Part 374: A Damp Tuesday in Kirby
Heavy November rain pelted against the tall windows of the fitness suite, outdoor floodlights forming dispersed halos of light against the cataracts on the panes. Indoors, the outer conditions could bring a shiver to the body of someone born for different climes, even if the gyms of the AXA Training Centre were adequately heated. Well, he thought, I'll just have to warm myself up more by pushing myself on the weights - he was hardly a slacker in that department as it was, attested by the intensely ripped physique beneath the clingy red of his Liverpool FC training gear. He pushed away thoughts of a hot break on the Egyptian coast or a transfer escape to a hotter country's league, and moved back instead to the free weights, needing to finish his strict regimen before calling it a day.
Mohamed Salah was far from the only squad member still putting a shift in at the training centre, in spite of the gaffer's rather loose instructions at the end of the afternoon; in theory the lads could leave early and have more of an evening off, since tomorrow would see them travel to France ready for their Europa fixture against Toulouse. But senior stoics of the LFC first team were pushing themselves to end the day with a last burst of physical effort, and so a cluster of their younger wannabes were also hear, filling the fitness suites and passages of the slick modern training complex with idle chat and laddish bursts of laughter.
Mo knew that there few names on this squad whom such youngsters respected and admired more fervently than himself - it was hardly egotism, it was just facts. And he was not immune to enjoying it, the way they deferred to him and ogled at the intensity of his musculature. Right now, lifting heavy free weights up against his pumped chest, the 31-year-old goal machine could tell that a couple of the nearest were glancing comparatively his way, conscious of his superior strength and determination.
Young Ben Doak, for example, was staring this way whilst doing bicep curls with lighter weights, the young Scotsman frowning studiously in comparison and then blushing a little as Mo's complacent smile swung his way; and he could see other young midfielders McConnell and Clark struggling with the weight setting he'd left on the leg press machine, clearly too proud to lower the setting and accept their weaker young limbs versus the challenge that Salah had set himself about ten minutes ago, sweating profusely onto the leathery cushions of the machine.
Mo reached the last of his reps and he clanked the gear away, panting lightly, and strolling in front of the mirrors on the far wall to inspect the way that certain muscles bulged through his clingy top and the short shorts that exposed much of his densely haired thighs. No doubt a few pairs of eyes were shifting this way to further admire him as one of the supreme fitness leaders of this ambitious team... but Mohamed didn't flicker his deep brown eyes away from his own reflection to acknowledge this, too confidently sure in the attention that he would never admit to loving. Hmm, he thought, perhaps it's been a long time since my last muscle selfie after the gym? The Egyptian king loved nothing more than dripping his superlative six-pack on social media and scrutinising the stupid thirsty messages that would explode into his DMs.
All this attention, and yet Salah was a frustrated man. A man without... outlets. It was the Milner exit, he supposed, having struck up a quiet deal of sorts with the big muscle-bound elder statesman of Anfield, furious when the quietly confident champion moved away to his final challenges at Brighton. It was disgusting to Mohamed that he should suddenly be without an... `assistant' of that kind, having fucked James regularly in the mouth and arse for the final months of his Liverpool tenure, and enjoyed the casual readiness of the burly Yorkshireman, even when he initially shared it with that scamp Harvey.
Mohamed couldn't help but glance sharply about the gym to see if young Elliott himself was still around, but there no longer seemed to be any sign of the mop-headed young star - a bright superficial friendship existed between the superstar striker and the up-and-coming winger, but it was a showy affection which no longer translated into private satisfaction. When he had most overtly approached the smirking young English boy about inviting him to a hotel room on a previous Europa trip, the 20-year-old had laughed and punched him in the bicep, and asked if King Mo would be returning the favour and 69ing him... The gall and confidence of the kid! So Mo had given up trying to rekindle that, just as he'd given up trying to lure a submissive Trent Alexander-Arnold back into his crotch, both former cock-suckers seemingly too sure of themself to be willing greedy sluts for their Pharoah.
As these thoughts chipped through Salah's mind, he tugged irritably at the mesh inners of his gym shorts and turned frustratedly away from that hypermasculine reflection, no longer interested in the admiring or envious eyes of other gym-goers - the 31-year-old was bored and horny and suspected he would just have to go home and hope his wife was in the mood hours later. So fucking unfair!
