Part 249: Long Overdue
There was no part for Shane Patrick Long in the afternoon's action, but he had still made sure he could accompany his temporary club back to the familiar stadium of his more permanent one: his current Championship side Bournemouth AFC on a visit to his Premier League owners at Southampton for the FA Cup Quarter Final. The game was underway already and the experienced Irish footballer was seated comfortably away from the action, a few rows behind the line of substitutes and the tense encampment of the coaching team, led by Woodgate.
Long maintained an expression of careful neutrality, thick arms folded across the front of his zipped-up jacket, eyes trained seriously on the early action of the game. It was difficult enough to sort out his own mixed hopes for the match, but he knew that if a stray camera caught his face there would be much analysis and fixation on his mood. Shane's thoughts were complicated but not uncomfortable: he held enough loyalty and faith in Southampton to enjoy their FA Cup success, but his ambition for Bournemouth was more selfish. If the Cherries could beat the Saints here, then he might actually get to kick a ball in a Semi- or real Final! For a man rapidly approaching the end of his professional career, it was an exciting dazzle of opportunity. He had only been at Bournemouth for a couple of months now, but he was enjoying the heightened prominence at the lower club -- his ego could withstand the knowledge that he was now not quite young or fast enough to seriously compete at Southampton, though it had been a hard pill to swallow when the deal was struck in the early weeks of the year, and had felt like a turning point towards the premature retirement of his profession.
So now the 34-year-old sat ambivalently with his close view of the game, excited for both sides, but careful to maintain a cool manner and react minimally to the to-and-fro of the sport. The first half progressed with a series of abortive challenges in both halves, only his close familiarity with so many men in either kit really making the action interesting... Interesting, mostly, but there were moments when this excluded observer would look away from the Quarter-Final and inspect the Southampton dugout instead.
After all, he was not just here for the general reminiscence of being back in St Mary's Stadium, or to enjoy the clash of his two South Coast football clubs. No, he was not just a general and supportive visitor of the clash between his two employers. He was a man here with some... unfinished business, so to speak, which he was waiting for his opportunity to... not finish, but gladly resume.
There he was: another spare part in the game, though for very different reasons. As his glinting dark hazel eyes found him in the huddle of masked men, Shane reached one hand down and plucked loosely at the front of his dark tracksuit bottoms with a rustle. He let himself rub very gently for a moment across the crotch of his pants, excited by the prospect of some afternoon fun -- he had messaged Danny repeatedly to confirm that the injured Southampton striker would be on-site today before agreeing to attend. If his best English pal wasn't to be here, he would have just watched the match from home instead.
It was not quite possible to catch his eye from here, but he felt confident enough that Ings would be conscious of his presence, as much as he hunched forward to chat with the active substitutes and keep his full focus on the match -- just this morning, Long had sent him a very distinct reminder of his planned visit, in the form of a voice-recording of the oral sex he'd given to his wife in bed, especially her repeated screams of his name and calling him the sexiest beast in the world. He smirked, imagining the way Ings must have waited until he was discreetly alone before daring to play the sound clip, and he wondered if the other forward had been forced to wank one off just at the sound of it. Hopefully not: Long's instructions to save up the contents of his hairy balls for the past few days had been precise and authoritative.
The Irishman was distracted from these gloated thoughts by a flurry of excitement and the inevitable turning point: Southampton's first goal, followed by a second in the tense stoppage minutes before half-time. His own visiting teammates went into the break losing 2-0, and he sighed sympathetically as he shuffled indoors with them, hands dug into his pockets. He kept himself on the periphery of the Bournemouth ensemble, following them into the changing rooms but remaining by the door -- there were not many guys here he had bonded well with yet, as much as he simply enjoyed being a bigger fish in a smaller pool. He paid limited attention to the fraught conversations and brief bursts of mutual criticism exploding between various teammates, then quietly excused himself from the scene and moved back into the tunnel.
There was no sign of Danny here, and it wasn't exactly kosher for him to just swagger on into the winning side's changing rooms to say his hello to the Southampton squad... not mid-game, anyway. Instead, Long moved away from the echoey noises of the changing areas, disappearing further back into the corridors of the football stadium -- six and half seasons on the roster here meant that the charming 34-year-old knew almost all of the club staff, and he made his rounds with a grin in his eyes and a friendly growl in his Tipperary accent. He greeted and caught up with a mixed collection of known faces, taking his time even when a glance at his Rolex confirmed that the boys would be marching back out for the second half.
Shane kept himself away from the strange position of watching the two sides play, sensibly blocked from playing in a tie of such conflicted interests. Instead, he found himself wandering quite nostalgically through spaces he had only been absent from for a matter of weeks, though somehow it felt much longer -- it had been a fairly patchy season for him here in the autumn, to be honest, and he'd rarely made it from the training ground to the real stadium. He might not feel quite so committed or at home at Bournemouth, but starts and substitutions were almost guaranteed!
Eventually, his tour did lead him into the Home changing rooms, crossing that line -- harmless enough, with the game underway, and a necessary detour to satisfy some spark of regret that he couldn't remain a prominent striker for the Saints as he entered his mid-30s. He walked in, looking about the familiar rooms and identifying many of the spots along the walls where known teammates had left their things. He let out a wistful breath, grinning uncertainly to himself, and toying with the zip of his jacket. He pushed aside the yearning and just rationalised the situation again, reminding himself how much was to be gained from his spell at Bournemouth, and that all of the friendships he had made here were still in his life -- he hadn't even needed to move out of his seafront mansion here, since the commute to his new club was so easy -- and then bringing his anticipatory thoughts back to that one friendship in particular.
