Part 348: Rematch
It was hardly the first time the two Premiership sides had faced off in the past two and a half years, but it was the first time in a while that he'd found the professional reunion quite so difficult to blink impassively away; filing past each other on the way out of the tunnel, his opponent in the crisp blue kit of Leicester City, whilst his own gear was layered under the warm-up tracksuit of the Aston Villa subs bench. As always, the Foxes winger carefully averted his eyes as the two young men passed close to each other, suddenly very busy untying and retying a drawstring on his footy shorts, and then leaning down to examine the laces of his boots, anything but glance up and share the standard nods or handshakes of acknowledgement shared between opposing players at this point. And, as always, the Villa defender himself was pretty happy to strut on by, his body language stiffening, and his mind flashing back briefly to October 2020, and the close encounters that had set the two up-and-coming players at odds with each other. A bad tackle on the pitch, and a worse one in the stadium car park.
Ordinarily, it was just a moment's discomfort and hazy regret - how many times had Aston Villa come up against their Midlands rivals in the league and the cup since that October weekend between national lockdowns...? It was a memory that Matty Cash had increasingly learnt to suppress and ignore, and laugh at internally, even if bumping into Harvey Barnes through their competitive sport also gave him a jolt and a little colour in his cheeks. But ordinarily it would pass in moments and the 25-year-old could just focus on his game time, shrugging off the fact that once upon a time a scuffle between them had gone in a strange direction and given him paranoid night sweats for the rest of the month. Ordinarily.
Today, taking his place in a comfortable seat at the edge of the home pitch, the Slough-born Poland national found it difficult to relax his 6ft1 body and tune back in to the quiet muttering of his fellow substitutes, and instead watched intently as the Leicester starting line-up first formed a discreet huddle of discussion and then began to take their places on one side of the Villa Park pitch.
For almost 60 minutes of the Saturday afternoon game he was stuck on the sidelines like this, the inactivity allowing him to wallow in recurring images of the memory: the aggressive tackle of his own that had instigated everything, and the rough scrappy dog aggression of the Burnley lad who'd pulled him aside and squared up to him; the brief silly fisticuffs and bloodied lips between them, and then the inappropriate and totally unwanted kiss that Harvey Barnes had landed on his own shocked lips. Matty's memory always honed in on his own words, angrily spitting back at the weirdo that HE should be the one to get on his knees - it had been Harvey who made it weird and sexual or whatever, but Cash could always hear himself spitting angrily back at the short lad, and then pushing him roughly down and taking everything out on his mouth. His mouth. Swaddled in tracksuit and puffer coat, the country-swapping World Cup upstart shivered, and turned anxiously to the men on either side of him to see what they were discussing, anything to lift his mind out of a memory from over two years ago.
To his left, Calum Chambers was chatting quite contentedly to John McGinn about their plans for tomorrow, attention leaving the game behind, and on his right, Phil Coutinho was speaking rapid Spanish to the newcomer Moreno, pausing and faltering when they caught Matt's eye, and immediately apologising for being rude. He tried to laugh off the language barrier and shrug casually at the Latino men, conscious yet again of his limited languages skill - he'd been assigned as a welcome buddy to Alexandre Moreno, the club's January signing from Real Betis, and tried his best to befriend the new left-back, only to find that the newcomer's English was even worse than his attempted Spanish, and to have to be replaced in the job by Coutinho here. Though Spanish was not the South American man's first language, he was clearly a lot more broadly spoken than the average Englishman. Not a big deal, but Cash had been chuffed to be asked, and seen it as a chance to start proving he was captain material.
And of course, these days language barriers and feeling lost in translation were pretty regular experiences for the English 25-year-old, from every Poland training session to his promotional TV appearances in the mother country of his maternal grandparents. He was still getting regularly roasted here at Villa with impressions of the Polish TV Christmas advert he'd recorded, with various gobbledegook outbursts lampooning his handling of a complex new language.
After a short mumbled exchange to include him, the Brazilian and Spanish players went back to quicker discourse in their native language, Coutinho sounding quite aggressively critical of the manager's decision to leave them on the bench - the former Liverpool icon had been fiercely loyal to the ill-fated Steven Gerrard in his tenure, and made no secrets of the fact he'd only signed for the mid-table Birmingham club to honour his retired teammate. Though he'd yet to secure a high-profile transfer out of Villa Park, he was quietly vicious about the coaches and management now, and it was a bit worrying that he might be passing such attitudes on to the newbie.
This left Matty feeling out of place next to them, and reflective about how often he'd been in this position since his 2021 passport grab for his Polish roots. And this, he reflected, was probably the reason his mood was a bit off today, and why his eyes couldn't stop picking Harvey Barnes out of the football melee, and thinking back to when they'd both been just 22, and full of youthful aggression. A memory that Cash had long been able to file away as a freakish one-off had been brought back front and centre, and he was pretty sure he could blame it on the language barrier...
After all, he thought, he must have misunderstood something that day, shortly before Poland were knocked out of the World Cup, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in the sauna with them. Probably Robert Lewandowski had said something a bit more clear to him, and he'd misunderstood: the international star striker had oddly become his closest ally on the team, since media exposure and league-flitting had given the experienced 34-year-old a better grasp of English than the majority of their teammates. But even big Lewy slipped casually from English to Polish, often jokingly trying to educate and encourage him by emphasising key Polish expressions to him, and laughing a bit less resentfully than others when he struggled with the pronunciation.
