Part 361: Clean Sheets/Dirty Sheets
In the gentlemen's loos of the hotel function rooms, he pushed his cock back inside his black briefs and then did up the zip fly of his close-fitting M&S tailored trousers; shifting from the urinals to the sinks, the mop-headed young English lad checked himself out in the mirrors. After a cursory wash of his paws, he shook them dry and clumsily adjusted the collar and knot of his tie, admiring the teenager-at-wedding or scally-at-court charm of the compulsory suit he'd had to don for tonight's celebrations, like all of his triumphant teammates. It was far from his usual style of baggy streetwear, but he liked the tailored fit and the look it gave him, in contrast to his edgy goatee and the honeyed curls of his trendy hair.
The 20-year-old lingered a few moments more, enjoying his reflection, and experimenting with loosing the thick platinum chain necklace from beneath his collar and letting it hang obnoxiously over the knot his tie as a visible accessory; the Surrey-born football star thought it made him look like a right Peaky Blinders gangster, but he pushed the cool metal back in against his neck as the exit door crunched and a couple of other lads in matching suits came crashing into the gents', laughing loudly as they did.
Harvvvvvvvvvvv,' boomed one of the other lads immediately, staggering this way, and a bullish chant sounded from the other entrant: Star-Boy, Star-Boy, Star-Boy!'
For a moment, Harvey Elliott caught the eye of the bigger lad in the mirror, then half-turned as if to greet him with a clasped hand and bump of shoulders; but the other young athlete, notably taller and broader than himself, just crashed into him and wrapped arms about his shoulders in an overwhelming hug, almost bowling him right into the sinks with his clumsy strength. `YES, mate,' the England Under-21s captain exclaimed gruffly, shaking him almost off his feet, and scrunching at the messy mop of his hair - a strong contrast to the rather severe crop of the big skinhead, who'd come into the tournament with a short trim and then gone full yobbo midway because he reckoned it intimidated the opposition more.
A squeezing awkward hug from behind locked about the 5ft7 winger and then he was released - Taylor Harwood-Bellis staggering simply from him with another loud hoot of `Haaar-vey', echoed by the other tall lout at the urinals, Charlie Creswell. For a moment, Harvey just hovered at the sink with faintly damp hands and a racing heart - being grabbed and jostled like that by a 6ft2 centre-back like the skipper made him feel 3ft tall and a few years younger again, a condescension that rankled with his Premiership Anfield ego, and there was some beer-warmed part of him that wanted to spin around and tell the bigger pair not to be such fucking trolls. But then, the tactile affection of his fellow Young Lions awoke OTHER feelings in Elliott too, and so he just turned slowly and gave a thoughtful glance to the two tailored silhouettes at the urinals instead, whilst the sparkling clean lavatory echoed with the watery gurgle of beer piss.
`I'll leave you two here to admire each other's pricks,' the young midfield player barked dryly at the other youths, and made for the exit, still patting his hands dry on the lapels of his matching blazer, part of the same Marks & Spencer tailoring that was modelled by their senior counterparts. Harvey left the brash echoing laughter of the two defenders behind and broke out into the air-conditioned cool of the function suites, bladder emptied and ready to rejoin the party.
Not so long ago, Harvey Elliott had been a little bruised by a lack of call-up for the REAL England squad. After all, the likes of Bellingham and Saka were now firmly installed in Southgate's plans, and mediocrity like Smith-Rowe had been able to dabble in the top level of international footy. The 20-year-old Liverpool player had been greedy for his own shot, even before he'd fucked Harry Kane in the mouth and assumed he'd be due his first senior cap. Under-21s had seemed like bullshit to him, stuff he'd moved past and outgrown... that was until they blistered through the tournament without conceding a single goal and then, tonight, smashed an ill-disciplined young Spain to take the Euros medals home. It's funny what a big tournament win can do for perspective.
Harvey had enjoyed this Euros run more and more with each win, although he was still a little frustrated to be a second-half substitution in most fixtures. He'd worked hard in spite of the tough season behind him, tried his best to bond with the other lads, and kept his eye on the informal scouting of senior Three Lions reps who were studying the youth team's every move. It had only been as they went into the Semis had stopped obsessing over a senior call-up and appreciated that the Under-21s trophy would be a career breakthrough in itself - and tonight, on the top floor of a squat brutalist hotel in the obscure Georgian city of Batumi, this was a sentiment that had gripped the entire squad of up-and-coming English footy lads.
He grinned as he made his way from the loos to the bar, pleased to be in the midst of the blokey celebrations; his young career had already seen some big achievements at Anfield, but he'd felt somewhat peripheral to them, just a young upstart on the fringe of the party compared to the likes of Hendo, Robbo and co. Here, he was probably one of the more experienced and successful figures, despite being one of the youngest, and he was generally treated by the players and staff as A-list, someone deserving of quiet respect and vocal admiration. He loved it.
At the bar, Elliott bought himself another ice-cold beer bottle, and tapped his card to pay for a hefty round of Jagerbombs that he slid down to the corner and started gesturing boldly to nearby fellas to divvy out. The young men on this squad were of an age where their sizable salaries were still novelty, and gestures like this were more exciting and appreciated. Harvey could feel a big-shot handing out the cheap trashy shots, spilling sticky slicks down his knuckles and wrists, and knocking back the last couple for himself.
There was one issue with this hot summery tournament though, the Liverpool midfielder would have to admit, and it separated the Euros run from his last trip out with this second-tier squad: a distinct lack of... action. As the recurring murky thought crossed his otherwise drunk and happy mind, the young football stud pulled lightly at the crotch of his suit trousers again, where his cock and full balls were nestled in those taut black CK briefs, and he made a bitter little grunt before knocking back the last Jagerbomb. All this testosterone in the continental heat, all of these big wins and clean sheets - and he hadn't enjoyed the slightest bit of horseplay with any of the other Young Lions...!
