Part 270: When in Rome
The room to the hotel door burst open and in he stumbled, taking long clumsy steps across the room and then hurrying over to open up two of the big windows along one side. They did little to welcome a breeze and disturb the Roman heat of the hotel suite, but they did let in a little flutter of winged insects to invade the quiet.
Grinning from ear to ear, Luke Shaw turned around from the window and watched as his fellow occupant of the room entered at a slower pace, lazy and swaggering with the drink imbibed several floors below in the hotel bar. Like a big annoyed bear, Harry Maguire lifted one strong arm and batted a fluttering little invader away from his face with a brief gurn of irritation, then he turned his crooked leer of hunger this way, and Luke melted a little bit inside.
`You're letting all sorts in,' the Manchester United skipper grumbled disapprovingly.
It's just so fucking hot,' Luke complained in a small voice, relaxing his bulky muscular body against the window sills and imagining a trace of cool air coming in from the settled Italian night, longing for a breeze against the back of his thick neck where the collar of his grey t-shirt gave way to sweat-glossy skin and the close crop of his skinhead. It's too stuffy in here,' he added, leaving the windows behind and moving back across the room, approaching to meet Harry halfway across the big chamber they would be sharing.
Both men were a little drunk, both literally on the beer and wine that had flowed with supper, and on the infectious it's-coming-home energy of tonight's quarter-final win against the Ukraine. The mood in the squad had been ecstatic in the stadium and verging on rowdy upon return to their nearby accommodation, barely subdued by the calm confidence and cautious work ethic of their manager; he had slipped away early tonight to allow more relaxed drinking and celebration among the Englishmen who were plodding into the final rounds of the tournament.
Shaw grinned admiringly at his 6ft4 hunk, the slabhead winner of the night's decisive goal -- Maguire's header at the start of the second half had shifted things from a solid 2-0 win to the 4-0 massacre it became -- and thought about the hug they had shared on the pitch, his club captain and secret boyfriend enclosing him in manic strength and practically going to snog him right on the pitch in front of the whole of Europe. It had been all the younger defender could do to contain the excitement in his privates, glad of tight under-shorts and briefs that restrained his would-be erection after he'd been clamped in Harry's bear-hug on the field.
You got a bit excited,' he told Harry with quiet and playful accusation now. Cuddling me like that on the field, you big romantic. I could have dropped to my knees and sucked you off in front of the cameras, you were grabbing me so rough.' He smirked and winked.
That so?' the 28-year-old returned with a sleazy light in his deep-set eyes. You keep throwing out all those assists and I can't come hug you for it?' He slid his arms against Luke's in a replay of that manly celebration, holding their bodies close through the thin sweaty t-shirts that covered their warm torsos. `Stop worrying -- nobody would know a thing watching that, you fanny.' Luke relaxed happily into the drunken confidence of the hug now that they were securely up here in their retreat away from the world.
`I'm just messing...'
`I know you are. Almost messed your pants too, didn't you?'
`Fuck off...'
`Mate, I was the same. Watching you pull your shirt off at the end.'
`Ah, shut it...'
Getting that body out,' Harry growled, grabbing and rubbing at the fabric folds of his t-shirt, knuckles rubbing into the thick flesh of his chest. What were you trynna do, make me rock hard and spunk down my shin-pads, you showy cunt...?'
Luke writhed against the bigger man, both enjoying and squirming at the comments; it had been long while since he felt confident stripping off like that in public, but he'd wanted to please the loyal fan chanting his name, and off his England top had come, and the skinny lycra beneath, until he was stomping about the pitch shirtless, stocky figure on show and sweat gushing over the stubble of his chest. He both loved and hated how much Harry had noticed it, glad to have returned the ill-timed lust but also crippled by self-consciousness that other people might have been looking at and judging him, compared to the more traditionally lean lads on the squad.
Fuck, I couldn't stop picturing it all the way out of the fuckin' stadium,' Harry breathed in his ear whilst kissing at his clammy cheek, lips dragging across the short stiff beard hair; Luke shivered against him at his dirty voice and rough touch, letting his insecurities be kissed and pushed away. And every time I fuckin' looked at ya down in the bar,' the Sheffield accent went on, `I nearly jizzed my fucking boxer shorts just thinkin' about it...'
