Part 319: Horny Magpies
The coach pulled up outside of the towering stadium at the height of the North East city, and the players emerged one by one - each man clad in slight variations of the same blue and black tracksuit, some with polo shirts clinging to muscular upper bodies and others swathed in a layer of hoody. But it wasn't just the club and sponsor marked outfits that connected the Magpies who alighted in the grey concrete space behind St James Park this lunchtime; most of the gents also wore a very satisfied smile on their faces. Like the uniform tracksuits, these smiles did vary somewhat - from the deep self-satisfied smirk on one French winger's face to the tight-lipped anxious grin of a local 19-year-old's, from the casual confidence of their acting captain and unofficial leader to the nervously wired energy in the smile of their recent Dutch acquisition - but the facial expressions connected the Newcastle United players almost as much as the active-wear that hugged their well-trained physiques on the way past the cameras and keener fans, heading on into Newcastle's footballing cathedral.
The Toon lads made their way inside the stadium in pairs or clusters, waving to the local media and small assembly of early fans, and began to get ready for their afternoon clash with visitors Brentford - they were energised and ready, though many of them were not quite so pent-up and poised as their manager's rules said they ought to be: the usual Premiership sex ban of the professional footballer in the nights running up to a scheduled game. For the most part, the men stuck to that rule, leaving many a gagging WAG on Tyneside, of course - but this morning, that chaste professionalism had been derailed for a number of them, a few miles north of here, in the privacy of their Gosforth training campus... but rather than drained or exhausted, the horny Magpies were arriving at the stadium ready for battle, bonded and refreshed by a little bit of morning excitement.
Kieran Trippier had been among the first of the blokes to arrive at the training ground this Saturday morning, and he started his working day with a light treadmill jog in the same shorts and t-shirt that he'd slept in, his smirking wife reaching for him across the bed and whispering that a dawn quickie would hardly ruin his energy levels for an easy fixture like Brentford... but the 32-year-old Manc footballer had grinned and kissed at his missus and dismissed her touch, sticking to the rules for a change.
Now, he had to admit, he was regretting it slightly: his neglected chubby dong bouncing and twitching in the pouch of his briefs as he jogged on the spot, rubbing against the rustling texture of his shorts, and making him grin frustratedly and wish he was back in that warm den with his partner for another half hour or so.
With a long and heavy sigh, Trippier punched at the buttons of the treadmill machine, slowing and then stopping its pace, and reaching a panting halt with his sweaty hands clasped to the rail at either side. Kieran stood there for several minutes catching his breath, a light sweat patch appearing on the chest and pits of his pale grey t-shirt, and his cock and balls resting between his meaty thighs in the grip of briefs and shorts, still ticklish and resentful of the missed fun of early morn.
Wrinkling his nose up in irritation at his own moment of good behaviour, the right-back risked a few tugs and fiddles at the crotch of his shorts, adjusting the sit of his bulge, and then hopping off the running machine to stroll across and fetch his water bottle. Through a glass partition, he spotted a handful of his Toon pals working out in the next section of the fitness suite, and he glugged on water with a towel about his shoulders as he strolled on in to join them. `Alreet,' he called in his best adopted Geordie, acknowledging two local lads who were lifting free weights in front of the mirror, then giving a nod and wave to the Brazilians at the machines and the back-up goalkeeper resting at the drinking fountain.
Why aye man,' echoed the team's returning Brazilian midfielder from the leg weights machine he was powering against, spotted by his fellow countryman. My accent is better than Kieran's,' Joelinton de Lira chuckled confidently in spite of the evidence, bumping fists with Bruno Guimaraes at his side. The other Brazilian midfielder, his fresh bleached blond hair matching the 26-year-old's, sniggered in agreement and piped up with his own stilting `Haway, man.'
Trippier smirked at them and then shot a friendly wink at real Geordie lad Eliott Anderson, who was in the middle of hoisting impressive weights over both shoulders and grinning uncertainly at the various accent attempts, perhaps unsure whether to be offended or impressed. Next to the young lad, Blyth-born Dan Burn was more decisive in his judgement. `Yer all shite,' the gigantic 30-year-old announced simply, letting his chosen weights clang to the floor and then stretching his arms and chest muscles casually in a skimpy vest.
Trippier laughed at this and joined Loris Karius at the water, waiting for a moment before barging the German keeper out of his way and topping up his bottle to slake his morning thirst. Or one of his morning thirsts, anyway. His cock and balls tingled in his briefs as the handsome German bloke pushed playfully back at him and then retired to sit on a free weights bench without saying anything - the Thor lookalike was extremely reserved and private, despite Kieran's best efforts to integrate him into the friendly squad.
The 32-year-old leant on the fountain machine and supped his water whilst friendly chat passed back and forth between the Brazilians and Geordies, and a couple more arriving players drifted in through the double-doors to join them. Quietly, Kieran couldn't help but tug some more at the front of his shorts, finding a chubby semi down there, and cursing that he could have ploughed his gorgeous wife in their bed before hopping in the BMW and making his way here through the suburbs.
Fuck,' the Bury-born football player thought aloud, I'm so horny this morning.'
Nearest to him, Karius looked up sharply at this overshare, and so did lightbulb-headed Bruno, turning away from the machine where Joelinton was testing his calf muscles. Oh?!' the 24-year-old Brazilian exclaimed, grinning this way with the usual boyish energy that made him so likeable and charming. Thanks for telling people,' he chuckled in slow and uncertain English, shaking his head. He looked more amused than offended, but Kieran found the German keeper's stern expression harder to read.
`Telling people what?' the other Brazilian was grunting, still focused on his leg workout.
