Part 356: The Lion Cub
On the banks of the Thames, a whistle blew and marked the end of the friendly game; the Croatian visitors were victorious 2-1, in spite of the English team's last-minute resurgence, and the white-clad young players could do nothing but grimace respectfully and lift their hands in vague applause to the opposition players and the thin crowd of spectators inside Craven Cottage, the riverside Fulham ground that was hosting this fixture. This was not the full Three Lions force that had dominated its two qualifier games in the last week, but the next generation who might carry that mantle: a bold and ambitious Under-21s side who had been representing the country at their own level over a handful of games.
He raised his hands and clapped with as much quiet honour as any of his teammates, moving through the centre of the youth squad's slow retreat, leaving the Croatians to enjoy themselves - a bit excessively, in his opinion, for a fucking friendly on a damp Tuesday night - and making way for the tunnel. It was a stadium he knew fairly well, and the 5ft7 winger could certainly claim to play more first-team minutes than most young lads on this squad, even as one of their younger members at 19. He strutted to the tunnel mouth and took the hugs and handshakes of the U21 management crew, a slightly less celebrated cluster of coaches than Southgate or his entourage - and indoors the young footballer went, his mane of curly hair bouncing a little as he shucked off one boot at a time and then swung them at his side, following the loose line of future England hopefuls towards the home changing rooms that they'd been assigned.
In this locker-room was an uneasy positivity as the boys collectively shrugged away the defeat, keen to dismiss it as unimportant, but disappointed nonetheless by their lacklustre stats against the visitors - and Harvey Elliott was a little less quick to dismiss or laugh away the result, perhaps a bit more proud and ambitious than some of the `small club' players who formed his comrades on this short tour.
The 19-year-old stripped away sweaty white kit from his compact muscular body, thinking eagerly about the prospect of replacing it with proper senior kit come the next big tournament - could he really be out there in the 2024 Euros, kicking it with the big boys and replacing his own captain Jordan Henderson in the starting line-up of Southgate's Lions...? Harvey liked to think so, charting his own trajectory from 16-year-old upstart to successful Championship loanee and now regular starter for a club as prestigious as his beloved LFC. He scrunched up the England shirt in his clammy hands and stared thoughtfully at his name and number on the back, more than ready to fight for that first senior cap - after all, he'd sighted a fellow 19-year-old upstart across the more communal areas of St George's Park last week, and watched enviously as lanky Jude Bellingham jostled and bantered with the likes of Hendo, Walker and Stones, clearly an established part of the Three Lions already. Huh. A natural competitiveness in Elliott riled at this fact, and at the strong rumours that still suggested the Birmingham sensation might sign for Liverpool and join him at Anfield - did Harvey really want another teen prodigy in the midfield to take the fans' adoration away from his plucky fight...? An ambiguous no, because he wasn't blind, and he could see what a rising force the other lad was.
Shorts off, Harvey lingered at his spot in the square room, still staring ruminatively at his discarded white kit, and wanting this to be the last time he donned the U21 version of the real thing - if Jude could prove himself in a World Cup campaign, then it was surely time for Liverpool's current `Star Boy' to make his claim too.
Still... this past week had been fun. The curly-headed lad stood there in his tight-fitting Puma compression shorts, unable to contain a knowing little smirk, glancing about him at the stripping players who were disappearing into the showers one by one. Oh yeah, he thought with a silent chuckle, quite the week of fun.
Some of it, he supposed, was barely more than a gentle tease of possibility: early last week, at the end of the first day's full training together, and a brief thrilling episode in the shower block of their changing facilities. An ego boost, he admitted to himself, given that he'd been training only one pitch away from the sight of the senior England squad warming up and beginning to bond ahead of their Italian jaunt - he'd heard it said that the proximity and occasionally intermingling of the squad levels was meant to be motivational and inspiring, but he was just starting to find it fucking annoying. At 19, he was no longer thrilled by the novelty of youth positions, just as he'd been at the top of the Liverpool Academy - he wanted the real thing, not some childish warm-up. He couldn't help but cringe scornfully at the fact so many of his teammates here were 22 or 23, ageing past the name of the team, and still not cutting their teeth under Southgate.
