Part 241: The Crush
In the cosy tweeness of the Essex master bedroom, a lamp was switched off, and kisses goodnight were shared. The man of the house slid gently apart from his wife, resting the back of his head on the pillow and sighing a breath into the dark sexless air. He lay restlessly still, holding his arms over the thick duvet, eyes wide open, controlling the quiet excitement of his breath... and waiting.
Waiting for his wife, curled softly away from him, lulled gently away by bedtime reading, to fall fully asleep. He knew her well enough to recognise the shifts in breathing, but he still rolled his neck and glanced across at her to check before he made any careful movements, pulling the covers away from the tight white t-shirt and patterned pyjama shorts. Out of the bed and onto his feet, which he slid into slippers just to quieten his steps -- and then a silk dressing gown cautiously unhooked from its place and pulled about his warm body.
The 40-year-old stood looking guiltily back to the bed, slowly fastening the cords across the front of the gown, listening to the sleepy sighs of the missus, then pulling gently away one step at a time, one slippered foot after the other, until he was out on the landing. He daren't shut the bedroom door after him, leaving it open an inch, edging out onto the landing where he knew quite well which floorboard had a giveaway creak and could avoid it as he passed through the large family home to the stairway.
Downstairs, the former England star hesitated in the corridor, eyeing the little glimmers of security lamp and moonlight that sometimes flickered through windows by the porch and in the open lounge; then, more decisively, moving alongside the staircase bannister and to the long row of coat-hooks fastened against its panelled side, finding his own waxed Barbour coat that he'd worn in and out of London today on the commute to his management job.
Again, Scott Parker stopped, shooting sharp glances up and down the empty entrance hall of his home, his wife and children fast asleep in the two floors above, but an important caution still slowing and holding his movements. But he poppered open a side-pocket of the hanging coat and dug his fist inside, grabbing at some soft cottony material within, and then tugging it furtively out and holding it across the heat of his chest, where the robe opened across the front of his t-shirt. He stopped like that, controlling his deep snorting breaths, then gradually lifting the hand towards his face, taking a deep musty breath from the wrinkled fabric in his hands: breathing in the manly odours of the stolen underpants clutched in his fist.
The Fulham manager closed his furtive eyes and breathed it in, the dirty crotch-smell of his crush.
The scene of the crime: the Fulham training ground, midweek. Spirits high in the West London football team's Wednesday sessions, sandwiched between one weekend's much-needed win over Sheffield and the approaching derby against Crystal Palace on Sunday. It was another tough season for Parker's squad, but they were adamantly holding on to their place in the Premiership and unwilling to face another demotion to the lower leagues.
Scott found himself alone in the changing rooms, mid-morning. He was bouncing along at a pace, caught by the infectious good mood of his players, and passing through the changing areas to re-join the men out on the main pitch, where a number of his assistants were breaking the squad into sub-groups for drills before he took control of the day's main sessions. It was only his second season as the gaffer and every part of it was still a novelty to the former midfielder.
He certainly hadn't ended up in the changing rooms with any seedy intentions. It was an environment the retired footballer had grown up in and spent all of his adult life in and out of, he knew how to behave and control himself in a locker-room! All of those long seasons suppressing his curiosities had given him an iron will in that department, really; keep your eyes up above the waste, mate, never look down, never stare at anyone for more than two seconds. Behave. Repression, shame, fear, the holy trinity of self-control.
But he was only human.
He passed through the scruffy collection of lockers, benches, discarded things -- footballers ranged from militaristic tidiness to slobbish destruction, and so there were neat piles of bags and clothing, and extensive bombsites of masculine attire and paraphernalia. The position in the cluttered changing room that caught his attention as he passed through the room, his Barbour coat flapping openly at his sides over his own slim-fit tracksuit, was towards the former of these two extremes, a neat and particular spot in the centre of a row of five, partly reflecting the slick urbane persona of its occupant. Parker stopped in his rapid footsteps and stared fondly at the name `Bryan' on the back of a spare jersey on a hanger, over his No.23.
Tidy, but not weirdly so. It still projected the casual masculinity of the player, one of the squad's rotational defenders, a man who had still been quite new to Fulham when Parker himself took the reins eighteen months ago. He looked the spot up and down, from the football shirt and other hanging items by the wall, to the scruffy pile of items on the bench and then the kit-bag stuffed underneath it. On top of the pile, he couldn't help but notice, was the casual clothes Joe Bryan had arrived at training in -- a slightly mangled fold of denim, the ripples of a black shirt, and over them, the dumpy form of some discarded pale grey Calvin Kleins.