He had, of course, made his subtle and not-so-subtle efforts, particularly at the handful of playful fuckers who had provided entertainment last camp. But everyone just seemed so fucking invested in the tournament, the dry bastards, or so wary and prudish, and he knew better than push things so far as to expose his own appetite in full. Scowling at the corner of the bar, he eyed up a couple of what he'd assumed to be likely candidates: pretty boy Max Aarons, right now laughing his head off at the apparent banter of their head coach, had acted as if their rowdy en suite fuck had never happened, and avoided being alone with him so far; ginger fluffer Tommy Doyle over there, he thought grimly, had been curt in informing him that their hotel bed romp last time had ended his blossoming romance with a teammate, and then blocked his number on WhatsApp. No cheeky action for Harvey's virile prick; not even a hushed circle-jerk in the locker-rooms of their various training grounds and match stadiums. In fact, barely a private tug under the duvet in his own hotel suites, to be honest; it wasn't worth upsetting priggish Curt and hearing about it all season once they were back in Scouser-Land. Fucking bell-ends!
The unattended sexual tension had the youth on edge tonight, tingling with unspent extra energy, and now wired by alcohol and sporting elation. He licked a little sweet residue from his plump pink lips and then pursed them against the neck of the cool bottle for a slurp of beer, staring resentfully up and down the broad bar space, and thinking that he might explode if he didn't empty a load tonight...!
A couple more beers and a comfy stool near the windows, and Harvey's mind was at least partly relieved of this spike of tension and frustration - he was now gladly listening to Curtis Jones' retelling of his big goal-scoring moment from tonight's cup final, throwing the odd encouraging question or compliment at the gangly 22-year-old Merseysider, who was barely even slipping into his usual stammers as he recounted the excitement to this small cluster of players overlooking the Georgian city below. Here was a moment where Harvey could put aside selfish ego and desire; he had a lot of love for the 6ft1 midfielder who'd risen ahead of them in the LFC youth academy, and he just felt warm sincere pride that his clubmate had been the star striker of tonight's historic win.
`It was a quality goal, mate,' droned the Manc accent of young City attacker Cole Palmer, a lad almost as tall and gangly as Jones himself, seated on the next stool.
`Ice in your veins!' complimented the fourth of their current posse, spare goalkeeper Josh Griffiths.
Elliott enjoyed watching the high blush in Jones' lean cheeks and the goofy smile on his lips, and he leaned over to slap and rub at the taller lad's back through his warm blazer, immensely pleased for the socially awkward Scouser. Gonna be the saviour of Liverpool,' he predicted boldly, side-hugging at the lanky fuckerr and almost swinging off his stool as he clinked their beers together. Curtis Big Bollocks, European champ.' Happy laughter from the four friends, and then interruptions as one of the lead coaches approached to make goodbyes - and obviously singling Curtis out for a handshake and line of praise, just about denting Harvey's selfless pleasure for his friend. Where was his own big congratulations on the part he'd played...?
Back at the urinal, pissing again - the seal well and truly broken now, and the aim of his stream a little shakier as the alcohol in his blood took its hold. Acknowledging this fact, the drunk lad let out a tipsy snarl of chuckles, blinking a few times to steady his focus before he got piss down the crisp legs of the dark grey suit.
Door, footsteps, company at the urinal: `Plastoc Scouser, wotcha!'
Another thumping hand to the back, as the lad at the next pissing stall approached him with the same rough tactile affection as Harwood-Bellis. Harvey gave a sidelong look to the much taller figure at his side, grinning to see one of his newer close pals in the squad, even if they'd have to be vicious rivals once back on Merseyside. Big hefty Jarrad Braithwaite left one heavy paw on Harvey's shoulder whilst the other deflty undid his fly. It was all the 20-year-old could do not to stare keenly down there as a cock was loosed and a loud spray of piss was directed down into the porcelain, sounding like a relieved horse. Instead, Harvey focused on shaking the final few drops from his own chubby cock, spraying the wall a bit as another heavy pat on the shoulder from the bigger lad briefly imbalanced him. At his side, Braithwaite let out a demonstrative sigh that turned into a laugh: `Fuck, been holding that in all night!'
Pushing his twitching member back inside his trousers, Harvey spun away and towards those sinks, though his eyes fell on the mirror - the rear view of just how tall and well-built the Cumbrian defender actually was, his strong young Everton rival and recent pal. Jesus, the 21-year-old was a big tower of a guy, nearing 6ft5! Yet another powerful youngster who made Harvey feel dwarfed and a little awkward, unable to match the physicality of these contemporaries on the training ground - but confident in his speed and dexterity against the lumbering brutes who held this winning team together.
And now the big rugged Evertonian was next to him, washing his big chapped hands with a little flash of soap, and meeting his thoughtful eyes in the mirror. `You won't fucking believe this,' the Carlisle-born defender announced, nudging him so heavily that he had to stop himself tumbling the other way - and big Jarrad was reaching for the inside pocket of his blazer and pulling out some kind of business card to lay down on the edge of their sinks, stifling a stupid giggle as he did. A little bewildered, Harvey thumbed it up and gave it a read, then snorted derisively and gave his pal a sharp look.
`You desperate enough to pay for it, Braith?'
The Cumbrian snorted. Me? Nah! Fuck that - it's Charlie's idea. We found it in a phone box outside the hotel, that's all. Ha ha. Mad, innit?' The big brash blond was grinning and gurning as if the entire concept was new to him, and Harvey read the card again - it was pretty minimal, just the name and contact number of the presumed hooker, and a logo that left little to the imagination. He was amused and semi-aroused, but he flicked the rectangle of card back at Jarrad, dismissive. Quick way to have the gaffer blacklist your name from any future international duty,' he muttered with uncharacteristic piety.
A heft shrug from the 6ft5 defender. Tournament's done, ain't it?' He was preening at his blond hair in the mirror, the confines of his blazer seeming to struggle with the muscular build of his shoulders as he did. We're not gonna be Under 21s after this win, little fella.'
Harvey tried to ignore the minor jibe, just a strained laugh, and a little fiddle with his tie to loosen the knot, but his eyes drawn sideways to Jarrad's rather chiselled looks and swelling chest as he undid his tie and top buttons. He blinked twice and looked away again, ignoring the tingling in his package. `Tell Charlie boy not to throw it all away by calling that number,' he mumbled with a concerned edge to his voice, unsure why he was capable of such sensible advice when he was this loaded on beer and Jagermeister.