Thinking back to that tense afternoon before their last game, Matty now suspected that the Barcelona forward must have said something to suggest what was going on, had maybe warned him or tried to sound out his readiness, and he'd missed it. On Poland duty, the Slough lad had quickly fallen into a habit of just nodding and smiling, always desperate to convey his pride and pleasure to play with them, and his determination to represent this ancestral country, even if some critics in the Polish FA wanted to sneer at his loyalty-switching in order to get into international footy.
At the time, though, Cash had just thought it was another standard part of the training recovery, another way for the team members to relax and gather strength before the following day's knockout match that would end their Qatar run. And, he mused uncomfortably, in a sense, it was. Certainly for Lewandowski, he thought, it was a great way to relax and gather strength, and... maybe for him too. But for Zurkowski...?
In a way, this memory from late November was dimmer than that of October 2020, the aggressive intimacy that haunted him right now at the Villa-Leicester game. This more recent memory was awash with thick steamy air and the heady euphoria of the whole World Cup debutant experience, every day of it a new adventure for the full-back. One minute he was accepting Lewandowski's invite and nodding eagerly at the other 6ft1 man, then undressing with him and a few others, who were all laughing and bantering in their shared language, Cash barely able to take hold of a key word or phrase. And then they were all sat in the wood-lined sauna in their towels, and still there was much hearty laughter and chatter, and most of it directed at midfielder Szymon Zurkowski - there seemed to be an in-joke between the blokes that he couldn't follow, and one that made the midfield player squirm and blush and do a lot less laughing than everybody else, though his apparent discomfort soon turned out to be a kind of feverish eagerness, when the first of the other blokes undid his towel and flicked it playfully at Zurkowski's sweaty chest.
When Szymon then began to get down on his knees and wrap his mouth about Jan Bednarek's soft prick, Matty must have looked shocked and horrified, his mouth hanging open and the rivulets of sweat coursing down either side of his face. One large calm hand rested on his thigh, gripping him lightly through the dampening towel, and Robert had just given him a friendly expansive look. `You want to be next?' came the striker and captain's simple question, and Matty had felt entirely out of his depth, lost in the Polish chatter of these other footballers, overwhelmed by heat and sweat.
He didn't know what he'd said to Lewandowski in that moment, if he'd said anything at all, but he knew what he hadn't said: Oh, sorry old chap, I think I misunderstood what was going on - we don't do this sort of thing in England, you see, so I'll just go take a cold shower and-' Nope. None of that. A moment later he'd been gently parting his huge thighs and pressing his back fearfully into the wooden slats of the wall, looking down into Szymon's shiny face, and hearing the gruff encouraging laughter and slurred speech fo the Polish men around him, and just a couple of words of English from a beaming Lewandowski: Relax, enjoy it, haha.' His cock was taken between the hot lips and when he'd peered nervously down his gleaming torso, it wasn't Szymon Zurkowski he pictured gobbling on his nervous semi, but a pink-cheeked redhead from Lancashire, and the distant memory had become a lot less distant.
For a short while, the hosts led 2-1, a goal from his best pal Watkins being seconded by a Souttar own goal; but then Maddison's effort was joined by three more from other Foxes players, and the final result arrived at a dispiriting 4-2 defeat. Try as he might, Cash couldn't make any impact in the final third of the match, and he lost his footing a few times when midfield action brought him into awkward contact with a particular winger; the first few times he and Barnes went head-to-head, he fluffed it, far too self-conscious to play at his most aggressively defensive, but then on the fourth encounter, close to the final whistle, he went in very over-excitedly for a heavy tackle that might earn an instant red card, but was so stupidly physical and bullish that he went crashing down over the turf instead while the ginger lad sped away with the ball and almost assisted a fifth Leicester goal, while Cash was wiping mud and grass off the taut arse and thighs of his Villa home kit shorts.
Moments later, Barnes stalked past him, his face blotchy red and his eyes wild, and the two 25-year-old players looked sharply at one another for the first time in over two years, rather than the awkward politeness of ignorance that they had always opted for in the tunnel for two whole seasons. And Cash himself stared back, still adjusting his shirt and shorts, sore and grazed from the way he'd slid to a fall, and his heart rate spiking excitedly as he thought back to the pugnacious intimacy they'd found against a concrete pillar in the shadows of the car park. But then the final whistle was going, and the moment was broken, Harvey shouting excitedly and running to join the huge pile-on celebrations of the other Leicester players, whilst Matty could only trudge slowly in towards the consoling hugs of the defeated hosts, waving apologetically to their fans before disappearing sadly indoors.
In the sauna of their Qatari hotel, he'd gripped a rough hand over the back of Zurkowski's head, cheered by the three other men for this dominant gesture; Lewandowski had clapped him roughly on the back and shook at his shaggy wet hair, calling him a Boss' and a King' as he thrust up with his hips and fucked Szymon in the mouth, returning to the scrappy violence of that day two Octobers ago. He'd cum quickly, his entire body overheated and quivering, and he'd had to blink the sweat out of his eyes several times to see who it was reeling away from his crotch, lips glossy and dirty, seeing the earnest blond lad, coughing and choking, and not the angry features of the Burnley bugger. Spent and overwhelmed, Matty had poured back against the wall and clutched hands to his head, ashamed of the red mist that had descended over him, but surrounded by encouraging laughter and noise from the big men of the Poland squad, who fully approved, and even Zurkowski, dazed and still coughing, was slapping one of his big thigh muscles and saying one of the few Polish words that he could use with confidence: `Thanks.'