Parker swayed a little on his feet, clearing his throat loudly, Bryan's name glaring at him from among the row of other Fulham players against that wall. He fingered nervously at the neck of his top, taking three slow steps to the left and approaching the wall, then reached out with his other hand and brushing his knuckles aimlessly against the hanging shirt, over the printed 23. His reached curved downwards as if out of his control, and his fingertips ran gently over the material, soft and worn, lifting the boxer briefs by the branded waistband... and bringing them very very slowly to himself, letting them open and dangle from his fingers, these shed undies that his left-back had dropped here as he kitted up for training.
Scott closed his hand more fully about the CKs and dragged them up towards his face, taking a quick furtive breath of the ambiguous bodily smell they contained -- a rash and sleazy move born of too much self-discipline and suppression over the years. After all, how many times had he angrily torn his eyes away from the sight of this defender, correcting his own inclinations with a fierce determination for normality? So now he sucked in the scent, a mixture of spiced soap, stale sweat and something else, and then -- oh shit -- the swish and rustle of clothing followed by the click of boot studs, and he jerked the hand rapidly away from his face, practically throwing the pants down against the floor.
The inexperienced head coach turned sharply to look down the row of things, startled as a tall black lad burst around the corner, breathing heavily and dropping into an immediate crouch a few spaces down the wall from him, rifling through the bag whilst looking this way. Chief,' the young man barked at him, what you up to?' It was asked innocently enough, but it was firm and jarring enough against Parker's paranoia to make him open and close his mouth in a series of stammering failures. Then, before he could get his words out, the 25-year-old player was rising up to his tall frame and nodding downwards with a hesitant smile playing on his handsome features.
`Gaffer?' he asked with a tickle of laugh in his voice.
Scott looked down. The grey Calvins were lying on top of one of his trainers where he had tossed them downwards, hanging incriminatingly over his footwear as he stood there, his high cheekbones probably colouring in embarrassment. `Er...'
A soft half-laugh from the player. `Boss?'
A reckless autopilot bypassed Scott's awkward terror. Honestly,' he barked in his dad voice, this lot, what are they all like?' And with a footballer's deftness he jerked his knees and foot and flipped the garment upwards onto the stack of Joe Bryan's clothing, shaking his head and rolling his eyes and taking a couple of steps towards the other Fulham lad. The mess in here, it's ridiculous, total bunch of slobs, right?' He gave a stretched, white-toothed grin at the young guy and reached to pat his shoulder, nodding to the doors. Come on, you've got what you come for yeah, let's get out there with the rest of them and-He paused, staring at the younger guy's expression and then guiltily back across the row of lockers, faltering in his lie, but needing to plough on:Tidying up after them like they're all my sons, what a fucking state. Come on, big lad, time to prep for that win!'
Parker was still cringing at the encounter by the end of the afternoon, staring blindly at a slew of emails in his office. He rubbed at his sharp jaw and clicked pointlessly at the mouse, not tearing his eyes from the monitor and letting the minutes tick by up here, away from the busyness of the training centre -- the final warm-downs of the afternoon in the capable hands of his deputy so that he could get back to some admin and stop tormenting himself with the horror of his little slip of self-control!
God, what are you playing at?!
He felt more harshly disappointed himself than last year when he'd made the mad mistake of downloading that app. To think, he'd almost met up with that younger guy on it, actually gone all the way into Shoreditch after a late night in this very office... and lying about his own age, edging it down through his 30s as if his age was the problem, not his wife, family, career... years of denial! He squirmed in his seat, reliving the frustrations of that unused app, the download-and-delete cycle of curiosity and failure. As if he would ever use it properly, how could he take that risk?! How could he dip his toe in that dangerous water? He could feel the sharks circling even as he carefully cropped his face out of the pictures he'd dared to send to that one guy, the stranger who had stood him up.
Idiocy. Control yourself.
He cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, tried to return his focus to the scouting reports in his inbox, and then- knuckles were rapping on the office door and breaking his sluggish train of thought. `Come in,' he called impatiently without looking away from the computer. The door swished open and a grassy outdoor scent flooded in with the huffing and panting arrival, swinging brightly into the room and drawing his attention across... oh, for fuck's sake. It was him.
Boss,' breathed Joe Bryan heavily, can I have a minute, yeah?'
