Part 369: England Camp, Day Eight
He wiggled his eyebrows expressively at the other bloke and then lifted a hand in a slightly limp wave, as much communication as he could manage without really taking his attention away from the laptop and recording device that were set up on the desk of their Glaswegian hotel room; from across the suite, his fellow Newcastle United player just gave him one of his tight-lipped smiles and then a vaguely camp salute, before muscling out of the door in his bright blue England training top, long sleeves clinging to muscular arms. With a touch of consideration that made him smile a little, the other player exited the room with care, refusing to let the door slam as he departed; Kieran Trippier was due elsewhere in the hotel for a different kind of media duty to his own, joining Gareth Southgate for one of today's press conferences on the eve of their `Heritage' clash with Scotland.
With the door shut and Trips gone, Callum Wilson could return full attention to the screen in front of him, his broad trademark smile lighting up the panel of his own webcam, but his eyes slipping instead between the views of his co-host and their guest - another episode of the Footballers' Football Podcast was underway.
Left alone, Newcastle United's 31-year-old striker got on with it, joining heartily in with the chat of the other two, and swiping back at the banter of West Ham's Michail Antonio. They'd only just begun the recording when an awkwardly polite Trippier had somewhat interrupted, tiptoeing around the room to change out of his civvies and into official Three Lions gear before joining the gaffer for interviews and a quick visit to tomorrow night's stadium. The England Scottish FAs were making a big fuss of the anniversary showdown between the two British squads, and this Monday in outer Glasgow was dominated more by media sessions than training regimen. Many of the other senior England players were involved in shoots and interviews for different services, but Wilson had been glad to excuse himself and keep up with his podcast-recording plans with his London pal.
By the end of the recording, Wilson had been left with any number of bets and dares from the other guys, challenging him to get on the pitch and score against the Scots, and to try out one of several audacious celebration moves. He'd been much-chided by the other guys for his lack of presence in England vs Ukraine, and for his North East club lately, but it was all in warm jest and easy enough to laugh off. Largely, the experience of chatting on-air with Michail left him on a slight high, cracking his knuckles and stepping away from the laptop with an ever bigger grin on his handsome features.
Largely, but not entirely...
Pausing on the desk chair and patting his thighs through his slack chino shorts, the Coventry-born footballer stared at the call software on the laptop and the open email threads with Antonio, and then pushed the screen down to close the device into standby. He leant a bare elbow on the edge of the desk and rested his fine-stubbled chin in the cup of his hand, left with the same thoughtful questions as he had been since before the summer break. His friendship with Michail was, it seemed, unchanged - the two men texted and rang with some regularity, and still collaborated on their podcast with the same honest discourse and laddish back-and-forth that they and their fans enjoyed. On the surface, all was still good, and they were just two close friends on rival teams in the Premiership.
It was almost as if Callum's vivid memory of one night in East London was just a figment, except that he knew that it wasn't. And the memory of it lingered on his flesh like a strong aftershave that wouldn't fade. When he looked into his webcam and was face-to-face with the West Ham forward, he couldn't help but think back to his friend's apartment that night, hanging out with the other attacking player after a clash between their squads - and the things that had happened after a few drinks.
The 31-year-old moved away from the desk and began tidying his kit away, trying and failing to dismiss the return of these thoughts. After all, Michail wasn't the FIRST bloke he'd messed about with, in fact he'd had quite regular fun with little Ryan Fraser, whom he was just glad hadn't received an international call-up this month. Callum's toying with Ryan had followed them from Bournemouth to Tyneside and lasted until he, stressed and regretful, had put a firm end to it... a `break up' that had coincided with the little Scot's drop in form and eventual exit from the Magpies. He was back down on the coast at Southampton now and Callum hadn't heard from him in many months.
