Part 317: Rise and Shine at St George's Park
Trent had been awake for a while already. He was dimly and pleasantly aware that he ought to be thinking about tonight, England's next Nations League game, from one major European rival to another - and he was obviously hopeful about making the gaffer's team-sheet again for a Wembley kickabout, but he also felt contentedly unworried about the evening home game against Germany. No, he was thinking more of tomorrow and Wednesday, the rest days they'd be allowed before rejoining Liverpool towards the end of the week - and the apartment that his captain had booked for them in London so that they could spend one more night here together. It had all been Henderson's idea, he hadn't had to suggest it or beg it, and it made the 23-year-old Liverpudlian feel warm and fuzzy inside in a way that he hadn't for years.
The older footballer was snoring gently next to him in the one of two double beds that had been used in their Surrey hotel room, and Trent now turned to look at him: his face turned this way, mouth drooping open a little within the pleasant red-brown fur of that recent beard, his face just a little frowny and serious in his sleep; a few inches of lightly haired chest were visible where the bedcovers ended, his arms splayed at either side in a way that only accentuated his straining biceps - until a minute ago, Alexander-Arnold had been warmly tucked in against one of these arms, where he'd woken with his face almost stuck to his skipper's nipple. Now he lay a little to the side, tilted this way in order to view the beautiful Mackem midfielder, and wait impatiently for him to stir.
Waking him up seemed a bit harsh, given the two days of intense training that they'd been put through since the Italy defeat on Friday night, an exhausting but upbeat weekend for every member of the big national squad. But judging by the thin shafts of gold that were creeping into the room, it could only be a matter of time before both of their alarms jangled and a member of the player liaison crew was knocking officiously on the door to the room, rousing them for breakfast. Trent was already pretty roused, and he slid a hand under the sheets to feel the outline of his morning glory, eyes still locked on Jordan's slack face and gently lined eyes.
Well, the Scouser thought, if I AM going to wake him up, I can at least do it the right way...
Grinning to himself, he moved quietly, sliding his almost naked body against the quality sheets, and moving for his muscular brown physique under the duvet, until all of him was submerged there, crouching and shuffling in a den of soft quilting. It smelled very manly under there, he was pleased to find, and he had to manoeuvre himself quite carefully to perform his trick. One badly placed knee or palm and he'd be waking up his captain in entirely the wrong way.
Soon Trent was further down the bed and where he needed to be, and Hendo's gentle rise and fall of snoring confirmed he was still not woken. Perfect. Trent's eyes adjusted to the minimal light beneath the duvet and he positioned himself neatly between the angled fall of those pretty mighty legs, gently letting his fingers stroke the soft hair and the outline of that champion's tattoo. Jordan made a little noise in his sleep but didn't move.
Trent was still wearing black boxer briefs, instinctively pulled back on before settling down for sleep - the skipper, though, pretty much always slept naked, and so here was his cock, thick and soft and lying across one thigh muscle, emerging from the neglected bush of dark pubes, with the ball-sack drooping attractively below. Of course, Trent couldn't make out all of that detail under the duvet, but he knew it well enough by now, probably better than his own pink-tipped shaft, which pushed achingly against the confines of his underwear.
Without much preamble, Trent took it in his mouth, holding his head down carefully into the rich man-smell of the captain's crotch, and easing the chubby limp snake in against his tongue, then massaging at it with his lips. Another gentle sound from Jordan, but not much, and so Trent let his hands close more firmly about each lower thigh, propping himself there so that he could move his head a little more, and tease the sleeping monster into full thick hardness, which took no time at all. Another moan emitted and then a slight stirring of the midfielder's body, a twitch of one ankle and a dragging down of a hand somewhere, and then a still tensing, perhaps of confusion.
Trent pulled away slightly, then circled his tongue very slowly around the full head of Jordan's cock, holding it firmly at the base, and the moan that he heard now was much more certain, much more awake and sure, and he grinned to himself. `Good morning,' slurred the Wearside accent of his Liverpool leader, and Trent took as many inches into his hungry mouth as he could, Jordan's hand finding the back of his neck. He gagged happily on it, letting the size of it choke him, and then rolled his eyes up as an edge of the duvet was pulled away: Hendo smirked sleepily at him across his chest and abdomen, his smiling eyes framed in a little oval of light. Trent stared back, mouth wide about the captain's cock, and he carried on, sucking his beautiful man into consciousness.
Eric Dier was already up, and seemingly busy; the Spurs defensive midfielder was sat at the desk, hunched forward, and tapping quite lightly at the keys of an open MacBook. Probably working on his app business or something, the Three Lions captain thought dimly, squinting his eyes across the room, and admiring the other player's comfortable choice not to pull a top on; from here, the strength of his shoulder and arm was perfectly visible, and an angled side profile of his heavy bearded head. He was a gorgeous bloke, and Harry Kane did miss what they'd had... But realistically, he valued their friendship more, and he already regretted winding the lad up before the Italy game.
It was easy enough back at Tottenham, where they'd gradually mended their friendship and had so many shared ambitions and mutual pals. But Eric had been absent from the England camp for a while, and having him back here, in these close quarters... Harry grimaced, admitting to himself that it was all more cynical than that. HE'D made the request to Southgate, when asked about his rooming preferences, and HE'D known about Dier's call-up several days before the good-looking Cheltenham lad got the news. Kane had to admit to himself that this hadn't been a bit of silly temptation in comfortable and nostalgic surroundings... he'd come to this short international break with the half-formed idea already there, wondering if he really could seduce Dier back into his life, and recapture some of the passion that they'd experienced last World Cup.
But it was clear that Eric, now humming quietly to himself and typing a bit more frantically, had moved on after all. In Milan, he'd disappeared for half the night, and Harry wondered which of his cultured pals he was hooking up with in the city rather than hang out with him in their room. He'd certainly been pink-cheeked and cagey when he got back to the room with his `shopping', unable to explain what sort of delicatessen was still open after midnight.