Parker froze, his hands an inch over the keyboard, furrowing his brow and turning his head firmly towards the kitted footballer in the centre of his square office. Fuck fuck fuck. He knew. He'd heard. He'd been told. That prick had seen him going for it, having a sniff, or- Fuck fuck fuck, what would he say? How could he explain this? Oh jesus joseph and mary...
That ok? You got a minute? I don't wanna disturb you,' the 27-year-old Bristolian said, his voice softening and his dark brows lifting questioningly. A nervous smile broke his weary post-training expression and he tilted his head. Everything alright, boss?'
Recovering himself and pushing his chair back from the desk, Scott blinked away his horrified expression and readjusted to the friendly uncertainty of the left-back's manner. He waved clumsily at the spare chair by his desk and stammered out his reassurance. `Absolutely fine, Bryan, all good -- have a seat, you know I always have a minute for any player who needs to talk.' He got up aimlessly from his seat, still waving at the other one, and stared widely at Joe as he reached across and flopped down into it, shorts riding up his thick thighs as he did. The short muscular defender made himself comfortable with a series of deep sighs, adjusting the waterproof jacket over his training shirt and fiddling with the beanie hat that half-covered his tufty light brown hair.
Scott sank slowly back into his own chair, stared away at the screen to centre himself, then dared a welcoming smile at Joe, who clearly knew nothing about his indiscretion of earlier. `What can I do for you, Joey? What's up? Training end okay down there?' He did a bad job of relaxing his body language, leaning one hand on the desk and twisting his chair to show he was snubbing the emails and devoting his managerial attention to his player in a calm and supportive manner, and definitely not remembering the smell of his Calvin Kleins.
Except it was quite hard to listen to Bryan's casual response, the handsome man pawing at his mud-grimed face and adjusting the crotch of his Fulham shorts where they rode up his thigh muscles; his every twitch drawing the manager's eyes across the settled muscular presence of the 5ft7 lad, taking in the smell of grass and sweat that poured off his mud-streaked legs. He swayed in and out of this appreciative stare, tuning in as Joe cut the small talk and made his almost apologetic point: he'd not even made the subs bench for a couple of games now, and was hoping to get a lot more minutes under his belt (his belt, Scott thought, picturing the sweat-stained inner waistband of those grey CK boxer briefs) in the Palace game this coming Sunday.
Ah,' Parker responded with a wariness that had nothing to do with squad rotation or strategic priorities, and everything to do with the fact he was wondering what underpants the Bristol bloke was wearing under those shorts right now. He drew himself back in his smart office chair and cleared his throat, then smiled apologetically at Bryan when he realised how ominous his reaction might seem. Well, you know you're always in contentious when you're feeling fit, Bryan, so don't you worry -- I haven't quite settled on the names for Sunday, of course, it's only Wednesday, but...'
I know, I know,' insisted Joe in his charming lightly accented way, shifting his weight in the other seat and rubbing both hands down the creased front of his waterproof. It's terrible of me coming in here and even asking, I know that chief, not the done thing, eh? Sorry, boss, I am sorry -- I don't wanna be THAT player, pushing and complaining, you know I just like to keep my head down and work hard, that's my style...!'
It is,' Scott agreed, a little too quickly and breathily. It is. Don't apologise. I respect your... forwardness. Ahem.'
That's kind of you, chief-
Please, please, call me Scott. I tell everyone that. I don't stand by no formality, mate.' The mate' sounded odd and forced and he flinched self-consciously at how wrong his own natural Lambeth patter sounded in the close confines of the office, full of the smell and presence and gently heaving breath of the 27-year-old defender. `I'm sorry that you have been feeling snubbed.'
No, no,' Joe corrected quickly, I don't think that, well, not a lot, I just mean -- ah, shit, you know how it is, Scott. I'm sure you remember. But... forget I said anything. It's well awkward. I'm making a tit of myself in here, aren't I...?'
No, not at all,' he told him urgently, scratching at his neck and tearing his eyes to the side, since he couldn't seem to hold Joe's gaze without letting his eyes swivel downwards to the spread posture of his footballer's legs in the chair. He stared at the bland boxes of his computer screen without reading a word and cleared his throat again. You don't ask, you don't get.'
You don't ask, you don't get?! What shite are you talking, Scotty lad?!
