Part 246: D-bag and T-dog
Back in the soulless luxury of the town centre apartment he had been given by the club, he could throw off his jacket and collapse lengthways onto a pristine velvety sofa in the centre of the open-plan room, looking out on Ipswich's gleaming harbour. The grin that had been plastered on his chiselled young features almost all day would not fade away, buoyed and enthralled by the afternoon's breakthrough: his first senior goal!
Okay, at Ipswich Town, and not the North London Premiership club who owned him, but it was still a momentous turning point for the 19-year-old's career over here in Ireland. It had felt such a long season of drought for the Irish lad, whose rise through youth teams for club and country had been studded with hat-tricks; his loan time at Millwall had been rendered sporadic with injury and whilst he had received many positive reviews in these recent months here at Town, today's 4th minute winner was his first proper professional goal since turning 18 and signing an adult contract. Fucking hell it had felt good, the silky run-up to it and the powerful moment of accomplishment -- and all of the praise and camaraderie that had followed! Well... almost all of it.
Troy Parrott beamed with allowed smugness, relaxing his 6ft1 young body against the sofa and wishing he'd visited the physios before leaving the stadium grounds at the end of the afternoon -- and also wishing times were a little easier, that he could be knocking back a pint with some of his teammates in a Suffolk beer garden right now, rather than alone in his apartment and faced with the choice of a solitary evening or driving down to the East London suburbs where his transplanted Irish family were living in their new home.
He was far too tired for the latter, and his striker's legs throbbed. Instead, the dark-haired young athlete rested back against the arm of the sofa, bringing one arm up behind his head, and sliding out his iPhone with the other hand. His messaging and social media were going crazy with messages of support and encouragement, some of which he had already enjoyed at the stadium and on the way home through the town, but others he had yet to read, or was happy to read again -- particularly the DMs from a host of attractive young models who were slithering all over his Instagram, keen to WAG up with a hot young talent. He sniggered at their flirty communication and then fixated on a string of messages from his own ex-girlfriend back in Dublin, who he hadn't heard from since Christmas.
It wasn't just the female attention that made the tall teen smirk and gloat where he lounged, kicking his trainers off one at a time and rubbing his heels against the far arm of the sofa, his body hugged by a tight Adidas tracksuit. No, there were also messages from a few guys that were enough to make him chuckle and colour, both titillated and embarrassed to think how he'd courted that attention in the past and, erm, more recently -- the messages seeming to strike him as hints of his prick-teasing exhibitionism rather than reminders of his own sexual transgression.
Well, Eric was a pal, wasn't he? A proper pal. No reason to feel weird about the very formally written congratulatory note from him, sweet as it was and ending in a string of kisses -- there was a real warmth in hearing from the Spurs defender, who had been so reassuring and positive with him when they met up earlier in the year. But almost awkwardly there was also a message from Eric's ex: a blunt but sincere well done and set of emojis from that other Spurs and England hero, Harry Kane, which gave Troy more amusement and embarrassment. Probably the prolific striker was just acting up to his status as a role model and leader, rather than anything actually flirtatious! But knowing what he did about the big guy's antics, it was tough for the 19-year-old stud not to dare harbour suspicion. Then there were the other messages: from Shane Long, the Irish legend now loaned to Bournemouth, and his fellow party animal Charlie Austin, who Troy was shocked even still had his number. One of the blokes from his brief Millwall stint had sent him a notably `friendly' congrats message too -- oh, calm yourself down, he thought with a laugh, just cos all of these men have shown a bit of interest in you, stop being such an egotistical cliché!
After all, only Eric Dier had pursued' him with any vigour, and it was clear that it was just a rather, ahem, beneficial friendship that existed between the youth and the experienced defensive midfielder, who was clearly mad for some other bloke. Well... Long had seemed QUITE intensely interested at one point, he supposed, remembering incidents like those weird recordings of his marital sex during the first lockdown, but having heard so little from his Irish hero in the last six months. It was all just mad shit, Troy reminded himself, stupid teenage nonsense. He'd been telling himself that more and more lately after his disastrous attempt to return the favour' in Dier's master bedroom, when trying to replicate the blowies he'd received had just made him gag and feel nauseous, stupid, out of place. Nah, just crazy little escapades, teenage excess, nothing to be thought about for long.
With that in mind, he returned to a particularly fruity set of messages from a local Suffolk it girl with massive tits who had been sending him cheeky picture messages for two weeks now, and wanted to meet up for a `walk' as soon as possible. Walk, hah, right. She wanted the D, for sure.
The phone in his hand began to vibrate against his fingers and there was a moment of stupid panic that seemed to go with his self-absorbed musing, as if his dismissive thoughts had summoned a pushy phone call out of one of those older blokes whose hands or mouths had strayed where they shouldn't during his formative year of the top English leagues. But the phone call was from none of those fellas, and the caller's name was joined on-screen by an aged selfie of he and his former London housemate, the two of them 17 at the time, fisting the air at the end of a Spurs youth victory: Dilan Kumar Markanday, one of his closest pals from the Tottenham Academy, and his housemate for his first couple of years living in the UK.