Hot showers that day, steaming almost painfully against cold skin, because it had been constant drizzle and mist through the afternoon. Harvey was as glad as anyone to soak himself beneath the heat and to scrub flecks of mud and turf away from his shins and calves, to soap up lightly aching muscles, and to shake his shaggy young lion's mane under the blast of his shower.
It was just as he rinsed the lather of shampoo from his curls, running fingers vigorously through the styled mop, that he noticed it. He was showering at the end of a central line of positions, where the wall cut off and there was a steamy tiled space before the adjacent wall and the next row of showerheads. At the nearest of those, he caught sight of a slim figure about as pale as his own, but noticeable in turning around to look this way - there were others there, fixedly facing the wall as they washed themselves and disappeared in a fair hurry, loud masculine voices echoing against the gushing sounds of plumbing.
Elliott was a natural exhibitionist, it turned out, because he immediately loved the suggestion that this other lad was specifically looking his way - his position at the end of this wall put him in perfect view, essentially at the centre of the rectangular room, half-exposed to the view form that corner. Without flinching, the 19-year-old winger turned his stubby goateed face and grinned across the haze, acknowledging the lingering look...
It was that skinny twink, Luke Thomas, half-turned this way with an almost stricken look on his lean face. Definitely looking this way, that was for sure, and seemingly not at head height, but looking downwards - the Liverpool player couldn't stop himself, he took one shampoo-slicked paw and rubbed it down the centre of his tummy, along the faint trail of hair that was sprouting there, and then ran it teasingly against the droop of his soft cock and chubby balls, watching the shifting gaze of the lad's thin face. And then the Leicestershire 21-year-old seemed to collect himself, blink and start, and look sharply back upwards - for just a moment their eyes met, though Harvey supposed Luke's view must be as steam-obscured as his own, and he could see the faint pantomime of horror and shame on the LFC left-back's long face. And then the dark-haired taller lad turned sharply away, back to the wall, and the passing physique of two U21 goalkeepers blocked Harvey's view... he could just turn back to finishing the rinse down of his crotch and gently sniggering to himself, loving the idea that some curious young Fox had been eyeing him up.
However... it led to nothing. He tried very hard to catch Luke's eye back in the humid warmth of the locker-room, or over the team meal that they were taken for at a local Thai restaurant for bonding, and yet he found that Thomas evaded him at every opportunity for the rest of the camp. If the 21-year-old left-back WAS curious, or whatever, then he'd been so freaked out to be caught looking that he'd retreated into his shell like a frightened tortoise - no real fun there for young Elliott, just a momentary ego boost and a lingering semi.
And there were the moments in his hotel room too, though these were not so novel: after all, it was hardly the first time he'd shared a room with the slightly older Academu graduate and genuine Scouser, Curtis Jones. That being said, it WAS the first time he'd roomed with the lanky dope for such a number of days, across multiple hotels, and noticed how fucking careless his stuttering buddy was...
Careless in a lot of ways, from leaving towels on the floor to using the wrong toothpaste, to realising he'd forgotten to bring deodorant - all that kinda shit. But also careless with his kit, and his bedding, so that one morning when a full bladder dragged Harvey out of bed at 5am, he had to stop himself in the exuded glow of the en suite, looking at the magnificent sight on the neighbouring bed - the 6ft1 young man was stretched out in a typically awkward pose on his bedding, with his duvet quite disturbed and misplaced, so much so that it was crossing his midriff and knees, but pulled away around the crotch area, so that Harvey could see the lad's impressively long python coiled against a hairy thigh. It was obvious from the way that the lanky fuck's long legs jutted out at the foot of the bed that he didn't typically sleep in the nude, but had pushed his pants down for one reason or another - there was only one reason though, surely - and they now dwelt about his ankles, so that Harvey could stroll back across the bedroom, leaving the bathroom light on, and pause between their beds, looking at a perfect confirmation of just how well-hung the dopey Scouse bugger was.
