Part 262: Nosy Parker
Old Trafford, and one of the final few opportunities for his side to end the season with dignity intact; relegation loomed and even maintaining a goalless draw with tonight's opponents would have held some relief for the 40-year-old football manager. However, Manchester United's Cavani had put the hosts a goal up already and as the first half of the game waned, Scott Parker found himself pacing quite fiercely along the touchline, hollering aggressively at each of his Fulham players and desperately urging them to salvage something from the 45 minutes.
Parker folded his sturdy arms across the chest of his gilet, frown lines disturbing his gentlemanly good looks, striding back and forth and glancing repeatedly at his watch. He feared a second goal from the United lads and the prospect of his lacklustre squad giving up all hope at half-time. There were little flurries of action from his own players, but none of them amounting to very much, and the Londoner shook his fists in frustration as yet another movement from his midfielders was cut short.
His tension showed in his face and body language, and he turned brutal stares on the Old Trafford residents who looked pretty smug with themselves as the minutes ticked closer to the break; Parker found himself glancing critically at big figures like McTominay and Shaw sweeping through the midfield, and Fernandes and Pogba supporting the goal-scoring Cavani... he resented the expensive stars of the Manchester team and their complacent success. Mind... the United defender Luke Shaw passed nearer the dugouts, charging by with the ball, and something about the physical power of the young left-back caught a different attention from the curious straight man.
Shaw crashed back in a flash of muscle and sports kit, a much more rugged silhouette than the blond pretty boy Parker had vague memories of meeting towards the end of his playing career, appearing in the England squad as a keen cub just as Parker was retiring from the midfield. But then United defender was exploding away, colliding with one of the Fulham men and losing the ball again, and Scott had to tear his eyes from the muscular back of the red 23 shirt and the way those baggy white shorts held his large rear -- fuck's sake, Scotty, pay attention, you're at work!
The 40-year-old dragged both hands over his face, becoming even more tense and annoyed now that his latent interests were creeping past his match-day ferocity. He had worked so hard to suppress it properly lately, especially after... ahem, that `incident' early in the year when he had... A burst of noise around him dragged the coach's attention away from a mental image of young Luke Shaw sharing an England dressing room with him, and he instead followed the sudden furore to find out what was going on. A bundle of players from both teams were gathered around the fallout of a collision, and Parkewr followed the stream of management staff forward onto the edge of the pitch...
His eyes landed on the victim of the clash and his heart leapt with concern. Shouldered by a medic, his own left-back was guided from the pitch, his face streaked with garish red that had dripped heavily onto the front of his shirt and his shorts, blotching and staining brown against the bright yellow. Joe Bryan made some vague noises of pain as he was guided safely off the field and play halted; Scott was in amongst them in an instant, grabbing at one arm of the handsome 27-year-old man, barking questions at him to ascertain if he was concussed or not... the intervention was ignored by a dizzied Bryan and met with some indignation from the medical staff, who elbowed him out of the way and took the defender a few more paces over the line.
With a twinge of embarrassment, Scott lurked beside them, realising that the nosebleed was not quite the horrifying head injury it had briefly looked, and that his very public horror at a minor knock to the Fulham player was probably catching attention all around him... but so what, he was their manager and he cared about all his players. You just don't wake up soaked in the night thinking about some of them like you do this beautiful bastard, a cruel inner voice pointed out, and he bit aimlessly at his fist whilst glancing between Joe and the stalled game.
The retired footballer could only watch for a few awkward moments as Bryan was briefly inspected and tended to... but the 27-year-old Bristolian was barking dismissively at his attendants and gladly stuffing some cotton wool against each nostril. Already, the ruggedly beautiful footballer was whooping with laughter and wriggling out of bloodstained kit -- with a fresh urge of care for his wellbeing, Parker was shouting crossly at a junior coach to fetch clean gear, and pushing between the medics who had glowered at him moments ago.
`Here,' he said, helping Bryan out of his dirtied Fulham shirt, letting the corners of his eyes trace the exposed architecture of that perfect upper body -- every pale muscle so distinct and smooth in his stomach and chest, the way his arms bulged in all the right places... it was enough to make Scott bulge a little too much in his dark blue chinos, if he let it! He looked away, holding the sweaty blood-marked shirt in both hands, and then feeling one of Joe's hot heavy hands on his own shoulder, leaning on him somewhat as the man began to wriggle out of his shorts... oh, fuck. Down they came, kicked over broad thighs, one bare and one inked, and for a blissful moment the 5ft7 stud was in only a tight-stretched pair of black sports briefs, completely identical to the pair that Scott had... oh fuck, don't think about that, not here and now, not with...
