Part 386: Knock at the Door
It was a chilled Monday evening for the mature 25-year-old, and he was very pleased about that; he'd had a bit of fun during his club's nominal winter break, including a jaunt to a couple of fashion events where he'd got to hobnob with various celebs - but he'd been back at work for several days already, and his side were priming themselves for a midweek clash against Fulham for a spot in the EFL Cup Final. They were already 2-1 up after the first leg, but would be travelling down to London tomorrow evening, and so had been given a rather short and low-impact training day by the bosses - sent home to rest and relax and report for duty tomorrow afternoon, as fresh as possible.
For Trent Alexander-Arnold, this had meant a nice walk in one of the city parks, taking in the last of the wintry daylight after driving back from the training ground; he'd swung by an expensive whole-foods supermarket in the city centre then retreated here to his luxurious flat to start prep on his dinner. When it was just him, Trent didn't always put much effort into cooking, but he liked relaxing into a complicated recipe when he had the time, and so a fancy French stew was simmering away in the kitchen now, and the young footballer had retired into the large airy room at the centre of his warehouse conversion.
Though many 20something lads in his sport were somewhat itinerant and lived in blandly corporate shells as a result, Alexander-Arnold had invested in property when barely out of the youth squad, and he'd been furnishing and perfecting his Merseyside bachelor pad for many years now. It was quite the cosy nest of his own tastes and preferences that the versatile defender could settle into now, perusing the Netflix menu whilst burying his lithe brown body into the low sofa and masses of cushion.
Trent felt safely distant from the stress and pressure of his job this evening, ensconced here on the soft furnishing and surrounded by framed prints of his own photography and art that reminded him of favourite holidays, interspersed with American sports memorabilia and a few tributes to his own career highlights. He was confident about Wednesday night and more excited than anxious about travelling down there tomorrow to finish the job. So he was free to relax, light as a feather, stretching his muscular physique against the cushions and pulling a thin extra blanket over his baggy basketballer shorts and the plain black hoody which covered his upper body.
He scrolled the menu quite idly, and he'd pretty much just chosen his next binge, loading up a trashy thriller adaptation that he'd missed out on during the Christmas period, and was literally sliding his thumb to the `play' button when the knock at the door interrupted. Oh, for fuck's sake, really? The 25-year-old Scouse lad was so happily nested in his position, blanketed and foetal, ready to graze through a couple of naff TV episodes and then serving up his delicious-smelling dinner, which he thought he might even post smugly to social media. He paused with the remote in his hand, surprised to be interrupted, and the knock sounded again: a firm hard rapping against the flat's entrance.
It was only as he slid the blanket away and leapt up from his nest of cushions that the Liverpudlian man thought that the knock was odd - it should be a rattling metallic buzz from the intercom down to the conversion's foyer - so maybe it was a neighbour and it would just be some quick query or requested favour. Or, he supposed, someone could have come in downstairs at a busy point when the bougie building's residents were all coming back from work or out to the gym... it would have to be one of his well-known teammates, he concluded, not to be stopped and queried by the expensive security service who operated the building's reception, though.
Trent's mind was a rolodex of these prospects as he hopped and slid through the airy lounge and down a passage towards the main entrance - Robbo was most likely, as far as teammates who would just drop around for a cuppa, especially in the time since the Scotsman's boyfriend had been sold abroad; but it could be anyone, it could be that moody-faced little wannabe hard-man Harvey Elliott, or his bosom buddy, the lanky stammering Curtis Jones - both youngsters were chummy with Trent these days and seemed to look up to him as the Academy success story he was; or it could even be Joe Gomez, he mused, thinking about the slightly intense looks the big burly Londoner had given him when he complimented his Adidas TV ad this afternoon, the brooding player seeming to take the praise a little too deeply; or, Trent thought, in the seconds it took him to undo the security locks and put his eye to the peephole, it could be his crush. After all, Dominik Szoboszlai had been promising to drop off the kitchen equipment he'd borrowed in his first week of Liverpool life, telling Trent that his girlfriend had now bought everything they needed - it made Trent cringe a little to think about his eagerness in those first weeks, running about offering the Hungarian all sorts of neighbourly favours to help him move into a neighbouring apartment block in the city centre, bending over backwards to befriend the newcomer and trying not to have sex dreams about him every night. The first awkward heat of the crush had softened over time, since he and Dom were now such good buddies, but he knew that was a partial lie: he still got flustered every time he saw the tall dark beast of a man approaching him on the training pitch.
