Part 237: Lovesick
Weak sunshine played on the generous terrace of the apartment, the fiery warmth all provided by the hot tub they occupied rather than the elements. Glass clinked as a small measure of champagne was poured into his glass, a terribly inappropriate treat on the morning of an away game; in a matter of hours, the hot-blooded young footballer would be on a coach for Madrid and the day's fixture, but for now he could enjoy this brief excitement with his beautiful supermodel girlfriend instead. She pouted seductively at him as she finished pouring her own expensive bubbles, shifting her limbs against his beneath the roiling water -- her knee sliding in to graze the loaded crotch of his simple CK swimming trunks, teasing and provoking the mound of meat that was held there by a net inner.
She wished him `happy Valentine's day' again in their native Italian and leant over for the kiss, which he ravenously received and reciprocated, no guilt in his bones for the pre-match sex ban he would imminently break when he lifted her out of their breakfast hot tub session and fucked her against the sun lounger on their delightfully private terrace on the edge of the Spanish city. No guilt for breaking the sex ban, his heated brain acknowledged, but not no guilt entirely.
Beyond the bubbling love-nest of the tub, Valencia was waking up beneath this watery sunlight, and really Patrick Cutrone should still be sleeping, maximising his hours' rest before meeting the other men at the training ground and travelling across the country for their clash with Real. He was on the bench again but sure to make an appearance, already impressing the coaches of his latest adoptive club. The powerful 23-year-old striker felt he was approaching his prime now and believed it could only be another season or two before he had a more permanent place at the fore of a European club's attacking line-up, no more of this workman loan-hopping.
The young Italian lovers kissed slowly and lazily, hands making gentle caresses on two very toned bodies, he particularly enjoying the way her pert tits bobbed at the surface of the waters, and how hard her nipples felt through the designer bikini, his own stiffening to match as her nails scratched gently on his waxed chest. The Italian stallion growled happily into her mouth, then swapped kisses for sips of illicit fizz, picking then at the buffet breakfast of chocolate-coated strawberries and other delights plated up beside their hot tub, his dark eyes twinkling at his beloved. Then, still chewing on his food, he brought his bulky body across to pin her to the edges of the small, heated pool and nuzzled at her throat and the smooth skin over her cleavage, kissing the necklace that rested there, his latest showy gift to the woman that he loved. On his own chest hung the aged heirloom crucifix that told him to be a good boy and fear god.
She murmured snatches of affection and lust at him and he just played his hands over her body, thinking with his both his pragmatic brain and his slowly pulsing cock; he needed to be deep inside her but he also needed to bring this romantic breakfast to its inevitable climax, so he could change into his new away kit and make the journey to the training ground. Ready to don the Valencia logo and fight fiercely for the third different club in what, six months...? If he let himself, he could start to get worried and annoyed to be messed about like this, traded back and forth despite a run of excellent form in front of goal. And he had been so sure that his big moments awaited him in the English Premier League, but now...
As he snogged deeply at his woman and lifted her slim tanned body out of the water, his cock hard in his trunks, he couldn't stop his mind leaving this scene of romance and sweetness and shifting to the grey rains of the English Midlands, twinging with guilt and confusion at what had gone on in the UK in the strange interim between his loan deals. None of it had been his fault, he told himself assuredly, feeling like just a muscular pawn in the machinations of various major football clubs, how could he help the twists of fate...? And with such turmoil around him, it was no wonder his attentions had been... compromised!
Cutrone laid her against the cool fabric covering of the lounger while she slid his shorts down lower over the wiry bush of his pubes and the muscular mound of his buttocks. He fingered aside the narrow strip of her bikini so he could massage her clit with his thick blunt fingers, feeling how wet she already was for him. But as he fingered and kissed this stunner, the guilt gnawed queasily at him, a very different scene rising out of the English drizzle and mist in his head, a very different bed and a very different coupling -- and the guilt Patrick felt was not for the loved girl beneath him, but for the boy he had left behind.
The end-of-January rain pelted down against the roads, and the young footballer regretted another slightly late stay at the Derby County training centre, when he could already be home by now, feet up and Netflix loaded. But no, he'd thought with his testicles again, and stayed on to unload them: in his baggy Derby sweatpants, his loose cock still felt a little damp against his boxer shorts, tingling faintly at the recent memory of those grizzled chops about it, the rugged face of his boss buried in his crotch and his own back arching against the managerial seat in that quiet office.
He'd lost count of how many times it had happened now, a more-than-weekly exchange that still surprised and startled him -- Wayne Rooney was so outwardly masculine and also so exaggeratedly professional and stern, and yet since that first surprising encounter, the Scouse gaffer would engineer the meetings in his office, lock the door, drag down his pants, and gobble sloppily at his unresisting young cock until he was eating his salty load. Still, he always expected it to be the last time, seeing the shame and disgust enter into the older man's brutish face when the cum dribbled on his ginger-stubbled chin.
Bobby Duncan cringed to think of it, turning the card onto the quieter roads of the village he was housed in; he couldn't quite believe he kept allowing it to happen, and he knew full well he was allowing it. Obviously, Wayne had a certain powerful presence and authority, but he knew he couldn't pretend he was being pushed or pressured into it -- he loved having his cock sucked, what 19-year-old lad didn't, and having it so greedily serviced in secrecy at work, when it was near-impossible for him to date in the current lockdown...! But still, it made his skin crawl to think about the eagerness with which he could now bound through the Derby complex on his way to an appointment with the gaffer, or the excitement he sometimes felt if he saw a flash of interest in Rooney's eyes during a training session.