Cheers,' Joe drawled at the assistant who was thrusting clean gear into his hands, and before Scott knew what he was doing, he was helping out -- thrusting the dirty garments away at the same younger coach and unfurling the blinding yellow footy shirt to push against Joe's body... still a little dazed-looking with most of the blood wiped from his features, the left-back grinned appreciatively at him and made a promise, I'll get out there and smash it, boss man!' Parker found himself backing away, unable to say anything clear or sensible in response to this promise, simply watching as the shirt was wrenched over head and shoulders, pausing just above the nipples, while the shorts were slowly adjusted up those legs and over the prominent black bulge... until both items were pulled more smoothly into place, covering up the waistband of his briefs and the astonishing adonis belt of muscles that formed his midriff.
And then, just like, the Fulham defender was exploding away to the side and a whistle was blowing -- he paused only to clap the back of United's Mason Greenwood and make peace with the opponent, dashing away to rejoin his position in the squad for the final few minutes of the half. And Parker himself was stood with his hands awkwardly on his hips, his mouth hanging open a little. How much was I staring at him? Did I look too long? In front of all these people, these cameras... damn it, Scotty, leave it alone! Get your head back in the game!
He strode away from the scene of the momentary striptease, rubbing firmly at his face again, and watching the resumption of action just in front of them all. Trying to ease himself back into his manager's mindset, the ex-England star took a glance back at the spattering of subs in socially distanced seating behind him, trying to work out who he needed to get out there at the start of the second half -- but his strategizing halted again when he met the calm expression of the nearest sub, who his paranoia told him was staring knowingly straight at him.
There had been many harsh recriminations in the privacy of Parker's own self-doubt since the night he'd sat in his study and jerked off into Joe Bryan's stolen briefs, spilling his load in the sweat-stained undies and fantasising about his left-back hunk. Creeping back into the marriage bed afterwards, chilled with guilt and shame, the underpants tucked away in a wood-burning stove to blaze away into sinful ash. But the worst consequence of that little episode was the middleman: why had he accepted the gift of those dirty pants from Ruben Loftus-Cheek, even if he had not explicated admitted anything to the big grinning lad?
Since then, Parker had completely avoided any one-to-one conversation with his Chelsea loan, unable to bear the smooth confidence and subtly amused expressions of his handsome young features. Now, with the match inching to its midway break, he spun around and tore his eyes from Loftus-Cheek, unbale to risk meeting eyes with the well-built midfielder -- perhaps Ruben had not been looking at him at all, had just been eyeing the game, but... fuck, fuck, fuck. For the hundredth time, Scott replayed that moment when he had taken the scrunched-up pants from Ruben's hand, thinking about all the ways he could have rejected the stolen goods, could have laughed it off, could have severely disciplined the 25-year-old giant.
Scott glared absent-mindedly into the pitch as the whistle blew and half-time arrived at last; his cheeks burned and his mind raced. Had Ruben been smirking at him just then, or was it entirely his own imagination...?
In the Away rooms of Old Trafford, the air rang with some cheers and chants from the underdogs, a short but impassioned speech from their captain doing the job. Joe Bryan clapped as hard as anyone else, backing away from the tight circle of kitted men and dabbing cautiously at his nose to check there was no fresh blood against his lips and stubble. His face throbbed with pain from the minor collision with Greenwood, but it had only briefly dazed him, and he was glad he wasn't being cautiously benched and missing out on the second half of the game.
`It's okay, right?' cut in the South London accent of the gaffer, and Joe looked to his left to see Scott approaching him side-on, arms folded and a concerned frown on his face.
Oh, totally,' Joe promised him, was nothing much, I'm all good, chief.' He wrinkled his nose but smiled conspicuously, patting his hands against his six-pack and feeling mild surprise at just how concerned the gaffer actually seemed as he squared up to him and gave him a gentle rub on the shoulder. Seriously,' he added quietly, I'm totally okay to play, I'd say if I wasn't!'
I know,' Parker returned in a sombre tone. I just don't want you getting seriously hurt, Bryan.'