Said Trent certainly was a more confident and relaxed guy than in the days in which he had nightly taken Salah's thick cut cock between his lips - that was a very different era of nervous self-discovery for the Scouser, messed around by guy after guy. Sure, the handsome young footballer had experienced his first real heartbreak this summer, but he was slowly recovering, doing his best to move on from the horror of being so unceremoniously abandoned by his former captain. Day by day, Alexander-Arnold found it more possible to put Henderson's love behind him, though the prospect of joining him at another international camp still gave him a sickly feeling and the threat of private tears in the night.
But he was confident and sure of himself, that was still true, and he could swagger around this training centre as one of the most senior and respected players, still aged only 25; Liverpool FC felt so much like home to him, and he was utterly comfortable in his private preference for guys, no longer torn-up about this secret as he'd been when dallying with Jonjo Kenney and being taken for granted by the likes of Salah or Gomez.
And yet...
There was someone new next to whom that confidence melted like candle-wax.
I should have done less on my shoulders,' barked the gruff Eastern European accent of his newer teammate, swaggering alongside him in the passage from the gyms to the main locker-rooms; both young men had their training tops pulled off and draped over one shoulder, and Trent couldn't help but admire the long strong torso of the other bloke as they walked, and the tattoo decoration of the nearer arm. Dominik Szoboszlai turned his way with one of his handsomely pouting smiles, and continued to complain about the pain in his muscular shoulders: That last rep was one too many, you know what I say?'
And Alexander-Arnold giggled along happily with him as he always did, following the Hungarian 23-year-old through into the large central changing rooms of the building, calling the bigger athlete a Weakling' and Pussy' then whipping him in the centre of his back with the sweaty nylon of his own gym top. The pair of them, increasingly inseparable pals, squared up to their lockers, and big Dominik continued to rub irritably at his upper arms and shoulders and make semi-exaggerated flinches of suffering.
With the singsong voice of flirtation that he couldn't seem to avoid around the big guy, Trent yelped at him, `Hey, I offered you a massage, what more can I do?!'
The Liverpudlian dropped down to sit on the slatted bench below the lockers, Szlobo still stood up next to him at his left, a strapping figure in close-fitting red shorts. The Hungarian frowned and laughed and dropped his sweaty shirt to the floor between his trainers, resting his large hands at the hips of his shorts and underpants. A massage from a weed like you?' the 23-year-old demanded with the full manly confidence with which he carried himself. He scoffed. I don't think that would help, Trentie.'
TAA giggled and shrugged and laughed, desperate to show that it was all just a daft joke; he certainly didn't waste many an hour in bed fantasising about properly getting his hands on the big hetero Hungarian, his new go-to buddy in a squad that had lost some big personalities in recent seasons.
Next to him, the RB Leipzig import continued to undress, kicking out of his trainers and rolling down white socks from his big bulky feet, flashes of those forested legs rising and falling in the corner of Trent's eye - and then down went the skimpy shorts, so that the hefty midfielder was in nothing but tight grey briefs that bulged impossibly at the front, a package that drooped weightily between hairy upper thighs. Unselfconscious of this, the relative newcomer turned partly this way and waved a dismissive hand at him. No,' Dominik told him firmly, I would need someone as strong as Mohamed to massage me!' Big throaty laugh and then he was looming forward, bringing his hips and underpants closer to Trent, reaching into his locker for the towel, and then throwing it over his shoulder as he backed away. `You make me laugh,' Dom said for the hundredth time, giving him a wink and a thumbs up, and then striding away - as he often did, away from the steamy archway of the communal showers, eschewing that for some privacy. Must be a Bundesliga thing!
And this left Trent as deeply frustrated as Mo, but in a different place - he was conscious of being hot, young, and single, and he tried his very best to embrace the freedom of being spurned by Jordan Henderson, finally able to fuck his way around Liverpool like the 25-year-old prince he was. So... where were all the interested hunks for him to enjoy?!
A younger member of the LFC squad, and another resented former playmate of frustrated Mo, was suffering no such crisis: a matter of yards away from Trent's sweat-sheened body slumped against his locker, locked safely inside a cleaning cupboard around the corner from said changing rooms, the 20-year-old wunderkind was on his knees in baggy sweatpants and only his white vest, other layers shrugged off for ease as he knelt down there and lapped hungrily at the big cock which he held at the base.
