fingers and shoved them unceremoniously inside the gasping Scottish slag. He knew that McGinn could take it, had heard so on good authority; well, let's see if he could take it from a proper man like Ross...!
He was good, really good. Ross lay back on the dark grey sofa, his head propped on a convenient cushion, his own tracksuit bottoms in a heap somewhere. His long bare legs were adjusted carefully about Jack's crouching posture, socks and trainers still on, just as he still wore his tight tshirt and zipped-up tracksuit top, looking perhaps comical in this half-nakedness. But neither of them were laughing: he was gasping appreciatively, and Grealish was bobbing enthusiastically up and down over his crotch, fellating his rod with sloppy wet noises of hunger. At the same time, he had one hand shoved down the front of his own trackies to tease himself, and the other rubbed in slow deliberate circles around one of Barkley's big thighs.
`Ohhhh,' he moaned gratefully, something soothing and beautiful in the way Jack's lips and tongue did their work -- but also something oddly numb and senseless in his big veiny cock as it was lavished with wet attention from base to tip.
He parted his legs some more, trying to get fully comfortable, trying to relax his body and enjoy the situation more simply; he reached his fingertips to stroke against the long soft texture of Jack's hair, tracing the edges of his crown and onto the back of his warm head, tickling at the nape of his lean neck. He kept moaning, not forcing it, but keen to show his appreciation for the handsome lad's fulfilled promise of a great wet blowjob if he agreed to a Chinese instead of an Indian.
The contact between them, something Barkley had done his best to avoid, just felt like a dully satisfying inevitability -- of course they were going to let go and touch each other properly again, how could they avoid it? So close, so well-matched, so sexually driven, both of them...
And Grealish was fully going for it, pulling back only to suck in air then spit messily against the head of his cock; swirling his tongue about the head and squeezing tightly on the base. This was a lad who was shockingly good and experienced at blowing guys, Ross thought, slightly re-evaluating his understanding of the charismatic leader he played under, now lay beneath. God, he was good, lucky Benjamin fucking Chilwell...! So good, and yet...
Ross held his breath and rolled his body against the comfortable sofa, trying to let go, willing himself to submit to Jack's talents and just... let go... relax... enjoy the moment and... mmm, why the fuck couldn't he cum...?!
Barkley leaned forward a little, one hand pushed in against the side of the desk to support himself, rocked by the sensation of Terry's dirty tongue wiping his arse, and the dominant older man's fist reaching around to seize and tug on his cock so hard it felt dry and achey. It felt impossible to just relax and reach his peak in spite of the intense taboo pleasure between his cheeks and the authoritative grabbing of JT's hand.
Suddenly, a muffled unrecognisable voice could be heard, and then Lampard's: Yes, yes, hello -- er, no not busy at all, why- And then the view on the laptop screen beside them dimmed and thin and vanished into darkness, as if a laptop in a different office had just been hurriedly snapped shut to hide the view on it -- though a microphone carried on, Lampard's voice continuing in a high-pitched chirp that seemed to bristle and swoon with the wank he'd been in the middle of before interruption. Terry cackled quietly as he reached over with his free hand and muted the mic at this end to shut out his laughter and the deep gasping breaths that Ross could not hold in.
Fuck,' grumbled John, shifting behind him and patting the sides of his muscular legs, then leaning in and kissing the very top of his arse-crack, the magic spot just below the base of his spine, spitting down from there between the perfect orbs of each cheek, letting his saliva run down the sensitive passageway. Will have to finish that slut off later on when he's free -- what a shame, he was really enjoying his show, wasn't he...? Heh...' Without waiting for any answer, Terry pushed his face down and seemed to briefly resume his job, sticking his long tongue in there to tickle Ross where it felt so magnified, making him grunt and groan some more.
He always did,' the Scouser muttered boldly, enjoying for once the memories of how much the Chelsea boss had craved him once upon a time -- perhaps still did! When he'd been carted up here to the Midlands on loan, he'd long concluded that the crush' or whatever it was had fully ended, but perhaps not, perhaps he was just being kept at arm's length for reasons of resistance and safety.
He stared irritably now at his own cock, abandoned by Terry's long strokes since it didn't seem to be reaching the moment of explosion. He rubbed impotently at it, his dick just feeling sore and dry, and his balls tight and overloaded. He felt Terry's breath on his hole as his face receded, more sleazy low laughter from him -- then a little sliding prod of one of his fingers into the wet crack there, rubbing awkwardly close to his rosebud, making him judder and tense and mutter his protest. Nah,' he said simply, pulling away from his assistant gaffer, pawing at the edge of the desk and shuffling away from JT with his sweaty shorts bunched about his socked ankles. Nah,' he repeated, before Terry tried to prod another finger in there. `I don't...'