But... things will Ryan had been easy, if surprising, with Callum just quietly acquiescing to the hot wet blowjobs in the dark, and the gruff short lad never pushing for anything more than a sticky mess in his beard, though on a few sweaty occasions Callum had pulled the stocky smaller body against his as a warm little spoon, only to panic when his sensitive prick brushed downy arse cheeks and he contemplated what else the two buddies might be able to get up to on away trips. That was in the past. A bit of naughtiness that the striker had put behind him. He'd blamed Ryan for it, mainly, shocked at his pal's bisexuality and convincing himself that ultimately he'd just indulged it, happy to allow his own big shaft as a plaything for the experimentation of an intimate friend. Right.
And then there he was in East London with his lips against Michail's huge cock, just about sober enough to know better; his mate's huge weapon in his mouth and then, for a few terrifying moments, rubbing between his arse cheeks, teasing at the cast-iron gates of his virgin's hole, deeply alarming him. Deeply thrilling him. It was that moment that really haunted him, and made him get a bit clammy on the palms and in the pits when his mate's face and voice popped into life on the laptop.
Again, he felt himself get a bit sweaty and irritated at the thought of it all, and he rubbed his clammy palms against the legs of his shorts, pacing the room for a few moments. He pulled at the baggy black t-shirt over his well-defined upper body, and checked the group chats on his phone, and opened one of the windows which he'd shut to block out background noise, glad at the hint of cooler air that it ushered in. It cooled his face, but not the heat of nervous curiosity that had crept over every muscular inch of his 5ft11 body.
Sitting down on his bed, he pulled some paperwork off the table and checked the times on the schedule, confirming that he had the rest of the afternoon to himself, not needed anywhere til a light fitness session before dinner. Right. A shower, he decided, a cool one, which might soothe his restlessness and the day's humidity, and kill some time - afterwards, he thought, he could head downstairs and maybe pop out for a short walk and some proper fresh air?
He pulled off the t-shirt and shorts, folding both garments with some care and depositing them on top of his case, then sliding off the striped boxers on his way into the room's en suite bathroom. He reached one long thick arm into the shower cubicle to pull the water into life, and then leaned across to lower the temperature, hoping for a cool cascade that wouldn't leave him even sweatier than he went in; he flicked an ankle free of his discarded undies and let them skid into a corner, then stood checking himself out in the mirror for a few private moments. Like most athletic lads in such a moment's opportunity, the Newcastle striker couldn't help but inspect the muscular architecture of his chest, his shoulders, the arms that he now flexed at his sides - laughing judgmentally at himself and yet still indulging in self-appreciation of the bulky physique that came fairly naturally to him. And not just the muscle of his upper body: he couldn't resist taking a step back from the mirror for a fuller reflection, and nodding approvingly at the way his long soft cock swung below the trimmed fur of his bush, liking the definition in his upper leg muscles too, and laughing even more loudly at his own solitary vanity. Stop being a bell-end, he told himself.
In the shower, the cool water felt as good as he'd hoped, and he couldn't help but sigh quite gladly. He grabbed the bottle and spunked a large glob of shower gel into his pinkish palms, lathering up before spreading it across his smooth pecs and then each bulging arm of tattoos. He brought both soapy hands to his cock and balls and relaxed there before stepping into the pleasantly cool blast and beginning to rinse down the pale brown curves and lines of his strong naked form. Idly, he fondled the low fall of his bollocks, and the chubby curve of his cock, thumbing lazily at the fold of foreskin, and only slightly responding to the dull thrill of this self-touch in the shower, briefly entertaining the prospect of a cheeky wank whilst he had the suite to himself.
He stroked and explored the idea in his head, even as one slippery hand did the same to the weighty shape of his prick, turning slowly under the water, letting it caress his thick strong neck and cascade over the platform of his big-muscled shoulders. A wank? Another thought was pushing at him now, one that made him lean his body forward to the off-white tiles of the wall, folding an arm and pressing his face in against the muscles to relieve some stress, staying still under the water. There were places that his curiosity wanted him to explore more than his gently swelling manhood - there were memories that tickled irritatingly at him, refreshed every time he came digitally face-to-face with Michail, who had never once mentioned what occurred between them that night. Antonio's impassive silence on the matter would be galling if his friendship wasn't so warm and unfaltering, seemingly nothing damaged or tainted in their bromance.