`Apparently the bugger's horny,' remarked Burn dryly, still flexing and warming down from his weightlifting, and looking pretty nonplussed by the info; at his side, Kieran noticed a look of slight alarm on the acned young face of Anderson, and he winked at the burly 19-year-old again to reassure him, before shrugging at the room in general.
Just saying,' Trippier mused quietly. You know how it is when you're saving up your spunk before a big game.'
`Brentford's a big game?' laughed Dan Burn with the same dry disinterest, returning his weights to the rack and selecting some lighter dumbbells for his next exercise; but Eliott was still stood with the weighted bar in both hands, his slightly nervous expression staring curiously this way as if waiting for a punchline.
However, one of the gym's latter arrivals interrupted the moment of slight tension in a gruff Scottish snigger: That bastard's always horny,' 28-year-old Ryan Fraser informed the room from where he was doing his stretches. The stories he tells on the coaches to away games, jesus christ...!' The Scotsman's remark caused a ripple of comfortable laughter across their little gathering, with most of the lads having either heard Trippier's storytelling, or heard one of the naughty anecdotes second-hand. Kieran himself grinned delightedly at the banter, unashamed, but very aware that his storytelling was selective: the stories he shared with his teammates didn't always specify the gender of the playmate in the inappropriate situation, if they were from his recent period in Spain. He'd only shared THOSE details with his captaincy partner Jamaal Lascelles, who was staring a little anxiously at him from the far side of the gym, in the middle of lacing up his trainers, and colouring a little red on his cheeks, a cute look on a 6ft2 beefcake of muscle and tattoo.
Dunno what the wee Scotty means,' Trippier sniggered idly. I'm a good lad, me. Not my fault if my cock makes all the choices, y'know?' Goaded by the mood of the room, he pulled and fiddled more with the crotch of his shorts, and leaned heavily on the top of the water fountain with a thoughtful sigh. I dunno if I'll be able to wait until after our 6-0 win before I spend this load, y'know.' This crass comment was met with a pleasant mixture of hooting laughter, pantomime groans, and one more severe Jesus, pal' muttered by self-conscious Lascelles, strutting past to go to the high bars by the window where he proceeded to pull himself up in a series of easy moves that highlighted the bulge of his big shoulders and glutes, all happily observed by Trippier.
Just saying,' the 32-year-old star told them all lightly, since you all seem so interested.'
`Who said they were interested?' jibed Dan coolly - next to him, Eliott tittered nervously, cheeks a bit red, scratching at his own crotch through his baggy dark shorts.
`You Englishmen are so weird,' Joelinton was muttering, but Guimaraes was still bursting with laughter at the dirty comments, as the two Brazilian studs swapped places on the leg weight machine.
Go toss yerself off if ya need to,' grumbled little Fraser, selecting weights from the rack, and turning to give him a lewd smirk. Nobody will mind, and maybe the rest of us will get our fitness work done, eh?'
Kieran stood still for a moment, sipping his water and letting his eyes explore the room: all that bulging and flexing muscle as the other footballers did their light fitness work, warming up their bodies before the afternoon's main event. Lots of them must feel as frisky as me, he thought, if they've been well-behaved this week on Eddie Howe's orders! Trippier, who had put much work into befriending them all and living up to his regular captain armbands as a group leader, smirked recklessly and thought aloud once more: You know what, Fraze, I think I will do just that.' He downed the last of his cool water and strutted down the centre of the gym space, pulling showily at the bulge in his musty shorts. I'll be in the main showers if anyone else needs to attend to business, ha ha.'
Kiwi striker Chris Wood had gone straight to the showers on parking up at the Gosforth training centre - he was, as usual, starting on the bench, and he thought he was unlikely to be fielded against Brentford later today, so he was taking it easy and snubbing the chance for a little more fitness work before they kitted up.
Scrubbed clean, the 6ft3 New Zealander was sat on a stiff bench to one side of the communal showers, squirting a little dollar of skin-cream into his palm and then rubbing it into his rugged facial features, a towel about his thick waist but his upper half on muscular display, still shiny wet.
Wood was not alone in the spacious changing rooms, with Switzerland's Fabian Schar and his rival striker Callum Wilson both in different states of undress against the far wall, but he still looked up curiously as a door slammed and another Newcastle player joined them; Trips was in the process of peeling off a grey t-shirt as he swaggered across the room, a mischievous look on his gritty features.
`Howdy,' the team's unofficial chief called, and Chris smiled welcomingly at the shorter bloke, getting up from his bench and then grinning self-consciously at being caught in his skincare regime, as if most Prem players weren't just as vain and beautified by their bossy female partners.
`Good workout?' Wood called to the English bloke - their dialogue made Schar and Wilson turn from the business of undressing, giving greeting nods to the newer arrival, and the Kiwi player thought that both blokes looked faintly suspicious... well, Trips did always have a slight look of being up to no good, it was one of the things the Kiwi forward liked about his captain.
Just a little jog,' the former Spurs and Atletico player informed him - behind him, the door was swinging open and a couple of other players were coming on into the changing rooms in an awkward hurry - this seemed to make Trippier turn and smirk knowingly at the arrivals, and Chris Wood felt that some message he didn't understand was passing between the guys. He didn't need to wonder for long. Ryan Fraser, one of the two arrivals, called loudly across the locker-room, striding after Trippier: This horny bastard has come in here for a wank, just thought I should warn you lot, haha!'
Wood smiled vaguely at this outburst, never quite sure he understood the diminutive Scot's sense of humour, but then puzzled as he saw the wicked grin on Trippier's face as he turned back to face the others. Beyond him, the reactions of Schar and Wilson were very different: the good-looking Swiss centre-back was just smiling mildly, still busy undoing the flies of his skinny jeans, but dominant striker Wilson was staring almost furiously at Fraser.