Above him, one hand clutched against the sweaty skin of his lean face, Curtis Jones groaned and tried to muffle the noise as best he could, far more nervously conscious of their risky setting than the cock-hungry winger on his knees.
With none of the frustration of Trent or Mohamed, Harvey Elliot noshed happily on the big circumcised weapon of his dopey buddy, glad that he'd discovered Curtis' delicious cock through that wild night with the Young Lions. Sure, sucking just one big cock wasn't half the wild thrill of the bukkake party with the future stars of the Three Lions, but he was very happy to foster this special intimacy with well-hung geek Curtis, a gangly stud who hardly seemed to understand how blessed he was with big cock and balls, and who still looked traumatised for every second of a blowjob apart from the joyous moment he emptied his sticky mess against Harvey's lips and tongue.
As he had at semi-regular intervals since that decadent night with the England U-21s, Elliott had made quick work of luring Jones aside, nudging and winking at the lanky 22-year-old in the gym until the pair of them were slipping away and finding this perfect spot, one they'd utilised three or four times before. And here, on his knees, the goateed young stud went to town, spitting messily on the head and shaft, then taking as much of it as he could into his hungry gob, pausing only to lick and nip at the low-hanging balls beneath Curtis' trimmed bush, or to kiss the lower section of his tight six-pack, or his darkly-haired thighs, or to stare seductively upwards whilst tonguing below the tip, making wild devil eyes at the excited panicky face of his tall lean friend.
For all of Curtis' high tension, there was something routine and familiar already about these scenes, as Harvey had made such greedy use of the big cock for a snack; so when he rose up to his feet and wiped his wet lips on the back of one arm, Jones actually looked a bit panicked and dismayed - Harvey never failed to finish him and earn his mouthful, and the questions were wide in Curtis' eyes.
`God you taste good,' drawled the Surrey lad, hardly measuring up to the lofty figure of the sweating 22-year-old.
Ugh,' whimpered the Scouser, before stammering, b-b-but you stopped?'
Harvey sniggered at this, stroking his pal's wet cock in one hand, and nuzzling in close, kissing chest muscles through a clingy gym top, and nuzzling against a long neck in a way that tickled and panicked the less sexually open guy. Curtis shifted uncomfortably against him, as if considering bursting out of the cupboard to escape the intimacy - but he was sizeably rock-hard, so that was hardly an option, he was trapped here by his own lust, all Harvey's, which made the young pup smirk and laugh more, still quietly. Come on,' he urged in a low growl, you keep saying you'll try returning the favour.'
This was the thing with Harvey, though he was less sex-starved than Trent or Mo - he was still quite sure that he was meant to be a powerful top lad, having bummed James fucking Milner. He had thought his dick-sucking days were behind him after discovering the pleasure of being the one being serviced. And then there'd been that wild episode with the U-21s, several of whom hadn't been able to look him in the eyes since, and now he was regularly eating loads from this gangly fuckwit - so there was a slightly desperate edge to his cajoling now as he rubbed himself in his sweats and pulled at the material of his mate's training top, writhing close to him. `Just try it,' he urged, more forcefully than he'd risked before - big Curtis was like a baby deer who might burst into a frightened run if you spooked him.
Harvey looked him in the eye and he saw the mixture of feelings on his mate's face, maybe some disgust and horror alongside the nervousness and shyness - but there was also something so pliable and loyal about the stuttering 22-year-old, and Harv knew it. As he saw the frown of resignation furrow that acne-marked face, he almost felt bad and manipulative, but fuck it - he deserved a bit of sucking after the attention he'd lavished on big Curtis down there...!
`I dunno how,' Jones began to say.
You ever had an ice lolly, for fuck's sake?' Harvey sniped back, unable to contain his impatience and sense of entitlement. He pushed a hand into the sweaty front of his pants, tugging out his stiff prick, which had been leaking pre-cum on his inner thigh as he noshed Curtis. He leant sideways, pressing himself against some shelves of gear, and nodded urgently downwards. Come on, just a taste!' he hissed.
Jones looked at him quite miserably, but he was a loyal guy, and Elliott knew he would follow through. Slowly, the lanky git folded down, holding on to a shelf for balance as he went down on his haunches, and Harvey leaned his head back with eyes shut, making a pre-emptive moan of enjoyment. Mm, go on,' he purred, just give it a lick, will you? Phwor - I can feel your breath on it, you tease.' Nothing yet. Go on,' he urged, a bit more forcefully, you promised, and I've been so good at making you cum, big fella.'