It was an odd tone and there was something jarring in the little moment that made the left-back emit a little nervous chuckle of sound, rolling and stretching his shoulder and giving the boss another lopsided grin. Well, I can look after myself,' he said slowly back. Seriously, my head is fine, it really wasn't such a bad crash -- the blood just went everywhere, like you saw, all over my kit!' He rolled his eyes. `Hence the little strip show for the cameras, fuckign hell -- how cringe. I'll be roasted in the group chat for that if there's footage of me in my panties, haha.' For a slow odd moment, he watched a flushed of crimson in the manager's face, heard his strained laugh, felt his fingers dig a little into the muscle of his shoulder ,and then Scott looked very serious again.
Stay focused,' the gaffer barked almost crossly, making Joe wipe away his grin and nod enthusiastically. Sure, sure,' he promised, `I'm gonna go out there and give it fucking everything now, chief, I want to repay you for starting me and not just bringing me on as a sub. It means a lot, being trusted like this against those Manc cunts.' He returned the manager's moody stare of battle readiness, puffing out his strong chest and trying to look fully warlike -- but this just seemed to bring a tremor of uncertainty to the coach's expression and stance, and left Joe frowning uncertainly at where their short dialogue had gone wrong.
Just like that, Scott was moving away from him, busying himself with a stooped conversation with his deputy, and disappearing into the fray of players who were stretching out and bursting into short-lived additional chants; the 27-year-old defender lurked at the side, feeling vaguely that he'd annoyed or disappointed his gaffer there with his banter or swearing, and that he would need to put on a really good show in the rest of the match to make up for it.
`God, you two should get a fucking room,' interrupted a low voice to his right, and with raised brows, he turned to look at his teammate Harrison Reed -- a low frown and sneer occupied the redhead's narrow face, the 26-year-old midfielder sat down in the middle of tightening his bootlaces, staring past him to the back of their manager. Joe laughed awkwardonly one and kicked him softly in the side of the calf.
`Fuck off, Harry.'
`You know what I mean.'
`Er, I don't mate, actually.'
Boss got such a fucking boner for you,' muttered Reed simply, looking down as he finished adjusting his tight boots, then glancing up with more of a smirk to his critical expression. You know that's what all those jokes were about, don't you? Pretty boy Joey being the manager's favourite, haha, everyone is saying that he-`
What the actual fuck?' Bryan snapped irritably back at him, already put on edge by the strange disapproval he'd seen in Parker's face as he bantered about being filmed in his grotty undies. That's a shit joke, ginger nuts.'
Harrison snorted and clucked and rose up to his feet, bumping elbows with him and giving him a wink. `Alrighty, mate, did I touch a nerve? Not even my joke. Everyone says it. Fuck off, everyone knows you're the best-looking bastard in Fulham, it's just banter. You aren't complaining when it's all the female staff chasing you, poser.'
`Huh, whatever...'
Ooh, look at me,' mocked the Worthing-born footballer, elbowing him again, I'm Joey B, footballer, supermodel and literary critic... sexy AND intellectual me, look at me in my specs...'
Joe just rolled his eyes, shoved loosely at him and turned away. `Get over yourself bud, we've got a match to finish off,' he dismissed, annoyed and disinterested -- and wondering how he'd missed that people had made up some ridiculous joke about everyone, including their manager, falling for his good looks. What a load of silly bollocks!
When the men returned to these very changing rooms fifty minutes later, it was with a stolen point, the game ending 1-1 between the polar teams -- Scott himself was a little delayed joining them, unable to hold in his proud grin as he raced through a TV interview in the tunnel, very glad to get in here and applaud his players who had done such a good job to hold off the Manchester team and keep it at a draw. And the Fulham boss could not feel more proud of the equalising goal, VAR confirmed; he beamed proudly across the room to the sight of a shirtless Joe being hugged, kissed and fondled by every man on the team before breaking loose, the surprise agent of Fulham's one goal.
Released from the excited huddle of his teammates, the glistening athlete stumbled this way, top off and shorts riding down just below the band of those dark briefs, a sliver of pale hip showing between them and the yellow at each side... Parker cut off his stumbling route and grabbed one arm to his side in a half-hug, keen to join everyone else in adding further congratulations to the match's unlikely hero. To his shock and embarrassment, the left-back recoiled a bit from the hug, pulling away from him, wincing, his laughter dying to a gurgle in a short moment.