A decision was made in Callum's head, and he let his fingers play hesitantly on the dial of the shower controls, weakening the spray of water overhead and nudging up the temperature, staring blankly into the shimmering tiles. The hand on his privates stilled there, cupping his own balls and rubbing them thoughtfully, and then... dumbly, unsure what the point of this was, he reached it behind him instead, and with just his left hand, he squeezed at one and then the other of his pert chunky arse cheeks. He paused and chuckled stupidly through a faceful of water, noting the way he'd petted his own bottom as if he was giving a hinting squeeze to the booty of his missus - flirting with himself.
With a conflicted sigh, the striker switched the water off fully and stood there dripping in the square cubicle of shower that took up one end of the narrow bathroom, ragging the curtain aside for an ego boost - the angle was right for a view down the bathroom to the large mirror over the sink, reminding him of the large powerful body that made him such a handsome fucker. It was the reassurance the 31-year-old needed to explore, for some reason.
He leaned back into the tiled wall and stared at the mirror, and then slid his hands down his defined abdomen, playing again with his cock, stiffening and heavy, and the swing of his balls; and he reached one hand a bit further, sliding wet fingers into his gooch, feeling the rough fuzz there. Lowering his body slightly against the wall, he parted the chunk of hs thighs a bit, allowing one finger access between those buble cheeks - poking into the wiry hair of his crack, and rubbing nervously over the balloon-knot feel of his hole, his breath quickening as he remembered the hot wet pressure of a cock-head pressing briefly and threateningly there in his buddy's bed.
Callum shook himself and squatted a little bit more: he cupped his cock and balls away with one hand, ignoring the stiffening, and slid his right hand further in, under himself, pushing between his cheeks, letting his index finger really prod and stroke his hole, and wondering how a cock could ever go in there. The posture felt awkward and his face grimaced, and he straightened up, rolling his shoulders and cricking his neck, and then squatting down a bit to try again, but- it didn't feel right or natural, and the whole experiment seemed daft to him. He'd just gotten carried away that night, hadn't he? He and Michail had drank a bit and he'd been so smug and over-excited by the way the football game went, so...
But he tried again - he pushed his broad muscular back into the wet tiles and locked his leg muscles, lowering himself enough to part his big glutes, and he reached down and under, and rubbed that same finger a bit more fiercely at the most intimate of spots, feeling how tight and impenetrable it was, feeling how hot and private... and hearing the awkward roughness of his own breathing as he remembered to exhale. He'd closed his eyes as he did so, feeling awkward and silly, and no longer wishing to see any of his musclebound reflection on the side of the bathroom - but now he opened them, his knees bent and his body tensed, his single digit rubbing where Michail's tip had. And Cal's open eyes stared into the angle of the mirror, which reflected not just the open shower entrance, but the open door into the hotel suite: and the man who now stood in that doorway, meeting his wide eyes via this crystal-clear reflection. Wilson froze.
Staring back at him in the mirror, Kieran's face was almost disturbingly calm, unfazed and unflinching, that same bland smile playing across his mouth, which jerked with the motion of chewing some gum. As Callum let out a slow pained breath, Kieran's nostrils flared slightly and he let out the slightest chuckle before stepping into the mild warmth of the bathroom - standing square in the middle of its narrow rectangle and twisting this way to grin and nod at him, with naked wet Wilson still squatting down the shower wall.