He cringed hard at himself, rubbing at one temple and swinging his seat a little, preoccupied and uncomfortable, and clearly conveying that to his office visitor, since Joe was frowning slightly and pulling back where he sat, patting his bare scratched knees with each hand. He began to pick himself up, tugging unconsciously at the ruffled black nylon of the shorts, yanking too at some unseen elasticated layer beneath, adjusting the flop of his crotch as he straightened to his feet and backed off, almost knocking the chair aside. Scott rose instinctively a second later, embarrassed by his fidgety discomfit and the fact he was mentally stripping that anorak and training kit from the left-back's tight-muscled body.
Joe just gave him an earnest half-smile and lifted off his woollen hat to scratch at his overgrown hair. Seriously, forget I said it, I'm too old for this sulky diva act,' he said warmly. You know I just want to work hard and earn my minutes, and keep the team going. That's all. I'll leave you to it, chief, you seem pretty busy.'
I'm not,' Scott said, again too rapidly, and he stopped himself awkwardly, coughed, tugged at the sleeves of his tracksuit top. I mean -- yes, quite busy, but... It's good to see you, Joe.' IT'S GOOD TO SEE YOU -- OH MY GOD, JUST SHUT UP, SCOTT. But I really should, erm, you know, er-
Yeah, yeah.' Bryan backed away with a respectful nod, fumbling the hat in both hands and backing to the door. Sorry again!' And then he was wrenching it open and backing into the corridor with a rattle and a rustle and Parker was sinking slowly to his arse, mortified by the stilting little exchange and what a gormless weirdo he must have seemed to the under-used defender -- slick, sophisticated Scott Parker, England hero turned Premier League manager, gibbering on like a teenage girl in front of one of his own minor players...! Oh, what a day of embarrassments and idiocy, he cursed inwardly, his eyes pausing on the faint buttock-shaped sweat patches that lingered on the black padding of the other chair, watching them fade into invisibility.
He could still remember the first time he'd met Bryan, stumbling across the West Country football stud relaxing in the sun at Craven Cottage with a book in his hands; one of the first Fulham players to greet and congratulate him as he settled into his first managerial job at the West London yoyo club.
He'd noticed the guy's handsomeness and peak physicality, he wasn't fucking blind, but he could also remember the second first impression, the moment where he'd more fully `noticed' the man, and this stupid fixation had begun. This... crush, as of a lovesick teenage girl, Shakespeare's Juliet mooning after the masquerade. God, it was all so embarrassing.
It had been on one of Parker's first away ventures with the club, at some bleakly corporate hotel in the north, where he had been really beginning to feel the pressure of his new role, a major coach in his late 30s with everyone watching his first steps. Not that he was self-pitying or regretful, just tense in every muscle of his 5ft9 midfielder's body. A late swim had seemed the only solution and so the new Fulham boss had padded down to the basement fitness suites of the hotel, clutching his towel and trunks under one arm and inspecting the rather impressive pool that stretched away to his left, surrounded by probably-false lush tropical greenery that gleamed with dappled coloured lighting.
The then-25-year-old footballer had emerged from this pool like some Greek god landing on foreign shores. Scott hadn't even noticed the pool was in use, so caught up by the vivid colours and his own physical yearning for the gently heated water on his body, rather than more worrying and over-thinking in his own suit two dozen floors above them. But here he came, gliding out of the blue waters with his wet fists gripping metallic rails -- he mounted the ladder and poolside in a vertical rush of water that fell through his bulging arms and chest muscles, bare feet planting against the rough faux stone. Weighed by pool-water, short zebra-print trunks stuck to the tops of his legs and the evident shape of his privates, and both hands came up to rub wetness from the golden-brown peaks of his short hair. Joe huffed his lips and blinked chlorine from his eyes, then seemed to start at their close proximity on the edge of the swimming pool, the manager sucking in oxygen in an awe-struck rush.
`Gaffer.'
Bryan,' he'd said, stiff with the formality of his new authority. Good swim?'
Painfully, their paths had converged: muscle-bound 25-year-old footballer traipsing through to the changing room with dripping footsteps, sexually repressed coach stepping carefully along behind him and seeing the way those wet trunks clung to the alternating melons of his glutes. In the long thin men's changing space, Bryan moved ahead, swaggering under some thin cool showerheads to blast the chemicals from his lightly tanned physique; Parker stopped near the door, dropping his gear onto the shelf and letting his eyes follow the other man's body intensely.