All at once, he felt the hot wet lick of the nervous lad's mouth on his cock, and it felt so long since he'd had a blowie himself that he shuddered in enjoyment and let out a long genuine Ohhhh' of pleasure. Come on,' he moaned, that's it, bet you like it.' He opened his eyes and looked down, seeing the conflict on Curtis' long face - he was looking the dick in the eye like a mongoose and a snake, and Harvey couldn't help but laugh. It won't bite ya, dick-face,' he rebuked.
Eyes squeezed shut and face a grimace, Curtis leaned in and took the shorter thicker cock in his mouth, and for all his clumsiness, it felt GOOD - seeing his newness and discomfort just made it all the more exciting for Harvey, who had been so giving with his own mouth as he progressed through his teens. He resisted the urge to push forward, just letting his friend explore with his lips, if not quite his tongue, and moaning heavily to show him how good it already felt. That's it,' he breathed. Just give it a go, big fella, just a little go, mmm...'
Just as the sensation was getting really good, Curtis pulled away, screwing his face up. You taste so sweaty,' he complained, and then he was unfolding upright, back on his feet, spitting on the ground and grimacing some more - Harvey could have been annoyed, but he couldn't help just laughing at this, and grabbing his cock for a few wet tugs. And what do you think YOU taste of, mate?' he retorted, all the while giving Curtis' dick a grab and tug, and starting to bend his knees.
`I tried it,' Jones muttered resentfully.
Yeah you did,' he applauded. Good lad. Now - are you gonna feed me that salty goodness, CJ?' He licked his lips provocatively and stooped low, ready to finish the job, locking eye contact with the nervous twitches of the other lad's face - and Curtis just nodded eagerly, blinking his heavy lashes, and leaning forward to bring his cock closer to Harvey's mouth, which opened responsively. It had been brief, but it was a start - he'd got a little payback from this big-dicked bastard, and it was something to work with. So he opened wide and worked the big veiny weapon, eager for another mouthful.
He heard the faint clanks and bangs from behind the cupboard door, but he was distracted and somewhat naive, so he didn't really question it beyond assuming a member of the site-staff were in there - the 24-year-old Argentine was hardly going to imagine that two young academy graduates were trading oral sex and sweating profusely in the dark confines of the cupboard, was he?
No, Alexis Mac Allister was hurrying on into the changing rooms, a man on a mission. He'd been happy enough to follow the example of some more established teammates and ignore Klopp's suggestion of an early finish, since guys like Salah and van Dijk were, but now it had worn thin and the World Cup winner was keen to get out of the AXA Training Centre. Quite specifically, he was keen to get onto the rainswept motorway and back home to his fiancee, who had begun to message him quite provocatively as he sweated on a treadmill.
Now, the Celtic-tinged South American was peeling away his gym top in a hurry, tottering through the scattered occupants of the changing rooms - past some loud banter between Trent Alexander-Arnold and Diogo Jota, and past a jokey argument between Andy Robertson and the much younger Scot, Doak, whose accents Alexis absolutely struggled with in spite of his Fife roots.
Urgently excited about what awaited him at home, Mac Allister found his things and continued to strip, deciding that there was no point showering. He'd be in a horny hot sweat all through the drive home, so he may as well just pull his clean clothes over his lithe muscular body even in this musty condition, sweat trails on his chest and back, and a rugged dampness in his thick beard and wispy hairstyle.
Mac was down to his stretchy Under-Armour pants and some dirty black socks when the buzzing impatience of his mobile phone alerted him again and the World Cup star sat down to pluck it out and open the latest messages, not paying much attention to the other lads who were undressing next to him, fresh in from the same fitness suite as he. Younger and impressionable Liverpool upstarts who had stayed too long because they were keen not to be judged by the likes of Mo Salah.