`Mmm, man,' he moaned uncontrollably, dragging his hands up Harry's sides and over his back, feeling his intense body heat there where the broad muscles pushed at the white fabric of his tee. He dragged up on this material and they men simultaneously wrenched each other's tops up and off, discarding them aside and cuddling properly, skin to skin, lifting their faces and locking lips in a long passionate kiss that had not dulled after the many months of secret love.
Harry proceeded to prove his point: after kissing his way down the side of Luke's neck, he puckered his lips all the way across his chest, sucking briefly on each nipple and making him giggle at the tickling rub of stubble against stubble. Kneeling, the lofty centre-back kissed all the way down his tummy and around his navel and just leaned his face there, breathing and murmuring over his waistline, calling him 'his Lukey' and rubbing big hands on his chunky arse through the rustling retro shorts he was wearing. Luke's cock stretched his trunks and shorts and felt Harry's chin and then lips play against it before he was back up on his feet, holding him and grinning at him.
This is fucking amazing,' Shaw confided to him, not for the first time this month. Being out here. With you. This is everything.'
Harry was becoming too horny and motivated for more loving words, but he nodded eagerly and the needy expression on his rugged face was enough to confirm his agreement... as were his hands now pushing inside Luke's shorts and shoving them downwards until they were dropping to his ankles. The two men had shared a room every night of the international tournament and its warm-ups, and though they were being careful not to exhaust one another, it was the longest Luke had ever spent able to wake up in his man's arms EVERY FUCKING MORNING. It was paradise.
Stepping a short distance from him now, Harry's big fists were fighting with a belt buckle and undoing the front of his baggy cargo shorts until they were dropping away. The two well-built England defenders stared each other down with drunk hungry eyes, having held back form a full shag since the night they had beaten Germany in the round of sixteen on Tuesday... nights of wandering hands and lips since but resisting the real action that both hot-blooded footballers really needed. Luke shuddered decadently and looked his man up and down, enjoying the muscular stretch of those hairy legs and the impressive upper physique, all of it bared for him and the loose black boxer shorts already shaping very evidently about that massive boner; his own cock was equally hard, slanting diagonally through his pale blue trunks and making a little tip-stain where his pre-cum leaked against the cotton.
Harry Maguire licked his lips impatiently. `Get the fuck on that bed, babe.'
Luke Shaw nodded with a fire in his eyes, leaping into action. `Yes, captain!'
In the next room along that corridor, another of the night's goal-scoring heroes was thrumming with the adrenaline of it all, and wondering if he would really be able to sleep at all. Like Luke and Harry, Liverpool's Jordan Henderson felt hot and itchy with the mixture of continental heat, hastily swigged red wine, and the fact that he'd FINALLY got his first international goal after over 60 appearances for the Three Lions.
Like Luke, his face was stretched and awkward with the smile that he couldn't quite get rid of, but there was a difficult difference for 30-year-old Hendo in the neighbouring suite: he wasn't directing his joyous smile at the one man he wanted to share his victory with.
He sat restlessly on the side of his allocated bed, undoing the laces of his trainers and then kicking them off, rubbing a bit at sore feet through his thin white trainer socks, waiting for the en suite bathroom to free up so he could get ready for bed. Jordan stared restlessly out of the window at the pale night sky over Rome, then started very slightly at a heavy wooden thud through the wall beside their room; for a moment, the Liverpool captain wondered if that next room was occupied by any of the England lot, he couldn't quite remember, and he wondered what had banged the wall to make such a brief muffled thump. But his attention was swiftly diverted from whatever was going on next door (namely, Harry Maguire throwing Luke Shaw about the bed and wrestling his underpants off him) because his roomie was stomping back through from the bathroom in his keks, yawning out a loud `done mate, bathroom's yours innit'.
His fellow Mackem bloke strayed across the room, stripped ostentatiously to saggy white briefs, fiddling with his shaggy blond curtains of hair growth, and Hendo got up from where he sat with a vague murmur of acknowledgement. He left the other Sunderland-born Jordan, Pickford, fussing with his bedding and personal items, and went through into the bathroom alone, almost bursting out laughing at the smug expression still frozen into his facial features.