It was as if his burning desire and willpower had summoned thoughts into flesh, because here he came, edging slowly into the locker-rooms and standing squarely across from him, a Southampton-branded full tracksuit clinging close to his broad physicality. The injured striker gave him the anxious expression that he always did when they ended up alone together, a mixture of insatiable lust and repressive shame. Long met it with a simple smirk of acknowledgement, and jerked his head in a single brief nod at the younger bloke.
`Hey, Danny Boy,' the Irish stud purred warmly.
`Don't think you're meant to be in here,' Ings muttered, then laughed gruffly.
You know me, mate,' Long chuckled back. I don't play by the rules.'
It was a frustrating enough day for the 28-year-old England hopeful, even before adding his dominant pal to the mix. His latest muscle injury meant he was unlikely to play a game for three more weeks at least, having already missed a month before Christmas; it was great to see the Saints play well regardless and he could see himself fit and ready to play in an FA Cup Final, but he was full of obvious envy and restlessness as he watched the match unfold... even without the oppressive presence of his absent teammate returned to St Mary's.
Last year, their friendship had remained much as it always was: close, jokey, laddish. Whatever else went on between them in private, a jolly banter existed between the two ambitious forwards, one very much in his prime and the other already in the twilight of his playing days. But with Shane's January exit for a temporary transfer, that normal side of the blokes' relationship had seemed to go on hold, leaving just... the other side of things.
Over a year had passed since things kicked off. `The affair', Danny called it in his head, though that sounded too romantic or simplistic for the power dynamics between them, and the seedy extra-curricular thrills it contained. Over a year ago, he remembered, an intense confrontation between the two powerful men had ended with him on his knees, two men's seed dribbling down his strong bearded face, totally surrendering to desires he'd been quelling for... months? Years? Over the rest of 2020, following that fateful February encounter, he had become more and more submissive to the older sportsman -- whether it was kneeling placidly in front of the handsome fucker to pleasure his thick Irish meat, or fucking himself with a carrot on the kitchen floor. Or, when Shane's wildness peaked, even crouched at a glory-hole servicing oblivious teammates in a local bar...! The things he had submitted to in these thirteen months, simply incapable of saying no to the charismatic friend who held this influence over him.
In that time, Danny had continued to date his beautiful young girlfriend, continued to work hard to maintain his fitness and stay a major goal-scorer of the Premiership. Really, his life was outwardly the exact same it had been in 2019, a fairly typical flash existence of a successful top-flight player -- it was just internally, and in private guilty moments like this, that the stocky 5ft10 striker, with sleeves of tattoos and an image of total masculinity, quivered like a young virgin and looked adoringly at his master. A totally different side of him had been unleashed by Shane.
`Thank you for the message,' Danny breathed. His usual brash blokey voice became a hoarse whisper as took a couple more cautious steps into the changing rooms, going easy on his injured leg and wiping clammy palms down the front of his jersey.
I knew you'd like it,' grunted Shane playfully in answer. I thought you'd like to hear my woman getting what you wish you could from me, you dirty pig.'
Yes,' Danny said instantly, I wish you'd do that to me.'
Don't be gross,' Shane snapped curtly. I'd never eat you out like her, you dirty cunt. It's you who does all the licking here, you gimp.'
Yes,' Ings said with a shudder in his voice. That's right.'
The dialogue between them was always so strange. Two blokey blokes who could laugh and chat and jibe at each other on the training field or the coach or side by side in a bar; but once alone in the right circumstances, the master-servant nastiness replaced years of friendly interaction, a script that Danny just tumbled into and didn't know how to resist. Equally, he couldn't resist taking three more steps, moving cautiously close to the still calm figure of the 5ft11 striker, licking his dry bottom lip as he did.
`Here?' he asked in disbelief. It wasn't as if this room hadn't seen some furtive action between the pair of them in the past, admittedly, but only when Long was in the red-and-white of the home side, not bearing a Bournemouth logo on the chest of his sweatshirt.
Don't see why not,' chuckled back the charming Irish brute. I hope you're ready to suck me dry.'
`Just suck?' Danny asked in a whining tone.
His master grinned, laughed brirefly, shrugged his broad shoulders. `We'll see how you behave.'
It had been in the later months of 2020 that the two men finally took that step. Danny didn't know and was too afraid to ask if Shane had fucked another guy before then, but he desperately hoped not; he wanted to be the only fella who had taken it from him, and it was certainly true that he'd never bent over for another guy himself! In all sincerity, Ings had never even felt the slightest homosexual urge around any other fella, he was sure; it had only been this captivating bastard who had brought out these urges in him as their player-player friendship deepened and developed...!
An away trip, a fairly anonymous northern hotel on a motorway -- that had been the inauspicious setting for the momentous turn in their dom-sub antics. Even though Shane's dirty imagination had commanded him to begin playing with his arse several times before that, it had still shocked him when he took the real thing, and not a piece of salad or his own meaty fingers. He wasn't sure what had driven Shane to push that for, but he'd just bent forward on the hotel bed and squealed for it, begging until the Irish hunk stopped frigging his hole and pressed his thick cock inside him instead. By that point, a good nine months after the first messy blowjob, he had become quite obsessed with the notion of being properly fucked, and the reality had not let him down; it had hurt like hell, but it had been everything he wanted.