And so the 24-year-old had no idea that one such lad was looking over his shoulder as he opened first one and then several more dirty picture messages, very visual evidence to confirm that his girlfriend was wet af' for him. The horny Argentine stared hungrily at the skilfully snapped pics of his fiancee's eager pussy, and he licked his lips unconsciously - theirs was a relationship of rabid sexual appetite, something that had got him in trouble when he posted about it in the comments under one of his World Cup celebration posts last year. As boyish and innocent as his awkward laugh could make him appear, Alexis was a ridiculously horny bastard, and this sort of urgent sexting was far from rare for he and his partner - and still, he jumped in shock as the lad just to his left cawed in appreciation and congratulated him, Fuck's sake fella! Whose cunt is that?'
Mac Allister started in a panic and then turned his awkward polite frown to the teen, locking and sliding away his phone screen of intimate porn. `Nobody for you,' the Argentine barked at the youngster, laughing throatily to cover his embarrassment; but the kid's loud comment had drawn attention, and the South American found himself the centre of focus. He stood up in his strretchy pants and began to clamber into jeans and hoody, ignoring them.
The accidental voyeur sounded excited and appreciative. `That looked so hot,' 18-year-old Bobby Clark enthused, wide-eyed and admiring at his side, in the process of peeling away his long training pants, exposing his black boxers.
`What was it?' Northern Irish lad Conor Bradley was demanding.
I didn't see, but it sounds hot,' chuckled Cumbrian James McConnell on the other side. You dirty dog, Alex Mac!'
Wriggling into his things, Alexis laughed off their comments and shook his head, partly embarrassed, but more-so just eager to get on the road. You saw nothing,' he assured Clark falsely, refusing to engage. But I DO have plans.' He winked once at the nosy bastard, finishing up the button fly of his Diesel jeans. The 24-year-old was somewhat shy now, but he really just didn't want to hang around and indulge the locker-room remarks of these veritable kids - he wanted out of here, before his cock was hard, and in that damp traffic, rushing home to lick the prize in the photo.
The uproarious laughter of dirty banter rippling through the changing rooms COULD be heard in the separate shower cubicles at one end, but only JUST; the hissy roar of plumbing obscured peals of laughter and raised voices, and besides, blasted beneath this comforting heat, a guy could only be half-interested in what was entertaining an assortment of his teammates. Especially, that was, as a soapy hand slid past your wet pubes and toyed with the thickening weight of your semi, indulging in a little private fondle beneath the showerhead, as Dominik was now.
Szoboszlai was loving life in Liverpool, by and large, and not just on the pitch; he was glad that he had fitted well into the sociable squad and established easy friendships with several influential figures, not least a local like Trent who could show him around the fun city. Dom was fitting in well and he who would be laughing heartily without any concern if he was out there and in on the joke. But instead he was in here, scrubbing himself, and giving in to the temptation of rubbing his full balls and massaging the oversized meaty snake above them, because... well, why not? His model girlfriend was out of the country this week and he would be heading back to an empty flat tonight, perhaps to video call his Hungarian family, or to play some video games and get an early night - why not pause here in the privacy of this shower cubicle and... have a play?
It was an advantage to showering alone, he supposed, rather than the standard exhibitionism of the communal shower block - not that Slzobo fully avoided this sportsman ritual, he didn't want to seem weird or antisocial, or to cause any fuss and demand special treatment. Though there were oddities in their sport who really disliked the shared showers and drew a line at it, these men were somewhat ostracised by wary teammates who always interpreted it in a certain way - and Dominik had no intention of being viewed in such a way! No, no, not him, not a hot-blooded Hungarian like he. Bracing his handsome face against the hot spray and rubbing a soapy hand over his chest, the big strong midfielder quailed a little to think of certain memories, and the reasons why he now sometimes preferred to shower solo like this - it wasn't just for the sake of the odd secretive jerk-off.
Ostensibly, the 23-year-old was thinking of his girlfriend as he pulled his dick into life, or a couple of key celebrity crushes, famous MILFs who got him going; but the awareness of his privacy here, and the growing aversion he had for the communal shower, it drew him inexorably back to the incident that had started the habit, in his final weeks at Leipzig - and for a moment he was back there in the Bundesliga, cleaning muck off his big body in the steamy showers, and only half-listening to the chat behind him. And in his mind's eye, he could see clearly enough the shuffling closeness of the next player, edging to him, and the curious expression as he'd half-turned to face his then-teammate: the spark in those troublesome eyes next to him, and the lilting grin as a low muttered voice in broken German delivered the intimate compliment: `Big guy!'
