Part 307: The Bachelor Life
The changing rooms of the Fulham FC training ground echoed with the splash and rattle of communal showers, the clink of studded boots on floors, and the throaty masculine buzz of low-key chatter between the worn-out men. It was the last training day of the week before they faced up against Arsenal tomorrow, and the team morale was already dented by a 2-0 cup defeat earlier in the week. As a whole, the Fulham players were doing their best to forget about that slip, but the usual laddish banter was dialled down, and there was a collective air of nervousness among the guys, given the Gunners' recent good form and their game-changing signings of summer.
To Joe Bryan, this was just the nature of the Premiership, and the kind of uphill battling that yo-yo teams like theirs had to cope with. The 28-year-old pulled his towel up against the damp smooth skin of his chest and shoulders, moving to dry the upper half now that he'd already pulled on fresh boxer shorts and skinny-fit chinos over his strong defender's legs. He dragged the coarse towel across his face and the short wet shag of his honey-coloured hair, then tossed it at the wall and rifled about for his deodorant.
The Fulham left-back turned on the spot as he sprayed one hairy pit after the other, and found himself face to face with another of the West London club's regulars, who was similarly midway through dressing his aching body. Tom Cairney stood in front of him, a good few inches taller, with a rolled-up towel pulled over both broad shoulders and clutched in his hands in front of each nipple. The baby-faced 31-year-old had an earnest expression on his face that was about more than the team's nervous prep for the Arsenal game, and Bryan knew what his captain was going to ask before the words left his mouth.
So,' muttered Cairney quite shiftily, is it okay if I stay on at yours tonight, buddy...?' The 6ft midfielder shifted a little from foot to foot, dressed in dark skinny jeans that were still open at the fly to expose the colourful OddBalls undies he was wearing.
Joe paused only briefly before nodding his head at the slightly older lad, a little vain fragment of him thinking how much more defined and impressive his own torso was compared to the body on show from Tom - daft thoughts, he chided himself, but he worked pretty hard on his own muscular physique, and he liked to know it was paying off.
Sure, sure,' he told the Fulham skipper without raising his voice. I told you, long as you need, big guy.' He flashed a more encouraging smile at the other player. `Still no progress on the home front, then...?'
Cairney made a sort of scowling expression of his falsely youthful good looks, then shrugged his broad shoulders and looked temporarily lost for words. She's being a bitch,' the Nottingham-born footy bloke told him decisively, and then he forced a smile. Cheers though, man, you've been a fucking star this week, you're the best. I owe you one, I seriously do.' And with that, Cairney was away again to the far side of the changing rooms to finish dressing, leaving Joe to fish a clean t-shirt from his kit bag and slide it over the bulging muscles of his arm and chest, still a little clammy and warm from his shower.
It was because he was one of the team's most notable bachelors, he supposed - 28 was quite old, by footballer standards, to not be on your second marriage and to have kids by three different mums, to be fair. To still be free and single at 28 without at least a weekend family on the go seemed to make him an oddity in their little world, though this amused Joe, who would often use his days off to visit his extended family back in Bristol and pick up uncle duties for his siblings' kids. He didn't think there was anything particularly special about his busy social life, but his prematurely married and fatherly fellow football players seemed to think so, with lots of running jokes about Bachelor Joe and his wild inner London lifestyle.
And it was cos of this, he guessed, that he was the one the captain had turned to. Cairney had been kicked out by his wife at the start of the week in yet another barney over a mix of domestic issues and, it had transpired, the 31-year-old's complete inability to keep it in his pants. Joe smirked to think of the way the Cairneys presented a picture-perfect family life on social media, and the cherubin features of the Peter Pan footballer, compared with his apparent habits for infidelity - he knew Cairney had stayed with a few other guys on the team after similar spats at home, so maybe his bachelor status had nothing to do with it, and it was just his turn to host the skipper...
Joe didn't mind sharing his roomy riverside apartment with a teammate, but he was vaguely concerned about Tom, whose bravado could fade a little in the evenings, and who actually seemed quite worried about patching things up and returning to his cosy family life, even if he made loud comments at training about how good Bachelor Joe had it in West London, and how much fun it was crashing at his shag-pad.
The Bristolian football hunk turned this reflection over in his head as he pulled a light shirt over his white t-shirt and began tidying his things up, and by the time he was strolling over to loiter by Cairney, a fully-formed plan was in action. Here,' he said to the Fulham captain, let's get out for a few drinks tonight, shall we? I'll invite a couple of the other lads and we'll just keep it on the down-low, right?'
Tom stared at him for a minute and it looked as if he was briefly wrestling between his captain's responsibility to say No, that's a foolish idea before a big game' and his desire to drink away his problems. He leaned in, busy buttoning up his linen shirt, and grabbed Joe by the shoulder. That,' he said in an undertone, `is a fucking fantastic idea, Mr Bryan, and I am in complete agreement.'
It was both a fantastic idea and a terrible one, Joe knew: they'd be in deep shit with the coaches if anyone knew they were downing a few beers and shots on the eve of a London derby, but for the cluster of footy lads who ended up out in the bars of Chelsea that Friday evening, it was a vital pick-me-up. Between Cairney's marriage problems and the general anxiety of losing a cup game to a lower-league side, the small gathering were eager to let off some steam and indulge themselves, and Joe Bryan found himself toasted as a hero by the time everybody was on their third drink.
There were only the five of them, in the end - Joe had known that inviting any more would make discretion impossible and lead them straight to disciplinary problems with the gaffer. It was just him and Tom, plus three of their closer pals: the ginger joker Harrison Reed, the more nervous Welshman Harry Wilson, and Joe's fellow Bristol lad and good friend, Bobby Reid, a comfortable little drinking crew. And Bryan, as sensible as he was sociable, had already set some important limits for the gang: they had a strict curfew for themselves which he planned to enforce, they were only buying half-pints at a time, and they were only doing the one round of shots. All very sensible.