There was a deliciously tempting moment in this pre-dawn fug when Elliott hovered next to Jones' bed and was well tempted to just steal a little grab or stroke of the monster that he always had to watch bouncing about like a ferret in his pal's shorts or tracksuits - but he thought better of such naughtiness and played kind bro instead, pulling the duvet back into place and giving Curtis some dignity that was rather undermined by his chainsaw snoring. With a chuckle and zero chance of getting back to sleep, Harvey climbed back into bed and tugged himself off, enjoying both the dormant serpent that he'd seen at close range, and the growing mental certainty that the Leicester player had a crush on him.
And there'd been some more successful shared looks of naughtiness in locker rooms, towards the end of the training week, but before the France fixture on the Saturday. Harvey thought he was the initiator of what happened, but it was hard to tell, perhaps the others had already been mustering the idea or intimating the mood to one another - but he was certainly the one who sat there under the rack of kit-hooks with his top off and his shorts tight about his thick fluffy hands, popping a hand over his bulge and loudly declaring that he wasn't used to a whole week with no girls to look after his needs. It wasn't a lewd comment out of nowhere - he'd noticed the way that the other lads kept grabbing at themselves, a simmering undercurrent of frustration which he understood but which also got him really excited.
No sooner had Elliott made this bold claim about his usual sex life when the most senior of this small post-gym gathering started trolling him in a deep voice, stripping off just a few feet to his left. But one Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder was down to his black briefs, he took the bulge in the front of them in one hand and muttered his conclusion: `But I know what you mean, bruv, I got some FULL balls, you get me?' Stood there with a hand over his big thick package, Morgan Gibbs-White turned and flashed a toothy smile at him, and then shot thoughtful looks at the others.
`TMI?' suggested one of the others, 6ft2 centre-back Levi Colwell - a Chelsea youth who was currently moonlight at Bright & Hove Albion.
`What, you don't feel the same?' chuckled another lofty centre-back in his deep Lancashire accent - this was another loanee, Leeds' Charlie Cresswell, currently at Millwall or some shithole like that - Harvey could hardly keep up with these lads' yo-yo fledgling careers, adding to his frustration for a senior call-up.
And so Harvey moved things along, staying sat on the bench where he was, but pushing a blatant hand into the front of his tight training shorts, and grinning from lad to lad before flashing a meaningful wink back at Gibbs-White. I'm just gonna have to tug one off now before dinner,' he announced coolly, ready to turn his sultry expression into hysterical laughter if the notion didn't meet with grunting approval - there was definitely a long quiet pause where it might have been met with jeers and insults, but Morgan's ensuing laugh was lusty and frustrated, and it was Leeds export Charlie who loudly called it - Yeah, time for a circle-jerk, haha?'
Maybe the 20-year-old giant from Preston was joking, but Harvey just got up and pushed his shorts down his thighs and off, his bare young body a little glossy with sweat from the workout, and his cock already semi in his trunks. Minutes later, he had his dick out and in his hand, seated back down and the others occupying positions about this same corner of the room, parallel pairs at a perpen-dick-ular angle.
The grunts were interspersed with bursts of rough laddish laughter, mingled with self-conscious efforts to suppress the natural moans of self-pleasure. Harvey exaggerated his own confidence and certainty - as experienced as he was becoming around other horny men, he still knew this was risky and pushing boundaries, and he was conscious of only half-knowing any of these other lads. He was also a little stuck with the dilemma of enjoying the sordid little scene and not being a Luke Thomas and staring too overtly at any of his pal's members, giving away too much of his own... tastes.
This wasn't as hardcore as some games he'd been embroiled in, to put it lightly, this was just four horny footy lads jerking off after a tough workout, letting off a bit of steam before showering down and being called to a fairly formal dinner where they would be meeting a bunch of FA representatives who wanted to drill them about professionalism in the France fixture. Professionalism could wait - these were four testosterone-drunk youths with heavy balls and rabid appetites, wanking themselves silly and stinking of gym-sweat.