Jarrad gave a single hoot of laughter and shook him again by one shoulder. Too late for that, captain sensible - Cresswell is down in reception waiting for her right now.' The big handsome 21-year-old leered confrontationaly at him before backing off, shaking his hands dry as he did. You coming down for a deeks, kid?' And off he spun, shouldering his way out of the bathroom with the grace of a caveman, leaving the diminutive `kid' spinning in Harvey's beery thoughts.
The disappearance of the coaching staff and `real' adults had shifted the mood in the bar. The room was less full, and yet louder, the laddish voices raised to the max and more beer ending up on shirt-fronts than in clumsy mouths. A few of the Under-21 players had already seemingly retired, gradually thinning out the crowd, but sure enough Braithwaite and Cresswell were nowhere to be seen, though Elliott didn't fully believe that the pair of footballers were really downstairs greeting a sex worker - reception wouldn't stand for it! And everyone on this squad was too serious and too professional, that much had been obvious for the past couple of weeks, right?
Vaguely unsettled, the winger idled near the centre of the room, looking thoughtfully out into the shadowy stairwell that looked down into the rest of their hotel base. He glanced about, surprised that there were no staff left up drinking, and it was just the majority of the actual squad who were left, all in various states of dishevelment of their team tailoring, various blazers and ties jettisoned for open-chested white shirts as beer bottles were drained and replaced.
The 20-year-old reached an internal decision and he darted across the room to the doors, out onto that lamp-lit landing. He held the metallic bannister and peered curiously down the deep well of space, unable to see anything of the reception below - but a couple of indistinct throaty voices echoed up to his ears, what sounded like the two absent players bantering their way down to the ground floor. Fuck, he thought, they were serious.
He let out an ambiguous laugh and drummed his fingers on the rail, then glanced over his shoulder - it was Norwich's Max Aarons, stepping out of the function rooms with a glassy drunk look in his eyes, and an instant frown on his attractive features as their eyes locked. Harvey, forgetting the prostitute business in a flash, raised one barred eyebrow and grinned meaningfully across at the 23-year-old London Canary, who was still fully suited and booted with a glossy sheen of sweat on his brow.
`Had enough?' Elliott asked quietly.
`Oh, hey,' mumbled the Norwich defender.
Harvey grinned more widely at him, doing his best to communicate with every muscle of his face that he was thinking about the night they'd shared not so long ago in a different team hotel, Max pressed up against the bathroom unit with his big round arse being rammed by Harvey's newly acquired topping skills, trained by a begrudging daddy Milner. Horny now, the 20-year-old licked his bottom lip and gave the bulging front of his suit pants a gentle squeeze.
`Where's your roomie?' he asked, dropping his voice further.
What?' Aarons demanded a little tartly, even though his eyes betrayed that he knew exactly what was being asked. These eyes told Elliott plenty, and his own throbbing bollocks told him the rest; he slid away from the bannister and drew close to the 5ft10 lad, smirking up at him and squaring his shoulders almost confrontationally. He thought about how greedy the big-bottomed Canary had been a couple of months back, how he'd squealed as he was pounded in the hotel bathroom - the sweaty pinnacle of Harvey's exploits on that camp! The lad had the most gorgeous round brown arse cheeks in the world... He squeezed his crotch more and reached his other hand past Max's hip, reaching around to take a handful of suited glute, even though they were in partial view of the glass doors to the bar- Oi,' snapped the West Londoner, pushing him roughly away with such force that Harvey had to grasp for the bannister again to stop himself tripping onto the stairs. `Just fucking drop it,' hissed the 23-year-old as he barged past him and down the first flight, not even looking back - a line that left the Liverpool starlet blushing awkwardly and steadying himself against the rail, somewhat deflated.
His teens behind him, he'd been working hard to convince himself he was a powerful top, a kind of irresistible charismatic scallywag - it had definitely felt that way earlier this year, powering into a bearded DILF like James fucking Milner, and then throwing his cock about in this Under-21s cohort, getting up to mischief... but now he just felt like a scrappy midget in the company of these burly oafs, and out of the blue he thought again about the fact he'd barely made a starting line-up all tournament. The two ideas mixed in his drunken paranoia, the idea that his medal was only part-deserved, and that he wasn't quite the virile young stud that he'd been made to feel.
Still scowling and blushing in his cheeks, Harvey tilted his heads and looked down into the landings below, seeing Aarons disappear away through one of the branching doorways. Prissy twat, he thought resentfully, the fat-arsed pretty boy had enjoyed it at the time, what was his issue now? Ungrateful twit, just like Tommy Doyle, the ginger prick! Harvey scratched restlessly at the crotch of his suit trousers and he wriggled against the heat of his blazer, undoing another button on his pale fluffy chest.
Hey,' called a soft voice, and another player was emerging from the warm bar, a beer in each hand; it was the star of the night, big Curtis, looking a little worse for wear, and certainly less suited and booted than sulky Max. Curtis' shirt was half-open and half-untucked and his tie was around his head like he was commando or stag do. He wasn't the best-looking lad in the world, but he was cute in a big dopey way, his crooked smile and acne-marked features all friendly concern as he approached. Everything ok?' the other Liverpool player called, taking a long step in his direction. `Couldn't find you after I bought these.'
Harvey stared for a moment with real affection at the 6ft1 lad, then accepted his beer and just held its icy cool against his flushed face. Then, rather than meeting Jones' soft-hearted concern, he just sniggered and blurted at him, `Couple of the others have hired a prozzer. You up for it, big man?'
Inevitably, a flash of real panic crossed Curits' long face and his reply was an apopolexy of speech difficulties. `W-w-what? A p-p-prostit-t-t-tute? F-f-f-fuck's s-sake!'
It was mean, but Harvey couldn't help himself. They're bringing her up just for you, mate,' he barked. You scored the winner, didn't you? If anyone deserves to get their dick wet tonight...!' He burst into seedy chuckles, punching Curtis in the arm, then taking a swig of beer back - he pushed down the insecurity and annoyance of Max's rejection, enjoying the wobble of this geek's lower lip and the furtive glances he was shooting down the stairwell, blinking stupidly.