`Oh, boss,' Bryan coughed then, blinking and rubbing a forearm across his face.
Joe,' breathed Parker awkwardly, his arms held stiffly at his sides, that was a stunner, mate.'
Yeah,' was the starchy response, everything closed and guarded in the footballer's body language in front of him, the rest of the team still leaping about and stripping to shower in high spirits, framing the stuffy awkwardness of the two men here at the side of the room. Thanks,' Bryan added lamely.
Parker just stood there giving a glassy smile at his defender, wondering self-consciously if his attempt at a hug had been far too much, just like his concerned overreaction to a nosebleed on the touchline; he corrected his clumsy posture and took a step back, tightening his smile into an even more false and awkward look of approval. `Brilliant, brilliant -- well, don't let me get in the way, go get yourself cleaned up. Fantastic, Joe, fantastic...'
He lowered his gaze and turned away, very pointedly NOT looking as Joe began to push down his shorts and disappeared among the other lads -- and the manager stalked out of the main changing rooms and into the space at the side where his two assistants were cracking open some chilled beers for them. When one was offered his way, he took it without thanks, and knocked back several large gulps, feeling the heat of shame and embarrassment on his face -- he was making a fool of himself, wasn't he? He was letting this crush spiral out of all control! You tit, he scolded himself, you're going mad in your 40s.
The repressed football hero stole one last glance back through the arch at the sweaty mass of sporting muscle, flashes of yellow kit, peeks of bare buttock or crotch... and then turned fiercely away, telling the other coaches that he needed some air. Away into the tunnel, away onto the emptying pitch-side... he threw back more beer and cursed himself inwardly. How had he let his behaviour become so cringey and awkward that he couldn't even celebrate one of his most underrated players getting his first goal in ages...?!
Joe unzipped the hooded jacket across his strong compact chest and kicked his trainers off one at a time, returned to his shared hotel room after a long night in the hotel bar of their Manchester venue. He was four-pints-drunk and shattered from the evening's hard-fought draw, and yet part of him felt insanely awake: a mixture of the adrenaline from being the centre of attention and a little bit of something else... an awkwardness that had settled on him at half-time and not quite left even when VAR approved his surprise goal and he became Fulham's hero of the season.
It wasn't so much that the silly joke had really got to the 27-year-old so badly -- after all, looking as he did, Bryan was hardly a stranger to the notion that it wasn't just women who went weak at the knees for him. The Bristolian was quite used to the jokey appreciation that surrounded his looks and physique, had been aggressively complimented by enough queer pals of girlfriends and suchlike, he wasn't exactly one to become tetchy and bigoted over the suggestion that a guy might be interested... Nor was it the sheer stupidity of such an idea being levelled at a married masculine figure like Scott Parker, their much-loved head coach for a tough season.
What had made Joe unable to properly relax and settle in to the evening's celebratory drinks was the way he had been briefly rattled, and how standoffish he had been with the gaffer at the end of the game, on the coach to the hotel... It was perfectly possible that Parker had retired after only half a pint was because he was sensible and cautious, wanting the lads to let loose on their own without his authority present -- but a trace of paranoia was making Bryan wonder if his own rudeness had somehow pushed their hardworking chief into feeling unwelcome.
Changing into his pyjamas to the background music of his roommate's whistling and terrible attempts to rap Drake lyrics, the Fulham left-back berated himself over the stupidity of giving his gaffer the cold shoulder just because that ginger prick thought it was funny to wind him up at half-time. In a body-hugging grey t-shirt and very baggy thin joggers, Joe sat at the foot of his bed and hung his fists between his thighs, letting the alcohol do its poor job of soothing his nerves.
Oi,' called his roommate for the away trip, you mind if I do a quick call to my fam?'
Distractedly, he looked across the room at his much taller colleague, and just shrugged. It's late,' he pointed out dully. But whatever, do what you need to do, pal.'
Ruben flashed him a toothy smile, a loose basketball vest hanging from his brown muscular form, phone held in both wide palms. What the hell's up with you, prince charming?' the Chelsea loan demanded with quiet humour. You've had a face like shit since we left the bar to come up here. You just sour cos you wanted another beer? We could raid the mini bar if you're feelin' it, bruv...'