The memory in the steam flickered away from Dominik's fractured attention, but was replaced by something worse: himself in a hotel bed, lying awake in the dark, and his cock as hard as it was now, but with the hand of another on it. It was just a wank, just a hand-job, nothing else, and yet it had troubled him every night since it happened - that same sparky look from the other Leipzig player, glanced even in the near-dark of the away match hotel suite. And his own self just lying there, letting it happen, having silently assented to the curious fondle in the night, to the murmured curiosity, the sharp broken German of the Croat he roomed with. Here under the hot shower, Dominik awkwardly let go of his heavy erection, ashamed to touch himself as his female fantasies were obscured by this one guilty memory: and all he could see was the awkward bearded grin of the other player, fellow quitter of the German league for Premiership glory this season.
Szoboszlai grunted unhappily and did his best to wipe away the memory of allowing Josko Gvardiol so close to him that night, shortly before they had both confirmed their transfer deals to Liverpool and Manchester respectively - and he shuddered in spite of the heat, ignoring his throbbing hard-on, glad he was privately here in this solitary shower cubicle to grimace and flinch, and try his best to forget what he'd let happen in Germany. That, he reminded himself, was in the past, left in the Bundesliga. Nobody here needed to know that he'd allowed the Croat so close to him!
The pair of them were still laughing as they entered the showers, their voices echoing in against damp tiles and gurgling pipes; 19-year-old Morpeth lad James couldn't actually believe that the other teen had seen such saucy details on Mac Allister's phone, and he was a bit shocked at how exciting he found the lewd gossip. He undid the knot of his white towel on the way across the tiled rectangle, taking his place at a free spot and knocking on the hot water, briefly shivering as it heated up in its blast against his slim muscular body. To his mild surprise, the other teenage football player took the spot right next to him, when surely it was more ordinary to use up the space of the quiet showers when they didn't have to pack in like slippery wet sardines.
But it was clear that 18-year-old Bobby Clark still wanted to gossip about their teammate. The dirty bastard!' the aspiring midfielder chuckled stupidly, knocking elbows with him and then reaching past him to grab the soap. Not even showering - gonna go home and fuck her still sweaty from training!'
McConnell laughed back, waiting to retrieve the stolen soap, and watching as dampness unfurled the tight blond curls of Clark's hair. Well, yeh,' he grumbled through his laughter, I guess some ladies are into that?!'
Not my bird,' the other young player confided, raising his voice over the watery roar. She makes me shower before and after every shag, y'know - clean freak, haha.'
Oh, right,' newly single McConnell said vaguely, missing the brief period of regular sex that she'd enjoyed with his ex, and thinking how envious he was of the hot local social media influencer that Clark had begun dating. Well - I'm sure she's worth it.'
Fuck yeah,' Bobby told him, but she don't send me filth like THAT at training.'
No,' he murmured, thinking the same of his ex. He took back the soap and lathered it up and down each arm, then across his chest, letting the suds gather and dribble, and paying little attention to the varied bodies around him. But next to him, Bobby was elbowing at his side again, and leaning in too close. Hey,' the Surrey lad insisted, `where the fuck did Doaky go, wasn't he coming in to shower with us?'
Uh - was he? Oh, er, dunno.' McConnell could become a bit shy and self-conscious once he was stark bollock naked in here, even when there wasn't many guys around, and no ridiculous Mens Health modelling going on from Mo Salah's six-pack or obnoxiously large circumcised prick. He glanced around, clocking the few others who were showering close to them, then back at shiny wet Bobby, who looked intrigued and puzzled. He musta changed his mind,' James concluded disinterestedly, but Bobby snorted with amusement and had another theory. Too shy about his tiny cock,' Clark theorised, and McConnell's instinctive reaction came soon too filter: His cock isn't t-'
Laughter exploded mockingly from the 18-year-old and from the other nearest guys, and James went beetroot under his shower, forced to join the laughter because he had no choice - oh for fuck's sake, there goes a comment he'd never live down...!
In fact, Ben Doak had failed to follow his friends into the showers because he was guilty of his own separate hero worship apart from the cult of Salah; it was a Scotland thing, and the 17-year-old received much gentle teasing from his buddies from his puppy-dog following of his country's captain. Whilst Ben was stripped down and clad only in towel, the 29-year-old guy was still in the baggy sweatshirt and tracksuit that he'd worn to his physio appointment, drawing a big contrast between them as the younger player followed his hero.