`D-bag!' he whooped into the phone as he picked up the call.
T-doggggg,' came the other young sportsman's excited North London drawl. He shoots, he SCORES -- sweet work out there, Troy, you beaut.'
`Well, you know me, comes easy,' Parrott joked and laughed, too conscious of the ended drought to worry that this may sound conceited to his friend. So many good memories of he and Markanday up front of the Under 18s then Under 23s of the Premier League club, racking up the goals and assists and then reliving them over the dinner table of the Barnet lad's conservative Indian family. He'd been housed with them for that very reason, a quiet and serious North London family who would host and protect him as an impressionable newbie in the English capital -- it had often irked him with its rules and restrictions, but he found himself now missing the homemade curry and naan and the quiet comfort of living with the Markandays.
Seriously, though,' panted Dilan down the phone, what a belter. Four minutes in! Singlehanded win, that, bro. Ah fuck, you love to see it, yeh!'
`Thanks buddy, thanks,' Troy told him gladly, surprised at how nice and uplifting it was to hear from a friend who he'd not found much time for since making his senior debut back at Tottenham and then being shipped out on two loan spells. There was a touch of guilt there, not wanting to be one of those competitive wankers who snubs old teammates after moving on up; after all, Troy's graduation to the first team had been short-lived, and he wasn't sure that Championship football was much better than regular Under-23s Spurs action like Dilan was getting.
What a day you're having,' Dilan cooed at him as they spoke, slipping into old jokey patter and the casually abusive language of teenage boys everywhere, in between the bursts of praise and admiration from his former wingman. This will be one for the memories,' the British Indian lad went on keenly, `a proper big day for you there, you'll go down in Ipswich Town history, haha...'
`Huh, dunno about that,' Troy found himself mumbling less brightly, his thoughts drifting.
`Just a perfect day!' yelped the other aspirational young footballer.
Dunno about perfect,' Troy muttered back, just... erm, an odd day, in a way, apart from, y'know, my first senior goal, just...' He broke off into fragments of burry Irish laughter, not really wanting to spell out the problem that sat in his memories of this momentous afternoon.
Oh?' There was a very casual note of friendly concern in Dilan's voice, but nothing more. Heh -- must be something in the air, then. Pretty weird day for me too, if I'm honest, but...' And then the other lad was trailing off hesitantly down the phone connection, though Troy was a little too distracted and irritated to register the shift in the other forward's tone. He was staring out at his harbour view under the patchy sunshine, reflecting on the tarnishing stain on today's achievements -- would the two memories always be interconnected, or would the moment of his breakthrough goal soon override the embarrassing incident that had followed it...?
`You get surrounded by some weird shit in this football bubble, don't you?' mused Dilan's thoughtful voice, reminding Troy of the long speculative conversations he'd always shared with the intelligent teenager, something of a geek in secret away from the football ground.
You do,' Troy acknowledged in a gritty voice, torn for a moment between offloading some of the day's disaster side onto his understanding and supportive friend, and the desire to charge ahead and shove laddish humour into the conversation instead. But Dilan was picking up the dialogue quickly, muttering into the phone in the same voice of idle thought: And sometimes you just have to put it down to a high-pressured macho environment and laugh it off, right?' he asked, and for the first time in the short conversation, Troy stopped thinking about himself and wondered what `weird shit' his friend had encountered that day, and if it was as problematic as his own...
At the sprawling outer London training grounds of Tottenham Hotspurs, Dilan had spent the morning getting aggressively stuck into a warm-up game between two halves of the Under 23s squad, one of the leading figures in that line-up now he had made his occasional steps to train with and substitute among the proper senior squad. He was eager to prove himself too tough, too talented, too promising to stick it out here in the juniors, and that led to a particularly ferocious playing style: and today in particular, to a few excessive tackles and then to the awkward stumble that made his right ankle twinge and throb with worrying pain.
That was how the 19-year-old Londoner found himself limping off the pitch early, boots dangling from the fingers of one hand, and a disappointed scowl marring the handsome bearded features of his face. He was annoyed only at himself, overdoing it in some delusion that today would be the day one of the coaching staff really sat back and thought `Fuck, he needs to be a Premiership star!' He hadn't quite gone so far in his mental fantasy to expect that he was going to be urgently transferred into Mourinho's tactics for a North London derby against Arsenal tomorrow, with Kane, Bale and Son on such fine form, but the idealised prospect hung there at the edge of his thoughts now that he was struggling along on one sore ankle and trying to work out how serious it was.