Kane had to respect that, had to allow him his privacy and distance, like he did around the serious relationship he was supposedly engaged in, though Dier would tell him nothing about it, including whether it was with a man or woman. A lot of the time, the England captain speculated that it was fiction, and that Eric had been spinning the idea to him this past year or so in order to provoke some jealousy and regret, which Harry had felt in ample amounts on many occasions. Now, watching the bare musculature of Eric's body at the desk, he supposed it was probably true enough - after all, why should his former lover have any trouble finding a partner of either sex?
Not for the first time, the 6ft2 Londoner wished that Emile Smith-Rowe had been among the gaffer's additions this weekend. He shifted gently over to the other side of his bed, not really wanting to alert Dier to his being awake, because at least for now he didn't have to know that his friend was sulkily blanking him. Kane found his phone nestled against a spare pillow and looked at the thirsty messages he had sent to the Arsenal youngster late last night:
`Wish u were here lol'
`Thinking bout u and really hard'
`Send me a pic??'
`Lol sorry ignore that'
`Want ur big cock in my face'
`Wish u'd just fuk me one time m8'
`Lol sorry had a drink haha fml'
Double blue-ticks on all of them and not a single reply. But that wasn't unusual. Emile only responded to him when the moment was right, and hardly ever in the risk of written messages. Short breathy voice-notes were more his style: `Sure, I've got an hour - park on that road across from my house and I won't shower before, ok?'
It was a different kind of `relationship' to his affair with Eric, sure, but it was still a sort of regularity and closeness compared to the other incidents that had followed: with Redknapp, with Maguire, with Winks. It was almost weekly, now, and sometimes twice weekly, and he often drove home feeling strangely refreshed and confident, even though Smith-Rowe basically treated him like shit, and gave nothing back. He'd already made a few movements towards Gareth since the Italy defeat, hinting politely that the anxious manager should reconsider his younger team members when drawing up the long-awaited World Cup roster for late November. Kane was no honey-tongued advisor, though; his muttered ideas had been met with a suspicious glare from the boss and a comment on Tottenham's defeatist culture.
The 6ft2 striker was still lounging sideways on the bed and staring embarrassedly at his messages to ESR, wondering if he could just delete them all and pretend he'd never sent them, when the device pinged with a message from a different one of his football contacts, marked by the ball emoji that preceded the England recruit's name. Instantly, Kane bit his lip and tensed up excitedly against the bedding, and made an exaggerated wake up' yawn to his audience of one roommate. Aaaah... morning, mate. Might start the day with a jog, you know. You sleep well? Mmm.'
Here,' he exclaimed quietly, nudging his way into Room 18 at speed, and using his buttocks to nudge shut the door after him. I told you I could do it. You under-estimate my boyish charms!' He beamed proudly across the hotel room and accelerated towards the bed, the refectory tray held carefully in both hands and much of its contents rattling uneasily at his whimsical jerky dash.
It had been Rice's little joke, wishing they could order `room service', whilst Mount gently serviced him with one hand and nuzzled at his collarbone, and the Chelsea twink had beamed eagerly at the prospect of a challenge. Only ten minutes later, here he was, having sweet-talked a bright-eyed kitchen worker in the early morning quiet, returning to their suite with a tray of delights, and almost spilling the coffee pot on the fresh white bedding.
Declan was laughing and smiling, and Mason loved to see him surprised and grateful, since it was hard for two young men so successful and well-paid to really spoil each other. He allowed the other player to help him in easing the tray down between them and curled eagerly alongside it, still in the scruffy t-shirt and shorts he'd pulled on for his downstairs dash, unworried at the possible visibility of his semi bouncing in it as he ran. If anything, it had made the middle-aged babe in the kitchens even more amenable to his requests.
`Room service it is,' chuckled the West Ham stud next to him, shaking his head in mild disbelief, and reaching one hand over to squeeze and stroke Mason's neck and back, his own upper body bared and ripped where the bedsheets ended below his small pink nips. He reached his other hand over to sink the plunger in the caffetiere, and Mason smirked proudly at the little selection he'd filched from the kitchens, allowing them to skip a more sociable breakfast buffet and buy a little more time in the room.
They'll still come knocking for us,' murmured Dec. Rise and shine, rise and shine.'
`Yes, and that's when you'll tell them I'm having a spot of tummy trouble,' Mase quipped back.
`Huh, right - and then the gaffer drops you from tonight cos he thinks you're ill...?'
Meh, who cares - as long as you get your cap, I'll happily watch your cock bouncing about form the subs bench again.' He grinned cheekily at the other young footballer, who gave him a glance of mild disapproval that quickly split into a bashful smirk. It's practically a friendly now, after the Italy result, I'm not bothered. When we're side-by-side in the World Cup, that's when I'll care...'
`We both have to get on that squad first, fella!' Rice was huffing at him, but in the midst of tearing a croissant for them, and his grin showed his wholesome enjoyment of Mount's misbehaviour and his obvious devotion. Mase smiled indulgently and poured their coffees, shifting his body in against the bare warmth of Dec a bit more as he did, and then spying the cute little pots of butter and jam that accompanied the croissants and toast.
Here,' he chirped, and he stuck two fingers in the jam dish, then smeared it garishly onto the pale skin of Dec's right pec, earning a surprised Oi!' before diving down and licking the sweet strawberry mess from his skin, circling and then connecting with his stiff little nipple, lapping every trace of red sweetness and then bursting into a fit of stupid laughter.
`What are you like,' Dec was stressing in a mix of annoyance and enjoyment, wriggling carefully to avoid a huge spill of coffee, but shoving and grabbing at him some more, and then sticking a finger of his own in the ruined jam. Mase felt the sticky confiture daubed on his face, and then Declan's eager mouth kissing it away, and ending on his lips, a snog like afternoon tea.
Breakfast first,' Rice insisted with a sexy firmness, stroking up his neck and holding the side of his face, and then we can make all the mess you want, baby.' Mason smiled back so joyously that he couldn't help but giggle, and he submitted to that order of events with a throbbing hard-on in his shorts.