`You're joking?' mumbled the midfielder.
`Deadly serious!' he insisted playfully.
`F-f-fuck that,' Curtis insisted weakly.
`Well, that's the plan, fella,' Harvey quipped with a wink.
Just then, his bestie looking mortified, they were both distracted by a ping and sliding sound as the elevator on the far side of the landing opened - and out of it spilled the big burly figures of Jarrad and Charlie, but not the busty woman suggested by the artwork on that business card. The two footballers, neither of whom had been able to spend their energy as unused subs in tonight's final, hooted with coarse laughter and crashed in this direction, holding onto one another and trying to suppress their stupid chortles. Curtis blinked awkwardly at them and Harvey frowned with curiosity.
`Where is she, then?' he demanded, as if he hadn't chided Braithwaite's idea in the gents about ten minutes ago.
`Fuck,' howled Jarrad, covering his face with both big hands.
Next to him, Leeds United's Charlie Cresswell snorted with laughter and shook his head. We just watched her getting marched out of the building... Fuck - if we'd been a moment quicker it would have been obvious and the staff would have been ratting on us to the gaffer.' He sniggered idiotically. We saw her getting grilled and just scarpered into the lift, haha - fuck, she didn't look ANYTHING like her picture. Swear she was someone's granny. Haha!' Both he and the rugged Everton player shook with laughter and fell against each other, so entertained with their own horny exploits.
`Will she be in t-t-trouble?' came Curtis' worried input.
Harvey shook off a touch of concern and just scowled at his friend as if it was a ridiculous question, then threw the drunken question out there. Without her, who's going to get your cock sorted, champ?' He shoved at the lanky lad in the same rough way as the other lads kept doing to him, and then grinned mischievously at Jarrad and Charlie. The two defenders were nodding furious. You were gonna get first go on her,' the Leeds player sniggered, throwing his arms about Jones in a rough hug.
Harvey laughed along, unable to help but give his semi a rub in the front of his tailored pants and tight briefs; the air was thick with testosterone and alcohol, and his reservations about the aborted sex worker were long-gone. Tonight might get interesting.
The bar closed soon after that - strict orders from the team bosses, apparently, and met with much loud booing from every lad still drinking. Some shed away at that point, Tommy Doyle managing to throw Harvey a sour glare even at this happy occasion, and triggering a slow exodus of weary drinkers who were less hyper on Red Bull. But the landing outside the bar remained crowded with about nine or ten of them, and it was Harvey who hissed the new plan to everybody with a few elbow digs and heavy slaps to the shoulder. Few vodkas in our room?' he called repeatedly, and then faced up to the worried expression of his cohabitant. Curtis didn't need to say anything to broadcast his doubts, but Harvey grinned winsomely and hugged him tight. Nightcap to celebrate you, big lad, that's all - okay? We'll keep the noise down...!'
The player suites here were decently sized, but the twin room still felt quickly crowded with nine strapping young men lounging in it, two bottles of contraband vodka shared between them and mixed with tiny amounts of mini-bar soda. Harvey himself was perched on the desk next to an upturned lamp, his socked feet up on the arm of the study chair - his blazer and tie abandoned and his white shirt open halfway down his torso. He took slow sips from his imbalance mixer drink and enjoyed the debauched air of his laddish cronies scattered across the room. The chair at his feet was occupied by the draped figure of his big pal Jarrad, almost recreating the shared poses the enemy players had struck as they celebrated their medals at the stadium tonight - the only other chair in the room was occupied by the slouching mass of another big Cumbrian giant, their lauded and undefeated goalkeeper James Trafford. On one of the two doubles, Curtis looked anxious about the way Taylor kept almost spilling his drink, whilst the other was occupied by the relaxed figures of Cole Palmer and Levi Colwill. Their group was rounded out by Charlie Cresswell and Emile Smith-Rowe at the window, and Luke Thomas and Morgan Gibbs-White standing between the beds, fighting over the TV remote to flick through the foreign-language channels.
Where's Gordon?' someone was demanding. And Skipp? Why are some lads such fucking lightweights.'
`Jesus, do these guys have any proper telly on their network, or what?' grunted another drunk young footy stud, winning the fight for the remote.
`Is this vodka and lemonade actually just vodka?' bemoaned a third loud voice, ignoring the agreement to remain quiet and avoid waking any neighbouring suites.
Harvey, ignoring this hubbub, kicked his socked toes at Jarrad's arm, poised next to the sprawled bigger lad. Hey, it's a shame you didn't get that girl up here,' he muttered confidentially, just loud enough for the Cumbrian to hear. Imagine all nine of us sharing one bird, that would be fucking mental.' He grinned eagerly at the uncertain smirk on the bigger lad's face, throwing a giddy laugh at him in case his idea was too much - but Braithwaite gave a slow heavy nod and slapped a hand on his knee. Too right,' he half-belched. That was Charlie's thinking - get loads of us in on it, fuck her like we fucked the Spanish, haha, TEAMWORK...' He brought up a grazed fist and Harvey bumped knuckles with it, his cock throbbing in his briefs.
Shame we don't have those sluts Max or Tommy in here, he thought, and almost blurted out, still resentful about the way those one-time playmates had avoided his hints and approaches, acting like their recent encounters were imagined or shameful. Worse prudes than Mo fucking Salah, he thought, thinking about the slew of unanswered messages he'd fired at his Egyptian king over the summer break from Anfield - or Milner, who had told him to stop sending selfies to him in the early hours of the morning. Bloody bores! Drunk and eager, Harvey chuckled dumbly to himself, and ran his fingers through the sweaty mop of his hair, staring hungrily about the room.