Dilan had typical teenage impatience with how his career was moving. He'd felt hyped up in his mid-teens, a local boy getting excitable feedback form the club regime, but at 19 that promise already felt jeopardised and stagnant. Being something of a realist, he tried hard not to indulge too much in the prospect of playing up-front alongside Kane and co, and had begun to hope that he might follow his former housemate Parrott and be sent to a promising Championship side come the summer transfer window -- Troy had excitedly explained to him how even Harry Kane had cut his teeth on low-profile temporary contracts before breaking into prominence here at Tottenham. It made sense.
But while his big Irish pal, who he heard so little from these days, was bouncing between lower league sides and battling for that important first goal to make his mark, Markanday was malingering here, becoming bored by the standard of Under 23s football and resentful of the younger lads that he usually shared the pitch with.
He left the training pitch in a minor strop, walking uncomfortably up the elevated path between the demarcated playing areas. With unamusing irony, he was literally treading the paved line that ran between where his own teammates were still battling it out, and the Spurs first team were engaged in some serious-looking drills ahead of tomorrow. The Asian lad frowned across this view of the club's bigger names, from his mildly idolised Kane to the likes of Alderweireld and Winks, Lloris and Lamela. It seemed as though Harry Kane had just scored a goal as part of whatever exercise they were engaged in, and was currently being lifted off his feet in some manly squeeze by that big Welshman Gareth Bale -- and seeming to have been beaten in the challenge, Harry Winks was skulking away and bemoaning something to a coach-turned-referee. Part of him was tempted to rest his ankle by slumping down on the neat grassy verge and watching the top-flight big guns in action, but he thought it might look a bit sad and fanboying. Instead, he marched on, trying to maintain a steady gait and exercise whatever cramp or jolt was now giving him shooting pain in the lower half of his right leg.
The injured lad made his way indoors, grubby socks smacking against the lino floor and scraps of mud dropping from the boots he carried, his other hand scratching at his youthful beard and rifling through the dark shag of his hair. He dropped the sulky expression and stopped feeling so hard-done-by as he wound his way through the quiet cool corridors and into the sprawling changing rooms along the side of the building, deciding that an early shower might give him some time later for a chat with his manager where he could apologise for his overwrought performance just now. He just hoped that the ankle would be okay and he wouldn't be seen limping about the place in the afternoon, making their Monday game unlikely -- never mind his fantasies about joining the seniors tomorrow for Arsenal!
Markanday moved through the scruffy chambers of the dressing rooms, very fully occupied with hanging and heaped clothes and bags, with so much parallel training going on this bright breezy Saturday. He was headed for the far end, the `bubble' where he and some of his other young Spurs pals had kitted up not so long before, but he found himself looking longingly at the obvious property of some other players -- their names and numbers printed boldly on the back of hanging jerseys. Dilan fought with that surly impatience for his own spot in their midst, but stomped on -- until his socked foot kicked awkwardly at something on the floor and send it skidding with a bump into the nearest wall. He was passing the particularly messy clothing-dumps of a few other experienced pros, and he'd obviously kicked someone's possessions into a corner -- with the well-raised politeness that overcame his teenage sulk, Dilan moved aside and stooped and reached instinctively for the item, grabbing it up off the floor and then turned confusedly to the mess of gear that spilled alongside this wall, hanging off the shelving and bench in such a way that one man's things seemed to blur with another.
It was only then, stumped by working out whose gear he had accidentally trampled through, that the 19-year-old actually looked at what he was holding. It felt odd and rubbery against his sweaty fingers, a thick and pliable sorta material, and... well, what the heck actually was it? He'd been expecting something mundane, like a gumshield or a glasses case, or... not... erm, what was it? Like... a wrist support, or...? Nah, surely not! It was basically a sorta latex tube, about six inches in length, and it felt like it was bumpy or ridged, but maybe on the inside rather than the outside?
With the innocence of a lad raised in a strict Hindu household, Markanday stared at the wanking sleeve with a very gradual understanding of the male toy in his hand.
The atmosphere in the home changing rooms of the League One promotion-chasers had been, unsurprisingly, raucous and joyful. Parrott had joined the other guys late, taken aside for a very positive debrief with the chiefs, and he entered the locker rooms to rowdy applause and a series of increasingly violent grabs and hugs that made him laugh and gasp, finally recapturing some of the glory moments of his talented youth and seeing that he might still yet live up to his potential. He said little himself, not wanting to dwell arrogantly on the goal, not when everyone else was so ready to wax lyrical about it and boast that the `Handsome Leprechaun Fucker' would be the one to take Town into the Championship and -- in some of the more excitable moments -- eventually to the UEFA Champions League. Troy, who balked a little at the thought of a long-term future here rather than back at Tottenham, laughed along and took his time to undress, peeling away the blue kit from his lean strong body.