Looking away from his own goal-scoring grin, Jordan shucked off his unbuttoned shirt and chucked it onto the towel rail, stooping at the sink to wash his face clean and then brush his teeth. He took his time, feeling more fully free in the privacy of the bathroom to reflect on how much he wished he was able to see Neco tonight and share with him the excitement of that brilliant strike. He hadn't even been able to call the young Welsh right-back; Neco was on a lads' holiday with mates and not actually picking up his calls while he was there, just in case, and Jordan had to settle for only the briefest and most conservative exchange of text messages with the beautiful lad.
Straightening his posture, Henderson looked critically at the lean muscle tone of his upper body, a little glossy with the sweat of the hot night, and felt even more urge to see, hold, kiss, anything with Neco Williams. He pushed back the lust guiltily, thinking about the long video call he had enjoyed with his wife whilst in the bar below, and how that should definitely be enough for him!
At last, the idiot grin that had beamed from him since the ball went in to the Ukrainian net was disturbed from Henderson's face, and he huffed frustratedly at himself in the mirror, leaning shirtless on the white rim of the sink; he felt incredibly restless and horny tonight, wanted to do anything but climb into his lonely bed and listen to Pickford's nasal snoring all night while sleep escaped him and he waited for some proper privacy, or a late summer reunion with Williams on Merseyside... that was if the handsome youth wasn't already shipped out of Anfield by the point they were both in the UK together. Hendo was hearing rumour after rumour about loan deals that might involve his boy, taking beautiful Neco away from Liverpool and away from him, now that they had finally taken their affair to the next level...
Henderson pushed these ominous thoughts away and glowered at himself, irritated by his own needy desires and the fact that his punch-drunk brain could only think about how much he needed his cock and balls serviced tonight. He fiddled uncomfortably with his privates in the front of his nylon shorts and then washed some toothpaste from his lips and stubble, leaving the bathroom behind and switching the light off.
In the room, Pickford was lying on top of his ruffled bedcovers, looking very involved in a text messaging conversation on the screen in his hands. Hendo turned off the main light, adjusted the weak air-con unit in the corner, then climbed into his own bed. He quickly realised why his roomie was not under the sheets properly, and he compromised, hugging some duvet over his abs and chest but letting one of his thick midfielder's legs jut out into the exposed air, catching little air-con tickles across the knee and shin as he fought for a more comfortable position in the dark; dark but for the blueish glow of a phone-screen in the adjacent bed, where the other Jordan was still typing quietly away. Jordan let out a frustrated sigh into the hot night air.
`I won't be long,' the other Mackem fella mumbled distractedly.
`Hmm? Oh. Don't worry. Not sighing at you.'
`Right. Just... the heat?'
`Er. Yeah. Too much tonight.'
`So British. Hah.'
`I guess. Huh. Hmmph.'
`You sound so frustrated.'
`Guess I am.'
`Even after your big moment tonight...?'
`...Especially after that...!'
`Got you horny, has it?'
`Er -- what?'
A light rasping laugh from the other player. The blueish light disappeared. Jordan lay on his back, staring awkwardly at the ceiling, very conscious of the semi in his striped boxer briefs, lingering just under the hem of the duvet where it spanned his crotch. He didn't turn his head, just listened to Pickford's little snigger and wheeze. Horny,' the other England star repeated, but more quietly. Nothing like a big win to get the bollocks going, huh.'
`Guess not,' Jordan sighed longingly into the night. He was picturing the Mediterranean villa where Neco might be going to bed right now, hopefully alone but perhaps with some local girl he'd met in the Greek resort's beach bars...
`You not going to do anything about it?' came Pickford's sharp whisper in the night.
Henderson tensed, felt his dick twitch against the cupping fabric of his pants. `Hmmm...?'
In the next room along the corridor, one occupant was sprawled across the small couch below the same row of windows, a few beads of sweat on his concentrating face as he played the video games on his iPad, dressed in loose grey sweat-shorts and a baggy American basketball vest that draped about his tall athletic build. His toes tapped idly against one arm of the couch, the shorts riding up a little high so that most of his long footballer's legs were exposed in an accidental flex of his body to the eyes watching him from the other side of the room.