Leaving the other four guys at their table, the hunky left-back went to the bar to get in the next round, eyeing up his expensive watch to check how long before the group should disperse and call it a night. This is good, he told himself, we've got a good buzz going on and everyone is relaxing, but we aren't gonna get too crazy drunk and we'll be absolutely fine tomorrow when we report to the stadium. As mature as 28-year-old Joe was, all men have a special naivety when it comes to the concept of `a couple of drinks'.
At the bar, Bryan ordered fresh half-pints for them all, and narrowly resisted breaking his own rule to chuck in some jager-bombs on the tray he'd carry back to the guys. He leant on the marble bartop whilst waiting for the drinks, casually glancing side to side to survey the other customers of this busy West London nightspot - and immediately catching the eye of the attractive brunette nearest to him, who was just being served a large glass of red wine at that moment. Joe, flexing unconsciously in the tight sleeves of his simple designer t-shirt, smiled pleasantly at her and tried to estimate her age and availability with the eye of an experienced womaniser.
`Classy,' he commented simply, nodding at her glass chalice of unctuous red.
Oh, like you wouldn't believe,' she quipped, returning his smile. Keen, but aloof enough to excite his interest too. All those drinks just for one cute guy?' she asked brightly after a long moment of exchanged staring, and Joe glanced at the rapidly filling tray on the bar in front of him; suddenly, some showy desire was overtaking his common sense, and he was catching the barman's eye whilst sliding a thick wallet from the pocket of his chinos. `And six shots of whatever you recommend,' he said smoothly.
Six?' the dark-haired beauty asked, barely raising her sweet voice over the throb of chill-out dance music that coursed through the bar. But there looks like only five other drinks. That must mean...'
`One's for you,' he confirmed with an amused grin, stepping back slightly to pull himself to his full 5ft7, a height that his gym-bunny build happily compensated for. With one thickly muscled arm, he lifted the first poured shot glass and gestured in her direction, glad when she began to sidle this way with a sip of her rouge.
And instantly, the Fulham star was in full flirting mode, clinking the small glasses together before he and she knocked back the flavoured vodka, exchanging pleasantries and exchanging names. Joe was a natural in these situations, his mild-mannered calm and gently suggestive smile always a winning combo to women who were unable to help but check out his upper arms and the gentle swell of his pecs under his top. He tended not to get recognised as a sporting celebrity, even in the Fulham locale, and yet his wholesome good looks made that irrelevant. They chatted for several minutes more and he was just about to smoothly drop that fact in, somehow nudge her into the awareness that he was a Premiership athlete, when he realised that the other guys would be waiting for their drinks, including poor Tom, who still looked gloomy three beers in, and had been nipping out onto the London streets to take phone calls from his wife's lawyer.
Just as quickly and easily as he'd switched on the charm, Bryan switched it off. All dimpled smiles and gentle formality, he said his goodbyes to the attractive woman at the bar, whose name had turned out to be Rose, and lifted up the tray of drinks, glad that doing so accentuated his biceps as he backed away from her and strode across the bar towards the table of his teammates, idly wondering if she was admiring his solid silhouette from behind as he went.
The fourth round of beers and the surprise vodka shots went down well. Too well. The fifth round, officially the last before curfew, quickly became a sixth, and Harrison Reed echoed Joe by buying in another round of the flavoured vodkas. And then the lads were abandoning the civilised bubble of their booked table at the windows and were mingling across the bar-cum-nightclub, all increasingly oblivious to tomorrow's match.
Bryan found himself back near the bar, stood away from it and facing the small thronged dancefloor, flanked by Reed himself and by Wilson, with Cairney and Reid briefly AWOL, but unmissed for now. The 28-year-old was absently aware that the night had slipped out of his temporary control and they were now just being cliched idiots - it was one thing, carrying on like this in the rugged Championship, but they were facing off against Arteta's resurgent Arsenal tomorrow, and the training had been intense.
Still, the three drunken footballer lads were chatting about anything but their sport.
Seriously,' slurred Harry Wilson, the Wrexham lad clutching his pint glass in both hands, I wish I had your confidence with ladies, Joe, I dunno how you just talk to them so easy, you know?'
On the other side of him, Harrison rolled his eyes dramatically at this, lounged back against the bar on one elbow, and sipping from a tumbler of whiskey and coke. Oh, don't inflate this bastard's head any more, Welshy,' he drawled at the youngest of their small crew, shooting a cynical glare at Harry. He spends enough time checking out his muscles in the mirrors, haven't you noticed?'
Joe screwed up his face at that, draining the last of his own pint glass and laughing at both of them. As if,' he retorted at ginger Reed - it wasn't totally untrue, he really cared about his body and worked hard on it, but he was damned if he was so vain about it that anyone would actually notice like that! And to Wilson, he just threw an arm about his shoulders and told him the honest truth. We're all just apes on a rock, kiddo,' he said sagely, `so when you put it like that, why would any conversation make you nervous...?'
Yeah, well,' muttered the Wales international, we aren't all apes who look like you, okay?'
Harrison was sniggering at this. Seriously, Harry, stop flirting with this bugger, you're as bad as the girls who follow him around.' He reached across and playfully put a gentle slap to one of the 25-year-old's cheeks, then with the same hand pinched one of Joe's dimpled cheeks. Our heartbreaker, Bachelor Joe,' the red-haired south coaster teased in his usual sardonic banter at his hunky colleague. Smirking, he returned to one of his favourite jokes on this theme. `Hey, still nobody who fancies our JB quite like Scotty did, right?'
Joe groaned and rolled his eyes at this old joke. `Fucking hell, mate, he's been gone a whole season and you're still playing that tune...?'
Harry Wilson was laughing drunkenly, but shaking his head. `You're mad,' he told him.