He was in no rush for the heady post-match atmosphere to end, taking his time to unlace his boots and tuck away his used shinpads. But before long his shorts were off and he was twanging the elastic waist of his sports briefs, ready to chuck them off and waltz brazenly into the showers with everyone else. If his Millwall months had taught him anything, it was that you couldn't skulk around the edges playing to your youth and vulnerability -- after those tough first experiences with the suspicious and cynical Millwall players, he had learned swagger and showiness about his physique and his more specific endowment, trying to command himself as one of the men rather than just a boy. And such swagger and self-confidence was especially easy when your 4th minute goal had sealed the day's victory and you were hyped up by every League One fella around you!
Towel over shoulder, the 19-year-old marched on into the showers, and it began almost immediately. Here he is,' barked their 35-year-old defender Luke Chambers, twisting his head away from the shower he was basking below, the big-dicked bastard himself, our boy Parrott...!' A ripple of hollers and whoops accompanied Troy's steps into the steamy shower block, joining their laughter despite a note of surprise at such a blunt and crass greeting, even from the yobbish older man.
Yup, everyone make space,' quipped another guy nearby, Welsh winger Gwion Edwards. Careful it don't whip you as he goes past.'
Fuck off guys,' chuckled Troy as he hung up his towel and joined the carefully spaced mass of male bodies, muscles glittering beneath hot water and steam, bottles of shower gel and shampoo squirting and belching gently into waiting hands. With a twin streak of self-consciousness and pride, he adjusted the way his schlong hung from his trimmed pubes, keeping his head bashfully low as he passed through the centre of the showers and was followed by more jokey remarks -- He'll be scoring with that third leg before we fucking know it,' said Andre Dozzell giddily, and `What do they feed them over there in Leprechaun land?' demanded Teddy Bishop before descending into fits of giggles and slapping him on the back.
Shaking his head and refusing to rise further to it, the young striker found his place in the only remaining gap and punched the button to dowse himself in hot water, squelching some shower gel into his palms and rubbing them against his flat pecs, where a thin patch of dark hair had recently sprouted between his vivid pink nipples, all stark against the pale Irish muscle.
Ignore em,' laughed Jack Lankester to his left, but the guy to his right was grabbing him roughly by one shoulder and letting out a wheezy manly laugh before picking up the joke: `Hey, do you have to shower next to me and make mine look so tiny, Trojan?' roared his fellow burly Irishman, Alan Judge -- the argumentative Dublin-born winger who had only just been cleared of another aggressive incident against a League One referee. He shook Troy by the shoulder, leering at him through his auburn beard and flashing him a wink. The laughter boomed and echoed in the steam behind their backs, but even when it had dissipated into the buzz of general conversation, he found that the 32-year-old fellow Dubliner was smirking his way with a face of mischief, rubbing a soapy hand to his own average privates and seeming to stare interestedly down this way -- at the way Troy's heavy appendage hung between his dark-haired thighs, dripping with suds that coursed down his long torso. He stared at himself and then, raising his eyebrows in bemusement, back at the married older man who had positioned himself as something of a rough mentor in the past two months, but was now winking gracelessly and shaking with a dirty chuckle.
He undressed for his shower, dragging the Spurs shirt up over his broad brown body -- the bulking of his chest and arms just a testament to lockdown boredom and the extra fitness hours he had been putting in both here and at home, turning the dining room into a home gym and pumping iron to make himself a more ferocious and unstoppable forward player. He tossed the match-worn shirt at the door of his locker, rolling his shoulders and cricking his thick neck, then stared confusedly down again at the item that lay next to his rolled socks and neat clean trainers. Well, he could hardly have put it back, could he? He didn't even know where it had come from. Once he'd felt an inkling of what it actually was, he'd become obsessively embarrassed of standing there with it in his hand, and yet also too embarrassed to just toss it in the pile of men's things and cause someone else that same mortification! He'd thought about just chucking it under the lockers but then decided to just take it with him into the next vestibule of lockers and hangers, and now it sat absurdly among his own things, the rubbery tube that looked like it might stretch quite comfortably over a- Fucking hell. Whose was it?!
The corner where he'd almost tripped on the stupid thing had been so ambiguous. Not clear and ordered like the other end of the row, where Dier' and Alli' and `Son' were so distinctly printed on the hanging garments -- but staring around him, the dropped item could have belonged to Bale or Davies, or to legendary goalie Joe Hart, it was too hard to say. Or none of them, of course -- was it just a prank or something, or was it not even what he thought it was...? Where did people buy things like that? His eyes had bulged at the windows of London sex shops like any other teen lad's, but at the lingerie and more feminine apparatus, he'd never even considered that something might exist for a bloke to wank into.
Dilan huffed prudishly and brought up one meaty leg at a time to the bench to roll down his socks, peeling them away from his thickly furred legs, so shockingly hairy for his age but perhaps not for his heritage. Then down came the shorts, stood there now in just the long clingy under-shorts for a moment, his eyes falling back for a moment to the tube. Then, grabbing up and unfurling a towel, he used one hand to push down the tight elastic of the under-layer, going naked and throwing the fluffy white cotton about his waist, naked and alone and curious.