Seriously,' the Manc-accented fellow England player muttered, that thing is ridiculous, you must do some absolute damage with it to your new wifey, haha.' Kieran Trippier turned across the space between their beds, giving him one of his odd little grins, and then looked back at the screen of his laptop, placed further down the messy surface of his hotel bed, between his jutting bare ankles, screen tilted slightly to one side so that both of them could watch the greasy lesbian porn scene that was playing, filling the hotel room with tinny squeals and gasps that could surely be heard in the corridor outside.
He'd been a little taken aback by the 32-year-old right-back's early morning assertion that he was gonna really need to relieve himself, and his insistence that he wouldn't relax properly doing it in their little bathroom. But he'd found himself unable to refuse without sounding like a prudish oaf, and the next moment he was grunting his agreement: `Sure, aye, yeah, I'm feeling that frustration myself mate, yeah...'
On the other bed, Trips was sat with his back to the wooden headboard, stark naked, his compact muscular formed hunched slightly as he jerked rapidly at the thick tool between his thighs, both of his ink-marked forearms glistening with morning sweat as he did so. The Bury bloke licked his upper lip repeatedly, frowning in deep concentration at `Hot Latino Chix 3', and pulling himself off with the same frenzied pace and aggression that he behaved on a football pitch, shockingly open and unabashed.
At this stage, Harry Maguire was unsure how he could be `shocked' by such a thing, but he'd known the other England player for years, and always regarded him as pretty straitlaced and conventional, if not pretty reserved. He'd been quite rude to Trips this camp, he thought, unable to lift himself out of his doldrums and make more than scraps of conversation with his fellow defender and assigned roommate - it was no wonder that the Magpie had decided to kill a bit of morning time before breakfast by just tossing one off in bed, porno on his laptop, apparently unconcerned by a neighbour in the next bed.
Still, the comments on Harry's cock had been particularly surprising - it's not as if Trips wouldn't have noticed the length of his dong in a shared shower before, surely? Although there was that silent agreement not to look below the waist, maybe, and perhaps he'd wanted to remark on it for years, genuinely astounded.
The compliment from Trippier was how he knew there was something properly wrong, in a way. Here he was, his musty t-shirt pulled halfway up his abdomen, boxer shorts pushed down about his dark-haired thighs, and huge cock in one heavy hand; usually, all of these elements would have him stiff and leaking: the porno itself, lesbians having been an ironic favourite for always of his horny years; the sweaty scene of the stale-smelling laddish hotel room; the presence of another hot-blooded bloke; the flattering attention of a more diminutive player, eyeing up his equipment and confirming that it was well above average, even soft.
Soft. That was the problem.
Maguire hadn't sprung a single hard-on since Moldova. Not even an early morning twitch or a little tingle when it bounced in his briefs and he was throwing his weight about on the pitch, physically dominating any player who came near to him. His cock had remained a limp serpent between his legs ,and it was still doing so now, soft and weak in his fingers, despite his strokes and tugs, and despite all of the factors in the hotel suite.
This one is so hot,' Trippier sniggered. Me and the missus watch it together sometimes, but she will never actually fill the fantasy of us inviting another bird into bed with us, haha. Trust me, I ask her every birthday, for fuck's sake.'
Hah, right,' grunted Maguire distantly, scooping a hand under his fat hairy balls and giving them a fondle, in case that did more to rouse his snake, which drooped and weighed against his wrist, oppressively large but useless. He squinted at the porn, then gave sidelong glances at Kieran: though not the most conventionally handsome fella, the Mancunian defender was a muscular player with a rough laddish edge about him, and realistically he'd be quite Harry's type' for a little England camp fumble, if he was... in the mood. And given the Newcastle player's surprising suggestion and even more surprising attention, he half-suspected that a mutual wank might not be out of the question.
But Maguire was flaccid and defeated. Since he'd watched Luke's heart break in his eyes, his sex drive had collapsed entirely, and he couldn't perform at all. He'd taken quite a lecture from his wife on the matter the night before joining the Lions here: `Married a few months and you're already bored of my pussy?! What sort of man ARE you?!'
The 29-year-old gritted his teeth and gave his cock one last pull, then cursed inwardly and let it fall back between his thigh muscles, dragging his pants up and leaping up off the bed. He saw Trips flinch ever so slightly at the movement of his big body, but his hand never left his oozing cock, and his eyes flicked rapidly back to the open laptop; Harry turned quickly away from him, not wanting to show the embarrassment on his own craggy face. I'm taking a shower,' he muttered, I've seen that video too many times to be horny about it. For fuck's sake mate, we ain't teenagers.'
He stomped through into the adjoining bathroom without another look back at the sweaty frame of Trippier's hunched body and pulsing arm muscles, slamming the door on that scene of casual enjoyment and studying himself angrily in the bathroom mirror. The big oaf who was letting Manchester United sideline him; the huge idiot who had become so obsessed with rivalling Ronaldo that he'd neglected everything else; the ugly fool who'd finally pushed beautiful Luke away!
`Luke! Luuuuke! Oh, LUKE - fuck, fuck, Luuuke, ohhh god-'
Raheem Sterling couldn't help himself, spluttering out his lust and ecstasy, until one of those powerful hands clamped over his lips to shut him up; it was for the best, they were playing it close to the time for wake-ups and breakfast, and his frantic yelping was probably not entirely enclosed by the privacy of their room.
But... it just felt so good. Pressed down on his bed, his cheeks spread and opened, and that huge cock plunging into him yet again, filling him up; the weight and force of the defender's body over his, pistoning him into the mattress and barely making a sound, just tight harsh breathing and the occasional grunt. Those hands, gripping at his sides and his arms, and one of them now clamped over his mouth, the bulging arm muscles squeezing tightly around his shoulders as the bigger lad got faster and closer, really railing him now, in and out at incredible pace, making him tremble and whimper into the clammy palm.
And then that little bit of dirty talk that Luke Shaw would allow towards the end of the deed, the only real communication in it all: `Take my load, take my fucking load, take it you fucking cunt, Aaaghhhgh-' And if it wasn't for the hand over his mouth, the Chelsea forward would squeal out his assent, his desperation, his need for it, the arse-ful of cum that he'd lain awake and craved through most of the night, wondering if it would happen for a fourth time before the international break ended.