He adjusted his floppy privates in the front of the baggy bottoms as he parked up in the estate of boxy new builds where he now lived, in club-owned accommodation, quite lonely since the two young flatmates he had been given had both left last week on new loan deals to the lower leagues beneath the Championship. For a couple of days, Duncan had enjoyed bouncing about the place on his own after all, but the novelty was already wearing thin, and his over-thinking of matters like getting his nob noshed by one of England's greatest strikers could only spiral.
He took his time turning off the radio and the engine, listening to the rain power against the windscreen and roof, knowing that even the short dash for his front door would leave him drenched and needing a hot bath before his box-set binging in bed. As he made these slow gestures, Bobby's eyes focused on the fuzzy corona of light in the rain, the headlights of another vehicle, seemingly on the edge of his driveway. Huh, one of the neighbours, maybe? Bit odd. It's not as if people could have a bunch of guests over, so strange to overspill, not that he really minded, having all this space to himself and everything...
The 19-year-old Derby player reached for his thin waterproof coat on the passenger seat, wrestling into it before opening his door and spilling out into the wet evening dark. Almost as soon as he did, one of the doors on the other car popped open to, and a hooded figure was clambering out in the same struggle as his own, rain coursing down at them even as they tried to pull their arms into sleeves. Bobby stared damply, making slower steps over the gravel as he was distracted, briefly frightened and wondering what sort of nutjob intruder this was. The expensive model of motor contradicted his temporary terror at some home invading criminal, but the taller figure was moving rapidly for him in the porch lights that flickered into life, and his eyes were misted with the rain gushing down his face. The waterproof coat had proved useless, he could feel the rainwater seeping into his hoody and the tshirt below. He stood lamely at the door, his fingers grasping for a key in his sweatpants pocket, his face stricken as he watched the other guy come for him in slow-motion, wondering if the weirdo was about to pull a weapon or something, but then...
The cowl of a hoody being pulled back and a distinctive pale face with wet dark fringe and scruffy beard, looking almost madly at him in the glow of the porchlights. Bobby stared dumbly back, recognising the 6ft figure now joining him against the front door, still wrestling with his coat and becoming as rapidly soaked as himself. `Roberto,' wheezed the familiar Italian tones of his former teammate and flatmate, and Bobby found himself dropping the key that he tugged from his pocket.
He made a movement to pick it up but a strong hand rested on one of his shoulders and then Patrick did it for him, lunging down and dropping the metallic objects into his wet palm. Neither man said a word, just staring at each other for a moment. Bobby then recovered enough of himself to blink water out of his eyes, shake his head, and exclaim, What the heck?! Pat, mate...!' He waved the key about between them madly, a strange grin on his face. Let me get this open, before we drown...!' He burst into almost maniacal laughter, totally thrown and befuddled.
Cutrone followed the Englishman indoors, annoyed at how wet he already felt, self-conscious about the huge damp footprints he made in the beige carpets of the hallway. But Bobby moved ahead, splashing water everywhere, red-cheeked and sodden, flopping his useless waterproof against a radiator and then reaching out a hand for Patrick's; he spoke quickly as he did, chirping on about the weather and about how it only stopped raining to snow, never quite looking him in the eyes. Patrick followed his lead, undressing from the flimsy coat over his damp hoody and kicking off his trainers, then following the younger lad through the downstairs of the house into the rear kitchen -- everything seemed bright and garishly new, stylish but unwelcoming. It was nothing like the cool laddish loft they had shared in Firenze.
`You are surprised to see me,' he said once they were both in the kitchen, shivering a little in his rain-soaked tracksuit of dark grey. He fixed the young guy with a thoughtful expression, flexing awkwardly beneath the sodden fabric and watching his erratic expressions and interrupted chatter.
Yes,' Bobby replied quiet bluntly. Yes, I am.'
It is not so far,' the Italian told him. From Wolverhampton to Derbyshire.'
No, I know,' returned the other striker quite gruffly. But... what are you doing here?'
The simple force of that question was unsettling and annoying to Cutrone. He made to answer but found his English fail him. He just pursed his lips again and frowned at the other guy, then watched as he turned away to bustle with a kettle. Of course, so English -- let's make a cup of tea instead of talking. Patrick, who had sat rehearsing this conversation in the front of his car for some time, found himself mute and silly, and irritated by the heavy wetness of his clothes. But he found his place beside the high breakfast bar, leaning one arm on it, and scratching at his dark beard, then fingering the chain of his crucifix against his thick neck. Bobby, making them hot drinks, had begun talking again, but apparently to himself -- some inane comments on his day at training, at how different the coaching style was to Fiorentina, how it felt much more like his youth team glory at Liverpool. Patrick realised how totally uninterested he was in any of this, though friendship should have made him nod along and ask questions. Instead, he just barked impatiently at the boy.
`Why are you surprised?' he demanded, cutting him off.
To see you?' asked the teen evasively, glaring over his shoulder at him. A steady drip sounded against the tiled floor from both of their outfits. Well -- it's just -- it's quite odd, you know, errm, out of the blue! It's a random night and- Well...'
But you kept messaging me,' Patrick blurted out, aware that he sounded sullen and awkward, but unable to hold back that feeling. I thought you... wanted to see me.' He saw Bobby turn away, ostensibly to finish their drinks, but perhaps blushing or cringing more; he looked so deeply uncomfortable. Cutrone was unsure what reunion he had actually imagined between the estranged friends, but he was confused and annoyed. Duncan's messages had been... well, very... friendly.
I was the surprised one,' he pointed out stiffly. Hearing from you at all.'
`Hmm?'
`After your -- Brexit. Ha.'
`Very witty,' muttered the young lad in his coarse accent. Finally he turned around, a mug of hot tea in each fist, a bright red blush all over his craggy face. His wet tracksuit clung to his stocky 5ft9 physique, accentuating the bulges of his chest and upper arms; actually, he looked more thickset and muscular than Patrick remembered from Fiorentina, to be honest. But he glowered at him, suddenly right back there in the confused angry heat of late last summer.