Harrison scoffed. `I wasn't the only one that thought it. The dreamy look in Parker's eyes when he looked at you, haha. The special attention you got every fucking training session. And didn't you say you sometimes had your under-crackers go missing from the training rooms now and then...?'
Jesus,' murmured Joe, never a particularly big fan of this line of humour, will you give it a rest, Ginge? Fuck's sake, Scott Parker did NOT have a thing for me, he was just...' He waved his free hand vaguely in the air. He's a young manager, ain't he, and he was just trying to be a different kinda boss, or whatever. Encouraging and supportive, and...' He frowned defensively. He was good to me when I struggled with my mental health, that's all.' And other things, he thought, remembering once when the early-40s gaffer had loaned him a hotel room for a late-night pull one away trip. He'd been a really good guy, Parker, and Bryan felt that laughing along with Reed's stupid idea was somehow disrespectful to his memory. Not that he was dead, just managing Bournemouth AFC, which seemed fairly close to the Fulham lads.
Encouraging,' tittered the 27-year-old midfielder idly. Supportive...'
Joe changed the subject quickly, pointing out a reasonably attractive girl at the edge of the dancefloor who he'd noticed looking their way, and starting to direct a jumpy Harry Wilson toward her. He gave Harrison an irritable look and then motored the Welsh lad towards this new interest, practically shoving him and whispering a few words of encouragement in his ear as he did. And this intervention left him loitering at the edge of the dancefloor, not somewhere he felt his cool confidence was entirely at home, so he was about to turn back for the bar and to consider buying one last pint, when his eyes settled on a couple at the centre of the small crowd.
It was the dark-haired girl from before, Rose, moving rhythmically at the centre of the dancing, with long arms draped about her waist and resting just above the gorgeous curve of her behind. Joe's eyes followed those arms jealously and quickly took in the gurning drunk face of the lad who was nestled against her in the crowd, swaying and rocking to the movements of her body: Tom fucking Cairney, the captain who was supposed to be saving his marriage, and currently living in Joe Bryan's guest room.
Joe scowled at the sight of their grinding figures, remembering his own burst of loyalty as he gave her the brush-off and returned to his crew, and he stomped moodily back to the bar to get something harder than a pint.
But Bryan was drunk and it was a fun night, and his moment's annoyance at the man who'd been cluttering his flat all week was short-lived. After all, he was joined at the bar by Tom and Rose a few minutes later, and one more drink down, it was him dancing with her for the next couple of songs, and then all sense of a few drinks' or early night' was out of the window. At different points, both Harry Wilson and Bobby Reid disappeared from the night's fun, until it was just a trio of them back at their original table, a sugary cocktail each and a ridiculous tipsy argument ricocheting between them.
Well, I have to point out,' Joe slurred, that I saw her first.' Through the fog his drunken enjoyment, he was aware that he was being a twat and objectifying her, but the petty complaint stood, and he stared challengingly between the other two Fulham lads.
She's into me,' Tom informed him, lounged in the next seat with his feet up on the edge of the table, his linen shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. I can just tell, lads. The way she's looking at me, y'know.'
`Kidding yourselves, both of you,' they were promptly told from the other side of the table, where Harrison was playing with the collar of his shirt and repeatedly fiddling with the sweaty spikes of his vivid ginger hair.
Joe laughed to himself, not at the arrogance of the other two, but at the whole daft conversation. After all, the object of their heated interest was now nowhere to be seen, and for all they knew, she'd buggered off with Harry or Bobby, or one of the other credit card -wielding playboys of the expensive London venue. He decided to let go of the issue and relaxed back in his chair, sipping from the sweet drink that probably had barely any booze in it, and daring to wonder how many hours sleep were available to them if they exited the bar right now.
What about your missus?' Harrison was fairly pointing out, jabbing an accusing finger at Tom across the table. The 6ft captain was laughing this off, puffing out his chest and shrugging his broad shoulders, his face a picture of angelic innocence as he swerved the question and returned, How long have you been seeing your girlfriend again, Ginge...?'
He's got a point,' Joe spluttered, elbowing at his house guest and giving him an exaggerated frown of impatience. You're meant to be fixing things with your sweetheart so you can clear out of my apartment, you nob. Not shagging your way around West London while your wife does the childcare on her own!'
It was Reed, rather than Cairney, who shot him down. Oi oi, Boring Bachelor here is ready to ruin everybody's fun,' jibed the midfield player, clasping both hands behind his head and spreading his legs. Then, losing the point, he closed his eyes and let out an ambiguous groan. God, I'm wasted. So much for your boring rules, buddy.' All three of them laughed, and then their varying chuckles were cut off as the nightclub vision that was Rose appeared at the side of Harrison's chair, resting a hand on his shoulder and smiling benevolently across the three of them, seeming somehow quite fresh and sober, a near-empty red wine in one of her hands.
`Oh, hey-'
`Hi gorgeous...'
`Look who's back!'
The lads clamoured at once, and she didn't say anything at first, descending into the spare seat on Harrison's side of the table with an elegance that jarred with the late hour and the sweaty hormones of the three blokes. Her sexy smile darted from one to the other of them, and Joe grinned at her in what he thought might be a winsome, ignore-these-twats kinda way. And maybe it worked, since she seemed to look at him last and longest, twirling her dark brown hair about one finger. So,' she crooned, leaning forward a little, where are we going for the after-party, boys...?'
It was Harrison who talked them into it, whilst Rose was off collecting her jacket from a cloakroom on her own; Joe was wary, even in his drunken and frankly horny state, still complaining that Look guys, I was chatting to her before either of you got interested, okay?!' whilst Tom seemed to suddenly remember his general predicament, muttering What if the wife hears about THIS one, though?' But Reed was a sort of informal ringleader on the social side of Fulham life, and his needling banter and teasing seemed to come with a lot of knowledge on how to play and encourage his teammate buddies.