The bed had rattled beneath their two heavy bodies and Shane had called him every filthy name under the sun. By the time they were finished, both men's bodies had been dripping in sweat, sticking to the sheets as they rolled apart. He'd been forced to suck Shane's cock, straight from his own arse-hole, until the man's cum was all over his beard and he was wanking himself to the finish line, every muscle aching -- he'd played terribly the next day for the away game, wiped out by losing his second virginity to Shane Long.
Please,' he said to him now, stood a metre apart. I need it.'
I know you do,' Shane grunted back. You fucking slut.'
`Yes...'
You always need it,' the Irishman said. Doesn't mean you deserve it. Let's see if you can earn it.'
And the burly 28-year-old found himself nodding earnestly at the other man's teasing. He could never quite believe the way he behaved when it came down to the two of them. It mortified him that he had such a submissive and emasculated persona in the right circumstances, but he also knew that he'd never cum as hard or as quickly as when subjected to his best mate's selfish desires.
In front of him, Shane was already reaching down to begin peeling his sweatshirt and the layer below up and off, exposing the pale smooth muscle of his tummy and chest, decorated as it was with tattooed text. He dropped the garments to the side with a dismissive gesture and Danny lunged expectantly forward to stoop and kiss his smooth pecs. He kissed at them desperately, treating it as a great honour that he was allowed anywhere near his friend's body, revering his hard dark nipples in the same way that he would his prick. He licked and kissed both teats, his breathing already ragged, and in his taut tracksuit bottoms his cock was already rock-hard -- how could this guy do that to him faster than any woman he'd ever enjoyed?!
You fucking tart,' sniggered Long, patting roughly at the back of his head, and the dirty talk just made Ings' cock twitch and ache more. Give them a good lick, you love my tits way more than your bird's, don't you? Dirty fuckin' pervert. Mmm.' It didn't matter how abusive or stupid the slurred Irish comments became, it just made Danny's balls tingle and his pre-cum leak against the inside of his boxer shorts, always -- even when it was just over the phone, as it had been at so many points during the lockdowns. He reached feverishly for the waist of Shane's pants but found his hands grabbed and held away a little. Nah,' growled the Irishman, only when I say so.'
Long pushed and grabbed at him and Danny shook with delight as his master's hand fell on the crotch of his pants, squeezing at the rocket there. `Mmm, sir,' he whined in the pitchy girlish voice that just wasn't him. He grabbed and stroked at Shane's arms -- thick and muscular, though less hard and pronounced than his own tatted biceps, and he loved stroking and touching them. He reached eagerly as he had before, bringing his close face to Shane's, wanting a kiss, but just getting a harsh equivalent: the older man spat in his face and slapped his left cheek.
Bit by bit, the two heavy men struggled with each other, the usual physical tussle of excitement, but the power balance always so firmly established in one way. Danny was hardly forced to his knees (he was desperate to get down there and taste it), but he always struggled for more intimacy, wanting to cuddle and grab at Shane's powerful form, the two of them wrestling into the predictable position. It made his injured leg twinge a bit but he ignored it, his cock hunger mattered even more than match fitness. Once on his knees, he stared eagerly at the shape of bulging meat, knowing he wasn't yet allowed to grab or nuzzle it until he was told so. He stared up with wide eyes, practically drooling from his pouting lips. Again, Shane spat at him, gobbing on his face and then scratching across his short dark hair, shaking his face side to side a little bit.
Beg for it,' he was told in a snarl, and he did. I need it,' he cooed. `I need your massive cock. Please, please let me have it. It's been ages. I miss you, it's shit here without you. I need your cock, sir.'
He suspected that sometimes the dominant behaviour took some effort from the oversexed striker above, because Long quickly relented and pulled his dick free to feed to him, not waiting for more desperate pleas. Ings opened wide and took it inside his gob, as glas today as ever over the past thirteen months. He sucked rampantly on the semi and then fully hard tool, licking and slobbering on it, such a thick meaty piece, not particularly long but a really satisfying mouthful. Above, Long swore and spat and ragged aggressively at his head and big shoulders.
Sucking on him was amazing, especially when it was as rough and mad as this, and in these risky circumstances -- the changing rooms of the team, neither of them even on the squad today. How long did the second half of the game have to go? How safe was it for them to be in here like this, stripping away items of their tracksuits and engaging in this aggressive wet oral sex? The terror of it just made it all the better, it always did!
Now he was having his face properly fucked, Shane holding him by the ears and pushing his full girth roughly between his lips, making him really gag and snort. It was a struggle, especially once the dominant Irish beast got going, but he did his best to just be the toy that his master needed. But... he really did want more. As obedient as he was, it had become tougher lately, now that he'd actually felt the full force of his dominant friend, pounding him to the mattress -- it was much harder to settle for second-best servicing with that prospect in the air.