And RyRy here has followed me in!' Kieran was announcing lightly. Just so everybody knows... haha.' He proceeded to toss his grey t-shirt into a corner and sit down beside Wood to undo his laces and yank down his socks.
Chris found himself laughing heavily at the scene, but he could hear his own uncertainty conveyed in his voice as he chided them. You lot are bonkers.' Because standing a few feet away, Ryan had shoved a hand into the front of his sweatpants and he was staring feverishly from Trips to Wilson, who was still glowering oddly. Wood was about to say more, suddenly worried that these blokes weren't joking, when Fraser turned and addressed the other player who'd entered with him, his voice loud and coarse: So what, you just needed a shower at this exact moment, Geordie lad?' he demanded.
Anderson looked deeply uncomfortably, his thick young arms folded over the chest of his sweaty top, and his eyes flitting uncertainly about the room. Fraser was cackling, and Trippier was chuckling to himself as he pulled his shorts down over his thighs. Wood caught sight of the prominent bulge in his black briefs and averted his eyes politely, suddenly feeling the need to be out of here - he'd heard about this sort of thing from friends in the sport, but he'd never had a brush with any kinky games in his long career. The confident Kiwi was a serial womaniser and unashamed player, but... there were lines he'd regarded only with a prudish disinterest.
Give it a rest, Fraser,' called Callum Wilson crossly. Everyone's sick of your banter.'
There was some obscure tension crackling between those two, Wood thought slowly, but without really questioning it - they usually seemed close friends, and everyone knew they had history at other clubs before both signing for the Magpies. Chris blinked repeatedly and rubbed a little excess moisturiser away from the expansive bridge of his nose. He held the knot his towel wrap carefully and tried to judge what was going on. Next to him, Trips was whipping his briefs down and off in one fluid bend of movement, then twirling the skimpy underpants from a single digit, bollock naked and smirking.
Like I told them in the gym,' he said simply, I just need to toss one off. Don't mind me.'
Dutch giant Sven Botman was alone in the showers, deaf to the loud voices in the locker-room as he ragged his fingers through his soapy hair, scratching at his scalp before the froth was blasted away by hot water that coursed down his 6ft4 physique, a sharp and angular pillar of muscle.
`Oh,' the Netherlands defender commented as another player stepped up to the showerhead two places to his right, the shorter and stockier figure of Kieran Trippier - Botman was about to say more to his defensive partner when he abruptly noticed that the right-back was holding his prominent cock in one hand as he stepped under the stream of hot water and sighed against its hiss, as if he was about to- Yep, he was actually wanking off, getting his exposed nob hard in one and then two hands, casual and brazen in the steamy enclosure of the showers.
Sven blinked the sting of shampoo out of his disbelieving eyes, and he turned that way to face the other man, taken aback. Kieran was ten years his senior and one of the players who had done the most to welcome him since his summer arrival; he had much respect for the de facto captain, far more than for most of his colleagues here at his new club. And here the 30-something English guy was, tugging himself off in front of him in a way that Sven hadn't witnessed since his free-spirited teens back in the Low Countries.
`Oh,' Botman said again, his voice mild and monotone.
`You don't mind, do ya?' Trippier said, his voice almost a yawn, turning this way; he had one hand low to cup his fat balls, whilst the other slid up and down the thick shaft of his equipment, a veiny number that appeared obnoxiously large to Botman because of the 5ft10 defender's stockier frame - Sven knew his own piece to be decent sized, but his giant stature made it appear average at best, which had always struck him as unfair.
`Er, no,' the Dutch youth said slowly and uncertainly, reaching an internal decision to be unfazed - after all, it had been like this in the youth academy at Ajax, in the open-minded culture of his home country, he was just surprised to find it in the adult sport, and here in uptight Engeland.
Horny as fuck, Fraser followed into the showers. He'd woken up as raging with testosterone as Trips must have, and he'd actually started playing with himself in the shadows of his rural home before setting off for here - but he'd been impatient and frustrated and failed to unload, bundling into his Range Rover with the hard-on stuffed awkwardly inside the front of his sweatpants. The substitute winger had felt like his mind was being read when Trip announced his mood to the gym, and his usual coarse humour had exploded out of him, trying to test Kieran's boundaries with his banter and jibes... but here was the truth of it. He was following the older lad hurriedly into the showers, hastily stripped off, and now staring eagerly at the rock-hard glutes clenched at the man's backside, and then he handful of cock that he was massaging around the other side.
Like any man of his height in a context of lofty athletes, Ryan was hungrily comparative about cock size, glad that his own dick looked like it should belong to a taller fella; it was barely average, truth be told, but being 5ft4 made it look all the more impressive in his neatly clipped crotch, as he took it in hand and muscled into the space between Trippier and Botman, sniggering to himself and making blunt eye contact with both other players. He tore his eyes from the sight of Trippier's lazy strokes and grinned admiringly at Sven, a real beanpole of a lad with action movie good looks, a jawline like a sharp mountain ridge. Both of them were turning him on as he thumbed at his foreskin and let out another throaty giggle, wondering if he would have to settle for voyeurism this morning.
But then the dinky Scotsman's attention was pulled away from the two wet studs on his left and right, because others were joining them. Of course, big Cal had been undressing to shower already, and he was strutting in now with a show of slow disinterest - Ryan had noticed him out doing a solitary run on the training pitch from a gym window, something of a loner when it came to his fitness regimen. Or, he thought sadly, just more desperate than ever to avoid him.