Joe shrugged again and screwed up his face. Nah, I'm good. Make your call, Lofty, ignore me. I'll be straight out like a light, I'm fucked.' There was a moment's quiet and he glanced self-consciously across at the 6ft3 Londoner again, who was watching him with a patient half-smile, loitering on the far side of the other bed. I'm fine,' the elder of the two lads repeated unconvincingly, `just make your phone call, big man.'
You know how it is,' Ruben said vaguely, my mum and kid sister go crazy if I don't phone them from an away trip.' He paused, that big open smile still on his honest features. `You sure you're good, bruv? You know you can always talk to me if you need to, if you're having a downer -- even after playing a blinder like you did tonight.'
Joe looked his way but not directly at him. It was almost too mortifying to bring up. But he was curious -- was Harrison just being random and dickhead-ish back there, or was it an actual joke people shared? He spat it out. Do people joke about me just getting on the team for my looks?' he demanded in a quiet voice full of tension. Do the lads joke that the gaffer just fucking fancies me or something?'
Ruben's response was hard to read. What might be a tell-tale quiet pause was broken by a loud laddish voice, the tall athletic man creasing up with chuckles and shaking his head. WHAT?' he demanded quickly. That is hilarious. Who's been saying that?! Jesus -- how handsome do you think you are, JB...?!'
Joe laughed but grimaced, getting up from the bed. `No, it isn't that, it's just... Ah, it was Harry, wasn't it... just being a nob as always. Said some daft shit at half-time. Stupid ginger mug. You know what he's like, always thinks he's...'
Loftus sniggered, settling down on the side of his bed and thumbing at his phone as he spoke, casual and relaxed in frame. Pfft, if anything, ginger-nuts himself has the hots for you, making up shit like that. Ignore the twat. If the boss fancies anyone, Jojo, it's gotta be me -- I mean, look at me...?' He lifted his face and winked enigmatically. Get that stupid banter out of your head, JB. Harrison is a prick. Like I say, bet he just fancies you for himself, everyone knows he's shit with the ladies.'
Right,' Joe said slowly, uncertainly. He folded his thickly muscled arms against his front and stretched his neck in little circles. Then he moved around the corner of the bed and thrust his bare sore feet into the free hotel slippers. Look, mate -- you make that call. I'm just gonna go for a quick stroll about the hotel, yeah, get my mind relaxed before I get to bed. You know what it's like sometimes after a match like that. Don't mind me.' And with that, he shuffled out of their room, leaving Ruben to his frustratingly calm grin and lounging posture, free to call his Lewisham family and reconnect -- Joe ditching him and hurrying out into the cool hotel corridor in his bedclothes and slippers, hot-cheeked and wishing he hadn't even brought it up.
I'll be here in five,' the voice on the phone said. And don't worry. I'm VERY discreet.'
Down he went, through the curling staircase into the quiet nocturnal foyer of the hotel. He was stripped of his smart-casual manager's gear. A simple white hoody, the hood up, and slim-fitting Adidas trackies on his legs. Retired as he was, his lean physique still looked good in the sporty gear, or he hoped dearly it did. You always hoped to impress, didn't you? Even... like this.
Coughing to himself, the Premiership coach paced through the silent space, lingering near the main doors and then moving away to find a comfortable seat in the closed bar area to the side -- the same bar area where his players had drunk into the night without him, retiring early and separating himself from their relaxation time. He told himself it was a good leadership move, but really he'd just felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. Too paranoid every time he looked in Ruben's direction or was near another congratulatory hug for Joe. It was all in his head, surely -- what did either lad really know about him? What WAS there to know? He was... married. Straight. A dad! He wasn't...
No, he knew what he was, who he was. He knew what he was into. And he was about to prove it to himself. This was naughty but it would be fine; it was the shit that Premiership aces got up to all the time, and why should a club manager really be any different...? After all, he was only 40, for fuck's sake, he had so much life in him.
Scott sat there, crossing and uncrossing his legs. He gave occasional glances to an elderly man on duty somewhere behind the reception desk, so placid as to be taking a nap, and then even more furtive glances back towards the hotel's main doors and the lamplit terrace beyond them.
He stiffened and frowned when he sensed another presence in the bar side of the foyer and did not initially recognise who was padding around the corner and pausing just a few metres from his selected seat. A silence lengthened, and the dressed-down gaffer glanced over, finding the awkward stocky figure of Joe Bryan giving him a measured look, stood with his hands in his pockets.