But no, it was not Dominik, nor any of those other possibilities, but it WAS a teammate: he put his eye to the peephole and breathed a Huh?' of mild confusion before undoing the manual lock and pulling the door inwards. Hey there,' the Scouse lad called with a friendly daze to his tone, hanging off the big industrial door, and inspecting the glowering figure who greeted him on the landing.
Mohamed Salah heaved a very heavy sigh, stared him down, and then nodded impatiently. Can I come in?' Liverpool's iconic striker demanded without a hello'.
`Sure,' Trent agreed readily, a little confused, and he stepped aside to usher the forward into his flat, not for the first time - but certainly for the first time in a while. He pushed the door shut and followed the other man's stompy footsteps through into the large central space, where the Netflix menu was playing the same preview of his chosen TV boxset on a loop. In the centre of the room, Salah looked about appraisingly, as if noting all minor changes since he'd been a semi-regular visitor to the pad, and made a vague dismissive scoffing sound, turning to face a bemused Trent.
Shouldn't you be at AFCON?' the 25-year-old asked simply, a little confused at seeing Salah back on UK soil. I - I'm sorry to hear about the injury, chief, but - how come you aren't there still supporting your Pharaohs...?'
A grunt from Mo, who he realised was still dressed in his Egypt training tracksuit, as if fresh from the airport direct, the red and black nylon perfectly fitted against the taut muscles of the 5ft9 31-year-old. He had an angry look to his face, which was unnerving, but Trent couldn't help but meet it with a friendly smile of concern - `What's up, lad?' the younger player demanded brightly but firmly.
I should be there,' Salah told him, sounding irritable. I should be there, like you say, cheering on my men - I should be. But I am here, HERE, in Liverpool - because our bosses say it must be so. Against my Egypt doctor's words. Hah!' He shook his head, fury in his eyes. `This is crazy. They do not respect the Africa cup, they never have.' He grunted and scoffed again and pulled at the neck of the tight jersey under his red-and-black jacket.
Trent nodded his sympathy. Too right,' he said darkly, it's casual racism and nowt else, buddy, but - could they really make you come back?' and then after a pause, `But are you okay? Do you need proper treatment, or...?' He was ready to agree with the North African about a dismissive Premiership attitude to the African Cup of Nations, but he wasn't keen to disrespect LFC authorities - he was fairly sure that the gaffer and co wouldn't have had Mo flown home if it wasn't needed. The striker in front of him did not look ready to see that point of view, nostrils flaring and lips pouting.
Intense rehabilitation,' Salah mouthed angrily. And then I COULD rejoin them if they make the final...' He laughed, bitterly. `Without me? The final, without me? Hah.' He shook his head again, uncharacteristically arrogant about his talent, and then rubbed at his slightly clammy travel-weary face.
Even as he opened his own pouting lips to speak, Trent felt he had an inkling of the answer to his question - `But what am I gonna do about it, hey?' He gave a pretty calm, measured look at the muscular lad in front of him, matching his own height but a little thicker and broader in build. And Mohamed stared back at him, something intense and manic in his dark eyes and in the physical tension of his pose - he stepped forward, and he smelt quite sweaty, the must manly scent of a bloke who's had a long journey and yet to shower today. It was not an altogether unpleasant stink.
Hey,' Trent said vaguely, the visitor stepping right up to him and taking hold of the front of his baggy dark hoody. He let the warning sound trial off, a vague bemused smile still on his face, whilst Mo brought their faces very close and stared him down, not daring or needing to stay what had to be said - his wide dark eyes and flaring nostrils said it all, as did the rich manly stench of his sweat. There was a lot Trent thought about saying - not least, that he had a pretty chill solo evening laid out in front of him, and more specifically, that the phase of him being the Egyptian's personal cocksucker bitch were long gone, a phase of real insecurity for Trent where he'd needed to service that big circumcised cock almost daily to feel validated. Yep, hey', he could have said lots of things to refuse this visitation and demand, he sure could - but ultimately, with the brooding muscular hunk stood imposingly in front of him, tugging at the front of his jumper, and his senses overwhelmed by the rich smell that was a mixture of oud and sweat, he knew that Netflix and dinner could wait.