Fraser stared hungrily as Callum loosed his towel and hung it on a peg by the entrance, a broad-shouldered 5ft11 lumbering across to the wall, all rippling brown muscle and strained polite expression. It seemed so long ago, the silent tussles of body between them in the summer of their move here, but still he longed for physical closeness with his long-time buddy. The new frost between them had been inspired by Fraser making a drunken pass at Wilson under the table at a team charity dinner last month, and he'd known it was stupid to fondle him in his suit pants... but he couldn't help himself. He missed having access to that big cock that now swung loosely between mighty bare thighs.
Wilson seemed to notice him staring, and his glowering frown returned; as if it would spark jealousy from his friend and temporary lover, Fraser stared sharply away, back to Trips, who seemed to have been studying this silent little interaction as if he understood everything. Trippier had paused, hand on his cock, and the other rubbing across his decorated chest muscles. The corner of Kieran's smile twitched.
Well,' muttered the right-back in a slight growl, are you gonna suck it, or not?'
Eliott Anderson hesitated in the changing rooms, staring at the obscure wall of mist that filled the rectangular entrance to the shower block; he'd stared at the doors out of the gym in the same way beforehand, blinking furiously and watching Trippier leave in bewilderment, before Fraser had winked encouragingly at him and set off after the other man without comment. Anderson, coughing self-consciously, had said something dismissive (What are them two like, man?', shaking his head at Dan Burn) and then in a strangled voice announced his need for a shower (Sweatin' buckets, like!') before scampering after the other two, unable to look at the other players as he did.
And now the 5ft10 midfielder was pausing with his training top bundled in both hands, the ripped muscle of his freckled upper body on show, and the others all disappeared into the steam; Eliott was still undecided whether it was all a dumb joke, and he wasn't 100% sure if that dark episode with Ryan Fraser in his conservatory had even taken place - it still seemed so incredible to the teen that he'd quietly sat down and let the 28-year-old nosh him off in the shadows whilst his folks slept upstairs.
The 19-year-old was more than semi hard in the front of his baggy boxers and shorts, but still he stood there peering into the steam, and unsure if he dared follow the older fellas in there. He thought he might walk in on some sordid scene like he'd glimpsed in his earlier teens, or worse - just the boring norm of bare footballers hosing their bodies down and staring anywhere but at each other. His bare torso trembled and shivered, nips hard.
All of a sudden, footsteps and voices crashed into the room with him, and Eliott darted guiltily to one side as if caught out - it wasn't even the other lads form the fitness suite, who'd been fellow witnesses to Trippier's crude announcement.
It was just a lone Allan Saint-Maximin, calling back at someone in the corridor, and whipping a training jersey away from the thick dark muscles of his upper body as he burst into the room and began to shuck dirty trainers away from his feet. He smelt of the sweet autumn decomposition outside, mixed with rich sweat, and he was grinning broadly at him before slapping him on one bare shoulder. `Are you okay?' the Frenchman asked brightly, bolting past him and continuing to strip off at one side of the locker-room.
A faint memory stirred Anderson, of an eye-opening scene he'd briefly encountered in these showers several years ago, when he made his first trial appearance in the senior squad, and been alarmed to see Andy Carroll go down on his knees and- Eliott had repressed the image for years, and he was no longer sure who had and hadn't been there that cold afternoon of discovery. Carefully buried, at least until the other weekend and Fraser's hands on his aching thighs, lips on his-
`What?' Saint-Maximin barked almost worriedly at him, in the process of pulling off grey-white socks, his strong black body bare but for the contrasting off-white of his designer trunks, ostentatiously full at the front.
...Nothing,' murmured Anderson awkwardly, still holding his t-shirt in both hands. Just...' He almost felt like should warn the French player: I think some of the others are jerking off in the showers, for fuck's sake, and I'm half-tempted to join them. But then... he didn't know what Allan was or wasn't into, his head suddenly full of questions, and... The door was swinging open, and whoever had been shouting conversation at the French player was joining them - Guimaraes and Joelinton, bustling across the room, and Burn looming after them, and...
In front of him, Saint-Maximin peeled down his white undies, letting loose the snake beneath his curly lawn of pubes, an oversized appendage for the stocky 5ft8 build of the returning winger, long-injured; and then the 25-year-old was strutting on into the steam, baring a simple view of his short strong back and his prominent round buttocks, and Anderson followed him without even pulling down his shorts, drawn inexorably into the heat of the showers, and Trippier's infectious mood.
As soon as he was in the showers, Allan laughed and understood the tortured look he'd seen on young Eliott's face - oh, right, the lads were getting up to no good! His simple locs shook as he laughed heartily and took his place at the wall, grabbing for some soap and elbowing a button until hot water cascaded over his muscular body.
In front of him, a smirking Kieran was leant back against the tiled wall, water and suds pouring down his broad chest of tattoos and then down the little trail of fur that spanned his six-pack; that rugged Scotch lad Ryan was on his knees in front of him, holding his thick thighs and bobbing back and forth to suck on his dick, a pint-sized slut worshipping at the altar of his captain.
The French footballer laughed again, couldn't help it. He'd caught the Scottish guy checking his equipment out in the shower before, and flashed him a sleazy open-minded wink, trying to imply that he'd rather be touched than looked at, but Fraser had always scuttled anxiously away, failing to take the hint, or intimidated by the reality. It was thus no surprise to see him on his knees like this, and strangely it was even less surprise to see that randy English guy Trippier letting him - he was always going on about his exploits in quiet moments, and Allan had speculated for months that his conquests couldn't all be women.