Go for it, fella,' the Manc bloke said quietly, then a slight whistle of approval; Wilson just stared at him, his mouth an awkward O', and his eyes wide with horror. This was his acting captain for most outings, after all, the semi-official leader of the up-and-coming Newcastle team. Wilson felt like his world had frozen or slowed and like he couldn't bear the scene of discovery and judgement about to follow - and yet, he realised dimly, Trips was just smirking as he shook his head, and his gruff positive words were registering in the brain: go for it, fella. Now Trips was turning away slightly, but just to the shelf under the mirror, and his own washbag of the two that settled there - from it he pulled a thin pale tube of something, which he flipped open at the cap and proffered as he approached the shower. `You might want a dab of lube though, you crazy bastard.'
Wilson stared at the slightly older fella, his good St James Park pal, and at the fingertip of glistening lubricant that was now pointed towards him. Like he was in a trance, Callum reached out and let them rub fingers, taking the smear of gel onto his own finger. Well,' grunted the 32-year-old defender, give it a go?' Zombie-like, he drew back the finger and hand, and sent it low, remaining locked in his half-squat, and then tickling the lubricated finger behind the obstacle of his ball-sack. He paused with his cool slick finger pressed back against his resistant ring, and stared in mortification at the amiable expression on Kieran's face, the expectant posture of his stocky form.
`Trips,' he breathed anxiously.
I shoulda knocked,' his right-back told him lightly, smiling but apologetic. But this is fine.'
`Mate,' he groaned awkwardly, still frozen in this most intimate of poses.
Tell ya what,' muttered the former Atletico Madrid star. Why don't you just turn round? You'll be better then, you know, bending over a bit. Eh?'
Callum blinked slowly at him, trying to control his breathing. He replayed his friend and skipper's words in his head and still couldn't make any sense of them. This had to be a nightmare, the kind you wake up from in a hot sweat, and can't get back to sleep. No way was he being discovered by his senior teammate in the act of trying to give his arse a poke in the shower, no fucking way. In front of him, the 5ft10 muscular footballer was just shrugging and grinning, and then reaching in to pat one of his wet forearms. Turn round, big lad,' Kieran said quite gently. His voice was strangely difficult to refuse, even in the stasis of Callum's horror. Loosening the lock of his knees, he rose up a little and began to turn, glad once his face was hidden and he could push one hand up against the tiles to support his leaning figure, his broad back and broader backside exposed to the intruder. With his free hand, he reached back and felt one cheek, and Trips murmured some approval: That's it, your cheeks will part more in that position mate, your crack will feel wide open. Go on, give it a rub.' Callum continued in breathy silence, leaning heavily forward into the wall, his face red-hot with fright, and his entire muscular body trembling damp - pulling on his own cheek, he let his fingertips creep into the canyon between his glutes, and he rubbed the lubed finger on his hole again, which did feel different in this position. For a second, interrupting Trippier felt like an apparition, perhaps he'd never been there, perhaps Wilson was safely on his own and experimenting still, but- `Beautiful fucking pussy there,' the Manc lad breathed with his quiet gruffness, and Callum felt his cock throb.
Then, `You mind if I have a go?'
Wilson's answer was simple and silent - his fingers retreating gently from his arse crack, but still clutching the muscular cheek, pulling it slightly open. He heard a stupid little squelch noise, the sound of the tube of lube being squeezed, and then there was an agonisingly long moment, and then - aaaah - the anticipated cool sensation and sudden presence of an alien fingertip brushing his pussy'. His body must have jerked a bit at the sensation, because Kieran made a shushing noise like he was calming an animal, then said, Relax, mate, and see if I can get this one in, eh?'
Now Wilson was pressing both hands into the wall and leaning forward a bit more, presenting his big backside to the other man, whose fingertip circled and nudged him there, and then - fuckkkkk - nudged a bit more firmly, giving him the strangest sensation. He let out a strange-sounding breath and it was met by a gentle laugh. That feel okay, chief?' asked Trips very quietly. He nodded stupidly and then realised he was facing away. I think so,' he said shakily. He let out the same awkward laugh that he had at his own vain flexing, and then bit his lip, trying to check that he wasn't asleep and dreaming. In went Kieran's finger, he felt, or some of it, it was hard to tell - he could feel himself opening, but surely it couldn't be as huge and deep as it suddenly seemed... That's just one finger,' Trippier's quiet steady voice updated him, just relax and let it in mate...'