Especially when Mohamed's strong grasping hands came up to the collar of his hooded top and that mouth, bristly on the smoothness of Trent's face, came in for a hot wet kiss - holy fuck, there had been no kissing during their past affair.
Trent almost stumbled off his bare feet, born back by the strength of Mo's anger and lust; he grabbed back at the rustling sleeves of the Egypt training jacket and steadied himself, holding onto the muscular force of the other 5ft9 bloke. The kiss ended sharply, Salah breathing heavily, and then he was instead kissing Trent on the neck, quite aggressively, making him Oh!' a little moan and hang on even more roughly and desperately to the folds of nylon, clutching at the jacket and casting aside all doubts about what he wanted from his chill' evening at his flat. Fuck yes.
Mo pushed him back again, roughly, but this time he was ready for it, and he grasped back at him, tugging on him, so that as he tumbled back onto the nearest low couch and a springy bed of cushions, the injured striker came clumsily with him, bearing down on top of him with all of his muscular weight, and kissing again at his throat, his neck, behind his ear - a scratchy breathy passion that electrocuted Trent with desire for a man he had not touched in years. Greedily, he pushed a hand down to feel the bulge in the front of the Egypt national tracksuit, finding that the injured player had travelled commando - he could feel the loose heavy cock in there and he shuddered with desire for it.
Trent grappled with the strength of the other man until he could flip them, wrestling against him on the couch and - once on top - pushing his way back and down, sliding until his knees dropping to the hardwood floor. He pushed up the black football training shirt and admired the detailed landscape of that ripped six-pack; he kissed the skin around the tight little navel and then down onto the stubbly growth where the upper edge of the pubes had been trimmed away. He yanked and dragged at the trackies until they were sliding away, not a scrap of underwear beneath them, and freeing the thick heavy dong that he remembered sucking so greedily and submissively for him. Trent didn't think of himself in terms of some needy cum-slut, but right now he was happy to repeat the role that the authoritative goal machine had cast him in - he spat noisily against the big helmet and then pushed his hungry mouth about it, thrilled when one rough hand pushed on his crown and helped his head down to swallow the fat veiny length. Trent sucked eagerly on him, breathing in the stale sweat and manly taste, and he slurped noisily up and down, spitting more lubricant on head and shaft, and turning his eyes up to the still-furious frown on the Pharaoh's stormy face.
`That's it,' was all the Egyptian star could growl.
Trent sucked him some more, and he pushed his hands up and down that six-pack, up onto the solid smooth pecs, tweaking and teasing bullet nips; he licked and slobbered and took one and then the other ball in his mouth for a gentle sucking, making Mohamed growl and moan, reaching down to slap his hard-on against Trent's boyish good looks; fuck, he hadn't thought about this cock in forever, but right now it was everything he wanted for dinner.
Fuck,' moaned Salah urgently. Fuck, yes.'
Trent would have happily carried on, putting his talented young mouth to work again, assuming that this one-way fellatio was all the dominant secretive Muslim was into - but then Mo was leaning forward on the coach, squishing his face between cock and six-pack, and reaching down his back, pulling his hoody up a bit, and sliding a hand into the rear of his baggy shorts and tighter trunks... giving one of his arse cheeks a good clench and then poking an exploratory finger into his crack, woah. The hand retreated but slapped and spanked aggressively at both cheeks through his shorts and Trent responded with a whimpering sigh of delight, kissing the base of the mighty shaft.
`Up,' barked Mohamed, and TAA could only rush to oblige.
He scrabbled to his feet and discarded the shorts, his own erection tenting in the plain grey boxer briefs below; he fought with the hoody and almost went flying to one side in his clumsy rush, until Salah's strong hands were tearing it upwards and freeing him of its baggy excess. He was grabbed about the waist by a now-shirtless Salah and again the aggressively horny Egyptian was snogging the side of his neck, really driving him wild, hands roving over his lean strong torso, down to feel his arse through his undies. Trent moaned with eagerness, becoming aware of how his former dom had progressed in the years since last feeding him a mouthful of jizz.
Trent nuzzled forward experimentally and was rewarded with a second snog to the mouth, and he held the handsome face and slightly sheared fro of hair, kissing deeply into Mo's rasping mouth - all the while, strong imperious hands rubbed down his back and pushed his undies down below the curve of his cheeks, which they patted and squeezed and parted. Mo broke the kiss long enough to spit on two fingers and then, as they resumed snogging, Trent rose on tiptoes whilst two fingers pushed between his cheeks and found the pink tightness of his ring - `Ohhhh... fuck...'