Instantly, the 25-year-old was pulling and stroking at his dormant cock, and glancing about him to see how others were reacting to the mischief. Amusingly, Anderson was close by, still in his shorts, staring awkwardly at what was happening, just beyond the watery spray of the active showers. Young Botman, though, was playing with himself right behind them, a strange sneering smile on his face as he watched; just behind him, Schar had sidled up, his tall strong form glossy wet but his cock limp and untouched despite the bemused interest on his angular face. Further past him, Callum Wilson was staring at the deed but holding back, water cascading off the plateau of his thick shoulders, and his face was thunder!
Others were entering the showers, making the cuboid room feel thicker with steam, quickly claustrophobic as other bodies muscled in close: the ridiculous 6ft6 presence of Dan Burn could fill any room, running one hand through his golden blond hair, and his loud `Fucking hell, guys' rattling through the watery buzz of the room; he was flanked on either side by the squad's pair of Brazilian stars, their expressions in contrast, one heavy and sceptical, the other bright and entertained; and two more manly silhouettes approaching behind them, Allan able to make out the hulking outline of their benched main captain, Lascelles, and the indistinct blond presence of... oh yes, the new goalkeeper, Karius.
A loudly cleared throat signalled Saint-Maximin to the presence of one more player, who he'd not noticed before, but stood very close to his right, just behind him. For a moment, he stared at him in profile: the intense set of his eyes, the hard rugged lines of his nose and jawline, the rise and fall of his full chest muscles. Chris Wood looked like he was about to either start a fight or demand his turn on Fraser's mouth, and Saint-Maximin was excited to find out which.
He pulled on his own gently stiffening member and grinned interestedly, catching Trippier by the eye. In his deeply accented English, he called out over the creak and gurgle of plumbing: `Well, my friend - is he any good?'
Bruno bounded into the centre of the room like a puppy. Oh yes, this was going to be fun. He couldn't wipe the broad smile from his cheeky features, pulling on his cock and bustling in next to them, as Fraser was passed from Trippier to Saint-Maximin, the room now just a mass of dripping wet bodies.
The 24-year-old turned back and grinned encouragingly at his fellow Brazilian, but saw the stony hesitation on Joelinton's blinking face. Oh, for fuck's sake. The 6ft1 midfield player looked like he wanted to run away, but his big heavy cock said otherwise, already rising up between his broad furry thighs, the foreskin peeling naturally back from the fat tip - the fat tip that Bruno had tasted many things since the old pals were reunited here at their damp English football club in the far North-East.
Just two days ago, after both getting their hair bleached platinum, he'd pulled over in a back-street and swallowed a salty load from the 26-year-old in his Porsche, ignoring Joelinton's nervous protests about waiting until they were back at one of their mansions, where their respective partners never asked questions about the locked door gaming sessions between the pair of Latino power players.
And when it was just the two of them, like it was on international duty in shared suites, the bigger bulkier man seemed to have no qualms about letting Bruno satisfy his needs - but he seemed to be terrified of anyone else finding out what they indulged in, especially here in the Tyneside chill.
Now, stepping through the steam, Guimaraes felt the thrill of discovery: he'd hoped there might be other men here with a kinky side to match his own, and he looked on with wide eyes as Saint-Maximin fed his curved dark sword into the parted lips of Fraser's beetroot-red face, making the short scruffy Scotsman gag and choke whilst reaching down to jerk himself off in an excited wet frenzy.
Bruno turned his excited eyes back to Trippier, who seemed to be the centrepoint of this filth, and he grinned excitedly at the older guy, whose comments about being horny had caused quite a stirring in his gym shorts - yet he'd not dared to think that the cocky married English dude would be open to this sort of thing! Checking out his cute rump across the gym and the sweat patches in his t-shirt... how exciting to find him so open-minded after all, hehe.
He felt one of Joelinton's large hands on his shoulder, touching him in a way that seemed to signal caution or discretion, but... they were all men together, bundled into this hot wet environment, and they were all riled up by the manager's sex ban, and- His cock was rock hard, a slim stiff weapon tipped with angry scarlet where the circumcised head bulged and pointed, and he took it in hand, looking all about him and becoming over-excited, a bright platinum blond at the heart of the huddle.
He ignored Joelinton's cautious hand on his shoulders and sank forward to his knees, eye contact locked with Kieran as he did so, until he was staring eagerly up at the older man with his pouting pink lips encircling his wet prick, taking a taste of English cock for the first time.
Nobody in that muscular huddle felt more conflicted than Callum Wilson: the 30-year-old striker was trying to will down the thickening and stiffening of his long heavy cock, holding himself back, shaking a little bit as his body cooled without the hot water gushing against it - normally so casually confident in his well-maintained body, but now self-conscious of nakedness because he knew how quickly his excitement might show...
It had been a long time since Wilson had allowed Fraser to creep quietly into his bed on an away trip, something he had indulged for too many hot tense months in their transition from Bournemouth to Newcastle. And now it felt to him like the little Scottish slut was goading and insulting him with this behaviour!
It had made him sweat and panic, the feel of Ryan's hand sliding down the inside leg of his trousers a few weeks ago, sat next to each other at one of the smart round tables of the charity dinner - his wife on his other side, oblivious to the wandering mitt on his thigh, making him want to punch and kick at stupid Fraser for being so stupid and dangerous...! He'd given his old mate an aggressive talking to out back by the bins, but held back from the smack to his face that he'd felt an urge towards... well, a punch, or to grab his head and push it down to crotch height, one or the other violent urge.
Fraser was doing this to piss him off. He must be. Getting down on his knees in front of everyone like this, a dirty slag with his mouth over one cock, two cocks, three cocks - now blowing Sven Botman, with the Dutchman's large hands grasping at the rough honey-brown curl of his hair, ragging his head back and forward to fuck his mouth - the mouth that had once wrapped about Callum's own veiny erection beneath the duvet, snuffling quietly away until it was eating his spunk.