Oi, Chaz,' Jarrad was hollering across the room. Harvs was just saying - wish we'd got Sonya down there up here after all, all had a turn on her - haha - even if she was a bit minging!' And the 6ft5 Carlisle lad almost fell over in his attempt to unfolding his big suited body from the desk chair, leaning back on Harvey for support before staggering into the centre of the room and miming a very obvious deed for all to see - one hand placed in the air in front of him to guide an imaginary head, while he made a few throaty moans and rolled his hips. Laughter rippled around the suite and Charlie Cresswell vaulted across the bed to join him in the centre - both hands clutched behind his head, elbows jutting out, the other big defender thrusted melodramatically into the space where the imaginary prostitute got to work, before the two huge lads fell stupidly against each other and hooted with laughter, to the apparent enjoyment of everyone but uncomfortable Curtis and scowling Morgan.
Oh yeah,' Nottingham Forest's attacking midfielder declared as he stumbled this way and stole Jarrad's chair, that's just what we all need, ruining our careers before they've got going...!' At 23, Gibbs-White was marginally one of the more seasoned and level-headed men on this young squad, taking to the chair now like a throne and spinning lightly on it whilst glaring at the troublemakers. `That bird would be straight on to the tabloids and our names would be mud in the Premiership, you know how it goes - we've all seen the vids.' The moody-faced footballer slouched in the seat and span, looking seriously about at them as if he was the voice of moral certainty - there was a brief quiet before Arsenal's Emile, still perched at the window, boomed with laughter.
`Gibbo mate, what vids you been watching online?' the Gooner demanded very loudly, and the room shook with crude laughter again.
Harvey laughed along but patted Morgan on the shoulder to show support, or at least... familiarity. He knew exactly what videos the Forest player meant, and he was more than a little interested by the idea that his older pal had watched them. He was getting more and more stupidly horny, too drunk for real caution as he patted and rubbed at the handsome mixed-race lad's shoulder muscles through his white shirt, seemingly unnoticed. Huh, he thought, Max Aarons doesn't know what he's missing - I'd have given him a lovely back-rub after I smashed his arse. Harvey paused awkwardly as if he might have spoken this thought aloud, his hand pausing against the other lad's body heat.
Chuckling vaguely to himself, he slid off the desk and away from Gibbs, hovering by the two big beds, slurping vodka-and-coke-and-vodka. For a moment, he pulled himself away from the fray, disappearing into the adjoining bathroom - he clanked his glass down at the sink and then splashed cool water against his flushed cheeks and mussed fringe. He grinned stupidly at his reflection in the mirror, picturing himself railing Aarons in a similar Euro 4-star hotel.
Behind him, the room shook with raised voices and heavy thumps as the lads shifted and bantered, and Harvey entertained a rash idea - ringing down to whatever room the Norwich player was occupying and telling him that there were nine big cocks up here in need of room service, hehe! Or he could call on Sheffield's ginger Tommy! Abandoning his unnecessary drink on the porcelain, Harvey drifted back into the room, scratching his thin chest hair through the open shirt, and thinking dirty thoughts.
Two or three of the others seemed to be wrestling, perhaps still for the TV remote; Harvey's attention drifted to the wall-mounted screen and the softcore porn that someone had stumbled across, which made him chuckle and rub his crotch. And his eyes drifted back towards the desk where he'd been perched, and serious-faced Morgan, who was still hunched there with a gentle spin back and forth - and it seemed the Nottingham star was staring thoughtfully back at him, eyes slightly narrowed. Hmm, perhaps the stocky 5ft7 fella, the only lad here who didn't make Harvey feel short as fuck, had noticed that little shoulder rub after all...
Somewhat nervous in spite of his inebriation, Elliott picked his way back in that direction, ducking to one side to avoid being sent flying by the physical play of the others, until he was stood right by Gibbs-White, perching his own pert arse back against the edge of the desk, and bringing his left hand gently up to rest on that broad shoulder muscle again, feeling its firmness and heat through the starchy white fabric. He gave a gentle rub and Morgan said nothing. Hmm.
Only half-listening to the rabble of voices that filled the room, Harvey stroked that broad shoulder and then tickled his fingertips against the back of the lad's neck. Morgan was tense, and he understood that: the Forest player's late red card had been a rare moment of jeopardy in their spotless win, and would probably be Gibbo's remembered contribution to the otherwise perfect tournament. But they'd won, it didn't matter. Now he realised that he WAS thinking aloud; Morgan's head was tilted this way with a soulful look in his eyes. `Thanks,' he murmured distantly, and Harvey blinked and sighed, realising just how wasted he actually was.
Maybe we call this prozzer back up and get her in through a different entrance?' mused the distinctive Stockport growl of their captain, Harwood-Bellis; She was gross!' chuckled the voice of Cresswell, joined by loud vomiting noises from Braithwaite; `Who the fuck pays for sex?' demanded Smith-Rowe quite touchily, making Harvey giggle to himself - Emile had been SUCH A GRUMP this trip, wasn't he still messing about with the legendary England captain? Their voices washed over him and he stroked his hand back and forth across Morgan's strong upper back, enjoying the physical contact, the heat and strength next to him, thinking idly of mental snapshots of the ripped physiques of teammates like Salah and Milner, his thoughts tumbling and blurring...
Was she really THAT gross?' That curious question seemed to come from the more reserved Chelsea defender, Levi Colwill, talking across the laughter and dirty jokes of his pals. Not if you're into old biddies,' murmured someone, but another voice, less distinct, announced that `Sometimes a fella just needs his cock sucked, you know?! Does it really matter what she looks like?' Much throaty laughter at that, including from Gibbs-White, whose muscular form juddered against Harvey's wandering hand.
`Preach!' boomed someone, maybe Jarrad.
`Yeah, any hole's a goal.' That was big goalie Trafford, he thought.
`You lot are monsters,' sniggered a fairly nervous voice - Cole, was that?
`Oh, like you ain't horny as fuck too after tonight!' argued Emile bluntly.
`Does everyone get that after a big win?' mused a more thoughtful speaker, Leicester's Luke Thomas.