Back in his own apartment, a 5-minute taxi ride from the bar, Joe Bryan was now reduced to barman, stood behind the breakfast counter of his open-plan kitchen, mixing them a variety of requested drinks, whilst The Weeknd played on his stereo and the other three all laughed and japed on the narrow balcony overlooking the river.
The footballer was still riddled with doubt. The girl had been pretty heavy in her hints, teasing and flirting with each of them even more outrageously as they exited the venue and clambered into a shared black cab. She'd become all the more tactile and sensual, and right now Joe could see her leaning back into Tom's strong arms at the edge of the balcony, cuddling backwards into his 6ft frame, whilst one of her bare feet was lifted to play against the rips over the thigh of Harrison's black skinny jeans. Yep, Joe told himself with a mixture of macho pride and woke dismay, this girl wants to get fucked by multiple footballers - although, had they ever actually made it clear to her that they played for Fulham...?
He lowered his vaguely jealous gaze from the French windows and concentrated on the drinks, hot under the collar of his t-shirt. Fuck it, he thought suddenly, who needs a t-shirt? (And beneath that thought was the other thought: Fuck it, these lads ain't got bodies like this one, have they?) Off it came, tossed aside, and he strutted out onto the balcony with Rose's and Tom's drinks like some hired shirtless butler, ignoring Harrison's lewd whistle and keeping his smiling attention on their female guest.
`Is it getting hot in there?' Rose asked sweetly.
`Show-off,' chuckled Tom heavily, without any bitterness. He began to kiss his way down Rose's neck and run one hand against her right breast, but Joe was pleased by the way her eyes stayed on him, and he grinned stupidly at her, again trying to convey that, in spite of all evidence, he was way more sophisticated and gentlemanly than THESE dopes.
`What about me?' Reed was demanding at his side, and it took him a moment to realise Ginge was on about his drink. Bryan nipped back inside to collect the other two mixers, and was surprised as the other three spilled indoors with him, abandoning the cool air of the balcony and collapsing into the low sofa. Specifically, Tom and Rose collapsing into it, their mouths locking and hands wandering.
This left Joe stood slightly awkwardly behind the couch, picking up his drink and passing the other to Harrison, who nudged him and winked. This is gonna be fun,' the Worthing-born player hissed eagerly at him. You ever been in a foursome before, pal?'
Joe frowned slightly at him, taking a long gulp of his double gin and tonic. Not with this ratio I haven't,' he said pointedly, and then let the buzz of the alcohol relax him. Here's to, er, new experiences,' he said, toasting his drink to the general debauchery of his apartment, and laughing along with Harrison.
Before long, the four of them, and their drinks, moved into the flat's main bedroom, which had the same floor-to-ceiling windows and impressive view over the Thames. Joe was surprised to find himself initiating the movement between the rooms, locking lips with the gorgeous Rose and fingering at the clasp of her bra as he did; but once in the room, he seemed to find himself flopping into a wicker chair at the window and slurping from a second G&T, whilst ginger-haired Harrison peeled off his short-sleeved shirt and cuddled up to Rose on the bed - Joe's bed. Tom, however, was drinking from a bottle (neat vodka?) and swaggering about the room, singing along badly to the music from the other room, and making Joe laugh uncontrollably.
And then it was Rose on her feet, dancing freely with her bra off, and the action became a bit of a while. She was in Joe's lap, curling against him and making his cock get harder in his boxers and chinos, letting him kiss down her throat and bury his sweaty face between her tits; and then she was back in Tom's arms and he was stripped to his colourful trunks, and then Harrison was going down on her, crouched on the bed with his face pressed between her milky thighs and her false nails clawing through his red hair. Rose's clothing, like theirs, littered the room, and Joe dimly noticed her handbag on the bookshelf beside him, slouched against the spines of his classy home library, her phone dumped next to it.
Up he got, striding back at the bed, grabbing and kissing her, pulling her away from Harrison - but then he was on his back on the bed, his chinos open and his cock achingly hard, and watching her at the foot of the bed, bent over and clearly giving a blowjob to big Tom, who stood over her with the face of a kid at Christmas. Joe reached a hand down the front of his undies, finding and groping at the thick stiffness of his tool, wishing these buggers weren't here and he just had her to himself - he should have just made his move on her when he bumped into her at the bar, and ditched these losers, like Harry Wilson and Bobby Reid had! That's what he should have done... his thoughts slurred and so did his speech, calling her name and making stupid jibes at the other two guys.
He pushed his chinos down and away, and then peeled off each sock, rubbing his sweaty ankles over the bedcovers in each lunging sway of motion. He was just in his tight, grey and blue striped boxer briefs then, his cock jutting over the waistband and tingling. He scrambled forward, finding and kissing one of her legs, starting low on the shin but pecking and licking his way up, around her knee and onto her thigh - and then he was muscling aside one of the other two, Tom or Harrison, and pushing his face into lick and kiss her cunt, unconcerned that one or both of his mates had already done so. Still, she was divided, busy, sucking off one of the other guys, and maybe wanking another cock with a hand - cocks, Joe thought dimly, two other cocks in my bed, what the hell?
But then there was a moment of dazzling clarity and she was looking at him, only him, and the flashes of nude body from Reed and Cairney were irrelevant, as were there deep laughs and groaning slurs. And Joe was climbing forward, onto her, pressing the muscular weight of his body on her, feeling her claw at his undies and slide them over the firm bump of his glutes, his cock released at the front. He pushed forward and locked his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply as he pressed over her and guided his cock in against the wet lips, both of them moaning, seeming to forgot the other two drunkards... Joe gasped eagerly, pinning her to his bedding and burying his cock in her to the hilt, and the intimacy of the moment was ruined only by Tom Cairney crying out: `Yes mate, give it to her, phworrr!'