Callum's pecs heaved and his hands curled in and out of fists. His cock was rising and swelling in spite of his mental efforts. Fucking hell. He wanted to kick and punch his old friend for this behaviour, for trying to embarrass him like this, but, but, but- he also wanted to take hold of him and pull him away from these other bastards, to take hold of him and push him against the wall and... and...
It took Wilson a moment to appreciate that someone was touching his cock, because it was so twitchy and sensitive that it could almost be feeling so good on its own, but... He turned his broad angry face to the right, staring right at Schar. The sharp good-looking features of the Swiss centre-back smiled ambivalently at him, and the 6ft2 hunk continued to gently stroke him side-on, rubbing fingers shamelessly against the veiny shaft, and finally letting out a gentle purr of laughter. `Is that okay, friend?' he murmured.
Cal let out further rough groans of breath, his hands still bunched into fists, ready to fight his way out of this small crowd with Ryan thrown over his shoulder like a damsel in distress; but his cock responded to the strangely tender touch of the other tall strong man, who grinned invitingly at him, and nodded downwards. Come on,' purred Fabian. Help me out?'
Jamaal stared in front of him at the sight of Kieran being blown by the wiry Brazilian, the fresh bleach of his hair almost glowing as it blocked view of Trippier's crotch; Lascelles would find it hard to explain quite why he was so panicked and stressed by all this, given that he'd offered up his weighty cock to his co-captain only a few weekends ago in the creaky toilet cubicle of a Newcastle pub. Not to mention the finger in his hole, prodding him to his climax...
In part, he was scared of exposure, having previously felt confident in the secrecy of what he'd allowed to happen with his fellow team leader, though he'd had his own tentative brushes with a couple of the lads here before, in this very shower block... Those were hazy memories for the burly centre-back substitute, uncertain experiments that had spiralled after being fingered by the legendary Shearer after a game of golf.
But aside from panic and stress... he was as horny as anyone else. Almost unconsciously, the big broad hunk had begun to play with himself, sliding a hand against his cock and then grabbing loosely at his full balls. Around him, it seemed that everyone was grabbing hold of their dicks, either wanking off or being blown by one of the two crouching deviants. He was shocked by both Fraser and Guimaraes as cock-sucking miscreants, too worried to be open-minded by it. After all, how many times had he wondered himself what it might be like to... put his mouth... down there and-
`This is mad,' grumbled a low voice just beside him, and he glanced at the youngest of the assembled football players in the steamy huddle of Magpies.
Young Anderson looked out of place, shorts still on, and his body so firm and pale in the varying shades of the other guys' bodies. As he turned his thin face this way, eyes wide, he also looked particularly uncomfortable, but... well, he did have one hand pushed down the front of his shorts, holding himself in there, so he was probably as desperate to unload as any other hot-blooded Toon Army guy in the room, so...
`Here,' Lascelles grunted with a sudden lunge of risk, grabbing and rubbing at one of the shorter lad's clammy shoulders, then letting the hand stroke across his spine and down his back somewhat, until it was creeping about the front, knuckling down his tight six-pack, and then... Elliot was yanking his own shaky hand out of his shorts, and Jamaal's was pushing in instead, until he could feel the hot firmness of the teenager's cock. Anderson stared questioningly at him and Lascelles just frowned back in a manner of false command and authority, the lad's captain and mentor, pretending he wasn't just as uncomfortable and conflicted about this outburst of naughty fun...
`Drop the shorts,' the increasingly left-out Newcastle captain groweld quietly, his voice mingling with the sighs and grunts around them, the watery drips and the low murmur of pipes overhead; and Elliot did as he was told, pushing down at the hips, and letting his thick strong tool into view, until Jamaal could grab it properly, and pull back the foreskin, and run a thumb over the tip, making the youth tremble and gasp.
Another surge of risk-taking and boldness in the 28-year-old defender's chest, and... Here,' he barked into the fray, Bruno - the young lad needs your lips on him, hey?'
Joelinton watched his secret playmate shuffle from dick to dick, until he was hunched in front of the ripped slim body of the teenager, sucking him off with the same bobbing manner that he'd repeatedly serviced him. The big Brazilian footballer slowly turned over the vague pangs of envy or competition, and pulled back and forth on the thick curving dong that rose up from his bush of pubes.
The 26-year-old didn't look at anyone else, didn't want to let his eyes dwell on the sight of any other man's hard cock, or the glistening bodies that seemed to surround him at every angle - but he did watch the glistening curves and lines of Bruno's pale brown physique and thinly detailed tattoos, muscling into new comfortably positions so that he could wank off one man with each hand and still apply his skilled mouth to the groaning, gurning local teenager, whose eyes were squeezed shut as he threw his head back and swore loudly in his brutal local accent.
Joelinton didn't know how he felt about any of this. It was one thing quietly allowing Bruno to explore his body in private, but to see him so debased in front of others, to see these ugly Englishmen and others enjoying his Rio de Janeiro boy-toy, well... It sparked a strange indignation in him, and he wanted to shout out that they should respect their Guimaraes, the most talented young man in their whole fucking squad, but-
Horny and confused, the big man started to pull back, unable to enjoy the scene. His dick was hard but his hand felt numb and uncomfortable against it, and he knew that he would somehow reveal too much if he started pushing the others aside and claiming his Bruno for himself. He staggered back, pushing a lever and drenching himself in some lukewarm water before ambling back into the airy square of the locker-room, leaving the other sordid players behind him...