Ogling the West Ham defensive midfielder from the far side of the warm stuffy suite, Mason Mount stopped rubbing the light moisturiser into his youthful features, lingering by the full height mirror in just a pair of Adidas shorts. He looked from the lounging sight of Declan Rice to the two separate doubles that dominated the overheated Roman room, feeling a lurch of sadness in him at the thought of another night with a two-metre gulf between where they slept.
There had been no firm separation or change in the status of the pair, and in public at least Declan had just carried on to stick close by him... but one night the other 22-year-old Lion had just crawled into the unused other bed of their room at St George's Park and not said a word of explanation or even anger, just silently separated himself from their nocturnal intimacy. Ben Chilwell was the heart-breaking elephant in the room, and Mason could not take back what he'd said, or what he'd failed to say quickly enough.
Mason's dilemma felt like a real tangle. Frankly, he DID fancy Ben -- how could he not? But not as much as he adored Dec. And Ben was now firmly his closest pal at Chelsea, by some way, and he could hardly see himself pulling away from that pairing when he was back training and playing with him weekend after weekend in the League. He was as shocked as anyone that handsome Ben seemed to have developed some feelings for him, and though he knew that it was Dec he loved, it had been hard not to have his head turned by the attentions of cool, charismatic Chilwell... He'd THOUGHT that by admitting it all fully to his Deccers, then he could exorcise the problem and get rid of it: he'd imagined Declan angry but fair, taking his side and maybe warning Ben away, protective but loyal and devoted. He hadn't realised how crushed and deflated his West Ham beau would actually be after that night of awkward truths.
And then there'd been the isolation period -- he and Ben `contaminated' after a catch-up with Billy Gilmour after the Scotland game -- where he'd been trapped with only the Chelsea player. It had felt so ridiculously unfair and fateful, that, and it had given Mason some very frustrating days. As cheeky and sociable as he was, he'd inevitably found it tough to be cordoned off from his England teammates in that way in the midst of the campaign... and then to be allowed only to train physically with Ben, his tight peachy rear bouncing about in England kit in front of him all the time! And those blazing little glances from the Chelsea defender when nobody else was looking. It had tested Mason on many levels, but he'd saved himself by calling up Dec whenever he felt like he might accidentally follow Chilly into his bedroom...
And what was his reward for that self-discipline, now he was back in the fold and out here in Rome with the whole gang? Mild friendly treatment from his more-than-brother in public, and this cold bare shoulder in private.
The attacking midfielder moped on the spot by his bed, looking from its empty expanse back to where Rice lounged and thumbed away at his shoot-em-up. Fuelled by the same 4-0 beer-drinking as the other hotel rooms on this hot Roman corridor, Mase felt a little burn of decision and determination fire through his slender body. Before he really knew what he was doing, he was crossing the room. Stepping beyond the other bed and up to the window area, the slim chiselled Chelsea lad stood demandingly by the couch and rested his hands on his hips, blocking the light and looming beside the reclining figure of his childhood best friend. Rice stopped, but his eyes and attention remained on the device in his hands -- that is, until Mason reached decisively forward and snatched it away from him, then threw it with a crack against the sideboard.
`Mase,' hissed Declan crossly, perhaps more at losing his high score or the tech damage, but then flashing his moody features upwards at him, looking actually angry for the first time since things had wilted between them that night back in Surrey.
`Game over,' Mount told him simply. And then he lifted one leg and straddled the other player in one smooth move, nestling himself upon his buddy's lap and grabbing at his strong forearms to balance himself there. Dec paused and sucked in a hiss of breath, staring at him in that stormy way beneath his craggy brows; ignoring this, Mase just pulled himself forward and back, rubbing his muscular arse in small tight circles over the crotch of the other lad's grey shorts.
Whoa-
Just- shut up.' He said it forcefully and insistently, none of the quiet pleading of his conversational attempts with the Kingston boy in the past week or two. No. No more begging or half-hearted apologising. Mason ground his bottom over the waking lap of the 6ft1 defensive player, whose mouth fell open into a little O' of surprise, his eyes softening beneath creased brows. Shut up and hold on,' Mason purred instructively to him, rubbing firmly forward, riding him in cowboy, and pushing his palms in against the crooks of his arms. He glowered fiercely down at the other young star, running his cheeks against the outline of a firm prick. Mason wanted his man back, and he was not taking no' for an answer.