`Here it is,' Robbo told him pleasantly, fishing through the locker. They were in an adjoining changing room to the main one, which the Scotland skipper had only used because he wasn't involved in their main day's activity - Robertson was only here as part of his developing rehab program, following his international duty injury crisis, and had strolled through into the main gym for a bit of socialising as Doak and others finished up.
`For real?' the teen asked breathily, unable to believe his luck.
`Yeah, I told you I'd bring it!' the older man insisted happily.
Doak could only let out a sigh of appreciation, clutching the knot his white towel, feeling a bit silly without clothes on - but he'd been interrupted by the gruff bark of Robbo, just about to follow his mates into the showers. But he was so impatient to get hold of this that he'd happily followed his hero away, even if it was cooler in this changing area, making his skin pimple and his dark pink nipples stand erect on his scantly-haired chest.
Robbo turned to hold the item out wide, displaying it to him. `Yeah?' he grunted, his wide-smiling face a picture of pride and generosity.
You're sure?' Ben asked again. You don't wanna keep it?'
Fuck no,' Andrew told him. I'm not a nostalgic guy - surprised I still have it.'
`But... doesn't it mean loads to you?'
`Pftt -not like it does to you, matey!'
The 17-year-old gladly took the dated Scotland jersey from his hero, clutching it in his fist: Andrew Robertson's match-worn shirt from his Scotland debut, now passed on as a good luck relic to the young right-winger. The Dalry youth clutched the treasured footy shirt in both hands, his rugged features alight with respect and admiration for the senior defender. Jesus, he thought, I'm gonna wear this to the next family party and look so boss, and all the lads back home will- Aloud, he gushed with gratitude and awkwardness, hardly able to believe that he was developing this close friendship with the wiry Glaswegian who he aspired to playing with it at club and country level.
Just fished it out of an attic,' Robbo told him dismissively, but beaming proudly. Doak was still astonished that his own naive hero worship was met with such willing mentoring from the Scotland hero, and he wasn't even sure how their training canteen chat last week had spiralled to the older fella offering him this shirt - but now he had it and he wanted to try it on, to slip into the legendary garment of his Scotland hero. Robbo seemed to sense this desire and just chuckled vaguely at him, scratching at the reddish-brown beard that was developing thickly upon his face. Go on,' he said with a nod.
And so Doak did, struggling into the slightly undersized footy shirt, making it fit, pulling it across his broad shoulders and back, stretching and writhing at it, suddenly paranoid it would be a terrible fit - and getting a quick helping hand from Andy too to pull it right down and onto him. It was taut on his slightly broader young build, but it felt good, and he could see a real pride glow in Andrew's face at seeing it worn.
But- Ben could hardly have noticed it happened, wriggling and stretching to get into the gifted shirt, but the knot of his towel had loosened, and then loosened some more - so that now, stood in this empty room right in front of his injured idol, the rough white material shed away from his waistline. He'd covered up his pale upper body and perky nipples, but he was suddenly stood there with white legs on show, and bushy pale brown pubes, and soft dangling phallus - and he froze up in awkward mortification, wondering why he'd pranced through here in just a towel, then let it fall away!
They both of them stood there, Robertson half-leaning on the open door of his locker, a frozen grin on his lips, other hand still scratching at his facial hair - Doak stared at him, frozen still with his young dick out, willing the older player to laugh, or say something, say anything, instead of just staring ambiguously at him. The moment's silence seemed to last forever, the narrow space between them filling with tension. Was Andy actually staring judgmentally down at his flaccid cock, distinctly average in size, but obviously miniscule in the teen's paranoid imagination - he got enough jokes to that effect from boisterous fellow players like Clark. Probably, it was only 15 or 20 seconds before Robbo burst into his trademark gruff cackle, but it felt like an hour's naked exposure.
Lad!' guffawed the Scotland hero, Get your towel back on and put that big beast away, will ya? Jesus, put someone's eye out with that!' More heavy laughter and a slapping hand to the shoulder. `Come on, big fella, get outta here and have yer shower - fucking show-off bastard, haha!'