First, he walked to the communal showers behind him, passing through the big round arch into the spacious tiled space where he could hose his sweaty young body down -- but then he walked back towards his locker, glancing furtively back through the passage into the other changing spaces where he'd passed through and kicked at the offending item. Then he snatched it up in one hand and went the other way, past the communal showers, moving on to the handful of more private cubicles at the very end of the changing facilities -- yanking one cubicle door open and hanging his towel on the back of it, stepping bollock naked into the cuboid of space.
With one hand, he twisted on the shower and felt for it to heat up, and in the other he turned over and squished at the odd rubbery device, gripped in the curiosity of a... Ugh, he hated the word, felt so ashamed of it when the other sporty lads went on about the girls they'd been banging, even during lockdown restrictions. Nobody knew that at 19 he was still a virgin, though he supposed his former lodger Troy Parrott might suspect, given the lengthy time they spent together between 16 and 18 -- and god what a fuss the Irish playboy had made about losing his own cherry to that Dublin sweetheart when he was on a visit back home! It had made Dilan freshly uncomfortable about his own inexperience and forced him into direct lies about it, which his pal had just grinned and nodded at with ambivalent acceptance.
`Fuck it,' the Barnet lad muttered to himself. He stepped his body under the warming spray, letting it cascade from broad young shoulders and down the smooth rise of his chest -- and with his free hand he reached down to rub gently at his privates, the thick loose snake and drooping wrinkled balls beneath it, topped with a shaggy aurora of dark pubes. He grunted self-consciously for all the claustrophobic privacy of the shower cubicle and slowly brought his fat virgin cock to a fuller length and girth, feeling it respond to his careful self-touch... the fingers of his other hand kneaded and twisted at the found item, exploring the bumpy ridges on its inner lining, and becoming more sure that they were for the exact stimulation he was imagining. Shit.
Once his cock was hard, standing proudly away from his bush, he stretched the sheath and pushed it at the glaring pink of his head, immediately uncomfortable. But then, stepping from foot to foot under the shower, he reached enterprisingly for the little pump dispenser of shower gel, and slapped some as lubricant to the shaft of his cock, letting it tingle and sting a little as he ran his palm over the head of his deck. When he tried again, the tube stretched and pulled over his member, and then he was inside it, and WOW... `Ohhhh,' he couldn't help but vocalise the reaction, squeezing the tight latex around his shaft and feeling the intense new stimulation of it over his meat. Wow.
Fuck,' Dilan murmured to himself, pushing his head back to soak his thick hair and let rivulets pour down his clammy face, while he began to slide his hand gently back and forward, letting the design of the sleeve rub attentively back and forward over his thick tool, making his heavy balls tingle in the heat of the shower. FUCK.' The pink rounded tip of his cock burst repeatedly through the end of the translucent rubber as he fucked into it and his fist, seizing the moment and himself.
Did he linger too long in the shower because he was enjoying the attention, or because he was particularly sore and sweaty after today's match? Both, maybe.
Judge kept looking his way, with such obviousness that it actually seemed to put off and distress Lankester on the other side of him, one of the first lads to quit the showers and lead the banter back through into the locker-rooms. And one by one, so did everyone else, until somehow it was just the two Irish blokes left, Troy standing there very aware that his 6ft1 body was sparkling clean and there was really no need to remain under the blast, except that he quite liked the way the married footballer kept glancing meaningfully down at his crotch, his face a mixture of resentment and admiration, looks that the teenager was become quite used to.
Lifting his hands to stroke at the damp fluff of his beard and sideburns, he let his dick swing a bit more freely as he turned to half-face the other guy, then glanced over his shoulder through the thick steam, confirming that they were really alone in here now -- and partly screened too, by the short blunt wall dividers that broke the communal block into needless segments. With that bit of cover in mind, he stretched a hand down experimentally to fumble beneath the sag of his balls and make his dong bounce a bit, watching Alan's beady eyes swivel to follow the motion.
Judge was a real bruiser, the kind of guy who seems to have gone into sport mainly for the bust-ups and confrontations -- but he was also a funny and charming guy, someone who had gone out of his way to welcome Parrott after his disappointed arrival in Ipswich at the end of the transfer window. It was typical Irish compatriotism, Judge remarking on the difficulties of settling into English life in a similar way to conversations he'd once had with his hero Shane Long. And now, to his bewildered delight, it seemed as if maybe the 32-year-old guy was fixing him with the same subversive interest and appreciation, and bringing out his natural exhibitionism.
At his right, the stocky shorter guy was still leering this way but saying nothing, and so Troy rode the days wave of egotism and gave him the nod. `I don't mind you staring,' he said simply, keeping his voice low and confidential.