The sauna incident had sort of vanished into the rush of new experiences. The next day they were defeated and almost immediately preparing to leave Doha. There was much pride and joy in the Poland camp even at this defeat, lots of self-congratulation for making it so far, and there was so much for Cash to enjoy - he hardly had a moment to reflect on the sauna episode until he was enjoying a few days off on his own, lingering at a nearby beach resort and soaking up a little more Middle Eastern sun before returning to bleak UK winter. But even in a deckchair with a cocktail and no football excitement to distract him, Matty found himself unable to form a proper thought about what he'd been encouraged to do; if he'd felt so inclined, it was almost as if he could have happily just written it off as an odd dream, and dismissed it as fiction. There had been no oddness between him and Zurkowski in the final game or the team goodbyes, nor with Lewy or any of the other senior players who'd also enjoyed their turn in that steamy box; no oddness or even the slightest acknowledgement.
No serious thought or worry on that beach, nor on his flight to Birmingham International, nor as he returned to training with Aston Villa; not a thought over Christmas or New Year or for the entirety of January 2023, and now this. The first Saturday of February, losing 4-2 to Leicester City, and... here he was, marching down a broad windy street of different chain hotels, hood pulled up and beanie pulled low for discretion, reading the big neon signs to find the right accommodation that had been named in Harvey's message.
It was the Poland experience, he told himself again, that had made today different, made it harder to ignore Barnes or the madness they'd once shared. That was why he'd sent the first DM on social media, sat shrouded in towels in the home locker-room, and ignoring the slew of positive messages from his own friends, family, and fans. `Thought you were gonna start on me again for that bad tackle - sorry bro' followed by a crying-laughing emoji, thrown hastily into Barnes' inbox before either time had even exited the Villa Park stadium; there'd been no quick reply, and he'd even wondered if his opponent had sensibly blocked him in the years that had passed. (He certainly hadn't blocked him immediately; back in the winter of 2020, Cash had received any number of vague reacts and half-formed messages from the Lancashire lad via the same app, never actually referencing what had happened, but seeming to beg for his attention, and usually sent in the small hours of the morning.)
But later that evening, whilst Matty was at a big meal with his girlfriend and her family, the replies had started to come through. First, the series of ROFL images and gifs, and then the As if you could bring me down now' and Put on a lot of muscle since then' comments, to which he could only LOL and send back his own gifs of some braindead gym bloke flexing and posing. Distracted from being the perfect boyfriend at the Thai restaurant, Matty had found himself taking too long in the loos, stood over the urinal long after the last drop of piss, composing the next short message to the lad he'd fought with, and really unsure of where he was heading with his comments of We've both grown up since then' and I'd still have you whimpering in a corner, haha'.
Now, in the chill winds of the central Birmingham street, he paused and shivered despite the layers he wore, and wondered if he should be in the car home with his girlfriend. She'd looked furious when he apologetically told her he had to meet the lads for a conciliatory drink after such a harsh defeat, but she'd kinda understood. And, he told himself, it wasn't even a full lie: Martinez was hosting a party of sorts at his city centre penthouse, a few blocks away, so at least he hadn't invented the occasion that he'd ditched her for, after failing to make much chat during the dinner with her folks and siblings. Sure, he wasn't actually heading there, but still...
Instead, he was looking up at the logo and signage of the right upmarket hotel, the last on this block of similar buildings, and then reopening the messaging thread with the Leicester player, checking that he wasn't getting the wrong end of the stick. U up for a rematch?' was the message from Barnes that had made him pause only a moment after using the phone to make contactless payment on the restaurant bill for everybody, and it hadn't really moved much past this euphemism and innuendo: I'm feeling pretty cheeky - you should come put me in my place' had really got his cock semi in his ripped skinny jeans.
Now, stood out on the pavement, the 25-year-old defender thumbed in a cautious last message to the winger. `Wot bout ur roomm8?' He paused, device in both hands, wrinkling his nose and biting his lip, and glancing side to side as if someone was going to catch him loitering outside the Leicester City hotel base on a Saturday night. I shouldn't be here, he reminded himself, I shouldn't be digging up this nonsense. But Qatar...
Not here,' pinged the reply on the messaging app, then Just me'. A moment, and then, `U outside? Think I can see from window'. And, inevitably, Cash looked warily up, his eyes scanning the inscrutable rows of tinted windows that towered over the entrance, none of them showing him anything. He shivered again and hesitated. He could switch apps and summon a taxi and follow his missus home at speed, saying he'd changed his mind and felt bad; fuck, he could even just walk on a couple of streets more and be at the Martinez party, if it was even still happening...!
But the memory haunted him now, the memory that he'd totally buried until today, after the initial regret and anxiety that it had caused him two winters ago. He thought of being in that sauna, grabbed and encouraged by a football icon like Lewandowski himself, his towel being pulled aside for him by somebody else, and Zurkowski's gently opening mouth... Fuck.
With a long huff of breath, the Villa player bundled himself in through the automatic doors and across the foyer of the hotel, letting himself into the first of the elevators before anybody could spot or recognise him. On the swift journey up to the right floor, he felt sweaty under his clothes, and he had some instant regret; the floors he was travelling to would be full of Foxes players, and how easily would he find the room that Barnes had named for him? What was he after here? A fight, or a blow-job? For a moment, his memory focused uncomfortably on a different element of that close encounter, remembering how shuddering Harvey had grabbed and tried to snog him before being forced to his knees, and it made him queasy with internalised homophobia. There'd be none of that...!