He reached down with his hands whilst he held his mouth open for Shane's thrusts, finding and loosening the thin drawstrings of his tracky bottoms. Then he gripped them at the hips and pushed them down a bit, exposing the upper half of his arse. Then, in a resting moment between the thrusts, he shifted to the right and leaned heavily forward so that he could flash his exposed rump to Long, who responded instinctively; stooping over to reach out and slap it hard, making him whine and groan. Another slap, and then a finger jutting between the cheeks. Ings twisted his neck and face into a new position so that he could lean up and kiss at the big cock whilst his master spanked, squeezed and fingered at his rump. He was on all fours on the changing room floor like an obedient pet, desperate to be taken and used -- this was unbearably brilliant and he had lost all concern for the setting and timing of the fun.
Long's hand thwacked against his bottom once more and then the other hand gripped his head and pushed it even more firmly into his crotch, making him gag awkwardly on the fat prick. But then, loving this rough handling where he crouched, Danny heard a strangled gasping uncertainty sound from the man above, a very different barking gasp to the selfish moans of pleasure that sounded so sexy in an Irish accent. He felt Shane's hand go still on his lower back, fingers near the top of his crack, whilst his other hand just held tightly at the back of his hand, keeping his mouth fixed where it was.
When he heard the other voice, he was just beginning to suspect from Shane's stillness that something was very wrong -- and the dirty submission of his posture struck him in conjunction with the interrupting geezer growl of a third male voice in the room. Well well well,' yelped the intruder somewhere behind him, what the hell have we got here, then?'
The game was 3-0 now, Southampton's place in the next round of the Cup seeming definite as the clock passed 80 minutes and full-time loomed close. It was that sense of pressure and mounting defeat that struck at his temper, as it always had, and led him into the vicious tackle that brought the yellow card from the referee's pocket. Yellow card, and clear signals that he was lucky not to be facing instant red, followed sharply by an intervention from the gaffer -- he was taken off and benched before he could make an even more violent muddle in the tense closing minutes off the game.
The 29-year-old midfielder stalked furiously from the pitch, as sulky and self-absorbed in such conflicts now as when he was a precocious teen at Arsenal. He was angry at the day's wasted opportunity for a surprise win, an underdog victory for the Championship side and, more selfishly, signs of late-career comeback for his own wasted talents.
Bournemouth AFC was hardly where he'd pictured his games as he neared 30, not in his lofty young ambitions or even last year as he wrangled his exit from the shadows of West Ham United, but he was absolutely determined to make the most of it, and fire himself into a final few seasons of prime physicality before the sport became too much for him. He could see now that he'd perhaps placed a bit too much hope and certainty in today's Quarter-Final, utterly convinced that he and his teammates would smash the Premiership side and waltz into the next round against some other giant they could slay.
Now the short muscular man was storming indoors, too angry at the situation and at himself to go curl into a comfortable seat with the subs and support the others in the final chunk of action -- nah, fuck that, he'd only do or say summat he regretted if he was out there with the others. In his heated mood, he found himself welling with disappointment and cynicism for his Bournemouth colleagues and management, internally lambasting their unambitious attitudes and acceptance of second-best, the lazy fuckwits.
Indoors he stormed, down the echoey space of the tunnel, reaching down and unlacing each boot then wrenching them off his feet and just throwing them angrily against the wall beside the doors to the Away changing room. He grabbed at the front of his Bournemouth shirt, dragging it up over his taut six-pack and wiping it against his sweaty chiselled features. With his other tense hand, he grabbed and rifled at the front of his close-fitting shorts, the turquoise-blue feeling quite soggy with his own perspiration -- he needed a slash and was about to hurry through into the empty locker-rooms when a vindictive alternative entered his mind.
Southampton, what a joke team, he thought bitterly; they might be a league above Bournemouth right now but they were nobodies, they'd never make it past the Semi against whichever major club was drawn for them. Today's win was wasted on the cunts. He turned and stared resentfully across at the other doorway, leading in to the St Mary's Home rooms instead; someone ought to teach these pricks a lesson, the hot-tempered footballer thought to himself. He thought of his full bladder and, with a nasty little smirk, decided that it could be better spent somewhere other than a porcelain urinal in his own changing rooms.
Jack Wilshere had always been a troublemaker; he just couldn't help it. Even when his talents had been more lauded and promising, he'd found himself stumbling from scandal to scandal, slapped wrist to docked wages, tabloid headline to extended injury break. And at the end of his 20s he was no different, a prankster in his better moods and a vicious bully at his worst. Grabbing meaningfully at the bulging front of his shorts, the former Arsenal superstar stomped across the broad passage, slapping his dirty socked feet against the tiled floor, and then he barged his way through into the other deserted set of changing rooms.
He must have heard the noises instantly but not really registered them, set on his little mission. He pictured himself dropping his keks and spraying his piss over the clothes of whichever players he could find, but ideally any of the two goal-scorers who had sealed Bournemouth's Cup exit today -- but if he couldn't work out their spots, he'd just piss where he fancied and leave stinking yellow stains for these smug bastards to confusedly find in fifteen minutes' time, haha!
But Jack the lad bowled through into the musty changing rooms and was greeted with a most surprising sight. The first thing that struck him, illogically, was the question of what his own teammate was doing here, behind enemy lines, just as he was -- the sight of Shane Long's quite boyishly handsome face staring intensely over at him over his bare chest was jarring and so unexpected that it made him halt in his path. He liked Long a lot, holding the slightly past-it striker in high regard and glad to have someone of his calibre join him at a club he believed to be beneath them both. And now he was walking in on the Southampton loan player back in his `Home' quarters, as if...