Fuck it,' he yowled excitedly, briefly distracted by an odd little thud sound from the next hotel room, as if someone had dropped their phone or laptop to the floor in a hurry -- but this wasn't what made him yelp and wriggle out of the hold a bit, choking on laughter and pinning his hands against the waist of the other man. Careful,' the 27-year-old Barnsley lad huffed out into the stale warm air, or you'll give me a fuckin' hicky, lad...!' He twisted further away whilst keeping his hands tight against the muscles of Kyle Walker's lower torso, smirking at him. No lovebites for the semi-final, please...'
`Got more than a fuckin' semi,' growled Kyle into his ear as he lifted his soft sexy mouth from the side of his neck and nibble at his earlobe instead, his strong hands running up and down John Stones' back under his England training top, the two powerful defenders teetering about between their two beds in the stuffy hotel suite.
The 6ft2 centre-back sniggered at the lewd pun, although his handful told him this wasn't strictly true; Kyle's fat circumcised cock was not yet hard, deliciously full and grabbable as it was in the front of his close-fitting trackies. Neither was John's, not yet, but it would be in moments. The rugged pair had snogged and groped at each other from the minute the hotel room door fell shut after them, the last up from the hotel bar and having eye-fucked one another across the room for much of the night.
They were as rabid and excitable as any other men in the squad, and John began dragging his Man City wingman down to the bed, pulling on his bare upper body and running his long fingers on the hot curves of muscle and bone. Kyle kissed roughly again at his throat, making him squirm and guggle and then push him reluctantly away. `No hickeys!' he insisted again through his chortles, imagining the scandal if he was seen with a massive love-bite on their journey back to England tomorrow morning. Not to mention the scandalous truth he'd soon be on the papers for suspected rule-breaking in times of strict social distancing.
Walker made a little whine of dismay, playful and rough, settling for more kisses to his cheek and ear and the side of his head. Stones pushed a hand inside those trackies and briefs to properly fondle his chubby dick, then applied the other to his own, rubbing and stroking them both. In clumsy bursts and rolls, their bodies spread over the bedding, tracksuit bottoms being yanked over thick tattooed thighs and past bare ankles. Rough grasping hands felt up the contents of both men's underpants, Kyle's tight black CK briefs and the looser check boxer shorts John had opted for tonight.
`I want you so fuckin' bad,' Kyle growled deeply in his ear.
You fucking better,' John egged him on. I watched your cock bounce all the way through that fucking massive game, you sexy dickhead.... Mmm...'
Showering next to ya,' moaned Walker, it's just too much...'
`Mmm. Come on, I wanna feel you in me again, Walks...'
`Oh yes. I'm so fuckin' hard for you.'
Erm, mate,' he felt himself point out, you're not.' As soon as he said the potentially awkward words, he burst out laughing, the loud laddish hoots that the pair's banter always provoked in him. He had ended up on his side, his legs pushed open and one of Kyle's hands tucked into the leg of his boxers to tickle his balls; and he had pulled Kyle's member out and into his palm. But, as he was now laughingly pointing out, both cocks were pretty flaccid in their clammy grip. He gurned into Kyle's face and broke out in fresh laughter. We're too fucking drunk,' he pointed out, seeing and quite enjoying the little flare of self-conscious panic on the older lad's face, we're not fucking tonight, are we?' And he broke off his own laughter by slapping his mouth to Kyle's, both of their thickly muscled forms shaking with mirth as they realised just how pissed they were from the last line of shots at the bar once all of their teammates had pissed off to their rooms, being boring.
John laughed and cuddled at the other defender, burying his face against the side of his neck and just squeezing their bodies together, horny in spite of his drunk cock's floppy laze, amused rather than frustrated by their failure to step up to the task. After all, he thought, if they were too drunk to fuck now... then the hangover horns would be really quite delicious...