You never said goodbye,' he grunted. You up and go. And then you leave the club. Not a word.'
Bobby stared quite expressionlessly at him, but the knuckles holding the mugs seemed to whiten and shake. What are you talking about?' he murmured then. It was all out of my hands. You know the shit and trouble I had with that agent, so glad my family are suing him now. He was out of fucking order, if not for him I'd probably still be at Anfield, and-`
`I'm not talking about the... transfer.' Patrick locked his jaw and stared hard at the youngster, slapping one palm down hard against the counter beside him. He tensed his tall strong striker's body.
Bobby's voice now was weak and uncomfortable. `I don't know why you've come here.'
This fresh apathy or disinterest stung and riled at the fiery Italian, for whom the decision to drive over here had been one of great turmoil, so much going on in his head and around him. He slammed his hand even harder against the surface then launched forward, shaking a fist at him. You message me out of nowhere, boy!' he snapped ferociously. So confusing, so weird! And now you are not even happy to see me?!'
It all happened in a bit of a blur, Patrick's temper guiding his stilted actions -- he wouldn't have really struck at his friend, but he moved threateningly towards him and should not have been surprised when Bobby reacted, his arms flailing and the hot brown liquid splashing all over his hands before the mugs crashed and broke between their feet. And then the English teenager was yowling in pain and Patrick just moved in a kind of protective autopilot, seizing his arm and thrusting him at the sink, where he pushed his hands beneath the tap and yanked a handle to gush cold clear water against them, squeezing his free arm then about thick damp shoulders and muttering `Idiot' in Italian over and over, without any sense of who he was calling an idiot, Bobby or himself.
Then, feeling the hot wet closeness of their masculine bodies, Cutrone pulled away again, stalking back across the kitchen and leaving Duncan at the sink, the only sound the gush from the tap. The Italian footballer buried his face in two clammy palms and huffed hot breaths into his own skin, then shook his shivery body beneath the weighty damp hoody. `I should not have come here,' he announced to the empty house in general. He glared back at the frowning lumpy 19-year-old, whose immaturity he had cursed in the final days of their flat-share, but whose wordless exit from Florence had left him sullen and lost.
He would never have looked him up in the UK if Bobby hadn't messaged him out of the blue, a few days after his return to Wolverhampton Wanderers. He would not even have replied to the messages if they hadn't been so concerned and friendly, wanting to know everything about the move and how it was going, full of questions and shared references to little jokes of their friendship last year in Italian lockdown. And now he was here, everything felt wrong and uncomfortable, it was as if the Bobby who had been texting him was a very different young man to the sulky awkward boy now cringing at the sink, hiding his face. Patrick thought bitterly about the hours in confessional at church in the weeks after Bobby left Italy, the prayers he had sworn to repent for such... sinfulness. It was not fair to blame the stocky young Englishman for what happened on his first night back in England, of course, but somehow Pedro Neto's boyish face at his crotch was one and the same with this confusing fucker now cowering in front of him. Cowering! He realised how aggressive his own posture and expression must have been and melted back a little, shivering again.
I'm just surprised,' Bobby said very quietly. It's been a... I mean, you could have warned me, or...' He shook his damp sore hands, clearly not burnt in any serious way, and rubbed them aimlessly down the soggy front of his clothes, as if that would help. When he looked up, Patrick could see a fresh anguish in his rocky features, not the blank disinterested mask he had worn since spotting him on the doorstep in the rain. Now he looked almost like he was crying, though the trickles of damp from his short brown hair made it hard to tell. Patrick advanced quickly on him again, saw him flinch, but just grabbed at his arms, pushing him back into the kitchen counter and towering over him, a mighty 6ft and much more mature physique. He felt Bobby's cold shivers like his own and wrapped his arms around him, holding their bodies together until they could feel some heat through their clothing.
And then, gently but commandingly, he took hold of the stubby chin and lifted Duncan's face, then pressed his lips there, letting his dark beard hair tickle over the smoother skin of the 19-year-old, taking a kiss with the same surprising force as he had one night in Florence last summer.
Bobby's head spun as he let it happen, glad of the tight hold on him and the growing heat of Patrick's broad chest, but... the same guilt and cringe that had haunted him in the car, moments before reunion, made him feel queasy and unsure, and quickly he began to push back at the older lad's body, feeling trapped and attacked where he was. Patrick did not immediately react so he shoved more harshly at his pecs and shoulders, and screwed up his face in exaggerated disgust, moving quickly sideways and then fixing his attention on the mess of tea and broken ceramic on the floor beside them. One of the Italian's hands reached sharply for his wrist, but he shook it away and glared ferociously at him.
Think you ought to go,' he grunted at the Wolves player. You've done enough damage.' He found he couldn't even really look at him, dropping down to his knees and fishing into the cupboard for a towel he could rub against the stupid hot splashes of pale brown on the tiles, staring glumly at the shards of the simple white mugs where they lay. His cheeks and brow blazed with hot embarrassment and he felt so heated and stupid that he was no longer conscious of how wet and cold he was from outside. This had completely thrown him.
Yes, he'd messaged Pat, yes... repeatedly, in fact. As if nothing had ever happened. Desperate for the Italian man's gruff easy humour and solid company. It had been a rock for him in the most difficult chapters of 2020, one he should never have spurned over a stupid drunken incident; but after he left the Florence apartment for the final time last August, after he'd leapt at the Derby offer and had the contract rushed through without even a short return trip to Fiorentina... He knew he'd been a weak cunt then, avoiding any awkwardness or truth by just completely blanking his friend. It had seemed like the only solution! Silence! Safety! Then, locked down again and lonely in Derby, and shocked to learn that Cutrone was not so far away in the West Midlands, back at the team that owned him, well...