But his brain caught up with the scene he'd interrupted, and the dislocation of his teammate paled next to the revelation of what he was up to. Shirtless and tensed, Shane was stooped low alongide the crouched figure of another bloke, whose top was halfway up his spine, trackies halfway down his hairy thighs. One of Shane's hands rested on his exposed arse cheeks of dark fluff, the other holding the back of his head stuffed against his exposed crotch. Even in this undignified position, Wilshere did not need the bright white number and lettering on the back of the tracksuit top to identify the doggy-style bitch kneeling before the Irish striker: Danny fucking Ings?!
Well well well,' he said, once he'd caught his breath, what the hell do we have here?'
Squaring his upper body, the 5ft8 footy lad took a couple of stomping steps forward, a grin of pure mischief spreading across his face. He could see a blanched panic in Shane's face, and Danny's head was pulling away from the sloppy task, turning his bearded chops this way, saliva dribbling into the dark fur of his beard. Both men looked aghast, but so caught out were they that neither seemed in a rush to move or cover up -- the Irishman's hard-on just glistening with spit and quivering freely from below his midriff.
Lads!' barked Wilshere in one playful chuckle. Where was my invite?'
Instantly, he was horny. For a lad of Jack's testosterone levels, the boundary between frustrated anger and sexual mania was only ever a thin line. The traditional night-before sex ban of the professional footballing world was a theoretically minor abstinence that always stabbed at him, his balls heavy and sensitive after just one night without nuptials -- and he'd been really bloody behaving himself too since dragging his missus down here to the south coast from their East London luxury, he hadn't actually played away from the marriage bed since those few cheeky endeavours back at West Ham last season.
Now the scene in front of him seemed to become the perfect outlet for all of it: his restless horn, his disappointing good behaviour, his anger at the match result, his entire career downturn. Danny Ings, the solid muscular bloke on his hands and knees now staring at him in fear, seemed absolutely perfect -- a prolific goal-scorer who'd finally cut his way into the national team last year, an understated footballer who was operating in the high echelons that Wilshere still felt should belong to him. Right, well, time to show him what Jack the lad was packing!
He stepped closer to the pair and grabbed hard at the heavy front of his sweaty shorts, smirking from Ings to Long and then gently kicking one socked foot against a tensed thigh muscle of the crouching slut. Oi, you gonna suck me off too then, Dan?' he chirped with a tinkling laugh to his voice. He lifted his face and winked at Shane. You don't mind sharing, do ya?' He saw the way that Danny now turned and stared uncertainly, reading the clear dynamic between this surprising twosome.
Jack didn't wait for an answer. He pushed one fist inside the front of his shorts and briefs and took his chubby cock in hand, then flopped it straight out over the waistband. Get your chops round that, Ings,' he grunted, standing firmly by his side and watching the conflict on his face. He reached his hand around and grabbed at the bloke's head, pulling it across towards his crotch. Ings instantly complied and Wilshere smiled demandingly at his surprising teammate. You never told me you had a bitch here to visit, Long?'
A moment's hesitation from the Irishman before he responded. What can I say, I'm full of surprises,' he said, something awkward in his showy arrogance. But yeah, always down for sharing.'
Fuck, watch those teeth,' Jack snapped at the discovered cock-sucker. Careful down there, fella.'
`Be a good slut for Jack,' Shane said in a strained and quite performative voice.
Yep,' Jack agreed, listen to your boss, Danny, suck me good.'
Shane was freaking out at this twist. Primarily, he was deeply shocked to have his penchant for kink exposed to a newer teammate like this, but he could also feel a slight attack on his dominant persona. It was easy to be the aggressive male authority over a guy like Danny, who just seemed to melt like butter in his company, but there was something unpredictable and alarming in suddenly having an extra element like Jack Wilshere thrown into that dirty play.
However, he also found himself quite excited. In the same way that he enjoyed overpowering and controlling his laddish buddy, there was the same thrill in seeing another powerful bloke asserting that same power over him -- he stared on for a few long moments as Danny chowed down on Wilshere instead of his own thick equipment. With the same slobbering intensity as he'd been servicing Shane, Danny now sucked and snuffled at Jack's privates, taking his sizeable soft piece in his mouth and spitting messily on it between mouthfuls.
He's a good slut,' the Irish player barked. Don't you think?'
Jack, bringing both hands up behind his beck so that his biceps bulged against his kit sleeves, leered back at him and nodded as he let out a sigh. `You've trained him well. Fucking hell, never knew you had it in you, Shane. This is quality.'
`We all have needs, right?' Long muttered vaguely back.
Sure,' Wilshere agreed. Even this bitch on his knees.'
A third horrible thought hit Shane now, breaking his usual charm and cool. He rubbed at his thick erection but stared not at Jack, but past him across the scruffy changing rooms to the doors. What time was it? How long did the game have to go? Why was Jack already back here? His concerned train of thought must have showed in his face, cos a certain caution had entered Jack's cheeky features too when he returned to meet his gaze. `We can't be here,' Shane blurted simply.
They'll be done soon,' Jack said quickly. But I'm not going anywhere without this dick serviced,' he added, reaching down to slap his hardening tool against Danny's gasping face. `Where can we hide?'
Luckily Shane did know this place inside out. Cock bouncing up and down, he backed off, and nodded further away down the changing rooms, rather than back towards the doors into the tunnel. With some difficulty, he stuffed the thickness of his erection into his shorts. Get up,' he snapped imperiously at Danny, then at Jack, there's rooms back this way that will be fine, I think.'