She tasted good, delicious even, but every now and then he still felt like he should be pulling back and pinching himself, because this whole Euros experience was such a mad ride -- a normal Leeds lad like himself, playing in the Championship what felt like five mins ago, and now a tournament stalwart for his national side! Kalvin Phillips was shocked at his firm place in Southgate's strategy and the plaudits it was earning him from the once sceptical followers -- and right now he was specifically shocked that he was risking all of this by getting up to no good with another England breakthrough star and burying his face between the spread tanned thighs of the Italian chambermaid they were sharing in this sweat-tangled bed.
But Kalvin didn't pinch himself, he pinched instead at her soft skin -- lifting and pushing at the insides of her shapely legs and rolling his large sloppy tongue across her labia, snuffling his mouth against her cunt and making her wetter and wetter. His own body, his broad strong chest of smooth and freckled skin, pressed flat on the folds of bedding and he tensed all of his back muscles as he pushed his face in more and tongued her more fiercely.
She moaned, but the sounds of this were interspersed with the wet kisses of her other lips, and the 25-year-old midfielder flicked his eyes over the bare beauty of the Italian girl, up her splayed body and past the gentle fall of her perky tits, to where she was grabbed and cuddled by the room's other occupant, who was snogging ferociously with her and moaning too, lying side by side with her as Kalvin continued to eat her out.
It wasn't Phillips' first three-way like this, being the fiercely horny fucker he was all through his youth career, but this was the sort of nasty nonsense he'd gotten up to as a randy 18-year-old first breaking into the Leeds squads, never imaged he'd be up to this in a foreign hotel with a pair of official England trackies clinging to his arse and leg muscles where they spread behind him off the edge of the bed. Fucking mental, really.
While Kalvin kissed and slobbered between her legs, he could see the other lad's hands rove over her tits and tummy, and her reciprocal touch reaching for him. It drew the corner of Kalvin's gaze down the toned front of the other player and to the clingy salmon-pink boxer briefs that he was wearing, their front so loaded and bulging. Instantly, Kalvin's gaze recoiled and he closed his eyes to better enjoy pushing his tongue against her lips and clit, tasting more of her and really making her judder on the bed in enjoyment of his talents. He shouldn't be checking out his wingman in the middle of action, he reminded himself stupidly, feeling that little touch of paranoia that had been left with him this year... there had just been that stupid odd night in the Pennines, hadn't there, with his Leeds teammate getting a little bit... ugh.
He still couldn't quite believe that he'd let his pal Stuart Dallas toss him off like that... in fact, sometimes he thought of it and did laugh, viewing it like a weird dream that had crept into his conscious and something that could just be sniggered at as a moment of weirdness. But he knew in his heart of hearts that it HAD happened, that the two of them had shared that phone screen of porno in a remote dump of a hotel, and that in the chilly darkness of the winter night, Dallas had grabbed for him and, erm, given him some help.
Stuff like that happens, he kept telling himself. Just a stupid spur-of-the-moment kinda thing, nowt more. Nothing to be worried about. Bloody hell.
Phillips had to put this little self-conscious tremor aside as the bed rocked and they moved position, touches and kisses shared against the moaning beauty between them, so easily picked up and sneaked up here after all of the celebratory fun. It was hard, though, not to occasionally brush contact with each other, lad to lad -- a knuckle here and a clash of shin or elbow there, little tumbles in the greedy enjoyment of her body. And even when he was on his knees beside her, feeding his hard cock into her plump lips and holding back her dark masses of hair, he felt so conscious of how close the other guy was, piling into her with long eager thrusts so that their bodies almost touched each time. And kneeling there with his cock gladly sucked, Kalvin stole confused little glances at that handsome bugger who was fucking her first, momentarily catching eyes with the other player.
Jack Grealish had looked so gloomy and distracted on the way out here to Italy, and not seemed exactly himself even tonight during the celebration drinks. But here and now he looked in his element, his face a picture of naughtiness and the highlighted curtains of his shaggy hair flopping all over as his body pounded back and forth on her. The two men exchanged a brief silent look and then the other 25-year-old had eyes only for her their signora, who was still slurping on Kalvin's cock, licking and kissing his meat just as eagerly as he'd gone down on her.