Shaw made little noise as he came, and Sterling just pictured his handsome face split in climax, feeling the tightness of his grip and the sudden absence of his thrusts, just lying on top of him and impaled inside his ample backside. Then a few heavy breaths against his cheek and ear, and a long slow groan, and Raheem knew that it was over. Luke was pulling away from his body almost as quickly and mechanically as he had climbed between their beds at sunrise, saying nothing as he patted and squeezed at his bum under the sheets, waiting for Raheem's mumbled, `God, yes, yes.'
Now, Luke retreated. Raheem enjoyed the slow empty release of the cock leaving him gaping, and the final rough touches of Luke's hands on his shoulders and head, and then the pressure release of him jumping off the bed. Pushing his elbows into the mattress and savouring the tingling throb of his ravaged hole, the 27-year-old looked across to the left and admired the gorgeous specimen of the United left-back: a 6ft1 tower of a man, shiny with sweat over his shapely torso and legs, his cock still stiff and slick, standing to attention at his middle as he pulled his hands up and held them to his face, groaning into them in the same slightly rueful, distressed way he seemed to do after finishing.
In a moment, he would disappear for a very long shower, and the Wembley lad would roll onto his back and finger himself while he wanked, maybe snatching up Luke's dirty boxers from the floor between their beds, to pull against his face as he did so. But first...
You're incredible,' he moaned quietly, receiving only a vague grunt from Shaw, who stepped away from his eyeline, flashing his broad back and large rump for a moment. I mean, next time you're down in London for an away game, or I'm coming back up to-'
Nah,' came the strangely surly voice of the other footballer, somewhere beyond the beds, sounding breathless and irritable. I don't think it should happen again. Just a one-time thing. Soz buddy.' His voice was low and without energy, and also ridiculous: one-time? They'd fucked every day of sharing this room, Luke taking him silently and knowingly from behind and emptying a load inside him each time.
But- Sure, sure,' Sterling panted, rubbing his face against the cool side of a pillow, and letting his body sink lower against the bed, no longer pushing his black bottom up into the air to receive that mighty cock. Sure, just a thing this week, yeah... cool, cool...' He let his strained little voice fade into a sleepy sigh, and listened to Shaw's heavy tread as the stud vanished for that long shower - and Raheem cursed himself, thinking that the pair of them had shared a city for many seasons, and he'd not known that the perfect shagger was on the other side of the club divide, far more willing and able than some of the guys he'd bashfully chased at City, KDB more than anyone else.
One-off, he thought with a roll of his eyes, but accepting it - just another strange incident in his largely suppressed sexual curiosity, though more successful than most. But fair enough. Luke, like him, had kids with a woman, so... He rolled onto his back and then dipped an arm over the edge of the bed, his fingers finding Luke's discarded pants. Over his face they went, the rich-smelling cotton bunched against his nostrils, and his hand taking care of his throbber, glad for even this fleeting experience of Luke's burgeoning sexual power.
Jarrod Bowen lifted, unlocked and then locked his phone, for about the dozenth time since slowing awakening. A little notification asked him if he wanted to cancel his upcoming morning alarm, but he ignored it, mentally composing and deleting the urgent little message that he'd almost sent twelve or thirteen times. But this time he pushed his phone away from him, letting it slide off the bedding and onto the carpeted floor of the hotel room.
It was too late, he told himself, listening to the sounds of Coady's shower through the wall - too many people would be up and about now, surely? If he'd sent the little messenger prod to the captain when he first woke up horny, then it would have been viable again, and he could have been sucked off again in that discreet toilet of the dining room, feeding his short thick weapon to the shockingly hungry gob of muttering Kane.
Over and over, Jarrod had almost sent the little `you awake?' message to Harry, and over and over he'd just thumbed the button the side of the handset and put his phone back to sleep, chastising himself. You've got a girlfriend. You're straight. This is fucking mental. He told himself those three things each time, and each time his cock strained a little more impatiently at the front of his taut grey trunks, and he stared meditatively up at the ceiling of unlucky Room 13.
With his roommate Conor still getting cleaned up, the West Ham player just lay there, and his thoughts turned to where they had on several occasions in this hotel stay: what were they up to in Room 18, then? What were Rice and Mount up to, right now? Was it just like... laddish bro banter, or something more romantic, or... nah, surely they weren't banging right now, at this time, with the wake-up knocks coming so fuckin' soon? Did gay lads really shag as much as everyone implied, or was that stereotyping? Jarrod just knew how much more he'd be having sex if his semi-famous bird didn't have a headache or her period every time he made a move, or they weren't staying overnight at her parents' place, where her ominous Cockney father made his hard-on shrivel up with terror.
He... admired Declan. That was it. Yeah, admired. He was so impressed by how cool and calm Rice was, now that Bowen knew his `little' secret. As a mate, he was glad to find out that his captain was in a happy relationship, more than anything else, and he was chuffed for the affable football star, really chuffed, and he admired his bravery in following his heart in a culture of such stigma and fear. He was committed to keeping his teammate's secret, now that he'd been charged with it, and he would do anything to protect the sweet connection he'd accidentally observed between Dec and Mase, for sure. Admiration, yeh. It wasn't that he saw something there that felt missing from his own showy, conventional romance with Dani, or that he kept asking himself these questions about what those two got up to in private, like early morning in a hotel room nearby, or-
Admire Declan Rice? The truth haunted him in the morning light, as Coady emerged from the en suite in a swathe of scented steam, six-pack rippling and mistaken lyrics sang cheerfully to himself; Jarrod sighed frustratedly to the ceiling, pressing his muscular weight back against the mattress and willing his hard-on to fade.
He... envied Declan. Or, worse: did he envy Mason?
Waiting for his alarm to ring, the 22-year-old Chelsea right-back lay on his side, and stared across the room. He'd woken up to the sight of it, it wasn't his fault. And, he thought, he'd drifted into consciousness straight from a saucy little dream about an ex-girlfriend, a really curvy white girl he'd met on a holiday to Ibiza - so, he decided, it was her fault, cos he was probably thinking about her and confused, and that's why it looked so fucking delicious and grabbable there, across the gulf between their beds.