Harvey was so excited by it all that he had to slow down very deliberately and hold onto his orgasm, and he was glad he did - long enough at least to see that big 6ft3 defender on loan from Leeds cum first, spewing spunk up his tummy and cackling as he did so; and then Brighton's Levi too, the 20-year-old who had been the most marginally hesitant of them, but was now groaning quite heavily as he spunked into a handful of tissue, none of Charlie's confident mirth. But Harvey himself came after this, unable to stop himself, and spurting white streaks over the downy hair of his thighs; thus he watched Morgan, the 23-year-old Forest stud, nut all over the floor in a messy puddle whilst in a daze of post-orgasmic bliss, almost losing his self-discipline and rushing forward to lick up the drops of jizz that lingered on the stout 5ft7 lad's chunky tool.
The group wank was over almost as soon as it had started, ending in a chorus of brash laughter and a few self-conscious groans of `Did we just do that?' - and Harvey just thought idly how it was a shame that his buddy Curtis had left the gym early, and not had a chance to show off his brute to these other lads, haha.
But things had gotten more intense just the next day, during an afternoon rest period before they had to travel from hotel to stadium to face the young Frenchmen. This one seemed to happen just as rapidly and convenient, and Harvey was hardly sure how he went from chatting to a casual mate in the foyer to being knuckle-deep in tight pink hole about forty-five minutes later.
`That's it,' he gasped, digging his single digit in deeper, feeling the strong muscles grip his finger, and jabbing it in and out in a rapid and purposeful fashion, almost drooling with excitement.
The other body lay naked beneath him on the bed - the lad had stripped naked almost within seconds of them getting into the room and slamming the door shut behind them. How had it gone from a bit of banter about the France team being a bunch of daft slags to this handsome redhead asking Harvey what he liked doing to slags, to Harvey daring him to take him back to his room and find out? The conversation had moved quickly and fluidly, and opportunity had thrown itself in the 19-year-old lion cub's lap.
He dug his finger in deeper, poised over him on the gently squeaking bed. `Take my finger, you slag,' he giggled, twisting and pushing it, really taking over the tight little hole that lay between the pale smooth cheeks. He grinned eagerly to himself, unwilling to remove his finger from the hot tightness, but poising over him so he could appreciate the slim strong beauty of the pale freckled body beneath him on the bedding. With his other hand, he reached for the soft gingery hair and pushed the lad's face down into the covers, whilst finally withdrawing his finger so he could land a light spank on one white week and leave a faint red print where he did. Then back at it, but not one finger, two - a bit more spit for lube should help. On the bed, his teammate squealed.
Harvey was less naked, only his jumper and vest discarded by the door, but shorts still tenting around his erection, and socks and trainers leaving dirty marks on the pale blue bedding. He'd been in such a rush to follow this earnest-looking 21-year-old in here and across to the room, and he was so excited at the prospect of topping again - he'd been desperate for it since that second time of being allowed between Milner's adamantium glutes.
This afternoon's slut was different though, slim but a little softer at the edges, and his bottom so doughy and jiggly, great - Harvey pushed too fingers into his hole and gasped eagerly, gripping his thick strong erection through his shorts, hovering over him and muttering out more dirty talk - You taking those two fingers, wanna try three?' he rasped. God you're a good slag after all, ain't you, Tommy fella!'
Under him, Manchester City's ginger-haired local lad groaned and yelped, turning his face a little but unable to fully look at him - those blue eyes were wide and needy, his cheeks flushed scarlet, god he was quite cute like this, though he'd never caught Harvey's eye before. He dug his two fingers deep into Tommy Doyle, frigging the loaned midfielder and prodding at his intimate hole, readying it to try and thrust his cock into any moment now. He was leaking pre-cum against his undies and his shorts, and he couldn't believe that he'd discovered a willing bottom in this Sheffield United midfield player!