Declan stood beside the bed, not quite sure where to put his hands and rocking a bit on his bare heels. Blowjobs from his Mason always felt good, but this was excruciating; he hadn't touched his cock in over a week, and the sexy Chelsea star was going as slowly and delicately as possible, having teased him into life for ages on the couch before manipulating them into this new position. Rice stood by the bed with his vest pulled up and his shorts about his ankle, and Mount kneeled at his feet, servicing his cock and ball in long indulgent licks and slurping kisses; his saliva glistened in kiss marks up Dec's six-pack right up to each hard pink nipple, and all over the fluffy insides of his thighs too.
Standing here, shivering with enjoyment and anticipation, it was very hard for Declan to feel the righteous annoyance that he partly wanted to hold onto: he KNEW he was in the right, he KNEW that things had been a bit shit and unfair, and that he'd been made to look a mug next to the goings-on at Chelsea and with their other mates here. He knew that Mase wasn't 100% trustworthy somehow, for all his innocent airs, and that his own lingering insecurities were not entirely misplaced. But he also knew that he wanted nobody in the world more than the lad now rolling his tongue in circles about the head of his cock, making him gasp out little Ohs' and Masons' into the stuffy air.
He wanted to hold his ground and keep making a point about how Mase had side-lined him for the enjoyment of that good-looking prick Chilwell, but... well... mmm...
The 22-year-old looked down as the precious lips left his cock, which jutted out hard and curved and angry red, and just beyond it smirked the angelic face of his best friend, smiling up at him with shiny lips and wide eyes. Mason's hands stroked lightly at his thighs and he remained there on his knees, staring up at him with a smile that was all sweetness and submission, transformed from the fierce pushiness with which he had approached and mounted him on the couch, tossing aside his gaming and asserting his need for reunion.
Rice let out the shaky sigh of emotion. You twat,' he sighed lovingly, how am I supposed to stay angry at when you go do that...?'
Mount pouted cheekily from behind his erection, which he stuck out his tongue and lapped once at the tip, then took gently in his hand. `You're not,' he instructed simply, and went back to sucking on it, while Declan could only grab and roll up his basketball top until it was fully off. Making a resigned sigh of open desire, he stooped down and pulled Mason up and back with him, throwing both of their athletic bodies against the bed now. In one smooth grab, he had Mason's shorts off, stripping them both naked and unfolding himself on top of the other smooth stud.
`I bloody love you,' Rice hissed almost resentfully in their closeness, cuddling and grabbing at him, reaching a hand all the way down his back until he was kneading two fingers into his crack, finding and pressing on the ring that belonged to him. NOT Benjamin.
Mason was grabbing at him, moaning at the entering of his fingers, and giving him deep sincere eyes and pursed lips. `I really am all yours, I promise,' he murmured deliciously, and Declan felt himself falling for those words all over again -- as he'd told himself before, did it matter if his boy strayed and got excited, if he always came home to him...? Not right now, it didn't, knuckle-deep in his arse and his cock aching to replace his fingers. He answered his boyfriend with just a kiss and pushed him onto his back, hoisting his legs and rubbing spit into the hole before pushing his cock at it, lubed by Mason's own spit and drool, sliding into him and connecting their bodies once more, both of them feeling complete.
Pickford moved across the dark quiet room in slow shifts, first across his bed, and then over the short gap of carpet between them, and then onto the other big double. He kept his cock in his hand as he did, his under-sized member stiff and leaking in his right palm, his briefs bunched up beneath the swell of his balls and still hugging at his chunky rump. He lowered himself onto the other bed, his breaths long and laboured, and let himself slight towards the other Jordan.
Henderson had been surprisingly quick to respond to his suggestions and hints, joining him in wanking, discreetly and discretely. But now Pickford was closing the gap between them, taking advantage of how much his fellow Sunderland export was lost in masturbation, groaning to himself with his eyes shut as he lounged back in his bed, reaching the climax of the parallel wanks the two England blokes had been indulging in, sweaty and drunk and unself-conscious in their separate nests.