The `it' in question: Ben Chilwell's arse. There was no point denying that to himself now, he supposed, even if for a few moments of slow self-touch, he'd imagined it to be someone else's entirely. But there it was. Conveniently detached from the lad himself by the complicated fold and tangle of his duvet, so that all that was visible of him were the small patches of white skin, contrasting against the triangle of black cotton that made up the rear of his sports briefs, struggling to contain each pert cheek that poked out at either side, squashed against toned thighs. A perfect little arse, the kind you'd love a girl to start rubbing on you in the club, and want to grind your semi against in your baggy pants, and-
It's Ben, he reminded himself, his hand pausing in his slight fumble with his cock under the covers, his face squashed sideways to the pillow, eyes somehow unable to pull away from the sneak peek of his sleeping roomie - or a very particular part of him, anyway, that gentle exposed booty, prodding out from beneath the curve of bedding...
In his sleep, Chilly moved, and Reece James felt two separate jolts of panic. Firstly, he imagined Ben turning this way and looking knowingly at him, somehow able to see that under his own duvet, he was pulling awkwardly on his hard prick, leaking pre-cum on his fingers; secondly, that the duvet would be rearranged, and the perfectly isolated view of that girlish booty would be removed from his sleepy eyes.
But no... the duvet did shift, but a little further up, and so did Ben's body, as a hand came backwards, scratching down his lower back, and then into the tight fabric of the briefs, pulling them down and away to scratch at one butt cheek, and giving Reece a fuller view of it, that fleshy globe, so round and lovely, and not noticeably hairy or manly form here, and- Oh fuck, Reece thought, pulling himself off all the more under the bedsheets, fist rustling and making a few mattress springs creak.
Once he'd spilled his seed on the sheets, he rolled over and faced the other way, trembling as he stared shamefacedly into the wall, and listened to the slight creaks and sighs of Chilly shifting position again - perhaps covering himself up from the cool morning air, or perhaps inadvertently exposing more of his scantily clad form. HIS. Reece had to emphasise the pronoun for himself, scolding his morning glory impatience, and wondering how feasible it was to really confuse a lad and a chick's rear end, for fuck's sake.
In the sleepy moments that preceded the knock on the bedroom door, the young footballer rapidly assured himself that it was stupid, and a hangover from his dream. The fact that he'd woken up faced by Ben's bottom was irrelevant. He'd had a pretty erotic dream about his ex, and was remembering how hot she'd been that night when they met in the beach club, that was all - he'd emptied his tight balls at her memory, and the only silly embarrassment was that Ben might have woken up and caught him at it, after he'd primly told his teammate that they probably shouldn't masturbate in the same room again, it made him uncomfortable.
Really uncomfortable.
`They're gonna knock on us any minute,' he murmured sleepily, eyes still closed, and wishing that he could get a few more hours' kip before the Germany match-day began; but the touching down the front of his underpants was quite firm and insistent, and he could feel Foden's warm closeness against him in the shared bed, which he was pretty sure he'd had to himself when he nodded off last night.
`We can be late to one breakfast,' Phil sniggered, his voice quiet and eager in Jack's ear, and his lips then brushing at the lobe, at his cheek, towards his lips. Jack twisted his face away a little from this, making a frumpy smile, and relaxing all of his sore body in the crowded bed, whilst his cock and balls tingled gently to the stroke of the City lad's fingertips, so skilled and attentive.
`It's Germany tonight,' Grealish murmured in a slow slur of Brummie-ness, rolling his head a little on the pillow and keeping his eyes still shut, as if he could cling to the deep sleep that he'd enjoyed after Sunday's long evening of additional training work for him and the other attacking players, heavily scrutinised by a warlike Southgate.
Yeh,' Foden's voice murmured, tonight, but for now...'
The lad's lips were on his chest now, kissing his sternum and then beginning to lick very gently at one of his broad nipples, sucking softly on it for a few moments. Jack let out an indulgent sigh and pulled his arms up to tuck his hands behind his neck, feeling Phil tickle close to one armpit, but then slid his warm hands down towards his hips, moving bedding aside as he kissed along Jack's furry treasure trail, and began to tug more at the elastic of the black boxer briefs, and...
Come on,' the 27-year-old winger told him in a drawled grunt, wiggling his hips and edging his sleepy body away from the younger athlete's creeping touch. I gotta get up and shower or summat, bruv... we'll be needed at breakfast and then-' Phil's lips were on his cock now, and his hands were peeling the boxers down at either hip, and it felt good, it felt really good, but- `Oh for fuck's sake, I said no,' Jack spat loudly, pulling his lithe figure away from his City teammate, and pushing roughly at one of the youngster's smooth bony shoulders.
In a rustle of duvet, Phil sprang apart from him and sat upright on his knees, blinking furiously and pouting this way with a hurt expression on his pinched features, an air of innocence as if he hadn't been about to use those boyish lips to wake up Jack's whopper. It was a sweet and lovable pose from the City youth, the Golden Boy of Manchester, and yet... Grealish simply was not in the mood.
What?' he barked across the bed, pulling hair out of his eyes. What's your problem?'
Foden blinked some more and began moving his lips, though no sound came out.
Jesus,' Jack snapped, talking over whatever feeble murmur he now made, you need to chill out sometimes, you know. We're not fucking married or anything, kid.' He glared a Phil and, for a short moment, felt a pang of guilt for his gesture and tone - the 22-year-old scally's eyes were wide and a little shiny, his mouth hanging gently open, and he looked incredibly young and vulnerable there in this bed, red patches around his neck and chest. But, Jack thought rapidly, he'd said no repeatedly, and the stupid kid had just kept on at him, making him hot and uncomfortable and...