Of course you don't,' laughed the Londoner, and when Ross turned around, he was idly stroking a heavy outline in the front of his shorts. You're a real man, not like that nancy-Here he nodded at the open laptop and its dim view of nothing, where Frank had sat and played with himself in his shirt and suit trousers while he watched them.I can always tell. You'll never let a guy go there, your type never do.'
`My type?'
Terry shrugged dismissively. Real blokes,' he tutted. Franco is a little slut and he needs proper men like us to sort him out.' He wiped a hand across his shiny drooling lips and laughed again, a nasty sound. `But it was fun rimming your massive cunting arse, Ross lad. I'd never done that before til recently. Fuckin' filth, huh?'
Ross shrugged self-consciously, his nudity and exhibitionism here suddenly feeling as pained and unwanted as it might have done in any different mood; now their spectator was removed and his cock just swayed uselessly between his legs, beginning to wilt without more attention, he just felt sad and out of place. He looked grimly at JT, hoping this would not be sleazily brought up everytime the retired centre-back led a training drill or stood by him at the side-lines -- already, he was regretting muddying yet another football connection in his life, when his career was at such an interesting junction.
`What's wrong with ya?' Terry demanded.
`Huh?'
You cum five times already today or summat?' he barked. Why couldn't you shoot yer load?'
Barkley just made an evasive grunting noise, stooped to yank up his damp shorts about his legs and crotch, then found his vest from nearby. Now the gym sweat was drying and the worked-up energy of it all was fading, he felt chilly and he shivered before pulling a hoody out of the kit-bag and dragging it on. Then he yanked it up over his shoulder and shot the boss a wary look before heading for the door, his fat semi still pressed visibly in the front of his small shorts. I'll leave you to it, chief,' he said under his breath. Say bye to Lampard for me.'
He'll be gagging for it,' Terry laughed, mainly to himself, the dirty little sissy...' His mean, rasping voice seemed to follow Ross out into the corridor as he made his swift guilty exit, feeling overexposed and dirty, in need of a quick drive home and a long soak in the bath.
He drilled the whimpering Scotsman as hard as he could, holding one hand over his mouth to stifle those whimpers and stop them becoming squeals or screams. McGinn was very vocal in his enjoyment of this rough and ready shag, so barely lubricated and lacking all foreplay. Over and over he dug his cock inside him, desperately wishing that the tightness would begin to feel better and more satisfying, urgently racing on in the hope that he would soon spill his cream inside this gasping and giggling idiot whose arse just didn't feel as tight or exciting as Mount's.
He shifted his position and rhythm a little to help himself, grunting frustratedly and holding John differently, unsure why his cock was starting to just feel so numb and detached from the action he had so masterfully identified and seized. This lad was easy and so up for it and it was the first time he'd fucked an arse in ages, it should feel better and his balls should be tingling by now...! He had to hurry, so he supposed that pressure and their risky location were putting him off his stroke, or something?
Oh yes,' crooned McGinn, his mouth released from Barkley's sweat palm. Fuck me like that, yes, slap my arse...' He pushed his elbows down in against the top of the cistern, one knee up on the toilet lid and the other stretched out to the side, making himself very available to the railing thrusts of his hips and the burying strokes of his long curved dick, thick and forceful inside him -- so why didn't it feel better for him?!
The more numb and unresponsive his dick felt, the more distant and intangible his orgasm, the more he grunted angrily -- and the more that seemed to thrill and delight this desperate bottom who was pushing his pert little arse back into him and reaching for his loose to hand to bring it up to his face and sucking briefly on a couple of his fingers, the same digits that had been shoved up his clammy hole to loosen him up.
Ross wrenched his fingers irritably away, grasping at the side of his neck. Yes,' McGinn drawled, choke me!' He reeled a little from that comment, pulling his hand away from the side of his neck and planting it on his shoulder instead, pushing himself deep inside the 26-year-old Scot once more. Hit me,' whispered McGinn, go on...' Ross ignored that, `hitting him' only with the mighty length of his tool, burying it to the hilt in him and thrusting him into the toilet wall with a clatter of heavy porcelain.
But then he pulled back, sliding his cock from that tight hole, angry at how much feeling it had lost, as if he'd taken some injection from a dentist right in the crotch! Or like he'd been wanking for nine hours solid and gotten nowhere. He breathed out his anger and clung to the fabric of John's tshirt, wrenching at it and twisting his hold on him, half-listening to his muttered comments. Spank me?' gibbered the Scottish lad. Hit my arse, Ross. Go on.'