Dan Burn sensed the departure of one teammate and he was tempted to do the same. This was a bit wrong, wasn't it? I mean, none of them were gay or anything, that he knew? They shouldn't be doing this shit, should they? It was hardly normal action for lads like the, but-
Well, the 6ft6 giant DID have his cock in his hand, hard as anything against his palm and fingers, a mighty length of meat that was all in proportion for his huge Northumbrian frame. Why was he hard? Why was he so horny, like everyone else? Well, he'd been feeling it all week, holding back from fucking his wife, but that wasn't anything unusual, that was standard footballer life, it was just-
Just to his side, Elliot Anderson let out a particularly loud groan, and the realisation hit the 30-year-old that his rugged young pal was cumming. The fact shocked Burn, but it was hard to say why - it was the inevitable outcome of what they were all doing, playing with their dicks in this sweaty huddle, bodies too close to each other, but still...!
One of Anderson's hands reached out and gripped his forearm tightly, seemingly for support, and Dan felt initially repulsed. But he held firm, allowing the smaller and younger footy lad to lean on him and steady himself, since otherwise he'd go sliding to the floor and maybe crack his daft head on the tiles. Polite friendliness left the big 30-year-old feeling trapped, one hand on his huge nob and the other grasping for the slippery defined muscle of Elliot's arm to hold him in place, whilst...
He stared down, and saw streaks of Anderson's goo coat the wicked smirk on Bruno's tanned and goateed face. Holy fuck. The Brazilian smirked up at them with trails of cum oozing over his dimpled cheeks and hairy chin, and then was rising up off his knees, laughing and licking his lips, the filthy cunt...
And that was too much for him. Dan backed off, pushing away from them, his huge cock swinging between his hairy legs. He lurched backwards and burst out of the showers, briefly connecting guilty eyes with Joelinton, who was towelling himself in moody silence at the far side of the square room. The two footballers stared only briefly at each other in a strange moment of shared outrage, and he assumed that the burly Brazilian felt as confused as he did by the behaviour of the others. (A voice in Dan's head pointed out that his cock was still furiously hard and throbbing, and maybe so had Joe's been, but...)
Behind him, intermingled with the crash of the showers being turned on and off by hands or elbows, he heard someone else's loud strangled groan, even more showy and guttural than Anderson's, as another player emptied their bollocks, and he rushed further away, snatching for a towel as quickly as he could, and looking for where he'd left his things.
Fabian Schar sighed contentedly as he came, Callum's strong hand bringing his dick to climax far quicker than the sensitive touch of his otherwise very satisfying female fiancee; he'd felt a man's grip on his cock before and it was much more rapidly effective, more like wanking yourself. As he came, releasing a stream and then specks of his fluid against the slippery wet floor, he paused his mutual action, but left his tight white-knuckled fist against the girthy feel of big Cal; but as soon as he'd heaved out a few recovery breaths, he pulled rapidly on the other man to return the favour and finish the job, the two muscular players shoulder-to-shoulder at one side of the glistening group.
Looking ahead of him, his cock still throbbing and his chubby smooth balls tingling, Fabian couldn't help but laugh at the macho excess of it all. This was a bit crazy. The Swiss player was pretty casual about his infrequent dabbling into same-sex fun, but this group madness was a bit much for him, and now he'd finished, he wanted away from it, even from the heaving sweaty mass of Callum's arm brushing his.
He turned and gave Wilson a wan smile, vaguely amused by the look of dopey regret on the striker's open face. He hadn't cum yet but Fabian couldn't stand here all morning and play with another guy's meat, not after he'd shed his own seven-day load. He shrugged apologetically at the other player and wriggled past him, just patting him on both shoulders with damp hands, and then darting towards the big rectangular exit, striding confidently out of the steam and past the hunched and shame-faced awkwardness of Dan Burn, past the moody glare of Joelinton, to pick up his towel and run it down his ripped torso, brushing off the taboo of his morning fun. He'd been amused, and aroused, and he'd emptied his sack, and now he needed to get ready for the match.
Lorius Karius hesitated where he had stood for many minutes now, both transfixed and rigidly reserved, trying to decide what he thought about this bunch of idiots. The German had been very slowly integrating himself into the Newcastle squad, curious to see what his new club could bring after his wilderness years of loan absence from Liverpool FC. The 6ft2 blonde had a lot of thoughts about his potential future on Tyneside, especially after Dubravka's exit, but those thoughts had not included... THIS.
Elliot Anderson staggered weakly past him, and the shell-shocked teenager flashed him a panicky look as he did so, and Karius just stared ambivalently back at the youngster who came swaying by, dick swinging free, and body glossy with sweat. He was crashing off towards a corner showerhead to clean himself, and Lorius reverted his gaze to the centre of the room, and the remaining players...
It was Chris Wood now, the New Zealander, who was fucking Ryan Fraser in the face, humping the grizzled bearded features of the little Scot; with Botman, Trippier and Guimaraes wanking in a circle about them, all laughing loudly. Wilson was hovering close by, and so was Lascelles, both of them wanking too, just a little further from the central action. Lorius took in the determined set of their faces, the mixed emotions that rippled across each manly profile. He was naked himself, a folded towel draped on one shoulder, and his mane of hair neatly tied back in its man-bun.
Now the tall 29-year-old shifted his head and lowered his own grizzled beard downwards, letting his eyes rove past his defined chest and the trial of blond fur that led down past his navel. Hmm. Curious. His cock was a bit stiff too, prodding forward from the trimmed bush of his pale pubes, lifting over the weight of his low-hanging balls. Odd. He hadn't noticed.
Come on,' grunted Jamaal's throaty voice suddenly to his right. Join in, mate.'