Any moment, Harvey would have pushed down the shorts and tried to replace the two sphincter-grippy fingers with the real deal, except the beep of a keycard and the click of a lock marked the beginning of the interruption - Harvey only half-heard it through his own pants, and pinned between him and the bed, Thomas was perhaps entirely deaf to it, still gasping and telling him `Yes, try three!'
But then they were both of them looking up and across, the hotel room door shutting with a louder thump than its opening. Harvey knelt there, hard and leaking, and still pressing two digits into the doughy bottom of the Man City lad. But Doyle was instantly wriggling and rising up, exclaiming `James!' at the top of his voice. With some reluctance, Harvey pulled away his greasy fingers and slid aside, holding hands up innocently like a bystander at a bank robbery - whilst the 5ft8 naked youth scampered and stumbled from the bed into the centre of the room, and their interrupter froze at the doorway, head to toe in England training gear, and his face a picture of outrage.
`Whoa, how did my fingers get in there?' was all Elliott could find to joke, leaping awkwardly off the bed himself and reaching down to grab up his bundle of clothes with his clean hand, forcing out a cocky laugh and wavering between the obstacle of the other two - one naked and red-faced, the other practically shaking in shock.
James,' Tommy insisted in a rushing voice, it ain't what it looks like!' The Manc lad had a real panic and fear in his voice, one that Harvey himself refused to give in to - fuck it, he'd been caught frigging a lad's arse, but who was James fucking McAtee to judge him? He was, like Doyle, another Pep Guardiola reject who'd been indefinitely loaned out to lame old Sheffield United, for fuck's sake - what could either of them say to a regular Liverpool starter like himself? Pricks. The 19-year-old was, of course, ready for a fight. But he'd misunderstood the dynamic slightly.
Tommy,' gasped 20-year-old James, his eyes suddenly shiny. What the fuck?'
It ain't like that,' the first Manc lad called at him, rushing forward, but instantly held back by McAtee's hands on his shoulders and biceps; Harvey blinked slowly at them in comprehension, registering the intense emotion on the Salford lad's tanned features, and the rough and tumble of the other two players. How could you?' James was shouting accusingly, whilst Tommy just kept repeating his name. Elliott stared at them for a moment and then wiped his two dirty fingers across his tummy and pulled his vest and jumper over his head, dashing past them for the door.
`Er, sorry about this fellas,' the winger told them, before wrenching open the door and skipping out in the corridor, leaving their little domestic behind - okay, okay, two City loan players stuck in Sheffield, apparently a bit more than just buddies. As he walked quickly away from the room, he couldn't help but swell with selfish pride - so ginger had a boyfriend to room with, and he STILL wanted a ride on the Star-Boy? Hehe.
Harvey didn't have to wait long to get his cock in a peachy bum, though he didn't risk enquiring about relationship status in the room of McAtee and Doyle; this later interaction was one fuelled a bit more by hotel bar beer, the win over France allowing for such a party. A 4-0 win, for fuck's sake - allez that, Frogs. Although he was a tiny bit pissed off not to add his name to that score-sheet, the teenager was fucking chuffed to have been part of the gaffer's starting line-up, and he was keen to enjoy himself at the squad party - he was smart and tactful enough to see that many of these lads might join him when he ascended to the senior Three Lions team, and he needed to make good buddies here who would support him when he was winning the 2026 World Cup.
The energy of the celebration drinks gravitated inevitably around the team's four goal-scorers, and Harvey begrudgingly went with that flow, a little envious and resentful to hear repeated and embellished accounts of each goal from the lot of them. From his own Liverpool colleague Curtis Jones, he could take it more comfortably, and he was happy to slap the big fella on the back and cheer him on, just glad to hear the 22-year-old brave some semi-public speaking and get through his account without stumbling too much on his words; for his lanky big-dicked pal, he felt a more genuine and warm pride, though smug Arsenal prick Emile Smith-Rowe was a bit more challenging. ESR had been full of himself all week, in Harvey's opinion, which didn't make sense since the Arsenal winger had made a full England debut with the big boys and yet fallen back here to Under-21. With Madueke and Ramsey, Elliott found he really had to feign interest, wanting a bit of limelight and glory for himself, but without much to show for his performance in the game.