At that point, the curiosities were really just beginning to simmer and surface -- maybe it was the pressure of the new, the return to the fray after the twilight years of his playing career and the obscure period of nabbing his coaching qualifications. Maybe under that pressure, his carefully crafted ignorance of what the men around him looked like and might offer was... melting. Or maybe, he sometimes reflected, this bastard was just too beautiful.
In the eerie hotel basement, Scott watched the footballer douse his back and shoulders down, and then his chest. Joe seemed oblivious to his wandering eyes, whistling quite cheerfully as he did. With some difficulty, he tore his eyes off the adonis, and began instead to unbutton his shirt, overcome with guilt and irritation at the way he was devouring the visuals. He thought restoratively of his loyal wife at home on the edge of London, peeling away his smart shirt and folding it neatly onto the shelf, abandoning the fascination with Joe's physique -- not just that, he supposed, having become quite intrigued by his bookish character and quiet confidence as he began to get the measure of all the players under his care. But he took his mind away from it, thinking about how he might push himself in the pool, how many lengths he would aim for to tire out his body and mind. He unclasped his expensive watch and frowned at it, remembering his own rules and realising that the player shouldn't even really be down here -- the boys were under curfew and Joe should be in bed.
Sorry boss,' came the Bristolian accent, alarmingly close to him, and suddenly one of those wet arms was jutting at the locker inches to his right, and he shifted away to give a bit more space. I know I shouldn't, I just really needed it, y'know?' Joe was next to him and smiling earnestly his way, trying to charm his way out of any guilt. `I'll be straight back up to my room, though. Promise!' He laughed at his own boyish pleading.
`It's fine,' Scott had mumbled, or something similar, stood close to the younger man. He was stripped to the waist, but Joe was just in those short shorts, and then... well, they went to, pushed downwards at the front to expose the short golden stubble where his pubes should be, and swept down over his thighs, one of them decorated with tattoo even then. And then, just for a moment, the new Fulham manager was staring at his loosed cock, the thick droop of it between his legs, glistening damp; then side-profile, the dong still visible, but the jut of his muscular arse too. Scott's nostrils flared and he actually closed his eyes full-on, needing to do that to block out the view of the short muscular man beside him, only opening them when he was sure he was just staring at his own feet, and unbuckling his leather belt.
But in the corner of his eye was the bold white of Bryan's bottom, tan lines from summer holiday very visible; it jiggled a little as sweatpants were dragged upwards against it and then it was tucked within them, the grey material stretched across both muscles. Joe shook himself into an oversized sweatshirt and stood straight to adjust and tidy it, while Scott had to lower himself to sit on the bench behind them, his breath momentarily taken away.
`Right. Enjoy the pool, chief.'
`Er, yes. Yeah. I will. Goodnight.'
`Night!' A jokey salute, a cheery grin -- did he know? Had he noticed? Had Scott's lusty inappropriate stares been obvious and outrageous? No, surely not, he was just totally imagining it. No way could Joe have noticed his staring, it had been so brief and furtive! But... well, what the young lad might more realistically have noticed was the hard-on now jutting against the inner leg of his chinos. He stared at it in dismay, questioning when it had sprung up and if it had been witnessed by the dressing swimmer. No, surely not. But perhaps? It was a question that would haunt him for some weeks before eventually ceasing to expect the worst and await the accusations. And that night he had just sat furiously in the changing room and willed it to shrunken softness, then gone for his swim, lapped his way to exhaustion, crashed into bed.
This afternoon, locking up his office... a few important Zoom calls and a bit of online shopping distancing himself from the awkward conversation with Bryan. He had almost recovered form his day's mortification, coat pulled back on over his Fulham tracksuit, ready for the slow drive around the capital and into near Essex.
As he often did, Scott had dismissed his earlier curiosity as a madness, a stupidity created by boredom; it was easily done, he'd been doing it for about 20 years. It was easy to reassure yourself that you were normal and straightforward once the mad heat had cooled off and you were thinking rationally again. He thought that in a day or two he might find himself laughing about it, even, wrinkling his nose disgust in the rash whim that had made him sniff at a fella's undies!
Again though, his thoughts were interrupted. A player was approaching him up the quiet corridor, the training centre largely emptied now as the evening unfolded. He didn't react, sliding the key away and backing off from the door, stifling the start of a yawn and deciding what podcast he would be listening to on the journey home -- it was hardly odd or surprising for him to be approached by another player or staff member at the end of the day, badgering him with questions. Even Joe's visit earlier had been pretty every-day, charged simply by his own guilt.