The back room of a London pub, a few days earlier: tinny radio music and the clatter of glasses and crockery, a low buzz of conversation, lots of noise in the air lending a faint discretion to the booth they were sat in. Rose on one side, playing with her hair, and the client on the other, hunched and furtive. Rose was looking at him keenly, trying to figure him out, and taking small sips from her orange juice whilst he spoke in fits and starts, never quite coming to the point, as far as she was concerned. This, she thought, was not her usual line of work, but it sounded quite exciting. He started repeating his instructions, sweaty above the lips, trying too hard to screen more of his face by pulling down his baseball cap, shoulders still so hunched. When he stopped, at last, a bit out of breath, Rose - well, that was the name she'd chosen to give this punter, though she went by many - smiled and nodded slowly three times.
The prostitute reached a hand over and rested it on one of his. `Don't you worry, hun. I'll get you that footage.'
Here's what the cameraphone on the bookshelf is seeing: Joe Bryan's muscular body, lightly tanned still from summer exploits, ploughing into the slim pale physique of the brunette, clutching her in his bulging arms whilst his cock slaps inside her and makes a fleshy sound that is lost between her screams and his grunts. This goes on for quite some time, but he forgets himself, or remembers the others, and takes a break, laughing awkwardly as he pulls away and flops onto his back, his chest shiny with sweat and his dick still perpendicular from his body, rising up from his neatly shaven pubes. And then it's Tom, pulling her into a new position and eliciting happy giggles as he fingers her briefly before pushing himself inside her, spurred on by yelps and filthy comments from Harrison over his shoulder - Harrison, who is soon fucking her standing up at the side of the bed, from behind, clutching at her tits and kissing fiercely at her shoulder. The men pass her around and Rose screams more loudly every time, cooing and gasping in between, grasping with hands and mouth for their bodies, their muscles, their cocks - and all of it caught on camera.
When Joe is back inside her, lying on his back with her riding his dick in cowboy, he is more aware of the others, more aware of being watched. Though they're watching her, not him, he reminds himself, and he wonders if he maybe enjoys it a bit, the exhibitionism of it. Like when he was younger and he'd sometimes wank on cam websites with strangers out of boredom, sometimes unsure if it was even women on the other end of the anonymous call, never showing his face.
He is aware of Harrison, kissing and holding her even as she rides him, and of the man's ginger-furred leg brushing his; he is aware of Tom, gurning and dopey on the edge of the bed, wanking himself, wanking his obnoxiously long cock, and running the fingers of his other hand through his blond hair. Joe both ignores and indulges them as he thrusts up inside the wet cunt, loving the feel of her, and loving the sight of her on him, tits bouncing and hair whipping, even with the other two starting to muscle in and distract her. He supposes it is time to swap places, but he doesn't want to - he sits up and holds her tightly into his body whilst driving his cock into her from below and simultaneously kissing between her breasts, wanting to impress her with his physicality, with his stamina, his drink-assisted resilience as he fails to shoot his load.
That's when he hears Harrison's angry yell, as if from some distance, and starts to worry at what exactly is going on. Too much naked flesh in one room, and two too many cocks bouncing around as people move to and fro. Suddenly she is out of his arms and his cock is just in his own hand, and he is staring blearily from side to side, unsure why the other two lads are shouting and why Rose is in the corner by the bookshelves.
`SHE - IS - FUCK - ING - FILMING - US!' His redhead mate's words finally line up in some kinda order in his head and Joe lurches off the bed, pressing one hand to his throbbing head, the other still wrapped around his wet cock. He tries to ask questions but he's not sure if his voice comes out properly.
Harrison has something in his hand, a phone, and is prancing about with his jeans still about his ankles, and Rose is backing towards the bedroom door with a bundle of clothes against her body. Tom is standing to the other side, his face a Munchian picture of horror, hand pressed to either side of his head, his big body bare and exposed, his erection wilting against one thigh. Joe steadies himself on the foot of his own bed and steps between them, focusing on her - on her guilty expression, framed by the tangle of her hair, and the way her eyes shoot pleadingly to him. She is saying something, but Harrison is shouting over her, and Joe's brain starts to work properly on something other than the needs of his cock: this is all a stitch-up, he realises, and now she's filmed them all getting down and dirty, sharing her, living up to every crass stereotype of their sport.
For fuck's sake,' he yells, furious and gutted. For fuck's sake, what are you trying to do?!'
It gets fuzzy in his memory after that, and he's unhappy with the slurs he shouts at her, the speed and aggression with which he hurries her out of the flat, not letting her dress until she is out in the empty corridor, door slammed on her. Is it him or Harrison that slams the door on her? He isn't sure now, half an hour later, slumped back in his sofa, his boxer shorts pulled up uncomfortably but no other clothes on, still.
After her uncovery and exit, there was more drink - quick shorts of whiskey from glasses in jittering hands, the three men talking rapidly and incoherently to each other about a variety of ideas and problems. Blackmail. Revenge porn. Cloud storage. Daily Mail. Scandal. Fines. Arsenal. The gaffer. It spills out of them all, stumbling about in various states of nudity, and somehow it leads to this.
Harrison, he remembers, is asleep on his bed. Cocky Harrison seemed more upset than anyone once she was gone, and he seems unwilling to even let go of the fucking locked phone in his hand, the one that's recorded them all stripping off and getting filthy with the hot girl picked up in a bar. Joe had stared angrily in at his blacked out friend, but hadn't the heart to wake or shift him, and has left the half-naked ginger in there, sprawled out over his dirtied sheets, whimpering worriedly in his sleep.
This leaves Joe and Tom, pouring a little more scotch, and slumping into the sofa together, but not saying much to each other, just wallowing for many minutes in their own private regrets and fears. Tom, he guesses, fretting over the other adultery that he is trying to smooth over with his wife to get back into the family home and see his very young kids, and now trying to figure out how this disaster might be like throwing oil on that fire; Joe blinks and acknowledges that, free and single, he has less to lose here, but he is a proud guy and he can almost see his dignity flying away out of the French windows and off the balcony, blown away into the wide river.