He wasn't sure how he ended up seated on barstools with Norwich City's Max Aarons, but they had been substituted at similarly annoying moments in the game, both sure that they could have stayed on the pitch and contributed more, even if the 4-0 score somewhat justified their bosses' decisions. The disgruntled pair hardly sat there on the barstools and turned into a pair of old grouches, but they did find themselves in a kind of mutually subdued mode compared to the loud drunken enjoyment of the other lads. Harvey wasn't even openly flirting with the 23-year-old Londoner - just stretching out his sweatpants-clad legs and leaning casually back on the bar with his arms at his sides. But the other U21 player kept giving him what can only be described as The Look. Checking him out? Without a few beers in him, Harvey might have paused to check himself - it was possible that Max was just admiring his cool hair or his neatly styled goatee or his designer gear. But the way the week was going, Harvey's ego was swelling like his bulge.
`What you say we go have a drink up in my room?' Elliott said with just enough brazenness, stroking the shoulder of Aarons' loose-fitting top quite discreetly. And that was that: about fifteen minutes later, twenty at most, the 19-year-old Liverpool starlet was ploughing the Canary in the en suite bathroom of his suite - he didn't want to make a mess of his bedding and have to explain it to a gormlessly believing Jones.
With his sweatpants and his undies about his ankle, he held the other lad forward against the sink unit, gripping him just above the hips, and shoving his crotch rapidly and eagerly into the big bouncy cheeks of Max's perfect brown rump; in response, the 23-year-old Londoner gasped and moaned for him, his screwed-up face of ecstasy reflected beautifully in the mirror over the sink. His big cheeks jiggled and shook with each powered-up thrust of Harvey's tight muscular middle, and he was loving the mirror reflection that added to it - as well as seeing the groaning delight on the defender's face, he could see his own shimmering mask of dominant energy, and the bounce and flick of his messy hair.
He fucked him with all of the enthusiasm that he might have topped Doyle, and a few spoonfuls more, the additional testosterone and attack that had built up in the course of the France game and his restricted involvement there. He fucked him like he wanted to fuck the France goal and add a 5th goal to that tally, and really earn the attention of the senior squad reps who always followed Under-21 action, ready to report back to the top gaffer.
That's it,' whined the Norwich player, who had sucked and wanked him very eagerly after the beers from the mini-bar were opened, but now sitting untouched back in the main bedroom. As soon as Max's willingness was obvious, both of them hard in their sweats, Harvey had been hurrying him in here and tearing down his bottoms, slapping and grabbing at one of the roundest bubble butts in the English leagues. In and out of it he pumped, thrusting hard against the sexy 23-year-old, really making him moan for it, asking him illogically who his daddy was, despite being four years his junior. You are,' Max confirmed in a shaky gasp, staring eye-to-eye with him in the mirror. `You are, Harv!' Fuck yes, he thought, this bitch knows the truth!
Shooting his load up the perfect brown skin of Max's back was one special climax, but the camp held one even more satisfying orgasm for the 19-year-old, and this was really the one that lingered with him as he showered and changed in the Craven Cottage home locker-room, tossing dirty England kit into his bag to keep as souvenirs, and saying his goodbyes to the lads as they went their separate ways.
This one had happened on Sunday, checked in to the same North London hotel complex as their senior parallels - like the main squad, the Under-21s were making use of the Tottenham Hotspur ground as a training base for the day, and the younger team were to have VIP tickets for England-Ukraine at Wembley that night. Again, motivation and inspiration ahead of their Croatia game... but for Elliott, a dazzling view into what he saw as his own inevitable destiny.