But the lift doors were opening on the sixth floor and it was too late, he thought, stepping out into the corridor and then following it quickly to the left, tracing the room numbers and triple-checking the message from Harvey before he knocked on the wrong one. But when he found it, darting his grey eyes back and forth down the endless Shining-esque corridor, the correct door was actually open by an inch or two, apparently waiting for him - he wasn't sure why this little touch gave him a shudder of transgressive excitement, but it did, and he lost some of his nervous indecision, though the sweat remained in his pits and the crotch of his Ted Baker boxer briefs.
Inside the hotel suite, Cash shoved the door shut firmly behind him, and stared heatedly ahead: there he was, the ruddy features of Harvey Barnes, currently stood pouring a miniature rum into two glasses of cola, his top already off to expose the surprising muscle definition of his upper body, and baggy jogging bottoms drooping from his slim waist. He looked up, all pink cheeks and shifty eyes, and smirked a greeting. `Hey, Mr Poland,' he remarked against the icy tinkle of poured alcohol.
Matty went to speak but found his mouth dry and cottony and just a dim gurgle came out. He cleared his throat and tried again, aiming for a really gruff and assertive voice. Hey, scrappy,' he said, taking another couple of steps into the room. Do I have to pop your lip this time, or are you just gonna get straight on your knees?' He could hear the needless violence in it, sounding a little hollow and forced, but he also felt excited by it, his cock twitching inside his trunks and denim. He grinned his wolfish grin at the other 25-year-old footballer, stood tall and bulky in his layers, and watching Harvey's gently blushing features and toned upper body muscle. And then, like a bucket of cold water over him, was the sound of a toilet being flushed, and a jaunty whistle, alarming him to the presence of another City player - the roommate he'd briefly worried about, denied and dismissed. His suggestive smirk turned into a furious glare, fixed anxiously on Harvey - what kinda stunt was this punk playing on him now?
Oh, here he is,' chimed the third voice as it entered the room, and Matty glared suspiciously that way; out of the adjoining door slid another shirtless figure with a pretty ripped upper body, loose joggers of a dark shade of grey still worn, and an open beer bottle clutched in one hand while the other adjusting the crotch of his pants. Took your time, didn't you? Ginge here has been fuckin' buzzing all night, waiting for ya.'
The Villa and Poland defender blinked and boggled and didn't know what to say to the shirtless Jamie Vardy, the Premier League legend waltzing casually over and pausing only to take his free hand and give Barnes a good spank across the rump, then coming right up to Cash and squaring up to him, somehow an imposing figure at 5ft10. The 36-year-old striker gave him a lewd grin and scratched lightly at the impressive abs that cut across his midriff, seeming to assess him with a long look up and down.
Cash coughed slightly and took a short step back, then stared from Vardy's leering face over to Barnesy, who was holding the two glasses of rum and coke. `What the fuck?' was all the Aston Villa player could think to say, losing the aggressive edge to his tone, and just sounding as lost and unsure as he really felt. Harvey smiled a weak smile at him, and gestured forward with one of the drinks, as if that would make everything okay.
But older Jamie was laughing. Oh, relax,' the Sheffield-born striker chuckled. The ginger cunt is still gonna suck you off, big lad. He's been going on about it since we checked in.' The ageing Prem player rolled his eyes and tittered like a frustrated parent or older brother. You have to give them what they want, these young pups, otherwise they get very angsty. Like back when he was getting into scraps with nobheads like you, haha, before I... tamed him, if you get me.' Another nasty grin from Vardy, and then a fresh chuckle. Suppose you actually thought the whole team was crashing here, did ya? You know Leicester is an hour down the road, you mug? I booked this suite for Princess Harvey here, just so he could get your cock between his lips. You must feel honoured.'
Cash stared stupidly at the older man, trying to take all this in, and then looked again at the nervously grinning Barnes, who'd moved closer and was pushing the glass of rum and coke into his shaky hand. Here,' Harvey said quietly. Get a bit of that down you.' And then the ruddy Burnley lad giggled a bit, and moved away to sit on the one huge bed.
Slowly, Matty took the glass and took one slow slip, his eyes following Harvey and then snapping back to stare challengingly at grinning Jamie. Right,' he said slowly. So-' He was determined to sound chilled and confident, even if he was weighing up the decision to flee the room and scamper back into the lift - what are you doing here with him, old timer?' Some remnant of the assertive confidence he'd felt sat beside Lewandowski returned to him - he was a World Cup star! You gonna nosh me off too, grandpa?' he quipped at the 36-year-old, taking another sip of the rum drink, and undermining his bravado as the strength of the mix made him cough and splutter a little.
Vardy just laughed lightly at this and moved away, swigging from his beer and grabbing the crotch of his joggers. Nah, not today,' the goal machine told him. But you see, Harv here is kinda mine, if you know what I mean, so he only gets to suck other cocks if I'm watchin'. That alright with you, Polski?'
Matty didn't know what to say; he didn't know what he felt. He definitely still felt worryingly horny, that same aggressive urge that he'd felt when they fought, and again when he was in the sauna and the surprise had sprung on him. But he also felt like Jamie Vardy's presence shone an ugly realistic light on what was happening, made it something he wouldn't be able to shrug off and dismiss - he was struck by a very clear and prescient thought that he wasn't going to be able to walk out of this hotel quite the same lad who'd stumbled into it, one way or another. Hmm.