Still, Harvey let the voices buffer against him, smirking distantly and just slouching back where he was, chewing at one side of his lips, and feeling a couple of beads of cool tapwater run down his jawline and onto his neck. Any hole's a goal, he thought; who the fuck cared who was doing the sucking, some of them were saying. Hah. Brilliant. Good point. Damn, he cursed inwardly, he'd love his cock sucked, and he pictured Max's pouting lips - he pictured a one-off with Trent Alexander-Arnold in a kit closet, and he pictured early trembling experimentation in his weed-hazy attic bedroom, reaching inside Neco Williams' joggers, and- Damn it, he didn't just want his cock sucked, he wanted to-
`What's that you're mumbling?' questioned Morgan quietly.
Harvey blinked and shuddered, unsure what he'd said. He stood there with his hand limp against the older lad's shoulder, and slowly turned to meet his dark question-filled eyes. As always, Morgan's face looked deadly serious, a resting frown of serious focused intensity. But then his lips curled a little, the suggestion of a smile. Harvey felt nervous in spite of his lost inhibitions, and he let out a slow half-laugh.
Dammit, I'd take a blowie from an ageing hooker!' declared Trafford hoarsely, close-by, followed by taunting chants from someone else, Rooney Rooney Rooney!'
`Go on,' urged the deep, thoughtful voice of the Nottingham Forest player, and Harvey began to slide from the desk, bending his knees. As he kneeled slowly down beside the study chair, it was Morgan's turn to pat and stroke at his neck and shoulder, pawing gently but firmly at him, guiding him down there - and then, for a blissful moment, the wasted 20-year-old felt that the rest of the room didn't exist, just this stocky well-muscled pal, who he'd shared a cheeky group wank with in a St George's Park locker-room earlier this year. Down to his knees, shuffling close, resting his hands on sturdy thighs, and looking up past the folds of creased white shirt, looking into Morgan's intense eyes and gently smirking lips...
Harvey had no idea at what point anybody noticed, because for a moment he was lost: reaching for the belt buckle and undoing it, sliding down the zipper, rubbing a hand in against the loose grey boxers. Then staring at the cock in his hand as if hypnotised by a cobra, gripping the freed shaft and taking in the musty crotch smell. Darting his tongue out to roll against the exposed pink of the head, pulling back more of the dark foreskin and tasting a good mouthful of it - Morgan's instant appreciative purr. Slow-motion moments of devious delight, the other seven lads forgotten. But then their voices...
`What the actual fuck?'
`Is he-? I mean, is he actually-? Is that-?'
`Whoa, Harveyyyyyy, yes boy!'
`Dammit, did someone spike my drink?'
`Fuck...!'
`Jesus, somebody give him a kick, wake him up...'
`Morgan, you dirty dog!'
Gibbs-White just out a long chuckling groan; Elliott slurped up and down the shaft, held it in one curled fist, and then blinked stupidly, before turning his head and glancing uncertainly about the room. The men all seemed incredibly close, their shocked faces looming over him at different heights and positions, and yet... he just laughed, licking his lips, and turned back around, opening wide to take the thick shaft in against his tongue, loving the taste and firmness of it filling up his gob.
`What the FUCK?' repeated Curtis' Scouse drawl.
`He's fucking not! Fucking hell!' ranted Colwill, sounding scandalised.
`Harvey man, this is bare funny, what a legend...' came the uncertain boom of Braithwaite's amusement shifting into worry.
`I'm fucking imagining this, right?' mumbled Man City youth Palmer.
Watch him go,' tittered Smith-Rowe admiringly. Good little slut.'
`Does he know what he's doing?' questioned Trafford in a suddenly wavering voice, his booming confidence disappearing.
`Gibbo, how's that feel?' cackled Cresswell close by.
These different reactions formed a general mass of noise, a wall of attention that Harvey could no longer drunkenly ignore, and yet he was not mad about - he loved the tones of shock and outrage, but also the seeds of curiosity, the hint of scandal and temptation. He slurped off the fat tip of the lad's cock, drooling over it, and stared up into Morgan's face, seeing the roll of his eyes and the panting of his lips. He rested back on his haunches and wiped a hairy forearm across his damp lips, sniggering to himself.
Fuck,' Gibbs moaned loudly, a mouth's a mouth, innit?'
Jesus,' someone muttered reproachfully, but another voice muttered, Guess so.' Harvey ignored them, going down on the Forest hunk again, pressing palms against his thick thighs through his pants, bobbing up and down on his thick veiny tool, and feeling one hand rub through his hair and press down on the back of his head, making him deep-throat it, which always made him gag and splutter, slutty noises that seemed to provoke a ripple of dirty laughter from the men who loomed about him. As he pulled away, gasping, he felt one man become even closer, and when he turned his head to the right, there was another bare cock, squeezed and angled at his face, knuckles white; he licked the tip and looked up, following the shirt buttons up to the knowing smirk on his previous playmate's face. Emile looked happier than he had since arriving at England camp.
Shifting from knee to knee, Harvey moved his oral attention from Gibbs-White to Smith-Rowe, sucking on the Arsenal youngster with the same deep gusto, until again he was gagging and spluttering, and laughing as eagerly as everyone else as he did so. He swayed on his knees, feeling vague hands in his curls and on his shoulders, and he knew there were others pressing close, even as some voices protested. `Is he ok-k-kay?' he could hear Jones slurring, and he thought he heard the door close, someone hurry out - this wasn't going to be everyone's cup of tea, but that left plenty of cock for him...
Harvey was too drunk and horny for ego. His brash cocksure decision that he wouldn't be anyone's slut again was lying somewhere on the drink-splashed carpet, and he was as hungry for dick as he'd been as he crawled into Salah's master bedroom in lockdown, or as he blew Ross Barkley in his Jeep one cold Liverpudlian night. He was sucking a third cock already and he wasn't sure whose it was, eyes squeezed shut and hands roving around him, pulling on loose bare pricks and rubbing at suit pants bulges, hearing sighs and mutters and groans. Fuck, yes!
He reached down to fumble with the awkward angle of his own stiff member, rubbing and pulling it through two layers, his head angled and jolted by hands and cocks. This third mouthful was pulled away, wet with his saliva, and he stared all the way up into the rosy-cheeked panic of their hero goalkeeper - fresh-faced James Trafford looked shocked and worried, but his dick was huge and hard, and tasted good. Without breaking eye contact, Harvey leaned in and licked the tip, making the 6ft5 goalie shudder and gasp, eyes sliding shut, big dumb hunk.