At first, Judge didn't really react, closing his eyes and rolling his head under the spray, then he laughed and shrugged. `You think you're something special then, do ya?' he muttered in that belligerent fashion of his -- but he was fondling at his own limp dick and balls as he aid it, and when his eyes opened, he was ogling the oversized piece with even more obviousness.
`Why, you reckon yours is bigger?' Parrott returned challengingly. He'd never quite rose to meet the challenge of the older guy's banter in the weeks of training together, happy to take the role of earnest protegee picking up his seeds of dubious advice and wisdom, utterly determined not to end up a washed-out League One could-have-been like Alan clearly was.
`What, you wanting to see it hard?' grunted Judge with quiet aggression.
You're the one staring,' Troy said smoothly back. The happy sounds of the changing rooms felt close, but the steamy showers felt oddly private, and they were screened from the entrance waist-down by one of the dividers, so... he pulled very firmly at his member, willing it to stiffen and pick up, and matching Judge's leering chuckle. Let's see who's got the bigger rod then, shall we...?' He could have laughed at his own vanity and readiness there, but it was what he'd learned, starting with that time in the sauna with Eric, and when he'd been pushed against the wall and jerked off by strange fierce Austin in the brothel; experience was teaching him to enjoy his gifts and just laugh at the way other guys seemed enthralled by... it.
Aye,' agreed the older Irishman, and whoever is bigger has to wank the other.' It was said with such speed and discomfort that it sounded like something he'd been rehearsing in his head -- Troy couldn't help but laugh, and he didn't mean to be patronising or a twat, but... well, it was kinda obvious who was gonna win, so was this just Judge's way of forcing himself to reach out and...? `Well?' Alan was demanding in a fierce whisper.
Aye,' echoed Parrott with calm confidence, gently coaxing his prize cock into its full length and thickness, toying with the foreskin and tracing his fingers under the ostentatious shaft. Sounds fair.' He watched with mild curiosity as the older bloke played roughly with himself; he half expected a shock here, a real `grower not shower' reveal that would make him eat his words and force him into offering out a begrudging handjob. He felt no urge to do so, but he supposed he would if he was proven wrong here, and he privately suspected that Judge would not live up to his stupid gauntlet and reach for him...
Troy kept glancing back to the entrances, wondering just how silly and risqué this was; wouldn't other players already be wondering why he was STILL showering, despite having been the last one to head in and start washing off? When he looked back, Alan seemed to be fully erect, his cock very stiff and red but distinctively average in length and really quite slim compared to the fat proportions of his own equipment; he shrugged pleasantly at his older teammate, as if to convey that he wasn't that bothered after all, and was perfectly humble about what God had apparently given him.
But nope, here came the grasping curious hand, reaching across the space between them, and while glaring quite intensely at him with an unreadable expression, the brutish winger took hold of his dick and began to fumble at it as well as his own, teeth gritted and beard dripping wet.
He'd had to take extra time in the shower, intensely washing away the globs of cum from his hand, his thigh hair, from the stupid thing itself, which felt slimy and difficult -- it burst from his hand three times, too lubed by frothy shower gel and perhaps his own spunky mess. But eventually, feeling clean on the outside but dirty and silly on the inside, the teenager left the shower cubicle and moved back into the locker-room to towel himself, glad it was still silent and the training games must still be raging to their natural conclusion outdoors.
It wasn't the first time he'd jerked off on club property, that was true, but still he felt naughty and foolish, and now that he'd shot his load, the toy in his hand seemed offensive and ridiculous. He pushed it down among his things with an accusing glare and then dragged the towel almost punishingly over his body, rubbing it aggressively into his face an dover his torso and arms, then taking it in both hands and dragging it vigorously against his hairy arse. It seemed like the more he roughly dried himself, the more he could scrub away the private shame of his stolen moments there in the shower!
It was this brief manic effort that meant he didn't hear the footsteps and jumped quite literally at the polite enquiring voice behind him. `Hey, pal?' was an innocent enough opening, but he juddered awkwardly at the interrupting voice and whirled round in a panic at the other lad entering his changing space -- pink-faced and match-sweaty in full kit beneath a big baggy overcoat, a very earnest expression on his face. His layers of clothing threw Dilan's own state into contrast, standing their stark bollock naked with the towel held behind him so that his heavy privates were very much on show, his teen cock probably still a little engorged and weighty from his earlier climax and handling. He wrapped the towel rapidly forward about it and stared expectantly at the interrupter.
`Daniel, is it?' Harry Winks asked with a hint of caution in his voice, as if he knew he was getting it wrong.
`Dilan. Erm. No, don't worry.'
Right, right,' the senior player laughed distractedly, my bad. Erm -- you haven't seen anything lying about, have you?'
`What? No. Course not. What?'