Lewandowski was so chill about it, he reminded himself, and Bednarek, and Bereszynski - and Zurkowski himself, grazing his knees on the sauna floor. And now, really making his head spin, here was Jamie Vardy, another married fella, as blokey as they came in the English football top-flight, and he was... his words spun about in Matty's head, the possessive way he was referring to Harvey, the casual way he'd stood there grabbing himself in his joggers, and now... his eyes bulged as he followed Vardy to the bedside, where the 5ft10 striker stood over seated Barnes, reaching down to stroke his face quite tenderly, before pushing two fingers into his mouth and allowing the young winger to suck quite hungrily on the digits, Jamie's fingers and thumbs rubbing over his tongue and lips very suggestively, then prising his mouth open to lean over and let a small drop of spit fall into it for him as a treat.
Cash was horny in spite of himself, increasingly hard in his skinny jeans.
Well,' Vardy said, are you gonna take your coat off, pal?'
Please stay,' Barnes said, more quietly and quite nervously. You promised you were gonna teach me a lesson, Matty.' He licked his damp lips, hunched forward slightly in his shirtless pose, while his face was stroked by Vardy's wet fingers and then pushed playfully side to side. Next to him, the striker was reaching inside of his joggers and then pulling it out, his equipment - Matty just stood there and watched as the long semi was flopped out and then fed into Harvey's willing gob, making Jamie purr and chuckle.
Almost unconsciously, Matty moved forward, and began to follow his hosts' suggestions: off came the designer coat, shrugged away and falling to the carpet, and he pawed next at the thick expensive hoodie, wrestling with it until it was off and on the floor too. Only a thin print t-shirt remained, clinging to his lithe muscle as he stepped in close to them at the bed, and took a grip of the hard outline in his skinny jeans.
That's it,' Vardy sighed, and it sounded like a moment as if he was just praising Barnesy, but he winked this way. Get your kit off, Villa lad, this one is so horny for ya. Honest, he was leaking pre-cum on the bus up here, for fuck's sake - how long has it been since he sucked you off, eh?'
Cash was hardly about to reminisce about the finer details with this opposition player who had been part of Leicester's afternoon win, but he was gripped by taboo desire and he was fiercely jealous of the way the other man's cock was being tended to. He reached down to undo his belt and flies, licking his lips, and making aggressive eye contact with Harvey's bright blues. Instantly, those pouting lips were slurping away from Vardy, and gaping open for him. Fuck yes,' whined the winger. You gonna fuck my mouth again, Matty sir?'
The extra little `sir' did it for him, making Cash almost frenzied as he yanked his t-shirt up and off, joining the other two men in baring his smooth defined chest and six-pack, his skin notably more olive-tanned than their pale Celtic skin. His breathing was heavy with anticipation and he pushed his jeans down a few inches, grabbing his big hard-on through his dark grey undies, then pulling it out and free, pointing its heavy veiny shaft towards Harvey's gaping mouth and rolling tongue. Fuck, yes.
In just a few moment's time, the jeans were about his ankles, and the 25-year-old defensive stud was lounged quite comfortably on the hotel bed, propped up at the shoulders by an array of cushions. He stared down the hard-earned muscles of his torso, into the shaven stubble of his crotch, and the sight of his glistening wet erection; Harvey's mouth moved up and down it, spitting on the head and shaft and then tonguing all over it, really slow and sloppy and indulgent. This wasn't the quick rough action of last time, he thought, this was something else, and he just lay there, ready to enjoy it. He still shook with nervousness that he couldn't hide, but his cock knew what it liked, and fellatio had always been top of the list; and Harvey was SO GOOD AT IT, pausing now and then to stoop lower and give his heavy balls a good suck too, the way his girlfriend never would!
Fuck,' moaned Barnes sluttishly, you taste so good.' He was a chatty bitch, and his greedy comments did even more to turn Cash on, knowing how eager this lad was for him - it was mad to think that perhaps the ginger git had been fantasising about this ever since October `20, all the time that Matty himself was trying to forget it...!
And then there was Vardy, too, whose presence... well, kinda made things more exciting, even if that shouldn't be the case. Cash had been horrified to find him here, and yet... well, the older man seemed to get so much voyeuristic pleasure out of this, and just like every slutty moaning comment from cock-hungry Barnes, the dirty grin on Vardy's face and the way he now stood wanking beside them, it just highlighted the seedy thrill of it all. So Harvey was now the striker's bitch, apparently, and yet Jamie was letting him have a turn on this hungry mouth? None of it quite made sense to horny Matty, but it was driving him wild, making his balls twitch as if he could already empty his load, and he had to brace himself not to go sliding down that path to climax already. He reached down and gripped his cock to wank it more conservatively, only letting Harvey swirl his tongue about the head and foreskin instead, his clammy hands rubbing up and down the fuzzy insides of Matty's mighty thighs.
Fuck,' growled the 36-year-old, that's it - lick it good, Barnsey.'
Mmm,' Cash joined in awkwardly, you've got better at this, fella!'
Fuckin' hell,' grumbled Barnes himself, I need your load on my tongue!'
For a moment, Matty thought obscurely about his girlfriend, perhaps arriving home right now and sulking at his absence, and the fact he was gonna have to lie more to her when he got home, his cock dirty with another man's saliva. He didn't care - he hadn't told her about what happened in the Qatar sauna, had he? Everything at the World Cup had been in its own bubble, and he'd barely even thought about Zurkowski's mouth as cheating...! He looked at Vardy and thought about his famous (infamous?) wife of his own, how casual he must be about having his lad-on-the-side - it must be a thing, he told himself, for proper big-time footballers like him and Lewy. Why shouldn't Cash enjoy the same luxury...?