Joe sat back against the sofa, becoming aware of how little he's wearing, and almost laughed at himself. But the night's drama weighed too heavily on him and he sighs instead, staring at the blank TV screen and past it out at the river view. For a minute, he thought that Cairney had fallen asleep on the other side of the sofa, but then he said, `Mate, you take the guest bed, yeh, I'll sleep out here. You've been too kind already.'
Joe laughed. `Nah, you keep it, bud, I don't mind. Not sure I'll sleep.'
He glanced over at the other guy, his captain, and despite the bullshit they're in, he felt a surge of fondness for the big idiot. He was noisy and clumsy and clearly fucking up his marriage, but he'd been good company in the flat these past few nights, despite his low mood, and Joe thought that a bit of him might miss the bugger once his wife took him back in. Well, a bit of him. He valued his space a lot.
Fuck though, what a night, never mind the minor inconveniences of giving up his spare room and putting up with the skipper moping about the place for a week, or however long it took - Joe's mind reeled over the night, comprehending just how much it had all been his fucking idea and how it had spiralled. He liked to think of himself as way more urbane than your average footballer, a bit too sophisticated for this shit, and yet here he was in his pants with a lingering semi, and video footage of himself banging Rose - if that was even her fucking name - right next to other players. You heard about this sort of shite getting on the internet and everyone going bonkers. He cringed.
And yet he still felt turned on, truth be told, his cock straining weakly against the striped boxer briefs, strangely persistent despite being forgotten about, and his bare muscular physique a little clammy with the sweat of the hot nightclub and of the antics on camera. He groaned quietly and rubbed at his face, and then the voice next to him on the sofa burst out in a muttering chuckle, as if reading his mind.
Worst thing is,' said Tom next to him, that I'm still a bit horny, ha ha.'
Joe laughed hesitantly, still rubbing a palm over his throbbing eyes, the hangover starting to kick in early. He didn't vocally agree, but he let out a grunted `Aye' and lolled his head back on the cushions of the sofa, whilst almost instinctively his other hand tugged at the fabric of his undies, and the thick outline of his semi.
`I mean, she was fuckin' hot,' the Nottingham bloke slurred.
`Sure,' he agreed, still quiet and distant, his voice almost a yawn.
`Almost worth the danger, when you think about it,' tittered Cairney, who had looked absolutely horrified not so long ago, but was clearly too pissed and tired to cling to his distress. When Joe opened his eyes and glanced to the right, he saw that Tom was tugging at his underpants too, the garish multicoloured OddBalls trunks; unlike him, the skipper had found and dragged on a t-shirt over his upper body, but his big fluffy legs were bare and spread, one knee almost touching Joe's.
With that attitude, it's no wonder your wife's kicked you out,' Bryan couldn't help but mutter, meaning no harm, but hearing its harshness too late. Luckily, Cairney just laughed at him and sighed his agreement. I'm a nuisance,' he declared simply. `Dunno why the poor bird puts up with me, to be honest. But... I DO have a big shaft, has to be said.' He cackled and Joe couldn't help but laugh along.
`I won't pretend I didn't notice, you fucker,' he muttered quietly, refusing to look that way as out of the corner of his eye, he could tell the other guy was playing with himself in his pants, stretching out even more comfortably on the couch. Joe grimaced but couldn't stop feeling himself either, understanding Tom's position - things had been so heated and frisky, and they'd all drunk SO much, too much. Fuck, they had a GAME tomorrow...
`Checkin' me out, were ya?' giggled the 31-year-old.
`Watch it,' Joe chuckled.
Fuck, not like rest of us aren't always checking you out,' said Tom, and it was almost a sigh, qualified by the ruggedly cheerful, fucking calendar boy, if only I had the discipline to fanny about in the gym as much as you and get my body in that shape.'
Joe resisted what he thought was the fishing for a compliment - the captain was inches taller in him and broadly built, a sturdy handsome guy even if he wasn't as... ripped or defined as Joe had achieved. He wasn't about to go massaging the cheating bastard's ego, not when he was half-mad with worry about what had been recorded; sure, Harrison had the phone clutched in his sweaty palm next door, but where was it saved? Who might the bitch have already sent it to...?
The stress coincided with his drunken horn and he grabbed his swelling cock more tightly, blinking frustratedly in the lamplight. His music played on in the background, volume lowered during the drama, and if he strained his ears, he could hear Reed snoring through in his own bed. He wondered if he should just get up and take Tom's offer, slope into the spare room and crash there, leaving Cairney the couch - but he felt so drunk and exhausted that he couldn't peel his muscles away from the low couch to do so!
Fuck it,' the midfielder murmured close by. I gotta wank.'
`Suit yourself,' Joe muttered, basically doing the same through his pants, feeling his thick cock through the thin material and thinking how could it had felt inside Rose, fucking her in three or four positions, sliding back into her after one of the other lads had taken their turn, it was like some crazy porno shit. Oh fuck, he thought, it really was, given the camera recording their every grunt and thrust, fuck fuck fuck.
And still he played with himself, couldn't help it. It was like the more anxious his head got, the more hot and bothered his strong body became, the more stiff and desperate his erection. With a little grunt of annoyance, he pushed his boxers down until they hooked beneath his ball-sack, and spat in his palm before wanking a bit more seriously on his meat, thinking how ridiculous it was to be sat side-by-side with the captain, and yet how tame this was compared to the sordid action on his bed - he could still picture Rose going down on the 6ft Nottingham fella with her arse and fanny spread before him.
`Just need to finish,' Tom grunted next to him, and Joe realised they were both doing the same now, two slumped athletic slobs, hot and sweaty and horny, barely awake with the amount of booze in their systems, and just unable to lose the horn of the four-way.
`Yup,' Bryan muttered, not exactly wanting a chat about it. He closed his eyes, fixated on the memory of Rose, teasing him, but it became clouded with anger at what she'd clearly been up to, trying to fuck them over - and his mind searched for other shags in his recent past, or exciting early fumbles in his teens back in Bristol.