No choice, Ben laughed along, loudly and anxiously, and he scrabbled for his towel, throwing it about his waist and covering up. He was shaken not only by his clumsy error, but by the long moment's tension - what kind of tension? He wasn't sure - but he did his best to laugh it off and not turn scarlet, backing away with both hands clamped to the seam of the towel. `Oh shurrup,' he scoffed, feeling weirdly buoyed by the tone of Robbo's banter - it made a joke for a fella to be laughing about his cock by claiming it was annoyingly big, even if he couldn't quite believe that to be true.
And as Robbo said, he did make a swift exit, needing to put this treasured new shirt in his backpack, and to get that hot shower on his muscles; but he glanced back at Robertson, the injured left-back remaining at the open locker with an odd mixed expression on his face. He was still grinning and chuckling, sure, but there was a slightly distant look in his eyes - thoughtful, wistful, jarring. But Doak was too embarrassed to pause and consider it for long, rushing through and wriggling out of the shirt, not wanting to get it too sweaty on his bulky young physique.
The training centre was emptying, player after player scampering out into the rain, heading for solitary or shared cars, of varying levels of extreme luxury - a world-weary and head-hanging Dominik sloped across the wet car park on his own, troubled by the interrupting thoughts in the shower, and a wistful Trent watched him from inside the soundtracked interior of his own vehicle; a slow-moving Robertson emerged from a different exit, moving his injured shoulder experimentally as he clicked a button on his keys to unlock his motor; Salah's vehicle was already skidding out of the gates and, playfighting like schoolboys, Elliott and Jones were emerging from the main exit.
But inside, the gyms had not been entirely abandoned - not everyone had made their slow way to the changing rooms and showers, communal or otherwise.
Unseen by most, two of the lingering players had continued to work quietly at their machines, exchanging silent intense stares behind the backs of others. And those two, right now, were finishing up their very specific muscular exercise, bodies interlocking, in a dark corner of the furthest gym, behind stacked shelves of dumbbells. It was a ridiculous risky spot, but that was half the fun, wasn't it?
Fucking like this, he could see himself in fragmented reflections, snatches of mirror between the shelves and weights shining their bodies back at him: the tight pale tan muscle of the slighter lad in his arms, and his own dark bulk, pounding and slamming behind him. He had a hand clamped over the bitch's mouth, because risks had to be calculated, but their bodies made plenty of noise, the slam of meeting muscles and the puckered noise of his big cock sliding in and out of the tight masculine arse.
He was close to finishing, and he held his thickly-muscled arms all the tighter around the lean frame of the other player, making the Uruguayan squeal into the clammy palm that silenced his lips. It was tough to suppress all that noise, when he enjoyed knowing how powerfully he was penetrating the 24-year-old, slamming into his jiggling buttocks over and over, cock buried deep in him and about to unload. Darwin Nunez was a ragdoll in his grip, fucked hard and fast against the shelves and mirrors, his face a picture of abjection and ecstasy. And over him, pounding and slamming, Joe Gomez could only grin and growl at his own dominant reflection, the big sexual beast of Liverpool Football Club - he slammed a few more times into his tight new bottom, a recent discovery, and then emptied his balls into the South American slut.
Having silenced and muffled squealing Darwin for the last ten minutes, the 26-year-old Londoner now let out a long bestial groan of his own, and released the slim striker from his bear-hug, retreating with a swing of his strong arms, and a stroke of his sweaty pecs. Slowly, he stuffed his sticky cock back into the mesh of his gym shorts, and let out a long low laugh. Nunez glanced at him over his shoulder, pale and shiny in the face, and Gomez winked - he'd fucked the man good, just like he'd fucked Robbo and others before him. Whilst Mohamed and Trent sat around getting stressed by lust and romance, the big man from Catford saw what he wanted and took it.
On you go,' Joe purred. Get showered and wash my cum out of your slut hole.'
Darwin nodded in exhausted silence and pulled up his shorts, reached for his discarded vest. And off he went. Joe chuckled, felt the outline of his wilting cock in his shorts, and found his own dropped gym shirt somewhere on the carpet. He fought into it, covering up the bulging black muscles of his torso, and then slowly padding through the deserted gyms, feeling like a fucking king. At an open exit, he looked smilingly out in the car park, watching cars disappear through the rain, and then stepping outside to let some of the chill November downpour sizzle against his overheated body - he paused, eyes closed, and remembered how good it felt to be balls-deep in Darwin Nunez. God love Liverpool, the Londoner thought, and he walked to his car.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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