Foden was breathing out an earnest Sorry...' but Grealish was already hopping out of bed, his bulge bouncing as he readjusted his black undies and pulled more strands of highlighted hair out of his brow and eyes, scraping it all back and exposing his pits as he stood over the bed, still stared at with a mournful expression by the horny Stockport youth, who was shrinking back from him a little and nodding. Sorry, carried away,' he muttered as he drooped to the bed, and Jack turned away rather than look at his embarrassment and self-pity any longer.
The knock at the door came at that exact moment and he stalked away into the bathroom, shouting out to the player liaison worker: `Yep, we're up!' He didn't look back at Phil, who he guessed has curled up against him warm patch in the bed, and he slammed the en suite door after him before unfurling his cock and pissing loudly in the toilet.
That was mean, he knew, like kicking a puppy. But he wasn't in the mood and Foden really did struggle to recognise lines and boundaries, it had to be said. Apart from anything, Grealish wasn't 20-fucking-2 any more, and didn't have a constant hard-on like he'd had at that age, even if he was still a highly-sexed lothario with an appetite that almost always indulged his young admirer. But he knew Phil liked him a bit more than that, he'd been conscious of it very early in their forays, and it was becoming more and more apparent, something insatiable and devoted about the talented youngster, something that actually turned Jack off more than aroused him, he didn't know why - he found it all a bit pathetic and gormless, or something, or he just hated being made to feel guilty that he wasn't lovestruck by the skinny 22-year-old.
And...
Turning the shower on, he thought about that moment on the plane, Ben's face. He'd been silly to go touching up Chilly in the airport, and he hadn't seriously meant for anything to happen on the flight, hadn't expected his ex to take it so... seriously. (Which was stupid, he knew what an earnest and literal guy Ben was, it was something he loved about him.) Well, it had made more sense to invite Ben in with them than say anything else. It wasn't as if they were together, or anything. He didn't owe Chilly any explanation, or-
There was a knock on the bathroom door. `I'm going to breakfast early,' he heard Phil announce tartly through the barrier, pausing then for an answer. Jack, still irked by the young player's touchy-feely insistence, ignored him, and stepped inside the shower cubicle instead, drowning his bare body beneath the hot blast, and trying to sort his head out.
He'd been flirting so hard with Ben since they got here. Really trying to make it clear to him that he missed their good times. He'd even visited him in London that time, that had been a kinda big gesture, hadn't it? The sort Benji liked! So... why didn't Chilly seem to be getting the message, and re-declaring his undying love to him, and insisting they patch things up and actually make use of that stupid engagement ring from all that time ago?
Scrubbing himself guiltily in the shower, the least sharp tool in the England toolbox mused over the problem, unsure why his complete failure to communicate with the man he loved wasn't magically reuniting them and undoing his months and months of sleazy bachelor freedom, much of it boasted of in messages to Ben, all intended to capture his ex's interest and remind him of how good their sex had been. How could Chilly possibly misinterpret all of that?!
In an identical but inverted bathroom a few rooms away, John Stones was pressed back against the tiling of the wall, resting his lofty body there on the cool porcelain, and feeling the edges of the hot spray tickle at his nips and ripple down his six-pack. His straggly wet hair bunched about his crown and his handsome features fell open in a happy groan, the hot steam of the cubicle rising past him and away to the extractor fan above.
Fuck,' the City defender groaned happily, FUCK yes...'
He finished, not even needing to reach down and touch himself, his arms just dangling at his sides, and his cock exploding inside it's soft warm receptacle of his boyfriend's mouth. His balls zinged with the release, tightening against the base of his long heavy prick, and his muscular form slumped all the more weakly against the side of the shower stall.
Slowly, pawing up the sides of his thighs and then his midriff, the face and body of his fellow shower occupant rose up, that open manly face shiny with the drizzle of warm water, and lips a little shinier with something else. Not quite so tall, burly Kyle Walker came up against him, holding his sides and grinning that filthy grin this way, the shower water coursing down his thick neck and over his magnificent chest.
`Good?' slurred the older defensive player, perhaps still swallowing a mouthful of his goo, but then leaning to aside and spitting some of it at the shower floor by their wet feet.
John could only grin and nod, too temporarily wiped to mouth a reply; he slumped there, supported by the wall and by Kyle's hands above his hips. The shorter, thicker-set sporting man pulled in close, cuddling against him, so strong and sure, and John just sighed into the steam, wondering if that was the best blowjob he'd ever experienced.
Jesus man, I'd kill for a blowie right now,' the big chunky goalkeeper chortled, in the middle of towelling dry his crotch, bare-arsed naked in the spacious privacy of Room 8. You should hardly be complaining about that, fella, on a Monday morning.' Large and bare, the Arsenal man had his phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder, holding it there as he carried on with the rugged business of drying down his broad masculine physique, hopping from foot to foot and casting his eyes about for where he'd put his neatly folded clean pants.
Saka was in the shower now, though Ramsdale was far from shy and would happily cavort about with his bollocks loose if the other Arsenal call-up was still in the room with him, listening to his phone conversation with their mutual pal back in London. After the polite wake-up knock five minutes ago, Aaron had washed first, and now swapped places with a sleepy, mumbling Bukayo, when the call came through from Ben White.
Well,' the other Arsenal man huffed down the call, you say that, but- Ergh, I was so embarrassed, mate, seriously. My dick went limp and I couldn't even enjoy the blow-job, if I'm honest. God, why am I even telling you any of this?'
Ramsdale, keeping the phone tilted between shoulder muscle and jawline, gave the towel a good coarse tug between his fluffy thighs and against his flopping privates, then pulled it tight about his waist with a little knot to free his hands up as he strolled to the windows and parted the curtains to open up their room's view of the training facilities beyond the treeline. Because,' the 24-year-old said gruffly, we're mates, and it's what we do. You know you don't have to be embarrassed around me, matey.' There was a thin, depressed sigh from his teammate down the line, and Aaron sensed that more was required from him. `I mean, the whole daft thing will be forgotten in a week's time - she'll have thought of some new extension she wants to do to the house and is begging you to pay for it.'