Here...' It was Patrick's hand on his shoulder again, close by him at the side as he rested on his knees and sat awkwardly up, realising he would need a broom or dustpan or something far more sensible than a soggy tea towel to deal with the mess on the floor. But now he was on his haunches, shaky and quiet, with Patrick stooping a little and squeezing at one of his thick tense shoulders through his wet tracksuit top, murmuring to him in a heavy whisper. Here, stop -- calm, please... I did not come here to fight...'
Bobby began to pull unconsciously away from this stern hand, shaking a little, but it caught firmly at the side of his neck, and he was dragged in until he was leaning in against that bigger body; Patrick was down on his haunches too, beside him, wrapping those arms about him and pulling his face in against his damp chest. Bobby lost his balance a little, knees hitting the tiles, staggering into the other man's hold, grappling with his layers of clothing. He just let out a series of weak, frustrated pants, most annoyed and confused by the tears stinging at his eyes.
`I knew we wouldn't be okay after what happened,' he admitted at last in a dismal groan.
`No?' demanded Cutrone's voice.
I knew we would both be horrified,' Duncan whispered to him, his face lost in his chest. It was wrong, wasn't it, what we did?' As he asked it, he wasn't just dredging up the hot loft memories of Florence; he was thinking of not an hour ago, sitting at Rooney's desk, staring down in the flushed brutal features of the Man United hero's agonised face as it swallowed his load. He shuddered into the comforting strength of his lost friend.
Then, quite suddenly, they were kissing again. Both kneeling on the kitchen floor, Patrick just pawing and grabbing at him, kissing him roughly and demandingly on the mouth in a way that made him forget everything else. It had always been the kiss he remembered with the most lurid shame, well, the kiss and one other thing. But now, kneeling miserably on the kitchen floor, he found himself just gulping it in, parting his lips more and letting the other man's tongue wrestle his. He was still blinking back hot frustrated tears while the other guy almost ripped at his Derby tracksuit top, reaching under it to claw at the sides of his thick young torso below.
Still, his thoughts tumbled out in snatches of speech. It's so wrong, innit...? We're good lads, we shouldn't be doing this... so dirty, ain't it, and...' Every time he began speaking in these dooming tones, his mouth was snatched back into a kiss, scratchy and urgent, and then he seemed to be going down, on his back against the kitchen floor, Cutrone feeling heavy and inescapable over him. He whimpered pathetically and held onto him, giving up trying to articulate his feelings of confused horror and self-loathing. Pat,' he grunted feebly, `what are we doing?'
`I don't know,' came the ragged response, Cutrone's face pausing over his. He could feel his hot breath on his lips. Even as he raged against the wrongness of what they were playing at, he could feel his face lift and strain forward, wanting their mouths together again. As he inched up to do so, now it was the other guy resisting, seeming to grit his teeth and hold his mouth teasingly away, even as he pressed down hard on him with the whole weight of his body.
`You left me,' muttered the older striker darkly, his voice and eyes full of accusation.
Truth time. I was scared,' Bobby told him dimly. I was so scared.'
Me too,' Patrick grunted back, me too.'
You tried to...' Here was the other bit, so much more shocking and guilty than the remembered kisses. He could picture it all now, the sloping bedroom in that Florentine attic, the explosion of manly lust between them after a long period of awkwardness and his own petty sulking. He could see himself lying on his side and Cutrone rubbing at him from behind, insistent and powerful. He winced but didn't tear his wide eyes away from the other guy's. I didn't know what to think...'
`Don't think,' was Patrick's quite urgent, brutish response, and Bobby tried to lifted his face more to kiss him but the mouth twisted uncertainly away. It was as if the rush of need between them was fizzling out already or being pushed aside, making Bobby all the more panicked and confused. Here he was on his own kitchen floor, wet and hot, gripping another man on top of him, and his cock was jerking and stiffening somewhere in his trackies, even though it had been serviced so recently against Wayne Rooney's muscular tongue.
Then the Italian stallion's weight was lifting from him and he felt both a relaxing and sagging disappointment in his body, his own fears seeming to be acknowledged. He could feel his muscles draping weakly back against the hard cold tiles as the hands and grip of another body lifted off him, Cutrone rising up onto his feet, panting awkwardly. Bobby closed his eyes for a long moment, confused at what had just happened, or not happened, or what precipice he was hanging on the edge of; but then when he slowly opened his eyes again they fixed on a hand, stretched down towards him, palm open. It could, realistically, just be a gesture of apology and help, a movement to help him off his back and up off the ground -- but as he slid his hand into it and felt the might of Patrick's grip on his own, he knew it was something more, a spark of electricity passing between them. He looked past their gripping hands as he was pulled up, and to the steely expression on Patrick's face. Once they were standing again, him feeling short and squat against the bigger player, he shivered with certainty at the simple quiet question he was asked. `Where is your bedroom?'
Patrick moved with speed and force, as if stopping at any point would end the magic. It had been the same in Florence, just a crazy autopilot with no mood to stop and question what he was doing here. The 23-year-old tried first to push his host into the first of the upstairs rooms, but it turned out to be an empty and chilly study, and the English boy giggled stupidly as he staggered on and showed him the right door; at which Patrick thrust him moodily through it and slammed the door powerfully behind him then, pushed Bobby roughly to the big unmade bed as soon as he began to paw at his clothes. No, Patrick himself dealt with every item of clothing: first his own, dragging the wet hoody up and away from him, then the clingy under-vest that hugged his thickly muscled torso. He towered shirtless over Bobby, his chest and tummy sprouting with the dark hair that he had allowed to grow in the absence of his intolerant girlfriend.