`Hey, boss.'
Oh. Erm. Hi. Joe? Ahem.' He made to get up from the seat then changed his mind, just shifting position. It's late,' he said, trying to question Bryan's presence down here but perhaps just drawing attention to the oddness of his own. `Is everything alright?'
`I was hoping I might catch you,' the player admitted, hesitating and then shifting closer, poising himself on the arm of the next seat, hands still in the pockets of those leg-hugging thin black joggers he wore. (Was he wearing anything beneath them? Scott was sure he saw distinct movement in the front of them, but the colour of the fabric made it so hard to tell.)
`Oh?' Scott said, non-committal, looking everywhere but at the way the muscles in Joe's arms bulged and flexed as he propped himself on the side of the chair and leaned this way to speak in a low, confidential manner.
Parker, boss,' he murmured now. Just wanted to say a bit of a sorry, y'know -- I was well out of order earlier, I think I was really off with you, and I just wanted to say that-`
Parker found himself replying in a hot rush. What? Nonsense. No problem, Joe, I'm just so fucking happy with how you played today, and how good you're obviously feeling, and -- and glad that you didn't take a worse hit from that Greenwood idiot or any of those other United yobs, or- He realised he was babbling. He clenched his sharp jawline and studied Joe's apologetic gloom. `Joe, you've nothing to be sorry for,' he said. Except for making a man doubt his wedding vows, you stupid sexy prick! Oh, fuck. Was that out loud?
You sure, chief?' the younger man murmured, shifting side to side where he perched. It was just some shite getting in my head, that's all, some rubbish one of the lads had said, and I was being a dick about it, so... Fuck, thank you so much for letting me play that full 90 today, it felt so good. It's been too long. I know my head hasn't always been in the right place, but it's just so awesome to get out there and show what I can do before I hit my 30s and am considered an OAP...'
Scott was about to laugh this age joke off when his eyes slid past the handsome lad at his side, across the foyer towards those big double doors, which had slid automatically aside to admit a visitor. There she was, exactly as her profile described, none of the photos a lie; petite and busty, something out of a porno fantasy, strutting quietly into the hotel with a demure expression that belied her profession. Scott's hands gripped the arms of the big structural chair and he stared at her approach, listening to each pronounced click of her heels on the marble floor. Here she was: the expensive agency escort he'd booked to reassert his heterosexuality, marriage vows be damned.
Slowly, Bryan's head turned to follow his gaze. A little awkward `oh' escaped his lips and in a moment he was standing, hands at his sides, his face a mask of bewildered surprise tinged with laddish amusement. Parker stood too, clearing his throat, watching as the girl caught sight of them and swerved this way. Her ingenuee expression shifted to a more calculating stare, as if noting that two rather than one bloke was here to meet her, and already working out how much the price quoted down the phone was about to increase by.
Right, sir,' Joe began quietly, er, I'll head off and-`
Joe,' he found himself saying, his mouth moving faster than his brain, his hand lifting to rest on those tight bulging muscles at the top of the lad's back. This is Shanice.' The sex worker was right in front of them now, her tits almost spilling out of her low-cut dress. She flipped and stroked her hair and stared silently from man to man. Joe,' he said in the same awkward growl, you got down here just in time. This was how I wanted to congratulate you.'
Next to him, his left-back stared for a moment at the silent woman, and then across at him. Scott returned his look with a brash, laddish smile, clapped him more firmly on those back muscles. `What? This is your gift. Shanice is going to make you know just how much Fulham FC appreciates what you did out there this evening. What do you say to that?'
The handsome 27-year-old gawped at him, and Shanice just smirked.
At first, it seemed utterly bizarre. But a powerful libido had always been a weak spot for a man who had been sexually active since his mid-teens and never short of options; the strangeness of being presented with a hired shag in exchange for a pivotal goal did not take long to fade once her hands were on him and he realised just how perfect her tight little body was.
Her tight little body, but her tight cunt in particular. He thumbed her clit whilst his dick pumped in and out of her, his knees and thighs spread to get low and shove himself into her while she sprawled back on the bed, fingering her own nipples and biting her lip as she stared at him with wild seduction. Her platinum hair whipped back and forth across her face as she writhed, and the teats of her augmented breasts were glossy with his own spittle from sucking on each one. His cock slid in and out of her juicy pussy, wet already with her saliva from a lingering blow-job.