`Get your nob out, Palmer,' Smithy was urging loudly, shaking at his buddy.
`I d-d-don't think I'm horny,' stammered CJ to nobody in particular.
His lips are so soft,' murmured Morgan distantly. Seriously, better than any bird.'
`Oh come on then,' grunted the rough Cumbrian voice of his big pal, and Harvey found himself kneeling before the other 6ft5 northerner, looking up into Jarrad's stunned but excited features - out was his cock, huge and curved, big bruised knuckles sliding up and down the shaft, angling it down and towards Harvey's wet lips. He winked up at the big blond Everton twat, and then took his thick member into his mouth with relish, reaching for those strong thighs to steady himself, and gobbling down on Braithwaite.
`Look at him go!' cackled Cresswell.
`Dirty little slut,' chuckled Arsenal's Smithy.
`Don't fucking call him that,' muttered Curtis somewhere.
It wasn't just the breathy voices, it was the fap fap of hands going busy on hard cocks, because he could only suck on one at a time, and the mood was electric. He was on his knees and encircled by the M&S suits, slurping from tool to tool. He kissed goodbye to the huge head of Jarrad's and then wrapped his lips about Charlie's, and reached either side of him to stroke and pull on whoever's cocks were closest - an awkward gasp made him look to one side and see he had hold of Cole Palmer by the manhood, and the City starlet was beetroot in his long awkward face. Beautiful cocks all around, and big brooding footy players attached to them! Harvey opened the top button of his pants and shoved a hand inside his briefs to grip onto his leaking hard-on.
Fucking hell,' moaned someone, nobody better mention this on the flight home tomorrow...!'
`Oh yeah, are we not gonna take a selfie then, haha?'
`You fuckin' dare, dickhead-!'
`Relax, relax, just toss one off and enjoy it - hey, Harv, give him a slurp and shut him up?'
`I bet that ancient prostitute wouldn't be this good.'
`Are you acutally saying you prefer a lad's mouth?'
`Nah, fuck off, that's not what I meant!'
`Jesus, his lips...'
`Haha, don't cum too soon, keeno!'
Harvey laughed in a pause between mouthfuls, but then felt himself pulled and manhandled differently - for a second or two, he thought the game was up, and this bro-job circle-jerk was a bit rich for someone. But nope. He was being yanked up by the armpits and then cuffed and shook playfully by different hands, but guided towards his bed, towards those clean white sheets. He let out a filthy chuckle as he fell against it, undoing the last two buttons so that his shirt could spill open and expose his toned upper body, his cock jutting out of the CK-branded waistband of his briefs. And the other lads were about him, surrounding the bed, and all pumping on their cocks, so tall and powerful - it was Luke missing, he thought, Luke who'd panicked and fled - Luke who was, at 24, the oldest here, but you wouldn't think it, a nervous Bambi of a twink - and Harvey had caught him staring at his dick in the showers not so long ago, haha!
So sprawled on the bed, he twisted and shifted so that he could grab and fellate Jarrad again, loving the gruffness and almost resistance of the big Cumbrian man's moans... but then reaching a hand out to stroke and tease Emile by his thick meaty piece, one of the first cocks he'd ever sucked, years ago in a stadium bathroom! He pivoted and licked the heavy hairy balls of James, seeing those bright pink cheeks and worried eyes in the big lad's face... and then, scrambling to the side, he found himself smirking up into a more worried and drawn face. And yet here he was. Stood at the foot of the bed, his shirt hanging open about his lean ripped torso, and his eyes half-closed; wanking furiously on his stupidly big cock, the monster Harvey had noticed bouncing about in trunks and shorts and joggers for years. Curtis hovered over him, pumping on his monster cock, staring down at him, and Harvey licked his lips. He slid from the bed and back onto his haunches right in front of the Liverpool midfielder, and kissed his cock, and then let the lanky git slide it down his throat, thrusting forward and fucking his face for a few eager moments.
`Fuck, I think I'm gonna cum,' someone panted.
Me too,' another throaty voice admitted. Damn, this is fucked up.'
`Oh shut up and dump yer jizz on the bastard, haha!'
`Harvey, get here - I'm gonna paint that face.'
`Fucking hell mate...!'
`Oh god, I'm getting close...'
Harvey stayed where he was, squashed down on his arse, back to the foot of the bed, and the men drew closer about him, some kneeling on the bed over him, but most of them standing. Fucking bukkake the cunt,' muttered Jarrad Braithwaite, the strapping hetero lad who'd been throwing a brotherly arm about his shoulders on the Georgian pitch earlier tonight; I'm spunking in his stupid hair,' gasped Cole Palmer, nervous as a bunny rabbit five minutes ago. `I'm spunking in his Scouse mouth!' panted Trafford more loudly, and it was as if the big lads were fighting to be first, fighting to stand over him, all jostling elbows and puffed out pectorals. Harvey reached for two cocks at a time, stroking them and just lolling his head back against the foot of the mattress, a filthy grin across his face.
Come on, lads,' the England player growled at his teammates, don't keep me waiting!'
`Fucking slut,' grunted 22-year-old attacking midfielder Emile, and Harvey opened his mouth wide to catch some of the juicy load that spilled from the Croydon lads'juddering prick - a couple of dabs of salty load hit his tongue, but the rest spattered across the side of his face, flecking the chinstrap of facial hair, dotting the bridge of his nose, spilling across the nub of his chin. Above him, the dominant wanker gasped and mouthed silent blasphemy.
`Fucking hell guys,' panted Cole nervously, apparently horrified by the sight of this, but red-faced with excitement all at once; he looked like he was straining to reach his own orgasm and get it out of the way, something desperate and frantic in his gestures and tremors.
Look at his dirty mouth,' gasped Gibbs-White, a bit too eagerly - Harvey rolled his tongue across his lips, catching a drop more of Emile's cum, eyes locked on Morgan's, urging the big black lad to finish on his face too. But someone else was gasping and moaning, and he flicked his eyes to the left - Trafford had gone from fresh-faced pink to scarlet, eyes clamped shut and chest heaving, the big lad that he was - and then a second load of manly seed was flecking Harvey's face, his hairline, his bare chest. Oh jesus Christ,' bellowed the big goalkeeper who had kept things so clean all through the cup, but now was spilling a sticky mess over the young winger.