Staring at the tightly muscled physique of Jamie, he couldn't help but let his eyes slide down and note just how lengthy the older bloke's piece was, pumped furiously in one tight fist, its tip shiny wet. God, the dirty bastard was really turned on by sharing his slut, huh! Matty stared for a moment too long at the wanking, and averted his eyes, but found them connecting instead with Jamie's face, which was leering his way now instead of down at the bobbing redhead over his crotch. Matty moaned irresistibly and broke awkwardly eye contact with the horny voyeur, horrified that Vardy might have caught him looking too long at his long prick - the ageing striker was wheezing out dirty laughter, but was it at the sluttish wet motion of Harvey's mouth, or at his own wandering eyes?
It's okay,' grunted Jamie placidly in spite of the angry red of his chest and cheeks, stopping in the frantic wanking of his cock. He lifted one knee up onto the side of the bed, moving in closer to where they lay. You can look all you like - take a pic if you want it.' He yanked slowly and teasingly on himself and Matty's eyes were briefly drawn back to it as the centre of attention, making him baulk.
`Fuck off,' he said back, forcing out a matey laugh, and reaching one hand for the back of Barnsey's head, taking more control of the oral service, getting rougher with him like he had before, but not quite feeling the same mindless aggression - he was distracted and confused, and Vardy was inching closer, up on his knees on the bedding next to them, looming over at the left, pulling slowly on himself and drooling spit down onto it as lube. Barnes at least was oblivious, face-down in Matty's crotch, gobbling down on his thick Polish sausage.
Vardy's eyes were seeking his, full of the authority and mischief that defined him, and Cash found it hard to look away. The striker was a charismatic guy, he really was, and there was a bit of him that thought he might be more turned on by the legend's attention than by the sensation of pushing his thick tool into Barnesy's throat; hadn't he felt something the same in the sauna, sweat dribbling down his muscular body? Lewandowski was a pretty powerful alpha, one of the top dogs in European footy, but there he'd been, grabbing at him and encouraging him, and pushing Zurkowski into his crotch- but nah, he told himself, a mouth is just a mouth, a blow-job felt good from any slut willing to offer it, that's all...!
Go on,' murmured the Leicester icon hoarsely. Grab it.'
He did, he couldn't stop himself. With his left hand, and at an awkward angle, he reached up for it, the striker leaning so close at his side. He moaned as he did, because Harvey's mouth felt SO GOOD on his cock, sending shudders all up and down his 6ft1 frame, whilst his hand closed tentatively around the warm stiffness of Vardy's long but slender tool. He gave an experimental tug on it, then looked up to meet the older fella's smirk; he chuckled awkwardly at himself and let go of it, wiping the hand instinctively on one of the strong lean thighs of the slim ripped striker, cringing at what he'd done.
Felt good for me,' sniggered Vardy, giving himself a good tug, even if you didn't like it.'
Cash moaned again, unable to stop himself: Barnes was licking and mouthing at his bollocks again, wanking a hand up and down the wet shaft as he did, and it was bringing him closer and closer, no matter how he braced himself. And at his side, Vardy was pressing closer, sniggering and smirking, and pulling slowly but firmly on himself, edging it closer, and hoisting his body up so that one thigh jutted over Matty's shoulder. Too close.
`You know you want to,' sneered the Leicester ace.
`Want what?' he puffed back through his moans of pleasure, but he knew.
It hovered close to his face, shiny at the tip, a strong curve of muscle, and he was transfixed by it like the prey of a hypnotic cobra. Closer it came, and his eyes rolled up, meeting Jamie's. That dirty leer, the chuckle escaping his pursed lips. The compact power of his 5ft10 body, still all muscle at his age, refusing to let go of his prime - but what a fucking legend, Matty thought, a working-class hero whose career every young footy lad had enjoyed. His cock all hard and excited for him, and right there.
Suck it,' urged Vardy, and Barnes must have caught this, because the attention to Matty's cock stopped for a moment. But he couldn't fully make out the ginger lad's expression of amazement, because he was glancing up and down between the striker's lewd smile and the pressing stiffness of his cock, inches from his face. Give it a try, mate,' urged Vardy in a tense whisper. `Just a little taste, Polski.'
`Go on,' urged Harvey's thick accent.
`Shut up and nosh him,' snapped Vardy powerfully.
Matty ignored them. He closed his eyes and let his head lean to one side, pressing down into the bedding with one elbow. He let his lips part cautiously and he stuck his tongue out a little. He inched very carefully and he felt the hot damp tip of it reach his mouth, rolling against the tip of his tongue and his lips. It tasted salty already. He pulled back slightly, but then opened his mouth forward and edged forward, testing his tongue against it, taking some of it into his mouth, excited by the heat and stiffness, and gratified by Vardy's instant loud moan overhead. `That's it - good lad - just a taste, see what you think, good lad!'
He gagged a bit at the feeling of more inches of it in his mouth, and he pulled back; but he couldn't, because one of Vardy's hands was on the back of his head, keeping him there, and then pulling him in a bit, making him choke on it, filling his mouth with it, hitting the back of his throat and making him splutter. His ears filled with Vardy's dominant laughter and the pressure released, allowing him to pull back and gasp and cough, the salty taste remaining on his tongue; his own cock was being lavishly sucked now and his balls tickled and stroked, and he knew he'd cum any moment.
Knew it would be too much for ya,' teased Jamie. You're a total newbie, huh?'
Something in the mocking tone hit the right note of challenge for him. Matty gripped a hand more securely about the base of the older man's dick and held it tightly, then pushed his lips awkwardly about the tip and took about half of the length in, rubbing it over his tongue, and hearing the instant happy moan from him. It tasted and felt weird, but he loved the heavy `Ugh mmmmm ugh mmmm!' that sounded from the king chav.