In a hot rush, the Irish striker led them back, away from the piled kit and belongings of the victorious Southampton side. Ings clambered up with some difficulty and stumbled after him, red-faced and wild-eyed; Wilshere was sniggering and nervous, slapping playfully at the guy's back and winking again at Long as the three of them dashed away. Shane had picked up his tops form the floor and he kneaded at them with his fingers, unsure if it was insane to try anything here, but so fucking horny and eager to make use of his St Marys bitch.
Danny Ings was less sure than his master about the relative privacy of these rooms, but he dashed headlong into it, his need to pleasure these two authoritative blokes vastly outweighing his fears of discovery. The injured muscles in his leg panged and ached but, like the fear, he ignored that, looking wildly from Shane to Jack as he stumbled into the centre of the square treatment room, tucked far back away from the changing rooms that would soon fill up with players. He grabbed at and pulled away his tracksuit top, shedding it to the floor then grappling with his own tight white tshirt to remove it from his muscular torso.
Look at him go,' jibed Wilshere. Getting his muscles out for us, like we give a shit.'
Yeah, just his holes we need,' returned Long. The dirty little whore.'
Holes! Ings focused excitedly on the plural, staring at these two horny alpha males, and beginning to push down at his trackies and boxers. It was a struggle with his sore leg, strapped up with some muscle supports, but he managed to get them down around his ankles and then off, left wearing only a pair of black tube socks and a foolish grin, his own well-proportioned hard-on jutting out with a slight curve to its pink shaft.
He got down to his knees again, letting his mouth hang open, face tilted devotedly upwards. And the other two blokes were quickly advancing on him to make the most of this. He took Shane's thick cock in his left and grabbed the front of Jack's loaded shorts with the other, staring excitedly at them both: the big thick-bodied Irish 34-year-old to one side, pale and inked and his face sparkling with lust; and the leaner muscles exposed by the stripping of Jack's Bournemouth shirt, his six-pack and chest shiny with the sweat of the game.
I'm all yours, sirs,' the secretly submissive footballer gasped in a breathy voice, playing with both of their cocks, tugging them loose and getting his fists around each throbbing erection. Do what you want with me,' he moaned, `make me your bitch!'
Yes, Wilshere thought, this is perfect. He felt on fire with it, feeling Danny's spit-slicked palm slide up and down his cock whilst the oral attention began on his fellow alpha to begin with. He moaned appreciatively and threw a bare muscled arm about Shane's broad shoulders companionably, turning to wink at his colleague -- there was excitement just in this discovery, in finding out that the very manly Irish player was a lot more open-minded than he might have assumed. Jack's mind zinged with the possibilities now that he had discovered a partner-in-crime to spice up his working life at Bournemouth in future.
But more important was the slut on his knees... impatiently, he reached out and pulled Danny's face over, pushing his own cock into this wet lips and taking over the main pleasure from Shane. But he played fair, respecting the master-sub madness these two pervs seem to have going on -- Ings was passed repeatedly between them, all gasps and rolling eyes and drooling bearded chin, the fellatio shared equally between Wilshere and his older colleague. Locked away in this more discreet corner, Long seemed a bit more confident and vocal -- it was exciting to hear him speak so harshly to the Southampton and England player down on his knees, spitting at his hair and face in between hurling the dirty talk. Fucking hell, what a pair these two were!
But like Danny before, Jack was an impatient man. When next he had his long heavy bone in Danny's mouth, he leered suggestively at his fellow dom. You take the rear then, eh?' the cheeky chappy said with a wicked look in his eyes. Show me how hard you fuck this dirty bitch, will ya...?'
The answer, it turned out, was pretty hard. Shane's preamble was limited, climbing around behind the squatting hulk and slapping at his cheeks, then just a brief furtive fingering before spitting on his girthy tool and putting it to work. Quickly, the pair of them were spit-roasting Danny, all on their knees now, crouched low to share their meaty bitch. Jack thrusted playfully, one hand on the crown of Danny's head as he guided his prick in and out of his slick lips, eyes fixed on the impressive sight of meaty Shane piling into him from the other end. Fuck yes, he thought, already greedy to swap holes and get in there himself. Oh fuck yes.
Shane had long delayed giving in to the inevitable and fucking his submissive friend. He'd found great pleasure, often a little sadistic, in teasing Danny's unused back door, always coercing him into anal play. But actually shagging him properly had been something the Irishman put off for months, seeing the important line there, and only throwing himself at it once he completely trusted his Southampton teammate to keep it their little secret.
Yet here he was now, pounding the Ings cheeks, with Jack fucking Wilshere as a witness. He was equally shocked by the English geezer's apparent fluidity as vice versa, though it did make a kind of sense to him -- Wilshere was an erratic and mischievous imp around the training ground, and the aggressive playfulness here did not seem out of character.
The 34-year-old thrust away, driving his cock into Ings' tight hole, gripping his chunky hips tightly with bruising fingertips. He gasped and groaned as he slammed into the 28-year-old striker, and it was Wilshere who took over the dirty talk for him on the other side, stroking his own perfectly ripped torso as his cock was gleefully devoured by the shared sub. You fucking little pussy,' Jack sneered at their shared plaything, eat my cock you nasty little gimp!'
