Part 364: England Camp, Day Three
The night was only marginally cooler than the day, or so it felt: though the daytime flashed between the searing heat of the September sun and the air-conditioned confines of gyms and indoor work, the hotel accommodation was typically British, and the restaurant and bar area where the lads were allowed to unwind felt stuffy and oppressive. The wide-open glass doors onto the patio failed to bring in a non-existent breeze that might cool the showered and well-fed athletes, and all they achieved was inviting the buzz of irritating insects in to plague the flinching and chafing figures who stood or sat in their various clusters around the hotel's communal spaces this over-warm Wednesday night.
Like any northerner in this weather, Kyle Walker felt hot and irritated, and the well-built Man City player couldn't stop writhing at the thin grey jogger shorts that he'd donned to come down to dinner an hour or so ago. He sat back in a fairly lightweight armchair, the pale leather almost sticking to his back muscles through the thin black t-shirt that clung to his bulky torso and made him shift irritably where he perched.
A typical Englishman, Kyle couldn't help but resent these temperatures, even though if he'd been off work and in a foreign resort, he might have loved them.
Nearby, an extra-large screen on the wall was showing a film, selected by Southgate-knows-who, and doing nothing to capture Walker's hazy attention - it was some dumb action movie and he didn't know who any of the young stars were, or the video game franchise it was based on. It was the kind of shit that could make a 33-year-old feel a bit old on a Wednesday night, given that the fast-lived timeframe of their career made him one of the old dogs of this particular roster. He was the oldest by a month, he thought, and Jordan Henderson had been a boring cunt and headed off to bed already - the mild-mannered Mackem had been a right moody git, in Kyle's opinion, pretty much since they all got here at different points on Monday. He could only assume it was all the shitty criticism the fella was getting for his Saudi move.
The thought had played vaguely on Kyle's mind this week: his being the most senior bloke in this team nowadays. After all, his age had thrown a question mark over his head at City in the past year, and he'd come pretty close to fucking off to the Bundesliga over it, unsure if he would continue to feature heavily in Guardiola's plans... It was why the stocky Sheffield man was so intent on keeping his pace up and outrunning all of these younger fucks, it was a nice clear measure of his continued fitness, and his dominance of the England back line. He knew comfortably that he'd be Southgate's first choice right-back against both Ukraine and Scotland this camp, and he couldn't see much in the younger recruits that could threaten that certainty.
It was just a shame, Kyle thought, that he was here alone'. Not actually alone, of course, in this big mix of England's top players, nor even alone in representing his elite club, with Phillips and Foden still on the roster but Grealish sulked off home with a sore ankle. And he had plenty of friends still among the Three Lions, and a couple of fellow Yorkshiremen... The only way in which Walker was alone' was in the one way that seemed to matter: a mildly injured John Stones had been ruled out at the time of selection, and his big lanky bestie was still working on fitness back in the northwest.
The poor CGI of the action on-screen reached its peak and passed into duller snatches of dialogue. A few of the nearest lads looked genuinely enthralled by the shite, and Kyle just scowled disinterestedly. His own suggestion of some 90s classics from his childhood had been roundly ignored.
Walker grabbed the empty glass on the arm of his chair and got up, giving the uncomfortable confines of his shorts a good tug and rearrange, then stomping away from the seated viewers, passing through the open archways of these interconnected communal rooms, headed for the soft drinks bar where he had failed to flirt an illicit lager out of the middle-aged barmaid. He got another apple juice from her, briefly wondering whether he would sleep with her, and sat himself on a barstool rather than returning to the movie corner where the cluster of young lads were intent on the plot', or perhaps the hot young actress who was now conveniently undressing. He caught his sneering cynicism and almost laughed aloud at his own fussy attitude. You are turning into a boring old prick,' he told himself internally, taking a sip of the boring apple juice and then just putting it back down on the bar behind him.
This heat got you all hot and irritated, that was it - hot and irritated and also kinda horny, he added mentally.
It would be unfair to say that was the main reason he missed having Stonesy around. Extra-curricular activities aside, the two Yorkshire fellas were intensely close and shared hundreds of in-jokes from years of playing and travelling together for club and country, and it was always weird for Walker to be on any away trip or international camp without the big younger lad, his dear John. He missed his banter, his habits and gestures, his chat and stories, and... okay, yeh, he missed having a roll around with the sexy fucker in the privacy of their shared room, and no wonder he was flirting with unattractive hotel employees and tugging uncomfortably at the fit of his jogger shorts. He needed some action.
`Er, yeah, that's great.' His attention flickered, elbows leaning back against the bar, and he glanced sidelong at the teammate who was just being served a pint glass of faintly flavoured soda water, and smiling sweetly at the fifty-something barmaid who was dropping a thick slime of lime into it before retreating. Kyle watched disinterestedly as Conor Gallagher ran one hand through his slicked-back mane of honey-coloured hair, and lifted the fizzy pint to his lips with the other.