Wish I was cumming in her,' drawled Tom, sleazy and wistful. Or in her.'
Joe laughed but said nothing, turned on by the thought but not wanting to get drawn into it. He just pressed his muscular shoulders back against the couch and pumped on his dick, legs spreading a bit more as he did, knee brushing the hot skin of Tom's knee. He ignored this and jerked on.
`I really do owe you one,' Tom said, a bit tangentially.
`Shurrup,' he moaned.
`You've been such a fucking mate this week. A proper gent, JB.'
`Forget it, you'd do same... Mmm...'
`Serious, man, I dunno where I'd be kippin' if you weren't-'
`Mate-'
`I owe you,' Cairney repeated, and his voice sounded a bit odd, thoughtful, intense. Joe was too busy to analyse it, pulling his hand back and forth, pressing his heels into the rug, feeling fresh sweat prickle on his clammy skin. But then he pulled his hand back, bringing it up to his face, intending to spit into his palm for extra lube, but- The other hand was closing tightly about his cock to take over, grabbing on him at an odd angle. Alien, strange, brilliant. Joe froze up, bewildered.
`Just let me help you out,' mumbled the voice of the married dad next to him, and Bryan didn't have a clue what to say. He was stunned. And his cock tingled and blazed, it was like that thing when you're 13 and you gave yourself pins and needles so that... Oh fuck, he was getting wanked off by- His brain did somersaults to block the end of that sentence and he quickly pictured Rose, bouncing up and down on his dick in the bed, with the other two watching like porno fans, their eyes wild and shiny, the room just a mass of shiny muscle and curve.
`Fuck,' the 28-year-old bachelor groaned desperately; Tom just grunted. His hand, the hand, Rose's fanny, sped up, got tighter, got more pressing, and Joe's balls fizzed and yearned, and soon he could feel the release. The groans and words of pleasure died in his throat and with his left hand he clutched the arm of the sofa with white-knuckle force, the right hand held in a loose fist in front of his face. He felt a warm wetness on his tattooed thighs and on the hard ridges of his six-pack, flecks of his cum hitting his own body. Next to him, unseen, he heard the strangled gurgle of relief from the lad whose hand was wrapped about his meat, and it was now impossible to pretend he was being rode by Rose, the treacherous slag.
`Fuck,' Joe repeated, slowly. He relaxed his aching wet body back against the couch and felt the hand release its grip on his prize, then pat him once on the damp thigh muscle, then pull away. He just heard a breathy laugh from the baby-faced older player, and a shifting of weight and squeak of cushion. There was a silence, except for the quiet music and the rattling snores of Harrison Reed, and it was one that sounded full of things almost said - Joe didn't risk opening his eyes, but he could sense Tom Cairney almost but not quite saying a number of things next to him.
A grunting `thanks' wavered and failed in Joe's throat. He kept his eyes shut. A nervous laugh sounded close by, but not quite on the sofa. Tom was up. He listened to his footsteps crossing the room, disappearing - into the spare room, where the married guy had slept every night this week since being kicked out for shagging whoever. Joe lay where he lay, his cock feeling numb, his brain confused, his body exhausted, and then the drunken stupor took him away from West London and into a paranoid dream.
The messages were readable on the screen, even though the phone was locked: hello!!!1!1! Plz return this phone asap or will be consequences' and then hi!!! Fuck u. Need fone bk now or will post vid' and finally `call me on...' and a landline number. Joe, who had prised the handheld device away from a still-snoring Harrison, stood in the grey morning light of his bedroom windows, scratching his arse through his boxer briefs, and read these alerts on the locked screen, his stomach churning and his head full of blistering pain.
Only fifteen minutes later, the Fulham bachelor was outside and walking hurriedly down a nearby street, hood pulled up and hands thrust into the front pouch of the top, loose shorts tickling his upper thighs and flip-flops slapping irritably at the pavement. He'd had to stop three times already thinking he'd be sick in bins and alley mouths, but here he was, almost at the cafe that he'd suggested, nay demanded, whilst speaking to the troublesome woman on the phone. In whispers, so as not to wake the other lads. When he got back, he thought, he'd have to wake them bloody quick, and usher them all into a cab to the club training ground for matchday assembly, but for now...
There she was. Rose looked as fresh as a daisy. She was at one of only two outside tables at the narrow hipster coffee joint, and Joe hesitated on the far side of the street, repulsed by how attractive and serene she looked, this temptress who had violated their privacy. It was his shame and self-loathing that made him want to sprint back down the Fulham street - but she'd already clocked him, and waved once in a discreet manner.
Joe folded his sore muscular body into the chair opposite her. Glared.
Well,' she said quietly, almost meekly, you got the phone?'
She gave him a mean, critical look, sucking on a cigarette, and lifting her cappucino to sip, just like the red wine in the bar. She looked more like a socialite than a hooker, but he was wise to her now, and he just grimaced back at her. He squeezed the confiscated handheld in both hands in the pouch of his hoodie. `What the fuck were you playing at?' the footballer demanded under his breath.
Okay, okay,' she muttered, her tone shifting a little. No more ice queen. She sounded pissed off but almost regretful. He held himself warily as she tapped her cup. You want a fucking coffee or something, hun?'
Her new, almost sympathetic vibe made Joe feel almost angrier, and he squared his thick shoulders, still glaring at her. I think I'll pass,' he said, his voice hoarse and weak from too much drink, and almost vomiting. For fuck's sake. I thought...'
That I was some easy slag?' she snapped, cutting him off. Some easy lay for you and your footy mates to cackle over later and tell everyone about?' She rolled her eyes, mean again, then shifted uncomfortably in her seat, tapping ash away from her fag. `Well, it's not like I didn't have fun, you understand. I mean - look at you, and your mates aren't so bad, so...'