Lunchtime, and the quarter of the large Spurs training rectory where Harvey's youth team had been placed for their buffet of healthy salads: echoes of cheerful chatter from the tables around him, and the more muted voices of senior players from the other side of the room. There was a good mood among the U21s, still riding on last night's 4-0 win, and a sense that visiting Wembley to watch their counterparts was a symbol of transition, a readying for some of them to make their leap at the next call-up - Harvey thought this was largely bollocks, and that some of these loan-meisters had already peaked. He wasn't mean, just realistic.
Cynicism, hangover, exhaustion from an hour-long fuck session in Max Aarons' hole; there were a few reasons why the 19-year-old felt jaded and faded at his lunch table, sitting between an unusually chatty Curtis, and City's Cole Palmer. Whichever reason was top of the list, he wasn't paying attention to the talk of his neighbours, but watching the room in a vague yet observant way - observant enough to spot one other team member get up and slip away from the next table without actually saying anything to anyone. This in itself was not that odd, they weren't at school or military camp, but there was something quite furtive and discreet about the way that Arsenal's Emile Smith-Rowe detached himself from the table of his friends and teammates, and made for one of the exits; furtive and discreet enough to arouse Harvey's natural curiosity. Not observant enough to spot who had got up and slipped away form the other end of the dining hall, mind.
After a moment's pause, the Liverpool player murmured a half-formed excuse to Curtis and Cole, and he too left his table in a manner designed to attract minimal attention; hopefully nobody was as bored and curious in his direction as he'd been in Emile's. Scratching a little at the front of his shorts, the 5ft7 stud exited the refectory in a quick but casual strut, trying to somehow project the need for a piss to explain his departure - out through the same exit that he'd spied the Arsenal player dip through, out of the dining hall and down a long narrow corridor. It broke off into multiple routes through the expensive-looking training complex of the North London losers, but he saw a door narrowly close and knew which way he needed to go... he held back, careful not to alert or panic the other lad, but pausing before that and the next door, and listening ahead to the steps, and then... the voices.
He was at the door to one of the physio rooms, and he could hear Emile for sure: `This needs to be quick', it sounded like. Another voice: muffled, or inarticulate, and less immediately recognisable to him. Older?
Having followed his teammate this far, Harvey paused before pushing further in his nosiness... what was he actually doing? What did he suspect? Why did he care? Was this just some specific hangover of his mild resentment at Emile last night, just because his rival winger had secured an important goal, the first of the night? Yep, definitely a dollop of that last one. But also... he was a nosy bastard. He leaned in close to the door, straining to hear the voices more clearly.
`You said you needed a gobful of me,' came Smith-Rowe's almost sneering voice.
Again, the other voice was less clear, but in the muffle was a Yes' and a Please', and now Harvey was really intrigued - fuck, this was getting dirty. He grabbed himself loosely in his shorts and pushed closer to the door, pressing his ear against it, fingering the handle and wondering if he could risk opening it a crack or so. `Well get going,' he heard the Arsenal midfielder say in a voice that was all challenge and confrontation - there was something sexy about the demanding confidence in it, something that had never quite struck him about the 6ft fellow Surrey lad; yeah, they'd fooled about slightly when they were younger, that time in the toilets at the Emirates, but Harvey wasn't that lad any more, some cock-sucking bitch... he was the stud who'd topped James fucking Milner, LFC daddy supreme, and who'd forced Mo Salah into his first tiny taste of salty cock, even just for a few seconds.
Without meaning to, he leaned forward a bit too heavily, and his sweaty hand pulled tighter about the door-handle, until it jerked down. The door swung inwards a little and Harvey pushed forward through it, right into the room beyond, and treated to quite a view: Emile standing by the physio bed with his back this way, a framed view of his sturdy pale tan arse on show beneath the hem of his training top, his shorts halfway down thick blond thighs... and hands clutching at them, belonging to the tall man on his knees for him, whose long face was leaning to one side to stare this way in abject horror. A distinctively bearded face with small eyes and a neat sweep of honey-brown hair. A man who'd already been an England icon before his new goal record on Thursday night. Fucking hell.