`Fucking hell, Trips.'
`Breathe properly, mate, it'll help.'
`What the hell are we doing?'
`Hah - a better job than you were doing on yer own. Mate, I'm going to push it in a bit deeper, okay?'
`Er- erm- okay, okay - whoa.'
`Relax, relax, I'm going slow. That feel okay?'
`Fuck. I dunno. Er, yes.'
`That's the one finger, mate, pretty much all in - you're taking it well.'
`Er - thanks? Fuck. Erm.'
`How's that?'
`Mmmm. Mmm. Mate...'
`Relax, relax. Keep breathing. Just let me... yeah, mate, you are TIGHT. Fuck, what a lovely pussy, hah. That finger feel good in you, buddy?'
Callum didn't know what to say to that, or how to handle the way his cock twitched when his friend referred to his arse as a pussy. He tried his best to breathe deep and full as instructed, leaning more of his hefty weight into the slippery wetness of the tiles, bending over more fully, and feeling the in-out slipperiness of Kieran's invading digit. It felt fucking great, he thought, and not even sore at all. He liked the low breathy chuckle of his teammate's voice - he just couldn't bear the thought of turning round and seeing his softly lined face, his self-assured grin, his bright sparkling eyes. He just knelt there, his big arse pushed back, his cheeks gently parted, and Kieran's finger going in and out of his hole in slow prods, rotating or shifting a little to tease and stretch. Callum's dick was rock-hard.
I'm gonna add some more lube,' Trips told him. You okay?'
`This is insane,' was all he could reply.
`Take that as a yes, big lad. Your arse feels fucking great.'
`Right.'
`You can probably take two fingers if you want, mate.'
`Er-'
`If you bend over a bit more, anyway, and actually RELAX.'
`I'm trying.'
`Haha. Sorry. God, you're a tight lil virgin ain't you, big Cal? Here... it'll feel cold...'
Try it,' he muttered quite fiercely. Try two, then.'
If Trippier's one finger had felt ominously full and invasive, then two felt ridiculous; he pictured his mate's manly hands and reasoned that two of Kieran's fingers simply could not amount to something as huge as what he could feel, but then this was all new and terrifying for him. His arse-hole tingled at the cool lube, and he grimaced - no way was he going to be able to take two, the fella was talking shit...! Oh. Nope. In they went, and it did kinda hurt this time, making him tense up more and let out the trace of a whimper. I'll go slow,' came the quiet tender promise of the man behind him - Kieran felt closer now, and he felt the man's other hand stroke his lower back, then his sides. His voice when he spoke again was even more soft and coaxing, and Callum was shocked at how much comfort and encouragement he found in it: This dirty pussy can take my two fingers, y'know, you just need to relax.'
`Yes mate,' the strapping striker whimpered.
`Wish I had some poppers or something,' Trippier chuckled.
`Just be careful,' Callum muttered warily.
`I'm going slow, promise - you feel that, matey?'
`Yeah...'
`That's two, right in you - haha, bet you like that, eh? You can wank yer cock if you like.'
`Yeah?'
`Yeah, yeah, sure - it's all good, I've got you back here. Just you have a play, Cal.'
`Mate, this is so weird-'
`You trust me, don't you?'
`Yeah, totally, but...'
`Then relax, matey - toss yourself off, fella, and let me take care of back here.'
`Hey, hey - is that three fingers?'
`Just teasing you, seeing what you can take...'
Not three,' he hissed. I'll never take three.'
Relax,' came Kieran's gruff confidence, I'm just teasing your hole, just getting a bit more lube... god, you don't know how good you feel, mate, I haven't fingered a pussy this tight since I was like 17! Haha. Damn. That okay?'