Then he wrestled stupidly at the zip of Bobby's top and ended up snapping and tearing it to open the jersey, sliding it roughly away from him then dragging and stretching the damp tshirt below, baring both of their upper bodies as he straddled and pinned the 19-year-old to the bed. He stepped away from the bed to deal with his sweatpants, keeping his eyes locked purposefully on the staring, gawping young lad, while exposing his chunky legs and then tearing down the briefs to let his big Northern Italian meat spring free and upright away from his very hairy crotch. He saw mingled fear with the admiration and thrill in Bobby's wide eyes, but again... stopping to think would be stopping to retreat, stopping to give up. Instead, he removed one damp sock at a time and then approached the bed, grabbing the ankles of the lad's tracksuit bottoms and yanking down -- Bobby helped by untying the waist and pushing at his baggy unattractive boxer shorts, letting it all come down, socks and all, yanked away so that now both men were fully naked in the unlit bedroom.
But here Patrick found himself less interested in the bed. He grabbed and pulled at Bobby's thick ankles and the young man responded immediately by wriggling towards him, reaching for his hands. He hoisted him from the bed and pushed him, roughly but not viciously, towards the blank wall, pressing at him from behind. He leaned in, stooping to kiss the back of his head and the top of his thick neck... all the while reaching down and grasping at the chubby cheeks of his bottom. He stuck a finger in his mouth and then pushed it in between those cheeks, prodding and rubbing, hearing Bobby's little whimper. He ignored this and kept at it -- removed his finger and licked it more to lubricate it, then shoved it a bit more forcefully against the tight resisting rosebud. You want this?' he barked, having to ask the question a second time when he realised he'd forgotten to translate himself into English; the poor boy had been terrible at learning Italian even when he lived there, never mind now he'd been back in his homeland for six months. YOU WANT THIS?'
Yes,' whimpered Bobby hungrily, face and elbows pressed into the wall, oh yes!'
He pressed his face in against the cushion of both arms as his hole was broken and poked by one of those thick fingers, so powerful and invasive on his entrance, feeling HUGE; he quivered and trembled and felt his own dick become rock-hard, so surprised by its appetite for any of this. He stifled the yelps of pain or fear that came to him, completely swallowed up in the rush of Cutrone's manic lust, the whirlwind that had swept him from the kitchen floor and up through the house. Every touch of those hands on his muscular young body felt like it might bruise him, but also sent quivers of thrill and enjoyment through him. He heard more wet spitting noises and now it was two stubby digits working his hole, which stung and ached, and he did his best to follow the barked instruction to `Relax!'
He wanted to yell out `I'm trying!' or something in his defence, but he just whimpered and gasped, unsure if there was pleasure yet in the rough poking and thrusting of fingers between his cheeks. He had thought so many times about the stop-start attempt to fuck him that Pat had so wildly made, abortive and painful but shockingly ground-breaking for them both, and always with a mix of remembered pain and almost worshipful recognition of the man's mighty piece, which he remembered first grabbing at when awkwardly placed in the middle between he and Sottil on that night of too much to drink. Here and now, Cutrone continued to prod and rub at him and he shuddered weakly into the wall, alarmed by the speed of the encounter, the lack of preamble or play -- couldn't Patrick get to his knees and suck on him in the needy greedy manner of dirty Wayne?
But now Bobby was thinking about that first time with Wayne when he had been induced to try and return the favour. He must have been awful at it, because Rooney never once hinted or initiated it again, though he had been so pushy and brutish the first time. It had choked and sickened the inexperienced lad, but now he found himself wanting to try it again; a bit, anyway, though perhaps the realer reason was to delay the inevitable. He spat into one of his palms and reached it behind his own broad bottom, rubbing wet fingers on the tip of the Italian cock. The hint was taken: Patrick's strong arms wrapped about his chest and tugged him back from the wall. Almost instantly, they were flopping back onto the messy bed instead, and his limbs were being pushed and pulled until he was up on hands and knees and in the opposite direction to the bigger lad...
This meant he was stooping on his hands over Patrick's crotch, staring down at the long thick thing that rose up to meat him from the dark curls of hair on his thighs, balls and just above the towering rod itself. His own shorter stockier body hung over Patrick's long torso, thick legs straddling below the line of his nipples... and both of Patrick's hands were on his arse, squeezing and testing his round smooth cheeks and beginning to slide a wet finger between them once more. Bobby opened wide and ducked his face down to try taking the big throbbing hard-on into his mouth, and found himself far less appalled and choked than he had been with the sweat and uncertainty of Wayne's. Up above, he was a little more in control, even though his poor sore hole was being poked and stretched at the same time, and it allowed him to run his mouth experimentally against it, then just his tongue, then both of his lips in slow sloppy kisses.
Bobby couldn't believe how hard he was, as if he hadn't already cum this evening, the tip of his own well-proportioned erection dragging against the fuzzy lower chest hair, and now also grabbed and stroked by Patrick's left hand while his right continued to slot two urgent fingers in and out of his ring. Bobby did his best to try out the blow job, though he had to be careful not to bite accidentally when the thick knuckles pressed too deeply or firmly and made him yelp and wince. He drooled and spat at the big uncircumcised weapon that would be soon going into him, appalled and hungry all at once. He licked it like an ice-pop and let his quivering lips tremble against its veiny shaft -- until, with impatient roughness, his Italian friend grabbed and pushed at his hips, forcing him forwards and away from his crotch, down forward onto the bed... no words, still, just grunts and touch.