But then he recognised exactly who was coming up close to him, and stopped.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek flashed him one of his broad trademark smiles, full of youthful confidence; the Chelsea loan player was enjoying a great run of form under Parker's leadership, his long injury phase behind him and the prominence of this temporary London transfer doing him a world of good. He was always grinning and positive -- but his smile here was loaded and knowing, and the young man's 6ft3 frame practically towered over the boss as he came to a halt next to him, also zipped up in his puffer coat and looking ready to go.
Oh,' he said in a measured voice, Lofty...'
In the changing rooms earlier on, he had been so sure that the 25-year-old would have seen nothing, just couldn't have, but standing before him now and that almost leering expression, the certainty was very weak. Lofty could be here to talk to him about a dozen things, anything really, but his eyes were full of smirking secrecy, and he was digging his hands into his pockets. Hey boss,' the midfielder said brightly, glad I caught ya!'
Concerned by the vague looming threat of his expression, Scott looked back at him quite sternly. `Oh -- and why's that? Shouldn't be on your way home, mate?'
On my way out now,' Ruben told him, hands still shoved in his pockets, elbows stuck out a little -- such a tall well-built fella, a real powerful presence on the pitch and, as it happens, in a corridor. Just wanted to drop something off with you before I do, gaffer.'
Scott raised one eyebrow. And that is...?' He was steeling himself, ready for an awkward conversation; his affable cover-up in the mid-morning had failed, then, he needed to spin something more convincing to explain why he might have been handling anyone's gear in the locker-room, something that would convince and silence the swaggering London athlete. Ruben?'
Loftus-Cheek had a likeable and attractive laugh, but right now it was quite unnerving. He bunched his big shoulders, winked, and tugged one hand out of a pocket. Parker reached instinctively to receive what he was given, feeling the bundle of material shoved against his palm, while his heartbeat seemed to just halt in his tight chest. Thought you might like these better,' whispered the Lewisham footballer, grinning ear to ear, Grabbed `em in the changing rooms just now while he was showering. Enjoy, fella.'
Scott could have rejected this lewd offer and laughed off Ruben's advance, but he didn't say a thing. He clutched the gift firmly in his hand and stared woodenly at the retreating figure of the big, muscled man, who flashed him one last cheeky smile before turning his back and hurrying on to the stairway at the far end of the corridor. Only once the Chelsea property was disappeared down these stairs and the gaffer was alone properly in the silent corridor did he stare down at what his apparent accomplice had seized: the silky stretchy black of the sports briefs unfurling in his hand, a little damp still with the sweat of the body that had stretched them all day, and the tiny white tag against the rear waist daubed with faded ink initials `JB'.
Tonight, he draped them in his face and breathed it in, the manly smell of Bryan's perspiration and hard work. He clutched the stretchy UnderArmour briefs against his face, holding the strappy material to his nose and lips; his other hand was engaged with his bare cock, jerking it over the waist of his pyjama shorts, wanking himself quite furiously in the creaking seat of his home office at the back of the house, heels digging into the wooden floorboards.
Scott Parker gasped and sighed into the fistful of stolen property, far too aroused and excited to return to the big questions of the day. He couldn't think about the horror of Ruben having caught him in the act, or the implications of how perceptively he had interpreted his discovery; he couldn't dare question what Loftus-Cheek really knew or didn't know. He definitely couldn't remember the awkwardness of speaking to Joe in his office, watching his shorts-clad bottom rub sweatily against the spare seat as they spoke in fits and starts. Instead, his mind played over two years of ogling the handsome left-back, his physique often bulging and rippling in close-fitting kits -- he dredged up the memories of the hotel pool in the north, the demigod emerging from the chlorine.
And he wanked his cock, finally dropping the pants down there and wrapping the fabric about his own meat rather than against his gasping face, pulling the briefs around his nob and wanking into it like a sock, excited by the proxy contact between he and the much-desired young man who had sat across from him earlier in the day, oh god. Parker's cum oozed and leaked against the stretchy black material, ruining them with the liquid excitement of the night. He winced at every squeak of the chair beneath his arse and back, trying to limit its wiggling motion as he pulled a few final times on himself, satisfied and dazed... his mind's eye just imagining the droplets of pool-water that trickled over that firm chest and down into those zebra-print trunks. Damn that beautiful bastard. Damn this fucking crush.
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