`Just, I was looking for... Ahem, well, it's always a bit hard to keep track of your things in these changing rooms, I think I might have dropped an, errrrm, haha...' The 25-year-old midfielder flashed one of his Ken Doll smiles and hopped back a little, rubbing his hands together awkwardly and starting to cast his eyes around the room, as if until then he'd only been staring at embarrassed nude Markanday, who was now stepping anxiously back towards the locker and thinking about what was behind him.
`What did you say you'd lost?' he asked heavily, his voice strained with the performance of innocent confusion. He took another shuffling step back, one hand struggling to knot the towel in the centre of his waist, the other starting to reach behind him, past the curve of his rump, fumbling at the edge of his trainers and folded jeans, looking for it...
Oh, just some random stuff,' Winks said quietly, it's nothing major, I just thought... well, you know how shit falls out of your bag sometimes and rolls away, so...' Was he blushing or was he just coloured from the training drills he'd been performing out there with the rest of his Premiership buddies?
Yeah, it does happen,' Markanday said dully. His thumb caught the still-damp rubbery texture of it and knocked it discreetly to the floor behind his bare heels -- it made the slightest textured slap against the flooring and he stared hard ahead of him at the older lad, who made no sign of registering the noise, but then began to look about more intensely, his neat brow furrowing for a moment -- I guess it could be anywhere, it's just that I thought...'
`Well if you don't tell me what it is, I can hardly help you, can I?' Dilan found himself barking quite rudely at the affable England star, who glanced sharply at him and then cleared his throat before taking a couple of steps backwards. With a short sharp motion, Dilan kicked one heel backwards and knocked the wank sleeve rolling away into the dusty murk beneath the lockers, lost in the cobwebs and grime. He righted his posture and then, having been struggling to form a knot with one hand, slacked again as his towel fell revealingly open and away from his body, making him snatch awkwardly for it -- ahead, Harry's nervous expression seemed to shift and he was, gladly, too visibly alarmed by the little moment of exposure to carry on asking questions.
No,' coughed Winks awkwardly while Dilan fought to cover up his crotch again and wrap the towel more tightly against one muscular hip, I'll just leave you to it, kid, I didn't mean to... Erm, not to worry, forget about it...' And with a series of head-scratches and furtive glances, the 25-year-old was on his way, striding back through the divides and into the other changing area, presumably back to the messy corner of his colleagues where Markanday had kicked mindlessly at his dropped possession, the embarrassing personal item that had tumbled from his kit bag... and now languished in dirty shadows under the locker, to be found by some industrious cleaner in the far-flung future. The Asian teenager groaned and winced and rubbed embarrassedly at his face, questioning what had possessed him to take and use the thing, and not just leave it where he'd found it!
Judge was slow to make him cum -- his touch was grasping and rough and badly angled, and actually Troy had jerked off early that morning in bed, bored and alone. But he did cum, excited more by the older man's inappropriate attention and the risk of the setting than the awkward physicality itself; he leaned his elbow to the left, supporting himself against the low divide, and pressed his right hand into the wet tiles of the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a series of satisfised gasps before he burst a lazy stream of thick white against the winger's hand, and against the shower wall. `Oh fuck,' the big teen growled into the steam, feeling the deep tingle run down his cock and below his balls.
Next to him, Judge seemed to have wanked himself into a softie, pulling rope and just tugging aimlessly at his privates with his right hand, whilst his awkward left fist had pumped so desperately at Troy's own manhood. And now he stood there, still holding it, cum sticky and dribbling against his fingers, a weird expression on his face. Troy caught the odd look and wondered what the hell was going through his unofficial mentor's head -- he really was a slightly strange and unpredictable fella, the way he clashed with teammates and opposition and officials alike. But Troy was not clear-headed or evaluative -- his body was racked with the slow waves of relief as a last drop of spunk was squeezed from his monster by Judge's hand, and he leaned more heavily to the left, gasping for air. A loud peal of laughter from the changing rooms brought an exciting but terrifying reminder of how mad it had been to stand here and be tossed off, when another player could have wandered back through at any moment...!
The shower had timed out while he was jerked, and so now he twisted it back on, smirking a bit to himself at this (literal) icing on the cake of his first professional goal, even in meagre League One rather than his desired top-flight. Losing interest in Judge for a moment, he pressed his face and body beneath the water to make sure he was clean, grabbing and angling his cock so the spunky tip could be washed clean... his breathing still ragged and heavy, and his cock remaining huge and ugly before it would eventually soften and dangle.
He'd lost track of where Judge was but then he caught him in the corner of his eye, stood away from him, a towel in his hands and that strange alarmed expression still on his bearded face. Did the older Dubliner regret what he'd done? Had he done anything like that before? Was he a bit bi or just a real eccentric? Troy had no idea and in the moments before it happened, he felt a little twist of unease, a sense that maybe this time he'd taken one risk too many, or put himself in a bad position -- and then suddenly Judge was shouting.