But he couldn't keep up this second attempt, had to pull back, even if his hand remained about the base of the weapon. His mouth opened in a silent cry and he felt the convulsions of peaking excitement. Between his big thighs, Barnesy groaned and gurgled, getting a creamy mouthful. A cold sweat flushed across his torso and legs and Cash felt dizzy with the pleasure and wildness, staring at the cock in his hand, all glistening wet with his own spit, and then anxiously up the ripped torso towards Jamie's dirty grin. `Good lad,' he echoed softly, pushing his hand away to wank it himself, edging it forward as if Matty should open to receive it, but he pulled his face away, unable to hide the wrinkling of disgust, mad at the thought of putting it in his mouth again, but aware that it had helped to push him over the edge of his excitement.
Fuck,' Barnes groaned, you taste good, mmm, let me lick it all...'
But Cash was pulling away, wriggling over the bed with some difficulty since he couldn't properly moved his legs, jeans wrapped at the ankles. He wiped his mouth hurriedly on the hairy back of a forearm, and he glared disgustedly at Vardy, then more ambiguously at Barnes, then went skipping off the side of the bed too quickly and tripped over his own ankles and went down to the carpet, more or less naked for their enjoyment. In a second he was up again, steady himself and dragging the pants and jeans up his hairy legs, his hard-on bouncing as he did and flicking a few last drops of cum away from the angry red tip. His face was redder, and his cheeks glossy with fresh sweat.
`Did my boy get a good mouthful?' Vardy cooed, and when Cash look over, he saw that Harvey already had his mouth full again, pulled over and bent down to his master's crotch; there was still something in the 25-year-old that felt thrilled and dominant, but he also felt repulsed and light-headed. Still struggling with his pants, he muscled around the bed and past them and into the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold water on his face and chest, the air thick with Vardy's moans and Barnesy's slurps.
`Good lad,' the Leicester striker was purring, but for a different boy - Cash thought about how much he'd like hearing those words from the older player, and cringed. He rubbed more cold water between his palms and rubbed them across his burning face, then through his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His cock still throbbed uncomfortably in his undies, and he finished buttoning up the flies of his jeans and re-buckling the belt. When he moved back through into the room, Jamie was on the bed with Harvey, cuddling and spooning him, and giving a good grab at his rounded bottom.
`Where are you going?' called one of their voices, or both of them, as he made for the door, but Matty ignored them, yanking on his t-shirt and just bundling the coat and hoodie under one arm, desperate to be out in the cold February winds. All he could think as he hurried through the quiet hotel was how dumb he'd been to believe that the Leicester team were here, given the proximity of the two Premiership clubs; but then he was thinking about the implications of this, that both Barnes and Vardy had made a special effort to get at his cock like this, and that the whole suite had really just been booked to host his hard-on and let him empty his big Polish balls. The thought almost made him hard again already, ambiguously semi and sensitive in his skinny jeans, as his elevator descended through the hotel building and led him out into the cold drizzle. For a sweaty moment, he considered actually getting to the party, wondering how many of his teammates were enjoying a drink still, but a taxi passed by, and he hailed it with frantic gestures - all he wanted was to be home with his sexy girlfriend and enjoying her body, and putting his dirty mouth to a more heterosexual purpose. Half an hour later he was tonguing at her clit, thinking about anything but cock, and apologising to her when he couldn't actually get his dick hard for the main event - blushing as he made his excuses, telling her anything but that he'd shot his load in a lad's mouth.
By the time the 25-year-old turned up at the Sunday training and recovery session a short journey from his suburban home, he was feeling quite chipper - like the sauna incident before it, the three-way encounter in the hotel suite felt like a fever dream, so separate from real life that it could be compartmentalised and, perhaps, forgotten. When Barnes had chowed down on his cock years ago, it had really troubled him to begin with, so much so that he'd had to turn to Ollie Watkins for advice and have the brash forward convince him that these mad things could happen, but not to worry about it - as if to confirm the wisdom, Watkins and he had jacked off side by side in the car one night, somehow confirming that neither lad needed to worry about his sexuality. And so Cash had laughed it off and buried it, and never wasted a moment worrying about it until yesterday. But this could be the same, he thought, stepping out of his car on a crisp bright zero degree morning - he'd been tricked into that nonsense with those two blokes, that's all!
Plus, he told himself as he checked in at reception, if anyone had seen the way he'd selflessly pleasured his girl to orgasm after orgasm in their bed at midnight, then they'd know full well how hetero and female-oriented he was! Jesus Christ. So what if he hadn't been able to penetrate her? He'd drowned in pussy juice and let her ride his face until she was screaming, then fingered her in between fits of cunnilingus.
A confident smile beamed from his goateed face, red-brown hair slicked back, and slapping at friendly high-fives with each teammate who he passed on his way into the locker-rooms to get ready for the light water-based pool therapy that would begin their day. In the locker-rooms, he pulled off his own loungewear, confident in his tall athletic body, and changed into the pair of colourful Dior swimming trunks, a towel folded neatly over one broad shoulder as he made his way into the heated space of their indoor pool.
One by one, members of the Aston Villa squad were splashing their way into the water, those who hadn't played yesterday showing a little more energy and enthusiasm, whilst the bulk of the team were lolling at the edges of the pool or still seated nearby, more interested in the physio rub-downs that would be going on before lunch. Cash strutted through it, glad to get a few compliments and his contributions to the game yesterday, even if he hadn't helped anyone reach the goals that might have equalised. For some reason, the 25-year-old just felt happy and confident, and he didn't want to confront that his ego had taken a boost from the attention of two men.