Bobby was pressed down on his front, hard-on pinned against one thigh, grasping at the covers and with his face pressed into the fabric, while Patrick climbed onto him, body to body. His cock, wet with Bobby's drool, came between his cheeks, while his big hands crushed down on Bobby's wrists. He whimpered again but bit the duvet to stop himself, not wanting to ruin this. His legs were pushed abruptly further open with the blunt instrument of the other man's knees, and then the cock was sliding into his wet crack again, oh fucking hell... Patrick's hands closed over each of his and he felt his lips kissing the crown of his head. Then there was a blistering pain as the thickness of it pushed against his barely prepared ring. Over his head, the mighty goal-scorer grunted like a beast, and pushed in, and Bobby finally let out a noise expressing his pain, squealing out in distress.
At the noise of horror, Patrick steeled himself, controlled the animalistic drive, but didn't quite pull back. He held his strong hips back, his cock retreated to the burning ring, and he kissed more gently and soothingly across the back of Bobby's neck, then against his crown and hair, then twisting his face to the side -- lips to lips, mouth to mouth, snogging the panic out of Bobby's expression while rubbing the fat slippery head of his monster up and down the crack before trying another slower, gentler entrance.
He was caught between the importance of not harming the boy and the need to dominate and own him like this. He pushed his cock firmly but slowly, biting back the frustration of how carefully he had to take it, pushing his cock just a little further against those unyielding muscles each time. But as long as he kissed and bit at Bobby's lips, cheek, jaw, neck... well, the noises were more of breathy enjoyment than outright distress,, and when he whispered in his ear, Is this okay?', all he got was repeated, gasping Yes, yes, yes.'
He tried for another position, rolling onto his side like long ago, and hugging Bobby's body to him, stroking on his cock while he pushed his dick between his cheeks, but still it was difficult. So tight, which felt so incredible he thought his balls might explode, but also frustrating and maddening. His kisses along Bobby's neck and shoulder were almost mad bites. He hugged and squeezed him, then pushed into yet another position, throwing him onto his back then hoisting his legs right up against his own muscular torso. This seemed to open up those cheeks and expose the sweaty, spit-damp crack more, and he aimed his massive cock carefully and tried again, sliding into a sort of pained missionary position as he buried himself in the chunky rump and lowered down to kiss the Englishman on the lips.
Here, his heels jutting stupidly up into the air, Bobby felt his muscles relax and his body allow it. Patrick seemed to fill him up, a huge presence inside him, and all he could do was grab at his broad back muscles and kiss him on the neck as the bigger man found rhythm and began to fuck him properly, making fleshy slaps of his buttocks with each driving slam. The bed squeaked beneath them and the sheets rubbed against sweaty bare skin. Bobby's own cock was flattened between their tummies and it leaked pre-cum against the curly trail of dark hair that thinly connected chest to pubes on Patrick's body. He felt he would blow his second load of the evening very soon, no hands even near his cock, just frotted between their six-packs.
He allowed himself a ragdoll ease, held and pounded in Cutrone's grip, not even able to form gasps or mutters of noise now, just breathless and weak. Patrick got quicker and stronger, really slamming at him, forgetting the gentleness and mercy with which he had negotiated this, but Bobby's pain was forgotten, just a sensual joy at being so drilled. He slipped a desperate hand between their bodies to play with himself and he came almost instantly, producing a sticky mess that rubbed between their muscles and all over his knuckles. Still, the huge cock dragged back and forth in his arse and made him cry soundlessly into the air.
Bobby, gripped with the buzz of his own climax, felt like he was suspended in a never-ending loop for some time, his cock still impossibly hard even with his young balls drained once again, and Patrick's body just moving like a ceaseless motor over and onto and inside him. He stroked at his back, reached almost to his fluffy buttocks, gripped his shoulders and caressed the back of his neck. There was no time for shame or disgust right now, just purely physical appreciation, as he always felt in the throes of being noshed off by his manager. No questions or uncertainty, not like the guilty little fits he'd felt after every friendly -- almost flirty -- text message to Patrick in the past month, dancing around the silent end to their friendship last year and trying desperately to show how much he missed him, how much he regretted fleeing Florence and never calling him back.
When Cutrone finally came, deep inside his body, he absolutely roared and howled, and it was a noise he remembered from lying between he and the other Fiorentina stud, Riccardo Sottil, when they had jizzed across him in the drunken three-way fumble of that confusing homesick night. When he was done, Patrick remained inside him for a while, gasping and groaning and planting soft ticklish kisses on his neck still, then patted and stroked at all of his throbbing muscles as he retreated and climbed away.
Bobby lay there on his back, his head hanging slightly over the edge of the bed. For a long moment, he felt quite abandoned: the striking pain was returning to the seat of his pants and his dick ached a little too, and he was beginning to panic about the wet sensation of being spunked in. But then through the grimy dark, Patrick's hand closed about his and dragged him in an angle over the bed so he could pull their bodies together and spoon and cuddle him. The touch was instantly comforting, Patrick's breaths sounding like instant snores, but his touch awake and sensitive, so warm and safe feeling. It was only the pressing sensation of his bladder that made him eventually exit this cocoon of masculine comfort, clambering awkwardly off the bed and limping a little at the pain between his cheeks, which seemed to burn more and more. It was hardly a surprise: he had been absolutely ravaged against the bed, and he was still startled at the mental image of his own full deflowering.
He stood awkwardly on a TV remote on the floor as he cast his eyes about for some clothing, accidentally switching on a wall-mounted screen facing the bed, straight to Sky Sports News. Bobby laughed at himself and realised he could walk nakedly in his own home, skipping stupidly out into the hallway and letting his dick and balls swing. Damn, his arse hurt so bad -- would it hurt like this every time?! Every time -- did that mean he wanted it to happen again? Fuck. He wanted it to happen again ASAP. Well, when his ring stopped feeling like he'd been punched in the bollocks.