Barkley pulled himself upright with a deep anguished breath, blinking his dry eyes and wishing his hard-on would just go away now with one messy spurt of jizz. When had he even last cum? He hadn't felt like masturbating for days, too lethargic from the painkillers he was on during his injury rehabilitation. He stared dispassionately down at John's tight arse-cheeks and, as he had a couple of times before, struggled to believe his cock even made it inside there. It was such a tight hole, it should have felt great...
John was turning around to him, grabbing at the side of his tshirt, his lips quivering. Give me a slap,' begged the Scottish lad suddenly in that wavering voice. Rough me up a bit! Fuck, you turn me on so much...'
`Huh?'
Hit me,' John insisted, I love it when you're rough with me you big sexy yob...'
`What the fuck?'
Slap me,' John hissed. Give me a punch. You're so fucking sexy, Ross, you big Scouse thug, just-`
Is what I am?' he yelled into his face, forgetting they were in a toilet cubicle in the training ground and that anyone might be pissing out there against the urinals. Is that all I am, eh?' he said again, just as loudly, jabbing his fingers into John's chest and pushing him back away from him, disgusted and offended, though he couldn't QUITE say why. Fuck off, will ya? Stupid tit.' He backed off, dragging up his undies and sticking the painful bone inside them, then wrenching open the cubicle door and strutting out there away from him, leaving it rattling on its hinges; relieved, of course, that the lavatories were completely empty, but unable to actually leave them since he would be walking back through the potentially still busy changing rooms with a massive erection on show in his undies. Instead he just stalked to the sinks and turned a cold tap on fully, splashing the water on his face and neck and then stooping over the sink to continue doing so. He heard the rattle of the cubicle door and the awkward footsteps of John leaving, a little apologetic sniffly Sorry, Barks' and then the thump of the main door closing after him.
Ross washed his face in ice-cold water and heard the submissive Scot's voice echo in his head, calling him a yob' and a thug' and begging him for aggression. What the fuck?
`It's okay,' he'd had to tell Jack eventually, keeping his voice as soft and neutral as he could, not wishing to either offend him or toss him a challenge that made him keep going madly; his balls ached and his cock was rock-hard but he just couldn't seem to release today, some kinda performance anxiety or something troubling at him that he couldn't quite confront.
Jack had looked annoyed, even hurt, because clearly he knew how skilled and sexy he was, and was unused to failing in the job of satisfaction. But Ross, laughing gruffly, mussed up his straggly hair and hugged his shoulders, then pushed one hand in between those impressively broad thighs, and made an offer that surprised himself as much as his captain: `Come on, get it out. I'll toss you off and then we have to order all the side dishes I like. Get it out, skipper.'
He kept his tone bossy and in control, even as he scooped his hand down there and took hold of Jack's equipment, hugging him sideways and stroking his hair at the same time. He knew that Jack was looking hopefully at him as if the blowing might be reciprocated but... no, not today, not like this. Ross had still only attempted that once, and well... he wasn't, erm, sure if he would ever, erm...
But now he was sat tightly beside his friend and captain, teasing at Jack's well-proportioned hardness and easing his tight chubby balls out of his tight trackies too, stroking them with tickling fingertips before spitting into his palm and beginning to stroke properly at it. He did it left-handed from a funny angle, but still with strength and confidence, his muscular right arm strewn across Jack's back and shoulders, cuddling and squeezing him -- was this a gesture of comfort and reassurance for the sexy Brummie lad, or for himself?
That's so good,' Grealish purred. Thanks, mate...'
`Well, least I can do,' Barkley muttered, pullilng back and forth on his dick without looking down at it, just letting his eyes fall half-shut as he cuddled in against him from the side, easing Jack back against the cushions and shifting around a little to get a better angle for leverage -- beginning to really jerk at his cock quite hard and fast.
Your hand feels amazing,' the slightly younger player whispered. So strong... mmm... god, that is good... mmm, nobody touches me that good except for my Benji, mmm...'
Ross made a hollow laugh, twitching uncomfortably and adjusting his strokes. `Not sure you should be comparing us,' he murmured, cuddling his arm around Jack's neck now to prop his head up, and just pumping energetically at his tool, taking out some of his frustration on it, while his own hard-on just lay uselessly against the crotch of his pants, abandoned and still damp with Jack's saliva.
Oh. Ben wouldn't mind,' Jack was saying between groans. He's... he's really cool with stuff... so open-minded, y'know? Mmm...! Ben is... well, we just... we're so into each other, y'know? Like... I guess we both... mmm... get a bit jealous, but it's just exciting for us, and we know we both... ohhhh, mate, that is GOOD...'