Conor's eye moved in an almost shifty fashion, although Kyle supposed he'd accidentally been staring, and the younger England call-up gave him a faint nod. `Alright,' the Epsom lad said in his perpetually nervous sounding Surrey accent, looking as if he'd been caught doing something wrong and not just refreshing himself.
Kyle blinked and nodded back, turning away. `Just fucking melting,' the City defender said simply, eyeing the uninteresting movie from a distance, and then picking up his own apple juice and proceeding to neck the thin glass in one stupidly long gulp. He looked back and found that Gallagher was watching him still, cupping his cold pint in both hands, and seeming on the verge of a question. Whatever it was, he abandoned it, looking away and shifting awkwardly as if unsure how to stand.
The 23-year-old midfielder had not really registered on Kyle's radar, in all honesty; Conor was a lad who'd begun to bob in and out of the senior team after successful stints for the Young Lions, and he was marred by the fairly embarrassing state of affairs at Chelsea in recent years. He was an average-looking lad with a daft haircut, and neither as admirably self-assured as young Jude Bellingham nor as endearingly self-effacing as Bukayo Saka. He was peripheral to Kyle at best... and yet now here he was, supping his soda and lime at the bar with an absent expression and seeming to expect some attention or acknowledgement from a grizzled old timer like Kyle Walker, daddy of the 2023 England line-up.
Kyle gave him an enigmatic grin, and was pleased when it made the lad's dark brows lift up and a puzzled edge come to his polite smile.
Yeah,' the Chelsea 23-year-old said after a long pause, it's just too hot.' Dull assertions of this kind had passed between almost all of them at some point today, and Gallagher seemed to realise the pointlessness of his comment, colouring very slightly in his high cheeks. Hmm, Kyle thought. Not a bad looking kid, actually.
Still, he turned away from him, unsure what to make of the Chelsea bugger, and curious in spite of himself at how the shite movie on the screen was gonna go. He sat there with his back leant to the bar and his thick thighs spread to show off several leg tattoos, and he was vaguely pleased that the midfield player made no move away from him, lingering close by in polite silence.
Allowing a smidgeon of tension to grow, Walker then said, `Just gets you fucking on edge, doesn't it, this heat?'
Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the blond-haired Surrey lad nod. Bit horrible really,' Gallagher said quietly, as if to himself. I mean, unless you're on a beach, or something.' An awkward half-laugh.
Kyle nodded slowly, deliberately not looking at him, but experimentally spread his thick legs a bit more and tilting back at the bar, making his chest muscles all the more prominent in his black t-shirt... and making it so that the grey jogger shorts clung even more tightly to what they could hold of his upper thighs... and what sat between them. He wanted to glance left and see if the Chelsea fuckwit was looking where he wanted him to look, but he also felt it was important to seem aloof and disinterested. It was all part of the game, and Kyle enjoyed the chase.
Just makes your bollocks super fucking sweaty, don't it?' he grunted out after another long pause, and now he did look Conor's way - and caught a flicker of movement in the boy's small hazel-blue eyes, as if they were returning upwards from a curious trip south. Kyle grinned at him, and Conor returned an uncertain smile back. Sure,' the 6ft younger guy said, letting out an exaggerated breath and then taking several long gulps of his drink.
Right fucking sweaty,' Kyle added, lowering his voice. Conor said nothing, but gulped noisily on his soda. It's a fucking swamp in my keks, haha.' And at that, he reached down and tugged aggressively at himself, then turned and looked at the other player, who was more obviously staring down now - aha.
Kyle fell quiet, just relaxing where he was, and letting that tension build. Conor lingered near to him, leaning on the bar and quietly drinking, and then Kyle turned and fixed him with a more deliberate and purposeful stare; when the Chelsea footballer looked this way and met his eyes, he seemed to shift with immediate unease or interest, and Kyle dropped his voice even lower. `You'll need to piss when you've drunk all that, fella.'
`Er...'
`The way you're gulping it, it'll go straight through you.'
`Er...'
Get yourself to the pisser, mate,' Kyle added in his lowest murmur, scratching at his stubble and up his sideburn, and giving the youngster a fleeting wink. And wait for me in the furthest cubicle. Okay?'
The 6ft midfielder just stared at him and Walker prepared himself to burst into throaty laughter and call banter, the easy way out of any such miscommunication. There was a long moment where he thought he'd misread things, and left Gallagher properly confused. But then the 23-year-old downed the last of his pint and nodded, and drifted away from the bar as if sleepwalking, vanishing out of the bar area and through the door into the nearest gents' facilities. Kyle took a long pause to smirk victoriously to himself, and then followed.
In the toilets, he found Conor at the sinks, splashing cold water on his face, and then looking sharply this way. Kyle had his fists pushed into the pockets of his grey shorts, closing them more firmly over his crotch and big arse. He took a few swaggering steps into the bathroom, silent eye contact with the nervous-looking younger player, and then he nodded firmly to the cubicle doors. Conor nodded back and disappeared into the furthest one, and Kyle almost hooted with bullish laughter at how easy this was.