The England No.1 goalkeeper was drunk, of course he was -- they'd all been pretty pissed by the time they spilled out of the coaches and into the hotel, gripping ice-cold beers on the drive through the Roman traffic -- but it was something else that gave him the nerve to risk this, creeping across the other player's bed and letting his fingers brush at the hairy muscle of his parted thighs. He was more shocked at his own boldness than by the fact that the 31-year-old did not react a bit to his exploratory strokes, and then shocked more still when he slid his hand up to cup those heavy swollen bollocks, far more shocked at himself than the way Jordan Henderson completely ignored him and continued to tug on his thick erection in long meaningful strokes.
Pickford had been letting his curiosities simmer and bubble all the way through their Euros campaign, most of his attention still fixating on his own powerful clubmate, watching Dominic from afar and wishing the tall stud would ravage and use him again like he had months ago in the Everton showers, emptying balls and bladder all over him as he'd secretly wanted for years.
Full of conflict and shame, the ace goalie stooped and kissed the balls instead of stroking them, then moved his face against the cock. Hendo's knuckles and unfurled from the big handful of meat, still not saying or doing anything to resist this advance... and so Pickford just opened his lips and wrapped them about it from the side, opening his gob wide and pulling upwards until the whole thing was popping into his mouth, rubbing at his tongue and then the roof of his mouth. Drunk on its manly smell as much as booze or success, he let it fill his mouth and throat, and clutched his sweaty hands at each of the Liverpool hero's thighs. Hendo's only response was a series of terse grunting noises that could have been disapproval or demand.
With little noise but for the wet slavering of his own wide lips, Jordan Pickford sucked off his tense roommate, hunched against him and reaching back down to jerk himself off whilst his mouth slid up-down-up-down-up-down. It happened fast and awkwardly, his whole posture full of his own nervous terror responding to the brooding consent of the horizontal hunk. On and on he sucked, desperate to taste another man's cum, just like he licked his own from his rough fingers in the middle of the night, unable to forget about that salty treat since he'd first got on his knees for big sexy Calvert-Lewin.
With the same gigantic physical presence that he tried to dominate the football pitch, Harry Maguire slammed into his prized lad, holding him tightly with one arm and pushing the other against the headboard to hold it still, using his own thick knuckles to stop it from clattering against the wall. His hips and arse muscles pulled back and forth like pistons, allowing him to drive his big cock in and out of Luke Shaw's slippery hole, fucking him hard and fast and dripping sweat over his bare back. Their breathing was in sync, his own animal groans matching the hot quick pants of pleasure from the thickset left-back clutched beneath him and clamped about his hard-on.
The bed groaned and buckled under it, but held firm. The sheets slid against his knees and shins, so slick with his own oily sweat were his muscles as he drove it into Shaw's big butt, squeezing his waist and pulling him in more tightly so he could really bury himself in him and stretch that hole. Every time he fucked him in beautiful privacy, he thought about first trying to mount him in the snowy Cheshire woods, that painful and failed first effort when things between them had been so fragile and dangerous; not like this comfort where both men felt totally exposed and understood as they humped like rabbits in the chaos of their hotel room.
Harry let his arm and hand wander his front, feeling up his tummy and big pecs, up to his neck which he held gently, twisting Luke's face around so he could kiss him again, tasting their salty sweat on each other's parched lips. Thirsty for water, but thirstier for each other.
Wordless and breathless in his lust, Harry pulled back, letting his cock slide back out of the well-fucked entrance, taking it just in his hand and jerking it instead, desperate to cum. He rolled Luke over, throwing his backside down to the sheets and then grabbing at his cock and balls. He stared briefly at him, giving him in an intense and possessive look, then dropped down to suck him off, tonguing his cock wildly whilst pumping his cock in his hand, going wild until both of them were cumming, his own juices spilling all over his fist while Luke's seed filled his mouth, a sensation that had once repulsed and scared him, by now seemed such a natural way of appreciating the 25-year-old beauty.
And then, wild in the Roman night, Maguire was lifting up on his elbows, his mouth hanging open a little to smile at his lover, one trickle of salty goo leaking from his bottom lip and onto his blocky chin. Luke smirked back at him with that trademark big smile, his eyes wrinkling in pleasure, and Harry's cum-damp hand rubbing it over his broad thigh. Neither bloke said a word, the two United and England teammates just looking loyally at another as they heaved with recovery breaths and let the shiny sweat cool and dry across their naked skin.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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