Joe groaned, bewildered and hungover. Cut the crap,' he insisted. I've not dragged myself here for an ego boost, mate. I don't need you to pretend you enjoyed taking my cock, you know? Just...' He had to fight to keep his voice low and discreet. `You were recording us. On this phone. Jesus, do you get how much that could hurt us?'
She was quiet, but there was definite something awkward, something regretful in her manner. `It's not what you think,' she breathed bitterly, flicking away the rest of her cigarette and stirring pointlessly at her coffee.
You'd sell it for thousands to some shit rag and then boost your OnlyFans following while me and my mates get suspended by our club and spurned by our friends? Something like that, maybe?' His voice was icy and he felt physically sick as he spelled it out. He slid the phone from his hoodie pocket. I'm gonna need to see you delete the video from here and wherever else it is. Right now, in front of me. Prove it. Or I'm going to the police.'
`You wouldn't-'
Try me,' he snapped. I don't have a wife or nothing, I'm not losing as much as my dickhead pals. I'd rather see you punished than-'
`For fuck's sake, I'll delete it. Gimme the phone. Put it on the table and I'll unlock it and show you. Fucking hell.'
`And how do I know I can trust you?'
`You can't. But you can match what I would earn if I sent it to my client right now.'
Joe paused. Your client.' He made a disgusted face. Which paper is it?'
She shrugged one folder and began lighting up another cigarette. `I told you, hun. It really is not what you think. Seriously.'
Joe, his head in bits, stared at her, and then down at the phone. He watched her unlock it, her fingers swiping away - the same fake nails had scratched down his back and clawed at his underpants in the heat of last night, and now he watched them load up and delete the video file, and then open up a cloud storage app to do the same. Even seeing it in front of him, he felt shaky, and knew he couldn't fully trust her. But his curiosity was biting at him as much as his hangover.
Who, then?' he demanded quietly. Who wanted to blackmail us three?'
She arched a brow. He don't give a shit about those two, you know. It was all you.' She laughed, another cool bitter sound. She took a long drag and blew smoke at him. Those two were collateral, I was worried I couldn't get you alone without taking their cocks too. The ginger didn't do it for me, but the tall blond guy...' Joe went tense, the dim outline of a memory hovering on the edge of consciousness, just before he'd fell asleep, but then swatted away like a summer mosquito.
`Why me?' he said, and he couldn't help but sound plaintive.
Beats me. I dunno. I don't ask a lot of questions, once the price is that good.' On the phone screen, she opened up a calculator and tapped in a number. Pay me half of that,' she said, in a reasonable and businesslike fashion, `and we'll say no more. Can't argue with a deal like that, when I'm losing out by being kind. I could have sent that video to him just now and you'd not have been able to do a thing.'
`Kind,' Joe echoed, sardonic.
Kind,' she spat back. I dunno why he was interested in you. Must have something against you, I dunno. You not got any enemies? Look at you... Bet I'm not the first conquest of the year for you, pretty boy. Whose husband or daddy have you pissed off? That'll be it. It always is.' She looked thoughtful. `He was early 40s, I'd say.'
`Your client?'
`Yup. Mid 40s max, but maybe younger. Good-looking guy, if I'm honest.'
Joe just gawped. His mind was racing but he was baffled. And part of his brain kept nudging him and trying to whisper in his ear that he needed to address the half-memory of what had happened with Cairney. He ignored it.
`Some guy just paid you that money to shag me and video it,' he said in a weary voice, almost reiterating it for himself more than demanding more info from her. None of it made sense. He envied her coffee now. He glanced at his watch.
Are you going to pay me my lost earnings?' she asked bluntly. He scowled but nodded. If I'm honest, I think he was someone famous,' she said slowly. More famous than you or your mates,' she added, needlessly and perhaps unintentionally cruel. Still, she seemed thoughtful and unsure. I couldn't tell you his name, but reckon he played for England?'
Joe blinked and frowned deeply. `He was another footballer...?'
She nodded slowly, toying with her cigarette and then taking a drink. Retired though,' she mused. Handsome old guy, you know, think he was a big player a while back, maybe a manager now - gosh, did he not manage a team in London? He had a real London accent, you know....' Joe didn't fully hear the rest of her rambling commentary, because the most horrible of suspicions was rising up in his chest, behind his pecs, and also in his nauseous tummy. He grimaced and fumbled in his pocket for his wallet. He told her to wait there while he took out some cash, and she reluctantly agreed. At the machine, he almost screwed her over and ran for it, but decided against it. Instead, he took out the sum she'd spelled out, and stomped back to the table to thrust it into her cleavage, standing by her and fiddling with the cuffs of his hoodie.
He wanted to ask her more, but he didn't know where to start. A lot of different pressures were competing for attention in his headache, and he was pretty sure he'd need to be sick before he ran back into the flat and started getting Harrison and Tom awake. Rose gave him a pitying smile, taking the notes form between her tits and sliding them into her jacket pocket, not bothering to check the amount.
Like I said,' she sighed, you were a decent fuck. I'd have done it for free, but you know, a girl has to make a living, babycakes. Who did you say you play for again?'
Joe Bryan glared at her, then marched away, back onto the pavement and down the street, conscious of her curious eyes watching his strong silhouette leave, just as last night he'd hoped she was as he strutted away from the bar. His brain did its best not to think about the end of the night, but it couldn't stop itself from starting down this new path, and digging up Harrison Reed's banter. A retired footballer turned manager, paying lots of money to get a video of him in... well, his private moments. A handsome bloke in his early 40s, a Londoner. It couldn't be, though. The idea was ridiculous.
On the way to his flat, he pulled out and stared at his own phone, and scrolled through a few new messages that had waited in his inbox when he painfully awoke on the couch, still in just his undies. Among them was one from his ex-manager. `Good luck today against the Arse-holes!' read the simple message, then a bunch of emojis, from the former Fulham FC boss, Scott Parker.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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