`Come in,' hissed Emile, bossy but also calm, nodding in a beckoning way.
`Fuck,' mouthed Harry Kane, married dad, very quietly.
`Fuck,' echoed Harvey Elliott, eyes lighting up with excitement. In he went, tugging the door after him, and flicking the latch that his Arsenal counterpart had failed to. He grabbed at his crotch in case the semi there wasn't obvious enough, and he stepped forward until he was side-by-side with the 6ft Croydon lad. Emile towered over him, but 6ft2 striker Harry was down on his knees before them, dwarfed by two U21s. In a rush, Harvey looked from Harry's worried long face to Emile's confident grin, then back down at the cock in his mate's hand, and to his own fist, curled about the outline of his.
`Hungry enough for two?' Smith-Rowe purred at Kane, whose worry seemed to recede. England's all-time top goal-scorer didn't look frightened any more, he looked... greedy. And without much ceremony, Emile fed him. Harvey watched, wide-eyed, and wasted no time in reaching into his shorts and pulling out his sweaty erection, the same one that had fucked Aarons until he squealed.
It turned out that Emile, far less smug than last night, was pretty good at sharing, and the two up-and-coming studs shared the greedy mouth equally, neither taking much more than a minute with their cock in it, smearing their heads and foreskins against his lips and facial hair. His eyes still looked panicked, because Harvey was clearly not something he'd planned or begged for - Harvey's mind was spiralling with questions about the arrangement between these two, and the sense that this wasn't even a one-off or a new thing, but some ongoing affair between the Spurs talisman and the Arsenal youth. But those were questions that would hit him more fully later, when he was in the VIP stands of Wembley, suited up like the rest of the squad, cheering on Harry Kane as the big masculine England captain, the most prolific striker in their history... and a fucking great cock-sucker, it turned out, slobbering all over Harvey's prick in blissful moments before returning to the thick meat that Emile was thrusting into his face.
More shocking, and more exciting: Fuck me,' Kane begged at one point, twisting his neck to stare obediently up at Smith-Rowe. No,' the Arsenal player was growling at the kneeling striker, and Harvey had to stop himself interjecting and putting up a hand: `I volunteer as tribute!' No fucking, or at least not of the tall older man's broad arse - just of his eager mouth, and cocks slapped against his cheeks and rubbed against the tip of his nose or the lines of his chin.
Yeah, it had been fun for Harvey to wank and cum in that four-way jerk after the gym, or to finger Tommy's ginger-flecked arse, or to smash Max in his en suite and watch it in the mirror; it had been fun to see Curtis' big member and wonder if he should try and lead his buddy astray, and even more fun to think that a skinny Leicester twink was watching him wash his balls in the shower... but this was the moment that really inflated Harvey's ego and made him smirk to himself as he exited Craven Cottage for a late train back to Liverpool, sure that his international future was bright.
Breathless, rosy-cheeked, balls pulsing; he emptied his watery load over the face of the 29-year-old, smearing cum across Harry's long nose, over his tufty facial hair and open lips, his poking tongue. Harvey's cum mingled with Emile's in painting the features of the striker hero, their future captain, and claiming some kind of dominance over the senior player. Harvey gasped and moaned in both sexual and ambitious climax. If he'd been a bit more rational and less drunk on arousal, he might have paused to note that feeding cum to Harry Kane hadn't stopped his friend-rival from languishing here in the Under-21s, but that was a complex thought for a 19-year-old who was in the process of dumping his cum over the face of a world-famous national captain.
Harvey groaned dizzily and leaned on Emile for support, who grabbed him about the shoulders and laughed, pushing both of their dirty nobs into Harry's mouth to get licked clean, and growling down at him: `Eat it up, slut, taste that manly juice... yeah, that's it... haha... lovely...' And Harvey blinked and stared in disbelief, and carried that image with him for days and weeks to come, sure now that his senior call-up was around the corner.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share