In the bathroom, he pissed noisily and took a long time washing his hands and face, unable to actually look himself in the eye in the big simple mirror. He DID feel the shame, the guilty awareness of how taboo and transgressive his playtime had been, particularly jogged by the little dull cross on a chain that both he and Cutrone wore as Roman Catholics. BUT... he also felt a certain safety and reassurance in Cutrone himself, who was so powerful and assertive, seemed to know his desires so fully and instantly when they came. That he'd come all this way over to Derby to see him! On a night of torrential rain, when he probably had Wolverhampton training first thing tomorrow, well...! These glowing thoughts occupied the 19-year-old's head, giddy with uncertainty and potential, as he walked back down the corridor and into his musty bedroom, which stunk of cum and sweat.
He looked about for his undies again, feeling exposed and daft with his body all exposed, even though Patrick was in a half-asleep stupor on the bed, legs spread so that his big cock splayed down one thigh and his balls drooped dramatically between. Bobby stared hungrily at the image for a moment then glanced at the flickering TV, catching the name being repeated by the voice-overs over fragments of footage. He let out a little confused laugh at this: it was footage of Patrick, first in a Wolves kit, then in a Fiorentina one, scoring goals on both occasions, the sheer power of his frame emphasised in slow-motion.
Bobby stepped a bit further into the room, stopping beside the bed, holding his saggy boxers in both hands, and looking at the news headline on the screen.
Cutrone heard his own name repeated as if in a dream, took a few moments to connect it with the lights and buzz of a TV screen. When he opened his eyes properly, he didn't just see a muted interview clip of himself from earlier today, but he saw Bobby too, naked and holding a draped pair of undies in front of his crotch, staring this way with a stricken look on his face. Patrick stifled a satisfied yawn and pieced together the horrified expression of the man he had just fucked senseless with the vivid reality being reflected back at him by the television.
So what,' mumbled young Duncan abruptly, was this just revenge, then...?' He gawped at him, a look of slow heartbroken confusion becoming quick immature anger. `Wait for me to doze off then nip out the door and delete my fucking number?'
Patrick blinked and sniffed and scratched at the itchy growth on his chest. What? What?' He pushed himself up into a seated position and rubbed at his clammy face. Roberto, let me explain...'
No, no, I get it,' the teenager was saying quickly. I get it all right. Very funny. Good trick.'
Hey!' He barked this roughly, lunging over the bed and reaching for the younger lad, trying to pull him back down onto the bed. Hey, Bobby, Bobby...' When the English footballer pulled back, he slid off the bed to meet him, naked and dick unfurling between his legs. It is complicated -- I have little to say in it, you know how these things are more than anyone! It is just like you say-
`VALENCIA?' exploded the young striker, backing further from him.
`It is only Spain.'
You come here,' yelped Bobby passionately, and do THAT to me, and now you are fucking off to...' He seemed almost hysterical, waving at the television. `When was that interview? When were you signing that? Just before you got in the car to come HERE? Fucking hell!' There were tears in his eyes, and it all seemed like an insane overreaction, emotional and daft -- Patrick scrabbling after him, reaching for his hands and wrists, trying to drag him into a fleshy cuddle, failing. But as Duncan railed against him and pushed him away and picked up and threw the TV remote against the wall, he began to get a better sense of the situation: the intimacy and transgression of what they'd done, the lust he'd slowly okayed in his own brain in the long nights since letting Neto go down on him. It had been so difficult for him to come here and act out that passion, but he wasn't really the one giving himself up to it, so... He could see how broken and vulnerable the younger guy was now, saw how hurt he was both physically and emotionally. He gulped back his regret and fought for the explanation he needed. How to tell Bobby that only the news he would move to Spain tomorrow had been the kick needed to make him get out of Wolverhampton and race here?!
Don't touch me!' Bobby was shouting aggressively at him. Get away from me or I'll thump you!' The vulnerability was there in his creased damp eyes and shaking lip, but the rest of his body language was aggressive and laddish. Patrick just held his hands up defensively and backed off from him, snatching for one item of clothing after another. On the screen, the January deadline day news had whipped past his new loan deal, as last-minute and odd as any other, leaving it behind as minor Premiership trivia. Yes, Patrick had been a little surprised to come home to the Wanderers only to be sent off wandering again, but all he wanted was to play matches, wherever he had to be for that to happen...
`Just get out, fuck off!' the English lad's voice was roaring, no longer in the same room as him. He'd wandered off, a bathrobe pulled about himself, marching around the upstairs of the house slamming doors and shouting. Patrick wanted to hold and calm him, tell him it would all be okay, but what the hell was he saying and thinking? His own rash stupidity in driving here to fuck this teenage stud was being exposed to him, the selfish idiocy of his desires. He had a girlfriend in Italy, carefully arranging their new apartment in Valencia right now, far more excited to be moving there than joining him here in the damp midsection of England.
Half-dressed, the Italian striker stumbled out on to the landing and stared down its length at fuming Bobby Duncan, emerging form the bathroom which roared and echoed with the noise of the taps. You heard me,' the teen barked his way, get the fuck out of my house, you pervert. Fuck you. No, don't try and touch me or I'll... I'll... I'll...'
I'm going,' Cutrone snapped unhappily back at him, wriggling into his tight wet hoody, marching by him with what distance the narrow landing space allowed. He glared at him one last time from the top of the stares, hot with shame and guilt. I'm sorry I've hurt you, Roberto.'
`FUCK. OFF.'
Two weeks gone now. The pain in Bobby Duncan's backside had subsided after a few days, but the gut-wrenching upset at the ordeal had only solidified into an icy gloom.