Karius stared dumbly at the other tall well-built man, his thoughts strangely slow in this steamy heat, and his initial frostiness melting. As alarmed as he'd been by Trips being such a boor, here he was, getting as hard as anyone else, so... He glanced to the left now, and his eyes met Wilson's. Like Lascelles, the striker was wanking himself off, his hand pumping back and forth in fast motion. The German goalkeeper let out an uncertain grunt and, having stood and watched in silent uncertainty, he now grasped his cock and wanked it, letting go; this was madness, utter madness... but if you can't beat them, join them?
This, Trippier thought, was a bit more worth it than the quick nookie he might have shared with the missus before getting out of the house this morning. That would have been cute fun and perfectly satisfying, but this was... Haha, well, this was far more team bonding then he'd managed to lead so far in his Toon stint, that's for sure!
One by one, the lads came and went. He'd loved watching Anderson in his moment of climax, having strongly admired the gruff teenager from a distance since joining the club - he suspected the experience was pretty new to 19-year-old Elliot, and couldn't help but mentally note the potential to get more mischief out of the Whitley Bay lad.
And then... Bruno himself, gushing with cum whilst licking Elliot's load off his lips, spunking down Sven's leg and making the Dutch stud frown disapprovingly but carry on anyway! And then Chris Wood fucking Fraser's face so roughly and practically screaming out his relief as he filled that Scottish gob with his juices, haha. The steamy shower block emptied slowly, Ryan seeming to have finished himself off unnoticed, so that he went scampering out soon too, following close behind Callum Wilson, whose cum had splashed back against his impressive six-pack because his hand action was so frenzied.
When Lascelles was in the throes of orgasm, Trippier had winked cheekily across at him, glad to see his co-captain enjoy himself like that. He might have hurried across to help him out, perhaps slip him a finger again, but then the big guy was gasping in climax and almost keeling over.
Before he knew it, it was just the pair of them. Him, resting his clammy shoulder-blades back against the wall tiles, and the stern German features of that beautiful blond bastard from Liverpool's past. Trippier couldn't help but smirk as he pulled his stocky 5ft10 frame away from the wall, hand still glued to his prick; he thought of the harsh judgmental stare from the new goalie when he'd announced his horny mood to the gym, looking pretty horrified by his crass Mancunian Englishness. And now here he was, right in front of him, pumping that gorgeous straight cock in his hand, the muscles in one arm bulging outrageously; god, the big Teutonic keeper had really got hench over the years away from the Premiership limelight, hadn't he...?
`Turns out you were horny too?' the 32-year-old grunted as he drew closer to the other remaining player in the spunk-stained shower block, the voices of their teammates echoing back in to them from the changing room, where everyone had staggered away to once finished... leaving just the two of them, the 6ft2 goalie and the grinning right-back, who now slid one hand down and forward until his fingers were brushing at the wet tip of Karius.
`Huh,' grunted Lorius without words, hunching forward, all bulging shoulders and pecs, a vision from a Thor sequel, framed in the swirling lingering steam; and Kieran took his cock in hand, taking control of it, squeezing and pulling it, and still pumping himself - then pushing them together so he could wank them both with his hands, their cocks touching and rubbing, and his own biceps and chest muscles heaving at the climactic efforts.
Karius closed his eyes and groaned, and Trippier made another mental note: how had he not appreciated how beautiful this fucker was before? Well, today had given him a lot of new targets for playmates, haha...
Cum for me,' he grunted hoarsely. You're close.'
`This is fucked up,' came the German's neat, clipped English.
`Spunk for me, haha. Come on, mate.'
`Fuck, you're weird, mate...'
`Your cock feels great on mine. You love it.'
`Ugh... ugh...'
`That's it, fella. Empty your big balls. Come on.'
`Ohhhh FUCK-'
Kieran kept one hand on their exploding cocks, his own load withheld until the moment of mutual satisfaction, and lifted the other to press against one of the bigger man's heavy shoulders, their bodies close but parted, their cum smearing against one another's hot crotches. Karius continued to heave pained gasps at him and Trippier just chuckled and sniggered, and then slowly brought one of his hands up to his face; Loris opened his eyes just in time to stare in fascinated horror as Kieran slid one gooey finger between his lips and tasted the German icing, savouring the salty tang on his lips, having resisted the urge to suck some cock alongside Bruno and Ryan. It didn't do to have everyone seeing him that way, when he was gradually becoming the gaffer's go-to captain.
Trippier licked his lips and then wiped his fingers clean on one of Karius' rock-hard pectoral muscles, then pulled back from him with another throaty laugh. `Good stuff, big fella. Good stuff.'
And later that day, he and everyone else enjoyed their 5-1 win - even those who had ducked out of the surprising group action felt strangely relaxed and liberated as they approached the game, embracing the frenzied win over Brentford. But those who'd really embraced the fun played with furious energy, Bruno more than anyone, scoring his brace with gusto. Wilson, Wood, Anderson and Saint-Maximin, all of them bolting across the pitch in their segments of the match, something unleashed in each of them by the morning's adventure - lots of knowing looks throughout the build-up and the 90 minutes of the game, and in the hot showers afterwards, where sidelong glances of acknowledgement were shyly shared, but no further sordidness emerged. Not yet, anyway.
And Trippier, politely handing the captain's armband back to Lascelles as they buttoned up their starchy white shirts side by side in the home changing room, glanced thoughtfully about the room, identifying the many players from their morning misbehaviour - hmm, lots of options for fun, the 32-year-old mused excitedly, glancing at flashes of exposed leg or back muscle, the odd cotton-clad buttock or prominent bulge. And the Manc bloke licked his lips and started doing up the tie of his team suit, ready to attend the celebratory drinks with the execs and guests up in hospitality, and idly wondering if he'd have the energy for that shag he'd promised his wife once he got home.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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