It did sound pretty mortifying though, he had to admit - it was hard to discern exactly how the dialogue had played out, judging from White's sheepish reporting, but Ramsdale was immediately amused that his friend had been suggesting to his fiance (they'd got engaged around the same time this summer and shared a big party to celebrate) might try again at popping him an experimental finger in the bedroom. After all, pretty boy Ben had been fair traumatised by the curious little slip in the earlier year, confiding it to Aaron as a matter of grave transgression before the pair of them laughed it off in a sweaty sauna, Ramsdale no more experienced or kinky than his pal, but far more grounded in genuine self-confidence and easygoing self-awareness.
She just took me a bit too seriously,' Ben had confided unhappily to him soon after he answered the call, still dripping wet with the towel about his shoulders. Or - I mean, maybe she was just having a laugh? I'm still not sure. But fucking hell, the look on her face last night, mate-'
It seemed that Whitey's little hints and murmurings had been taken to part by his eager-to-please WAG, and last night he'd been greeted back at their London home by an array of sex toys on a towel, with a box labelled `Anal Explorer for Real Men!' screaming its name at him from a wicker bin by the door. By the time the poor girl had convinced Benjamin to unlock their en suite shower room and rejoin her on the bed, all of the toys were in said bin, and an apology blow-job had ensued, as she tried to calm him down from the misunderstanding about what he wanted to try.
Ramsdale had struggled to keep a straight face as he listened to the story, catching sight of his broad grin in a mirror and stifling the beginning of a matey laugh - Whitey sounded horrified by the whole narrative and pretty sure his engagement was about to be called off because of his panicky over-reaction and subsequent floppy whilst being fellated.
It'll be grand,' the goalkeeper told the defender. She probably WAS just kidding, y'know - pushing your limits! It'll be a funny story on her hen do and nowt more, fella.'
On her hen do?' Ben exclaimed furiously over the phone, suddenly aflame with paranoia, and now Aaron did laugh, an easy rich sound, and then his voice was soothing and placting, Chill out mate, I'm JOKING, obviously... ah buddy, go take a jog or something and release the tension, you've had a strange night. But honestly, I'm sure she doesn't care, and I'm sure you'll be back to happy consensual activity by midweek, even if you're both a bit shy and embarrassed for now...! Ah buddy, I do miss ya - wish you'd made it here this week again, instead of... well, certain others, huh.'
Talk about it,' the 24-year-old centre-back grumbled quietly. But it's been chill... mainly. See you soon, I guess.'
Should be back Tuesday afternoon if you want a pint,' he said warmly, then taking a risk, that's if you aren't being pegged or owt, y'know...'
Mate!' came the panicky and scolding voice of his London friend, but he was glad to hear Ben awkwardly join with his low gruff chuckle. They said their goodbyes and Ben began apologising for the call, which Aaron cut off, a chummy Love ya, dickhead' before hanging up on him and finally finding his folded white briefs at the bottom of his tidied bedding, and yanking them up his thick legs under the towel - as he did, he laughed and shook his head, bemused by his knowledge of his friend's intimate life, and by the image of Ben's face at walking into the master bedroom and seeing- what, exactly?
As he shucked away the towel and began dragging the clingy new England training gear over his burly form, Ramsdale's mind wandered idly over that question, realising that he wasn't all that sure what the toys might have been, and what different things White's missus might have been suggesting they try - he wasn't entirely sure what `pegging' meant, had just heard it in a bit of locker-room banter over the years. But Saka was emerging from the bathroom, his slim body dark and glistening, and distracting him with comments on how late they were for breakfast, so Aaron forgot about it and moved on.
And finally, downstairs, in a roomy disabled cubicle off the main mens' toilets, dangerously adjacent to the dining room that was being set up for breakfast: the captain, stood in front of him, back to the rattly cubicle door, so decidedly tall and broad-shouldered up close, a difficult bloke to imagine in delicate positions - and Jude Bellingham himself, trying to look mean and confident, but feeling jittery and hesitant, hands on the hips of his loose-fitting bed-shorts, a tight vest clinging to his long slim torso.
The 6ft1 19-year-old frowned across the square space at the other England player, then tugged impatiently at the outline in the front of his loose shorts, the pressing morning boner that had stirred him from sleep and pushed him to send that risky message to his national skipper. Well, it had got them here, hadn't it? He just hadn't expected it to be so... well, complicated.
Come on,' Birmingham's young hero muttered, twitching where he stood, and pulling again at the front of his shorts, where the material tented about his youthful hard-on. I know you're into it. Just get on yer knees and-'
I'm your captain,' Kane grunted in a heavy tone, glaring back at him where he stood, a thick hooded top on and relatively skimpy shorts that showed off the length and power of his striker's legs, his feet shoved into ill-fitting sliders at the bottom. I'm a married man, kid, and I don't know what you've heard, but-'
It came out in a hot rush of breath. I HEARD you, mate, in HERE,' the Bundesliga prodigy barked a bit too loudly, inching aggressively forward, and taking one hand from his hip so he could point accusingly at the 6ft2 England hero. I know what you were up to, you dirty pig, and I know you'll bend down and do it for me too, so-'
Still the 29-year-old was giving him a look of apparent oblivion, his head tilted slightly and his little eyes narrowed to match the angry sneer on his mouth. He'd folded sturdy arms across his chest after locking the cubicle door, and now he stared him down in a way that made Bellingham shrink back that inch or two to the loo. What sort of thing is that to text your skipper, eh?' snapped the Tottenham Hotspur legend. I've got a wife and kids, for fuck's sake, and I wake up to...' He pulled his phone out from the front pouch of his hoodie, and read Jude's message aloud. `Meet me in that toilet downstairs, you slut - got heavy balls and need to unload them. Wow. Was this ACTUALLY meant for me, or for...?'