Fucking big load, mate,' someone grunted approvingly, but watch this...'
It was Charlie Creswell, bending his knees and almost squatting forward so he could aim his pistol cock and splash his wet load right across Harvey's face, running across his cheeks and lips - he stuck out a dirty tongue, catching a taste of the Lancashire juices and staring hungrily up at the big sexy bugger. The rugged Leeds centre-back broke into gruff laughter, hanging off the shoulders of the lads next to him, his veiny hard-on swinging free with more cum trailing from the tip.
`Fuck yes,' the Liverpool star shouted at them, licking more at his lips, eyeing them all wildly, loving being the bukkake star of their release - he turned just in time to catch some of Cole's salty load on his tongue, though most of it scattered in his hair and across his brow. He lunged over and wrapped his mouth about the long thin tool of the Man City midfielder, wanting more of his Wythenshawe flavour.
`Fuck yes,' Taylor grunted, the skipper of this team who, Harvey now thought, seemed to have been manhandling him more than anyone else all tournament, a bit handsy and intimate, and whose big bulge he'd been eyeing unconsciously himself.
And that left just one, apart from his own straining erection. His head lolled to one side and he smirked eagerly at Curtis, licking some of Taylor's cum from his upper lip. He rose up on his knees, wanking himself furiously, and he gripped the base of his teammate's big prick - he held it there, about the base, and just rolled his tongue back and forth over the tip, gratified by the wild rolling gasp of Jones' breaths and swearing.
`Eat his cum,' someone, maybe Harwood-Bellis, was grunting forcefully through heavy breaths.
`Yeah, feed the slut!'
`Look at his dirty fucking mug, fuckin' hell...'
`God I need to shower...'
`You do? Poor Harv, ha ha-'
`FUCK,' whined the stammering Liverpool ace, and Harvey intensified, sliding his hand halfway up and down the shaft, really licking around the head, and then clamping his mouth about it just as the big lad's balls tightened and every ripped muscle in his midriff seemed to tense. He tasted yet more salty cum filling his mouth, and he slouched back, drooling jizz, and eyeing Curtis' shiny stunned face looming over him.
Sitting there at their feet, looking up at their resting cocks and heaving bodies, Harvey pulled on himself and in a few more strokes he was spurting thick cum over his knuckles and over the thighs of his tailored trousers, bead after bead of his juices drained from his balls. He laughed, though it came out as a throaty gurgle, and he grabbed at an edge of the duvet to try and rub it over his messy face and fringe.
Around him, in a haze, was a kind of chaos: Curtis sounded like he was hyperventilating, and then stampeding for the en suite, barking `Need a shower' at someone else; he had the sense of big tired bodies collapsing onto beds or chairs, some of the lads just totally spent by unloading; someone exited in a real hurry, so much so that they seemed to be still stuffing their cock into their suit pants on the way through the doorway. Harvey pulled to one side then scrambled upright, still chuckling and trying to wipe sticky mess from his face, his neck, his softly defined pecs.
Fucking hell,' muttered the hefty presence of Trafford, brushing past him, furiously buttoning up his shirt over his pecs, his eyes wild with regret. His City teammate Palmer was dashing after him, and neither lad looked back at Harvey, the recipient of their orgasms. Harvey swayed on his feet, almost knocked aside as the first cock of the night pulled in close next to him. Softly chuckling, Gibbs-White held him about the shoulders and brought his mouth close to his ear. Neco said you were pretty handy with that mouth,' the Forest player muttered darkly, before patting him on the back and swaggering for the door.
And so they went - Jarrad and Charlie both red-faced and laughing ambiguously, and Emile giving him a dirty smile of past knowledge, and then skipper Taylor coming in for, surprisingly, a hug. He practically lifted Harvey off his feet in the manly embrace, something awkward and wooden in his facial expression. Always a team player,' was all the Man City centre-back could mutter at him, evading eye contact. Solid, lad, solid.' And then the 6ft2 ruffian was hurrying after the other two big lads - Levi must already have gone, and Luke ages ago. This left Elliott alone, slumping down to seated on the edge of the bed, and listening to the watery hiss of his roommate's shower.
The 20-year-old sniggered. `Breakfast will be fun,' he murmured, unsure if he was feeling the faintest of regrets - this was his whole generation of England players, he supposed, and fellas he might play alongside on the senior squad in future World Cups, and over half a dozen of them had just dumped their seed over his face like he was some porno slut or hired hooker. But he could only grin and snigger, and pull fingers through his messy hair, then stagger up from the bed and into the bathroom, where he shed his stained shirt to the floor and toyed with the waist of his undies and dirtied trousers.
The water stopped, the curtain slide aside, and Jones instantly planted both hands over his exposed crotch, as if a roomful of lads hadn't just seen his beast in action. Curtis stared at him, mortified, his tall lean body glistening wet. Harvey softened his smile and hovered there, patting his flat tummy, and waiting for one of them to speak.
`You okay, big man?' he asked quietly.
`That was insane,' Curtis told him ambivalently. Harvey passed him a towel and made a show of looking away. Wrapped in it, the taller lad slid past him and out of the bathroom. Harvey strongly suspected that unconvincing snores would be heard by the time he followed his friend through into the main suite... but he and Curtis had a lot of training time together in the near future of the pre-season, and he wasn't worried. He'd seen how excited the big bugger was to get his cock out and join in, for all his concerns. He'd long resisted a curiosity about his well-hung pal, never wanting to push the nervous fella too far, or to mar their close alliance in the Liverpool ranks... But now, everything was different, and Curtis had joined in just like the other brutish lads.
On his own, Elliott switched the shower back on and soaped the cum away from his body, playing idly with his still-tingling prick, and reflecting on the unexpected submission of his night; he'd wanted to fuck a slut, but he'd just become one instead. And... he felt pretty good about it. Surprised, dazed, but... good.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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