The thought of sharing his bitch had always added to Shane's excitement over their taboo arrangement; he had been wild with risk and adventure when he'd made Ings a glory-hole cum-dump for a handful of them that summer evening in the beach bar, still probably the most daring and domineering excess of their secret relationship. But sharing Danny now with someone as aggressive and exciting as Jack, it was next-level -- apart from anything, there was almost a sense of competition to it, and he felt like he was now slamming into the tight rear with even more speed and urgency, as if to impress and intimidate Wilshere as well as to make Danny buck and whine.
He now made to shift positions, retrieving his thick meat from Danny's twitching sphincter, and gripping at his thick legs, handling the injured and strapped thigh with just enough extra care not to be a total dick. Jack seemed to take the lead from him, and together they turned the 28-year-old player onto his back, Shane hoisting those heavy hairy legs upright against his own smooth pecs, pressing down with his cock to meet the furry gap between cheeks and beginning to fuck him afresh in this new posture. Jack too adjusted, pushing down on the top of his impressive shaft, angling it into Danny's upside down face and between his lips, but only briefly.
Gasping and laughing, the former Arsenal star husffled forward on his knees, his trademark huge thighs spread either side of Danny's face. He was shifting forward, bringing his knees right up against Danny's bulging shoulders, then lifting them and squatting... Here,' the Bournemouth midfielder gurgled happily, eat my sweaty arse, you dirty slag...' Squatting there and wanking his own big cock, Jack Wilshere sat gracelessly over the bearded face of Danny Ings, pressing his cheeks down on him while the Irishman stared on, slowing his deep thrusts for a moment as he gawped at this latest treatment for his plaything.
Danny was in an overwhelming frenzy, his face covered by plump muscular cheeks, his nose and tongue rubbing into the rich-scented damp furrow between. All he could smell and taste was manly sweat, dizzying and intense; his whole prone body shook and juddered with each slow heavy thrust of Shane's crotch, ramming him and lifting his legs up higher each time. All Ings could do was lie there, back to the laminate floor, reaching to hold onto the immense muscle of Jack's thighs, besotted with their thickness and strength... he pushed his tongue out with a bit more confidence, lapping at the thin fuzzy hair between the smooth perfect cheeks, breathing in his stench.
Jack toyed lazily with his cock for a minute more, enjoying the brief wet attention from below, then flexing his leg muscles and rising up, taking his heavy muscular rear away from its suffocating position over that bearded mouth. `Move over,' he barked jovially at the other dominant player, going to take over at that end, taking control of the suspended legs and elbowing Shane playfully aside.
As he hooked Danny's ankles and lower calves over each strong shoulder and brought his crotch in line with the chunky bottom, he watched as the Irish stud moved around, wanking his thick equipment and feeding it to the damp mouth that had been pressed briefly between Jack's cheeks. He sniggered, seeing the shock and high excitement in Danny's eyes.
But he focused now on his own long heavy cock, the veiny shaft. Spat on it, rubbed the spittle up and down its length, then pressed its bulging tip into the hairy crack that was already loosened by Long's rampant fucking. He was perhaps a tiny bit slimmer in his long cock than the Irish chunk, so he managed to slide in quite quickly, even with such a tight entrance. Oh fuck yes, you slag,' he groaned. Take that up you like the bitch you are, eh.'
He held the striker's big legs to his hard front and began to jackhammer his hips and glutes, slamming in and out as quickly as his energy levels allowed, humping rabidly and making every muscle jerk and quiver in the whole naked body of him -- while his mouth was occupied by Shane's dirty cock, slapped against his chin and cheeks then fed back in between his pouting red lips!
In the moments before he came, Shane saw the downside of this adventure, this climax. He was so turned on, so satisfied and pleasured -- but as his cock throbbed sensitively, pleasured doubly his hand at the base and Danny's tongue at the tip, he saw the way the submissive bloke's eyes stayed fixed in the other direction, almost magnetically drawn to the lithe and excitable pace of Wilshere slamming into his bottom.
Even as he spurted his cum over Danny's lips and facial hair, brought to climax for what was probably the thirtieth or fortieth time since their first dirty playtime in the Southampton training ground over a year ago, even as that happened, he felt his ego sink a little. For Shane, so much of the excitement had rested on the devoted way the burly younger player looked at him during the deed, the knowledge that even as he passed into the footballing `old age' of his mid 30s, he could assert his power over this virile prolific striker. But now...
Ings just looked fixated on Wilshere, gargling Long's seed but staring with wide-eyed wonder at the rippling glossy muscle of the 29-year-old midfielder drilling his arse, NOT at Shane Long, who gasped and sighed over him, chest rising and falling, body exhausted by the rough play. He was satisfied physically, but he felt a disappointing shift in his heart and mind -- Danny Ings wasn't really his after all.
The sensation of Jack's cock sliding out of him made him sink weakly back against the floor, his body spent and his own cock leaking a dribble of pre-cum. He reached for it, groaning wordlessly and letting his head loll side to side. He could taste Shane's load but feel more of it slipping about his mouth, chin, cheeks, sticky and cooling. He stared up at the Irish beauty, who was backing away, a strange grim expression on his face as he rose up to his feet.