And now here they were: Kyle pushing the cubicle door shut and flipping the bolt, locking them in the narrow limited space. Conor was a good couple of inches taller than him, quite a strapping young player, but still much slimmer and lighter than his own rugby-like build. The lad looked questioningly at him and Kyle just smirked, enjoying the tension of doing nothing further, loving the way he was able to hook and toy with this inexperienced teammate, and then a little surprised when the lad whispered, `Er I did actually need to piss.'
`Get it out then,' Kyle told him, and whipped his own meaty cock out of his shorts to point into the toilet that separated them. He was well-endowed and already semi, and he enjoyed the way Conor's eyes bulged to see it; he then began to piss heavily, and smiled as Conor unbutton the flies of his slightly more fitted brown shorts, making a real ceremony of pulling his limp pale cock from the Armani trunks below. The two of them stood there pissing into the same bowl, eyes locked, and the hot night air suddenly feeling thicker and more humid than ever before.
When he'd done, Walker shook his dick, and pressed his back muscles into the cubicle divide. His thumbs were hooked into the waist of his shorts and boxers, and he pushed them further down his inked thighs, standing there with his shaven pubes and swaying cock and balls visible below the waist of his black tee. Conor stared down at it, still holding his own dick. Fucking sweaty bollocks, like I said,' Kyle whispered. And now, dirty pissy cock.' Conor nodded like he was in a trance. Needs cleaning up.' Conor's eye lifted from the display to meet his again, and he really did look nervous. Is boy gonna clean it up for daddy?' Kyle asked, feeling kinky. There was hesitation, but the Chelsea player nodded his head once more, and then trembled.
Walker properly dropped his shorts and stepped his trainer-clad feet out of them, and then he lifted one such foot up onto the toilet seat in a lunge posture, parting the big thighs and letting his cock and balls swing free. Free, open, available. Gallagher looked like he might pass out. `Get on with it, kid,' the senior-most England player commanded.
Down he went, and Kyle enjoyed every second of it: the nervous tremble, the whispered yes sir', the nervous clammy touch of Conor's hands on his thighs and shins and calves, and then the breathy uncertainty against his privates. Give it a good lick,' he told him, and moaned softly as a nervous tongue traced the chubby line of his semi. And the balls,' he urged him, and lifted his cock to help out, then pushed on that slicked honey hair, pushing the nervous mouth in against the weight meat of his sack. And the pissy tip,' he insisted, slapping his hardening cock against the smooth youthful cheeks, pushing the head back a bit, helping Conor to open his mouth wide, and edging his cock in against his curious tongue. `Good boy,' he assured him, turned on by the ten-year gulf between them, and liking the vague gormlessness of this Surrey lad who he'd barely looked twice at til now.
Here in the hot confines of the toilets, Kyle let himself get all the more sweaty - but the frustration and irritation were gone, the itch was scratched. He peeled his increasingly sweaty black t-shirt up but not quite off, just rolling it to his pits and baring his six-pack and most of his pecs. For moments at a time, he let Conor's face move from his crotch, guiding him to kiss these sticky hot muscles and trace the sweat between their sculpted lines, then pushing him back down. He wanked on his massive cock as Conor licked and kissed his sweaty balls, and then he pushed his thick meat into that trembling mouth, careful not to choke him - it did seem to be Gallagher's first time sucking, though you could never really be sure.
Crouching in the cramped cubicle, Conor had begun to wank too, and Kyle liked the frenzied hurry of it, loved calling him good boy', and then driven further by a kinky edge, he grabbed his jaw and tilted his face up and spat into his mouth, asking him if he liked tasting daddy'. He knew he'd laugh at himself when he recounted this to Stonesy, but in the moment it all felt sexy as fuck. Conor's inexperience was hot, but he eventually took greater control, and focused on just wanking himself, whilst holding the lad's tongue and lips to his sack, making him lick his balls and gooch and the base of his prick, wanking heavily until he knew he was ready to dump glob after glob of silver-white cum on that smooth young skin, painting Conor's face with the evidence of his satisfaction.
Thank you,' Gallagher wheezed, when he called him Good lad!' for the last time.
Kyle moaned and smirked and relaxed into the wall, letting Conor lick at the tip of his cock while he reached his own jerky finale down below. He laughed vaguely at him and mussed up his stupid hair, then patted him on the head and slapped his softening cock against his cheeks and lips a bit. Well well well,' was all he had to say before unlocking the door, I bet there's some big cocks at Chelsea who would piss all over that cherub face, haha. Thanks, kid.' He didn't even pause to help Gallagher up before bundling clumsily out of the cubicle, tucking his privates away and going to wash his hands and face in the sink.
In the mirror, he watched a dazed and red-faced Conor emerge from the cubicle, and he winked via their reflections, but said nothing more. He just chuckled to himself and tidied his sweaty garments, then slapped the lad on the back on the way past, and exited the mens' loos for the stuffy bar area, which now felt relatively cool and breezy compared to the intense body heat of the sordid cubicle.
Kyle went straight past the doors to the bar etc and took the stairs up instead - he couldn't wait to get back to his room and ring up John-boy whilst he was alone. Fucking hell, Stonesy would enjoy hearing about this one...
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