Just relax,' Barkley urged him, vaguely uneasy at hearing these intimate details of somebody else's relationship, holding the lithe footballer at his side and pulling frantically on his meat in the hope of at least one of them finding satisfaction here on the couch. That's good mate, come on...'
Mmm, buddy,' whined Grealish now. He's just so cool, he'd probably be turned on if he saw this, y'know, a fucking hunk like you, jerking me off and... ohh fuck, I'm close-`
Come on,' Ross urged impatiently, go for it, matey...'
Ross stared in a strange detached curiosity at the way Jack's streaming juices dribbled on his fingers and thumb, staining the inside of his wrist with glistening off-white. Beside him and within the supportive grip of his arm, Grealish gasped and giggled and sighed. Then, full of his hosting skills and loyal friendship, he was lifting up Ross's hand and using his own top to start wiping it clean of his lukewarm seed, sniggering more. `Sorry, didn't mean to mess you up like that... Ben always laughs at how much I cum, you know, says I make so much mess everywhere, every time... hehe...'
Ross released his muscular grip on him, staring dimly at the lingering smears of manly cum on his hand and wrist, then glancing anxiously about for some tissues (he didn't want to make a mess of Jack's furniture, even if the sniggering lad clearly got his juices all over the place) until he found some and could scrub at himself uneasily. Jack was up on his feet, stretching, pushing his privates away, still giggling in the delirium of sexual pleasure.
`You sure you don't want me to finish that job?' Grealish asked languorously.
Nah,' Barkley insisted, conscious of how big and hard his dick still appeared through the front of his jogging bottoms, shifting from cheek to cheek on the sofa. I'm hungry now, forget about my cock, ha...' He scrunched up the dirty tissues in one fist, feeling a little dazed and embarrassed about the favour he'd just paid to his friend, even if it was a lesser service than the long unsuccessful blowie he'd enjoyed on this couch.
Yeah, Ben gets so hungry after we go at it,' said Jack, leading them across this big spare lounge and down some steps back into the kitchen area below. Grealish paused, and turned to flash him a bashful smile. Sorry, am I going on about him again? Just tell me to shut up, will you, I'm making a right fool of myself here...'
`It's okay,' Barkley told him quietly.
It's just... I miss him so much, y'know?' Jack admitted, coming to a stop by the kitchen counters again, picking up one of the flyer menus and waving it idly as he spoke, a wistful look in his eyes. We couldn't see each other at all over Christmas, really, cos of all these rules and stuff, it's been ages now... and...' He laughed and blushed and hung his head. `Sorry. I'll stop! What a tit, eh...'
Mate, it's fine,' Ross reassured him in a kindly voice, adjusting the elastic of his undies and willing his cock to soften and give up. He smiled weakly at his host. I don't mind, go on.'
No, no,' Jack said quietly, I'm being boring and soppy. It's just... one of those things, y'know, when you're really with someone, and you really GET each other, and just are like totally on the same wavelength, and...' He trailed off with an apologetic blush to his rounded little cheeks; Ross stared thoughtfully at him, thinking about his romantic words and the apparent joy of such a man-on-man relationship. `Right, Chinese or Indian, what are we eating, other than your monster...?'
Bad behaviour, Ross told himself, glancing back up at the action movie's final scenes on the TV, unable to figre out how the plot had jumped several continents since the last dialogue he'd paid attention to. A few explosions dazzled in front of him and he watched it, unseeing.
He'd just been grabbing at anything and anyone to comfort himself and meet his needs; those were just the male partners who'd had their hands, or other body parts, on his cock in the last six weeks. He'd lost count of how many women he'd banged, particularly in the first week after his birthday, horrified at Eric's misunderstanding and utterly desperate to restore some hetero status quo. Anything other than actually speaking reasonably to Dier about what had happened and how they'd mistaken one another; anything other than THAT.
Ross tapped at the screen of his phone until it woke back up, then looked intensely at the empty message space waiting to be filled. It was Eric's birthday today, joining him at 27. He thought about how hard Eric had tried to make his own 27th special, after he realised it was his birthday that weekend when Ross had landed at his unexpectedly -- maybe a bit of a cheeky gesture, thinking about it, although at the time he'd just been so keen to see him and enjoy that company, that escape from the everyday.
He just couldn't do it. Couldn't find the words. Keep it simple? Might just sound a bit half-arsed and dismissive, a bit unfair. Try and explain himself? It was too late now, far too late for that! Send something funny, try to make him laugh? Ross was no good with words. He felt inarticulate at the best of times, but never more than when he spoke to Eric, who always seemed so worldly and sharp. He frowned angrily at his phone as if the device was to blame, and closed the thread of messages, giving up -- he just couldn't do it.