Confused, Ings looked back at Wilshere instead: he was stood properly over him, feet planted either side of his hips, wanking his cock with his eyes screwed shut and his mouth clenched in an agonised mask of completion. `Oh fuck yes,' the gorgeous lad groaned, his tattoo-decorated arm muscles twitching with the exertion, and then he too was cumming. Danny spilled his own jizz almost simultaneously as the heavy globs of Wilshere juice spattered his chest, shoulders, face, mingling with the Irish cream already pooling about his features. The Southampton player drifted into a heady daze, his dick numb and sticky, his body painted with the juices of the two dominant Bournemouth men, former Premiership heroes.
Wilshere pulled on the taut black briefs and undersized turquoise playing shorts, but didn't bother to struggle into his sweat-damp Bournemouth shirt, using it instead as a rag to rub sweat from his face, chest, pits. His long playing socks, not removed at any point in the sex, were peeled down and bunched together with the dirtied top, hugged under one arm as he gasped and recovered, grinning and laughing at the two dazed men sharing the room with him.
`We don't have to pass back through these cunts' changing rooms, do we?' he asked, his mood incredibly lightened by the physical release of the three-way.
No,' grunted Shane. There's another way out. We can get back to the Away rooms and nobody will have noticed you're missing. Yet. Come on.'
Thank you,' moaned Danny weakly, still crouched on the floor, trying to use his white tshirt to smear cum off everywhere it had landed and congealed. Thank you sirs. That was amazing.' He was staring up and at them with wide eyes, a stupid innocent expression on his rugged features -- though the youngest of the three, his beard and features made him look more mature and serious than the boyishly handsome older guys. Jack just laughed openly at his sincerity, and kicked him playfully in the arse.
`Fuck off, Southampton,' he said simply before moving to unlock the door. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the flash of disappointment on the pathetic bottom guy's face, then saw him turn and lean more towards the Irish fella, reaching to stroke his leg and smile at him -- but Long shook his hand away and didn't even look at him, marching straight past Wilshere and out into the corridor, still fidgeting and adjusting his sweatshirt.
Jack, picking up on the awkwardness, just smirked selfishly at the hunched figure of the used striker, Shane having vanished hurriedly away. A dull sensation returned to the 29-year-old, now that his cock had softened and settled in the sweaty mess of his briefs. He took a couple of steps back from the door to where Danny squatted and sighed in a sad, wistful way. Here,' he grunted. Before I go.' He pushed back down on the front of his shorts and briefs, and let his sticky dick dangle and aim. `I was just gonna mark some Southampton kit, but why not...'
In a moment, his hot yellow stream was dashing against the seated figure of the bitch. Danny didn't move, letting it splashed against his already dirtied chest, his sleeved inky arms huddled at his sides and about his bare legs. Jack lifted his cock and balls a bit more so that the arc of his urine briefly pattered at the man's bearded face, then let it droop and shower his knees, shins, socks. Eventually, he was relieved, the piss that he'd intended for their stupid winning changing room now fully unloaded over their injured hero instead. Sitting in the wet mess, Ings just gasped in and out with heavy, confused breaths.
He opened his dirty mouth. `You're incredible,' he sighed.
Jack nodded. `I know. You're nothing, mate.' He pushed his pissy dick away into his clammy undies and backed off, grinning. Out through the door, shirtless and gleaming with sweat. To the right, he could hear faint echoes of the celebratory Southampton bell-ends, ugh, so he went left, passing through a couple of doorways and re-joining Shane Long in a new corridor.
`What were you doing?' his Irish guide demanded immediately. He was shifting from foot to foot in a moody fashion, his handsome features marred by frown.
Wilshere laughed a little. Just saying goodbye, helping him get clean.' He rubbed his handful of footy shirt against his damp face again. This way to the Away rooms, is it? Fuck. 84 minutes' play and then a hard shag, I am done in. I wonder which of the weedy lads on our team will give me a massage, haha?' He grinned playfully at his partner-in-crime, the pair of them ambling around the corner and back into the main bright space of the tunnel, late afternoon sun glowing at the far end. Shane didn't answer or laugh. He watched his moody screwed-up expression, a grumpy demeanour that reflected his own earlier rage as he stormed away from his yellow card.
He's a surprising one, eh?' Jack said. Never would think it to look at him. What a thirsty cunt.'
He's pathetic,' Shane snapped dismissively. That's what he is.'
Right,' Wilshere agreed in a low voice, raising an eyebrow. You alright there, bruv?'
`I'm not your bruv,' the Irish player barked back at him, and picked up the pace of his walk, moving a few steps ahead and closing the gap towards the Away changing rooms entrance. In contrast, Jack slowed his exhausted steps and just laughed silently to himself, rolling his bare shoulders and cricking his sore neck. He was vaguely aware he'd fucked something up here, and should maybe feel bad about it... but it was all just a bit of fun, right? Not his fault if Long and Ings couldn't handle the dirty antics they'd started!
Riding the physical high of sex and dominance, Wilshere strolled on into the changing rooms of his Bournemouth teammates, whistling a jaunty tune to himself. The FA Cup hope was over and more-or-less forgotten, because his wilting ego had found fresh fuel in fucking his first bloke in ages, and what a bloke to find! He grinned wickedly to himself, knowing that he'd asserted himself over more than just that out-of-action Southampton talisman back there -- he watched Shane stalk moodily to the far end of the changing rooms away from him, and smirked a little more. He'd also made it clear to that handsome Irish fucker who the top dog in Bournemouth was, though it had not really been his agenda.
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