On a damp Sunday afternoon in February, he skulked at the edge of the light training session -- most of the players had played in the Championship yesterday against visiting Middlesbrough. Not Bobby though, who for all Wayne's grunted pre-blowjob claims, had yet to make a major breakthrough into the first team of the second-tier English football club. It was Valentine's Day, as much of the coarse banter between his older teammates had reminded him all afternoon, and that was just making his mood even worse -- he could hardly find the energy for the training drills he was instructed between, never mind the social effort to join in with the banter about who was shagging whose wife behind their back.
Instead, he carried on in the same moody silence that seemed to have gripped him for the past fortnight. He was not confident or experienced enough to identify the heartbreak he was now going through, having briefly allowed himself to embrace the feelings he had for his Italian friend, and so he just channelled it into a kind of toxic rage that erupted in messy tackles and poor strike accuracy during every training day. He felt sullied and used, horrified to think about having himself deflowered and taken like some slutty bird, rather than the macho footballing lad he was...! He had utterly convinced himself of the vengeance narrative, it made the most sense: Patrick had wanted to pay him back for his rude exit and awkward silence, coming to see and ignite him only when he was sure he would fly to Spain the following morning. Once more, contact between the two sportsmen was absolutely nil; Bobby had in fact blocked his number and all social media, had no intention of finding out how Cutrone's new career move was going in La Liga. (Today they were playing Real Madrid, though, he knew, because a Spanish guy at Derby had been going on about it. Ugh.)
Damp, trudging footsteps passed him by on the edge of the training pitch. A gentle tap to the elbow. Duncan,' barked Rooney, in that strained formal tone he tried for in his coaching role, suppressing the harshness of his Merseyside accent. See me in my office after this, eh?' A slight jerking nod from the mid-thirties football manager before he moved on, wrapped up in scarf and gloves and serious-faced, austerely proud of yesterday's 2-1 win. Bobby nodded slowly back, feeling the strange detached shiver of uncertainty at that prospect.
Muddy and tired, he made his way to the gaffer's office from the training pitch half an hour later, ashamed of how these visits had begun to feel more necessary and important after the Cutrone incident, rather than something he could gladly walk away from. Having the brutish Scouser squat down in front of him and take his cock in his mouth seemed to restore some power and dignity to him each time, washed away some of the pain and shame of being buggered by the Italian. But then afterwards he would look and feel as ashamed as his coach, wiping cum off his lip and muttering about needing to get on with some admin.
Today, Valentine's Day, heartbroken Bobby Duncan trudged into the gaffer's office, let the door slam after him, leaving muddy prints on the carpet. Instantly, he lifted the front of his jacket and began undoing the little knot of drawstrings on his shorts, which hugged at his thick muscular legs. But as he did this, a wavering voice barked at him from behind the desk. `No, not today,' growled Rooney's voice, his accent stronger in his frustration. Bobby paused awkwardly with his hands at his waist, taken aback by this interruption.
`Erm...'
Bobby,' Wayne said, seriously. I have been speaking to the rest of the coaching team about you, and a lot of the senior players. There is a lot of worry about you.'
`Wha'?'
`About your... mental health. You have not seemed yourself. It is getting quite serious. This past week, these last two weeks in fact, you've...'
`Rooney, sir, I just...'
Please let me finish,' grumbled the boss. Look, please see this as an offer of help and not a punishment. It has been decided you should take some time off. A few months to get your head straight. Before we really try and push you into the first team. Listen to me, Bobby, this is really about helping you and making sure you're okay, you've seemed so down and distant and the psychologists are very worried that-`
You're suspending me?' Duncan grunted at him in disbelief, his hands still above the crotch of his shorts. After a moment of awkward silence, he grabbed one hand to the package of those dark blue shorts and frowned needily at his gaffer. Don't you want this? It's real fucking sweaty from training, sir, and I haven't cum in days, so-`
NO,' growled Rooney. Enough of that.' The shame was there in his face, but just for a moment, replaced with a kind of determined disinterest. He sat very stiffly and uncomfortably at his desk, trying to look older and more severe than he really was. Bobby just stared at him in dismay. He knew how miserable and rubbish he'd been every single day here for two weeks, but he now wondered how much this was about his mental health, and how much it was about Wayne's need to cut off his own vices.
`This isn't fair,' he began to complain.
This is entirely for your sake,' Rooney snapped, quite firmly. We want you to be well. We know it is tough -- lad of your age, here on your own now, lonely and fed up and not playing properly. We want you to go stay with family, rest and recover. We need you to be fitter mentally, before we can...'
This is bullshit!' Duncan yelled at him, the same angry roar he'd last hurt his throat on when rejecting and accusing Patrick Cutrone. He stopped squeezing his package through his shorts and backed towards the door, incensed. You can't do this to me, you can't just send me away cos you're sick of the taste of my spunk-`
`Bobby...!'
`What if I told everybody about that, eh? What if people knew about you and your dirty gob?!'
`Bobby. I don't think that would end well for either of us, do you? Please. This is for your sake. Believe me when I say that, Robert. Everybody at Derby County wants to see you thriving. And right now, that is not happening. Please do not make this difficult. Take the time to get well, enjoy some relief and some time with your family, please...' And there was something genuinely pleading in his face, the shame back in his eyes for another fleeting moment; Bobby saw not just the gruff inexperienced football manager, but the frightened married father-of-four, knew full well he would do nothing to expose or threaten him. Instead, he just dragged open the door and left the office behind, spilling muddy prints in the corridor instead, and finally accepting how miserable he was -- it had never occurred to him that it would be so obvious to everybody else around him!
The 19-year-old found his way quickly away form the nearby echoes of the main changing rooms and into a separate space, one of the dark quiet boot rooms. Here, he pushed the door shut behind him, folded his arms into the door and just wept, lovesick for his Italian stallion.