`FUCKIN' HELL LAD, NAH -- I ain't into that! Geroff me!'
Troy stared blankly at him, his jaw hanging. And then Alan was bursting towards the doorways, grabbing his towel, and Troy stumbled after him to follow. What the fuck, kid?' the winger was roaring, and suddenly they were breaking through the steam and dozens of eyes were on him. Fucking kinky bastard -- why would I want to touch your donkey dick, you perv? Jesus, what is wrong with this lad?' Parrott trailed behind him and waited for the punchline, realising too late that his not-quite-softened brute cock was still swinging heavily at his crotch as he left the showers without a towel and stood stark naked in front of the variously naked or dressed Ipswich players. And through them all burst Judge in his sudden and inexplicable temper. He pointed an accusing finger back this way. Queer as owt, that one,' Judge hollered, trying to make me touch his junk! Fucking freak...' And then it was even more chaotic, as two or three of the more established Town players were huddling around the shower-soaked Irishman in order to calm him down or hold him back, or maybe to find out more; and around the room, so many puzzled or worried faces fixed on Troy, who was just stood lame and naked in the doorway to the showers, wondering where he'd gone wrong here.
But then suddenly a couple of younger teammates were at his side, one shoving a damp used towel into his hands to cover his dignity. Fucks' sake, cover yourself up, kid,' grunted Bishop, who had been so keen to mock and point out his endowment at the start of the shower. And on the other side, squeezing his shoulder supportively and giving him a concerned look, was Chambers, captain: Hey, what the hell happened? What's that lunatic on about? You okay?'
And it spilled on like that, fraught and strange, with the team seeming to break suddenly into camps of thought: from people who looked at him like a leper and said nothing more on the way out of the stadium, to guys like Luke who seemed appalled by Judge's behaviour and totally sympathetic to what must surely be a nasty prank against the new kid. And those in between, with suspicious eyes and hesitant assurances. And Judge himself, wild-eyed and dangerous, clearly a total nutjob. When he was dressed and ready, the 19-year-old got away from the rest of them as quickly as he could, trying to salvage his joy over the goal and win, and trying to believe the captain when he patted him on the shoulder and insisted that whatever stupid idea had got into Alan's head would be forgotten by training on Monday.
`And sometimes you just have to put it down to a high-pressured macho environment and laugh it off, right?' Dilan thought aloud down the phone line, sitting on the back doorstep of his parents' home in Barnet, his kit-bag still sitting on the patio next to him, not having bothered to head indoors yet after returning from the Saturday training session.
`Totally,' Troy was agreeing down the phone very quickly in that charming Irish burr.
`I mean, it's all just mad, innit,' murmured the Spurs youth player, staring ahead down the neat square garden of the Markanday family home, remembering the casual kickabouts he and Troy had enjoyed here over the two and a bit years of living together -- laughed at by his family for wanting to spend MORE time with a football after their long academy training days. It was sure good to speak to him, especially after a day of disappointments and oddness like this: his ankle still twinging as he squatted down on the doorstep, and the image of that latex toy in his fist seeming to be scorched on the back of his eyelids.
Sure,' Parrott said, sure.' He paused, and his silence seemed to reflect Markanday's own worried indecision. They had been almost like brothers at one point, he thought, spending so much time together in and out of football, and Troy really accepted into the family as more than a guest, despite all of the formalities and house rules that so obviously horrified him. So surely, if anyone, Dilan could tell HIM about what embarrassing mischief he'd gotten up to at the club...?
`You okay there, D-bag?' asked Troy in the prim reluctance that amounted for friendly concern between teenaged lads.
Of course,' he barked dismissively back. Was just thinking about some of the goals you got when we were on the Under 18s, that's all. Fucking belters, all of them. Can't believe it took you ten games to get your first at Town, you loser.' The moment was gone -- he couldn't bring himself to broach such a private and embarrassing topic with Parrott! The Irish playboy would not be half so shocked as he was by the existence of such a silly toy, no doubt. There was an odd quiet on the phone call, and he wasn't sure why Troy sounded so distant and unhappy for a moment.
`Yeah well, that was then,' the other young footballer was saying, as if to himself.
I better go, T-dog,' he told him, finding some fun and enjoyment in their stupid old nicknames, or at least trying to force it in his voice. Today would just be one of those embarrassing incidents to be buried in the back of his head, there was literally no point explaining it to anyone, not even a close mate like this one. Well done again on the goal, though. Seriously bro. Love it.'
Aye,' said Parrott, sounding unsure. Great day, like you say. Good times.'
Enjoy it,' Dilan advised him. Your teammates there must fucking love you.'
`Hmm.'
`See you soon hopefully -- let me know when you're back in London, will ya?'
`Sure, sure. Been too long, D-bag.'
`Fuck you, T-dog. Peace.'
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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