`Shanice' squealed and yelped for him. He was smart enough to know how performative it was, but vain enough to believe that his looks and body had impressed her from the minute they stripped off and got to action. The louder she got, the more the football stud pounded her, shifting into a more missionary position they that could snog and cuddle as he slammed into her, using every inch of pale white muscle to ravage her fake-tanned body against the sheets, drunk and horny and proud.
Where?' had been one of Joe's first bewildered questions; Parker had quickly explained the generous proportions of his manager's hotel suite, the separateness of the bedroom' section from the more casual lounge space he was afforded for work reasons and status. And the cunt-struck young hunk had quickly adjusted to this idea, seemed unfazed by the setting for his action. `I'll just take a whiskey through here and let you two have fun,' the Fulham manager had said to him as they separated and Shanice tugged on the lad's wrist, leading him to bed.
But here he was.
Shaming himself. Taking risks. Being... pathetic.
He rubbed and pushed at his hard-on with furious energy, kneeling carefully on the soft carpet that made no noise, his face pressed in close to the keyhole of the thin door that separated these two halves of the hotel suite. Scott's erection leaked pre-cum against the inside leg of the Adidas trackies and his body sweated profusely beneath the heavy white hoody.
Through the keyhole, his restricted view burned with erotic delight. They were shifting position now, ending his perfect shot of Joe's powerful back while he ploughed her -- the rippling white muscles from shoulders to arse (that big strong arse!) bouncing up and down while he went into her. But the new position was even more revealing, he realised, side-on doggy-style: Joe holding a tangle of her bleached hair to yank her head back a little while he thrust at her jiggling bottom, every rung of his six-pack tensing and clenching with each bodily movement.
And the sounds...! Even if Scott was sat sensibly at the far side of the room, sipping whiskey at the window, and not feeling himself up on his knees like a ridiculous pervert, he wouldn't have been able to drown out the sounds of it. He should have put some music on to make them feel comfortable, he thought, but too late. A soundtrack of her squeals and Joe's heavy grunts leaked through the door and made him leak even more. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
God, the girl was really screaming for him -- he must just be such an amazing shagger?! She was going wild. He wondered if the room on the other side of the bedroom wall would be able to hear it. Slivers of panic struggled to contend with just how much he was enjoying this ridiculous scene, the rampant shagging of his prized left-back and the girl he had hired for himself.
He began to play with himself more vigorously, really gripping his tool where it jutted against the tight black nylon, wanking himself at an awkward angle. He was grunting breathlessly, and might have worried about the indiscretion of this noise, but the lovers beyond the keyhole were making such a racket of their gasps and groans, not to mention the fleshy slaps of their private parts. They had shifted position again, Shanice going cowgirl and Scott only really able to see the feet and legs of the stud on his back... but the view disappearing between those legs, leading inevitably to his ballbag and the base of his tool as she slid up and down it with her wet pussy...
Oh god,' Scott purred, oh fuckkk...'
As soon as he was making a mess of himself, jizzing down the fluffy inside of his thigh, he felt sick at the voyeuristic idiocy of what he was doing, and he closed his eyes and sucked in breaths of air. He leaned gently into the door and couldn't bring himself to open his winking eye and stare through the keyhole again for a whole minute. When he did, he saw they were back in missionary, angled away from him so that all he could see was that strong arse rising and falling, the beast with two backs in action.
Nauseous, he backed off with shuffling slides of his knees, wiping a sleeve over his clammy face and gradually getting to his feet. He could feel his jizz cooling and his cock aching at the awkward angle it was pinned. He grimaced and groaned dismally. Pouring himself a huge measure of whiskey, he stared repeatedly at the closed bedroom door, the muffled yelps and squeals stabbing into his voyeur's shame as it went on and on.
By the time it was over, Scott's regret was in full bloom -- unable to face the reality of what he'd done, he was pretending to be asleep, slouched in a generous couch by the windows, blanket over him and face away from the room. The drained whiskey bottle completed the tableau, and the young lovers giggled and whispered as they slid across the room. Only when he heard the door firmly shut did he dare twist around and look up. The air was thick with the smell of sex and perfume, and his pants still felt sticky with his private enjoyment. Oh god, he groaned to himself, what the fuck have I done?