`Is that three?'
`Nah, that's just two... THIS is three-'
`Whoa... fuck... mmph-'
`Hold still, remember to breathe - yeah, just like that.'
`Maaaate...'
Three fingers,' came Trippier's chuckle of triumph. Damn.'
As instructed, he pulled back and forth on his cock, his eyes shut and his jaw clenched, and his arse stuck out behind him - his hole apparently accepting Trippier's investigative touch, and responding to this newness far better than he could ever have expected. Trips was fingering him more carefully now, slow and less deep, but he could feel the girthiness of three digits in him, and pleasure fought with pain - when he whimpered again, the pressure reduced, and Kieran's voice grew softer still. Sorry,' he murmured, I shouldn't have pushed you. Just take this, matey, let me go deep...'
`Oh god...'
`You love it?'
`Oh mate...'
`You wanted this, didn't you?'
`Fuckkkk...'
`Feels much better than your own would have, Cal.'
`Errr... mmm... ohhh...'
`You gonna cum for your captain, big fella?'
`Mmph!'
`Go on, mate - you can probably feel me right on your prostate now.'
`Oh shit!'
`Come on, Wilson, blow that messy fucking load, eh?'
Kieran's voice faded against the bloodrush in Callum's ears. All that existed for him was the sensation in his rear, and the ridiculous sensitivity of his cock in his hand. His other hand could hardly keep him up, sliding back and forth across the tiles of the wall. His knees nearly buckled and he almost ended up in a heap on the white plastic floor of the shower. But his fitness bore him through it, and the indistinct purr of Kieran's voice too - so that before he knew it, his dick was reacting properly to the feel of a deep finger in his arse, and he was looking down into the volcanic eruption of his own juices, which splattered the shower wall and then drooled over his brown knuckles. Fuck,' he cried weakly, fuck, fuck, fuck.'
`Good man.'
`Ohh....'
`Now, keep breathing, keep relaxed - it might feel weird as I pull my finger out.'
He whimpered and shook; somehow, it hurt more for the two fingers to slide out of his stinging ring, and then the absence of them felt worst than their presence, and his legs were like jelly. Here,' the 32-year-old right-back was telling him, just let me...' Suddenly the shiny lycra of Kieran's England gear was brushing his bare skin, and his mate was muscling into the shower to support him, to ease him into a seated position, and then knelt and hunched over him, hugging him about the shoulders. Kieran's hand rubbed his back and neck, and the voice was very close as it whispered into his ear. `Bet that felt weird, you sexy bastard - but god your arse felt good, mate. So good. Glad it made you cum.'
`What the fuck mate?' the striker mumbled to himself.
`I'm gonna leave you here a minute,' Trippier whispered.
`Okay...'
`Just so you can shower again, if you want. Wash the lube away, and that. I best wash my hand too, I guess, haha. Though it's gonna smell good all night.'
`Mate...'
You take your time here,' Trips assured him, and I'll see you when you're ready, and we can take a slow walk down to the gym to see everyone in a bit. It's all good, fella, nothing to worry about. Nothing at all, you handsome bastard.' Kieran planted the softest kiss on the crown of his head and squeezed his shoulders. `Glad you enjoyed that, eh.' And then his warmth and pleasantness was withdrawn, and Callum just sat there, listening to a jaunty whistle as hands were washed and the Manc guy went strolling out of the bathroom. Slowly and shakily, utterly stunned, the striker got to his feet, and knocked the water back on. More soap, more lather, more rinse - he took his time, blinking slowly and waiting for the burning sensation to fade in his rear end. As he washed, he stared down at the tiles, and watched as the deflected spray from his body rinsed away the droplets of his own cum, cleaning away that evidence, but not the knowledge - he'd just been fingered to climax by a bloke, his England and Newcastle teammate, and apparently everything was good and fine.
What the hell?
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