A series of hot indignant thoughts competed in Jude's wired brain: well, the big prick did know what toilet he meant, so how the hell could he deny it? And he'd come down to meet him here, hadn't he? What was he on about? Jude knew what he'd heard, almost seen! Harry Kane snuffling about in here like a right slag, and Bowen's firm demanding voice telling him to swallow it all, so... Fucking hell, had he imagined it?! Was he going mad? Kane had been there, hadn't he, that time with Maguire and Pickford and Smith-Rowe, so-
I think we call this a misunderstanding,' the striker growled seriously. I guess you were texting some girl who works here, right? Someone you met over the weekend?' That glower was really strangely intimidating, from someone of Harry's position - presumably the skipper could get him dropped from the World Cup with a nod to the manager, and Bellingham's early-morning sexual frustration was quickly dissipating, replaced with career panic and a renewed sense of shame that he wanted a bloke to nosh him off. (If only Pickford had been here, part of him thought, but then he felt nauseated by his own naughty desire.)
`Er - but - I just-' The false starts spluttered from his mouth in his thin Brum accent, and he felt the hot pink flush to his brown cheeks. He glared confrontationally back at his captain, not quite ready to accept that he'd imagined it, and feeling the blood drain from his erection in his shorts, now that it was clearly not gonna be gobbled up by the Walthamstow thug in front of him.
`Unless you're gonna kneel down and nosh me off?' Kane blurted roughly.
Fuck off,' Bellingham yelped back at him. I'm not-'
Then why were you luring me down here, you little tart?' the captain demanded. Huh, thought so. A little slut yourself, I bet. Who knows what crap they get up to in German changing rooms, I say.' This was taking a dark turn, Jude thought, and he glared nervously at the lock on the door - but Harry was already backing into it and undoing it, then shouldering the door open with a metallic rattle. `You don't have a clue what you're doing, kid,' the striker barked, about to leave him - a series of images were rushing through Jude's head, and they included him sat in the canalside bars of his home city, watching the World Cup from afar in a sulk, and knowing that his misunderstanding or arrogant demand had cost him his debut on that incredible stage... he didn't understand what was going on here, with the behaviour of Kane, whether he'd genuinely misread what was going on with him and Bowen the other night, or... but he DID know what he wanted, and he said it before he could have possibly thought it through.
Yeh,' the tall 19-year-old slurred, taking two steps forward across the square cubicle, eyes wide and hungry, I'll do it. I'll suck you off, if you promise me I'm coming to the World Cup, mate. Captain. Sir.'
Kane had just about left him, hovering in the gloomy space beyond, already heading for the door that would take him through into the more public space of their hotel. But now the Tottenham man was leaning back this way, taking hold of the rattling cubicle door, and giving him a thoughtful look. For a moment, Bellingham felt like maybe he was seeing through a facade of bravado - the 29-year-old didn't look so authoritative or certain, the same flash of worry in his little eyes that had escaped when he first arrived down here to confront Jude over the sexually aggressive WhatsApp message.
Jude was hearing his own words back to himself, his sudden crude offer. He was disgusted, but mainly by the truth of it. To see himself on that world stage in the heat of winter, he knew he'd do anything. His knees were already buckling, lowering to the soft linoleum of the toilet floor, and his tall slim body trembled nervously as he did so. In the months since having his nob sucked by Jordan Pickford, the teenager hadn't once considered the notion of ever returning that dirty favour on another lad, of course fucking not - and suddenly here he was, kneeling down and staring with wide eyes and trembling lip at a man 10 years his senior, who was stepping back inside the cubicle with him and towering over, 6ft2 of prime English meat, rubbing thoughtfully at the crotch of his shorts.
Their eyes met, and he was worried by how grave Kane's expression was. What he couldn't see, not really, was the fear behind those eyes - the horror he'd ignited in his captain, by being yet another surly youngster who wanted to make use of him, and without any of Emile Smith-Rowe's smirking charisma. What Jude couldn't know was how close Harry had been to rushing down here and swallowing that load for him, but the complicated panic that had set in on the way down, and the need to pull back and maintain his status, his dignity; even now, stood over him, Kane was privately thinking about the thirsty messages to Emile, and how his sexual appetite was spiralling out of control.
Now he looked down at the nervous expression on Jude's face, and just tutted. Knew it,' he grunted. Knew you were another slut. Get up off the floor, for fuck's sake. Football don't work like that. You'll earn your place on the team like everyone else.' And he backed off, his body language furious and indignant, as if he hadn't prostrated himself on that very floor for Jarrod a few nights ago, his beard painted in the stocky lad's seed.
And Bellingham stayed where he was, shaking, and only slowly picking himself up once the outer door had slammed after Kane. The teen stayed in the men's room for several more minutes, washing his face in cold water and cringing deeply at the offer he'd just made, almost entirely out of the blue, followed by the cold rejection of his captain - what would this mean for his chances in the Cup, after all?
Morose, the Brummie lad emerged and took a seat at the breakfast tables nearby, staring dumbly around the room. Ramsdale and Saka were tumbling cheerfully in and waving at him as they picked up plates and queued at the buffet area, and Belleingham could just gesture weakly back from his chair, appetite drained; Walker and Stones were bustling past him with loaded plates, both pausing to slap and squeeze his shoulder on the way past, clearly in very high spirits; Maguire was looming silently by the windows onto the grounds, joined by Dier and Henderson, and a twitchy looking Foden was settling down into a chair to his left, glancing anxiously about the room as if looking for somebody.
`Not hungry?' the Man City player asked quietly.
Even the word `hungry' made Bellingham think about what he'd almost done, and he berated himself silently for making that offer - where the hell had it come from?! He had no intention of sucking a dick, never ever! He realised he was staring silently at the other young England star and then shook his head glumly. Others were joining them at this section of tables, Shaw and Sterling and Coady, and he nodded dimly at each of them, his eyes roving back towards the buffet queue, and the sight of the captain at the head of it - stood there with plate in hands, deep in murmured conversation with Gareth Southgate, saying goodness knows what about tonight's Germany match.
Oh, fuck.
ANOTHER STRING OF TEASERS FOR YOU... THOUGHT IT'D BE FUN TO INVERT PART 315 AND EXPLORE ALL THOSE DIFFERENT BEDROOMS FROM SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT ANGLES. MAYBE ONE MORE '3 LIONS' STORY TO CLOSE THE INTERNATIONAL BREAK, BUT WHO WILL IT BE...?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share