Rather than leaping dramatically into the waters like some - McGinn had just bombed into the centre of the pool and caused some unrest to those who were splashed - he grabbed onto a steel ladder and descended more gracefully into the showers, briefly grimacing at the cool temperature but then beginning to stretch out his limbs one at a time.
`Hey,' said the voice of gigantic Tyrone Mings close by, and he returned the greeting to the 6ft5 centre-back, getting on with his own preliminary stretches, but letting his vision drift over the rippling water to check exactly how his colleague was preparing. The thing about a man of Ty's stature, he thought idly, was that this shallow end of the pool barely met his waistline, and it made the big confident lad's black speedos all the more visible, dipping over and under the surface of the water as he did some leg stretches - for a dazed moment, Matty found himself looking at the big dark bulge as it surfaced and sunk at intervals, and then he had to shake himself and look away, letting out a small private laugh - that big fucker's fault for wearing stupid skimpy speedos, he thought.
But then the former Villa captain wasn't the only one to opt for the skintight smaller trunks, he noticed, his eyes wandering again: his own best pal Watkins was strutting along the poolside in a similar pair, dark taut nylon over the caramel brown of his hips and thighs, strutting confidently towards the same ladder that had led Cash into the water. Ollie paused at the top of it and waved his way, clearly glad to see him, and stupidly cutting a muscle pose for a moment before deciding to eschew the ladder and leap into the water more freely. For a moment before he leapt, Matty's eyes traced down the 27-year-old's six-pack and tried to decide whether Ollie filled the speedos as well as Ty did - the answer was no, but it was still very confident of him to swagger about wearing so little.
Into the pool he crashed, and the splash of cool water made Matty check himself, mildly concerned that he'd taken any seconds at all to glance inspecting at either of the other football players nearest to him. Daft lad, he told himself severely.
`Everything all right?' demanded his other buddy, Calum Chambers, patting him on one wet shoulder as he waded past. A friendly smile through the light brown beard of the 28-year-old, and Matty nodded vaguely; before the other defender had shuffled past to find space in the water, Cash couldn't help himself. No sooner had he peered under the rippling surface to clock what swimming trunks the former Arsenal man was wearing, than he was looking wildly away in any other direction, calling himself a stupid dick-head for wanting to see anything down there.
Flustered and fidgety, he splashed cool water up into his face and blinked away the sting of chlorine, stretching each of his powerful legs up so that his heels touched his buttocks, and staring around the large indoor pool - but everywhere he looked, of course, were undressed athletic guys, submerged or exposed to various levels as they played about in the pool-water and awaited instruction from the recovery coach who was to lead this aqua session. It was an exercise Cash had been in many times before, a common feature of post-match recovery - god, he shared locker rooms with his teammates week after week! Just keep your eyes to yourself, dickhead!
Increasingly uncomfortable, Cash manoeuvred himself to a slightly more remote position in the rear left corner of the pool, blinking his eyes furiously and trying not to think about bulging speedos. Or, he thought briefly, that odd salty taste on the tip of his tongue. `Good lad,' sighed a voice at the back of his mind, and he winced, rubbing a damp hand across his hot flushed cheeks.
The slappy footsteps of flip-flops dragged his attention to one side, the two last squad members approaching his corner to join them in the water. Closest to view came the confident strut of the team's Brazilian ace; like Mings and Watkins and others, the 30-year-old attacker came strutting forth in speedos, but not the conservative black skimpies worn by Ty or Ollie. These were obnoxiously bright in Brazilian colours, and they squashed a compact but overt mound at the front between his inked thighs. In he hopped, taking a swift elegant plunge into the shallow water and darting past where Matty lingered, relieved that Coutinho's impressive compact body of Latino muscle was disappeared beneath the water and away from him. Bright red in the cheeks, Matty cursed his odd mood and wandering thoughts, and glanced awkwardly at the final entrant, who had paused just behind Philippe, and was lowering himself hesitantly down the short ladder face-first.
For a moment, Matty caught eyes with the last-arriving player to the pool physio, and earned a bright warm smile from their Spanish import. He was oddly glad to be greeted so warmly by Alex Moreno, having failed to strike up any rapport with the 29-year-old left-winger. The older lad fixed this charming grin on him very briefly as he gripped the rails and lowered his body down to the water - unlike inked show-off Coutinho, this Spaniard had gone for a relatively loose-fitting pair of coloured shorts, more like Cash's own casual trunks, and yet... it apparently didn't matter what this latest Aston Villa arrival chose to wore for his pool session, because the red-and-blue striped trunks sagged heavily at the front, a huge and visible mound accentuated even further as they tautened about his thighs on the way down, bulging obscenely in a way that made Matty realise subconsciously how many times he'd noticed it in shorts or trackies before.
But then Moreno's loaded shorts were gone beneath the surface like everybody else's, and the heavily-tanned defender was wading in next to him, greeting him with a heavily accented `Good morning' and then looking a little worried as he searched his vocab for another phrase. Instead of helping him out, Cash backed away a little and turned to stare away across the pool, his face burning scarlet, and his shorts straining a little around his mid-morning erection.
Somewhere close by, one of the gaffer's second coaches was shouting out some initial instructions and telling them what they would be doing, but `Good lad,' growled the voice in Matty's head, and he pictured himself opening his mouth for imperious Jamie Vardy - oh, fuck.
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