Muscles bulging, Salah hoisted him, and Trent brought his own strong legs grappling about the waist of the shirtless hunk; he allowed himself, only marginally lighter than the striker, to be hoisted and held, his arse parting, while the Egyptian began to roughly finger him and kissing the centre of his chest. Held aloft like this, Trent's eyes bulged and his mouth was wide open in a long `Ohhhh' of surprised pleasure, before he was once more flopped heavily back down into the softness of the sofa, this time on his front.
Mohamed's hands were strong and commanding and he was happy to be putty in them - pushed forward, face into the cushions, arse yanked back and up, whole body bent over and read. Loud spitting and more pushy fingers. A bit of a good boy lately, Trent hadn't taken a dick since sitting on Rashford's on England duty, so he was glad that Mo was giving him a good fingering first - two digits pushing roughly in and out of his wet hole, spitting profusely against them. Fuck, Mo knew what he was doing - who'd he been fucking, then?
Trent was bent unceremoniously forward and held tightly and then he felt the hugeness of the tip, the pressure and the need; he relaxed as best he could and let it happen, glad to be stretched, glad to be feeling this, so glad to have that big cut cock in his backside now and now just his mouth. He freed his face from a brief crush of cushion and sucked in air, letting out encouraging gasps and telling him how much he needed it - `Fuck me hard, Mo, you fucking beast!'
Confusingly, after the kisses, Salah just clipped him lightly on the head and pushed his face more roughly into the back of the sofa, telling him to `Shut up and take it' and then forcing his cock forward; Trent could only moan into the expensive suede and arch his back sensuously, feeling himself accommodate the thickness and length of the masterful prick. Soon Salah was fucking him hard, gripping his midriff and bucking rapidly and powerfully against his arse - the low sofa squeaked and strained against the aggression and Trent was lost in pleasure as he got exactly what he hadn't realised he needed. His own cock was hard and leaking and he had to try hard not to touch it, knowing he would release at the slightest provocation right now!
Fucking Englishmen,' was Salah's stupid grunted outburst, fucking England!' Right, Trent thought, he's fucking the whole Premier League establishment then - I'm happy to represent that tonight!
In several positions, the 25-year-old Anfield right-back was tossed about the sofa, a ragdoll in Mohamed's sweaty grip - contorted and pushed, controlled and twisted, constantly pounded and railed by the strength of every muscle in the goal machine. For a while he was spread flat along the couch with his hard-on underneath him and out of reach, Mo powering into him from above and holding his head down hard with both hands - wow - but when he was flipped over again and his ankles resting on Mo's strong shoulders, he simply could not help himself, and he wanked his cock briefly before spilling his seed all over his strong dense tummy muscles. Mo's face twisted, he looked almost disgusted to see this sign of mutual pleasure, and he pulled him into a different position, back to doggy-style, to give him one last hard ragdoll set of thrusts - Trent took it in a post-orgasmic daze, eyes half-shut, feeling the force plough into him and only half-conscious of his seed staining the expensive fabric of the couch.
Then Mo was out of him, pushing him aside and back into a seated position, and stood over him. Salah spat, and Trent thought it was to go on his own face in some aggressive gesture, but nope just down onto the big throbber - he lolled in the low seated position whilst Mohamed stood over him and wanked, pulling back rapidly on his monster cock, until with a shudder and a groan, he was releasing. Heavy, noisy droplets splattered against Trent's chest, a Jackson Pollock of Egyptian seed, falling across his pecs, over his hard nips, dribbling down onto his own taut abdomen, muddling with the smears of his own cum where it was drying on his treasure trail.
He stared wonderingly up at Salah's drawn face, wide eyes, trembling lips - he still looked furious, but there was also something sated and finished in his stance - the fuck had been the therapy he needed. It occurred to Trent that if big sexy Salah was sexually active outside of his marriage, then his time in Africa might have been one of barriers and limitations - a tense Egyptian side of strict Muslim men, perhaps? Whoever else at Liverpool had been lucky enough to taste Mo, this big sexy brute had not been serviced at AFCON... and Trent was wholeheartedly pleased he had somehow been the first name on the married hunk's speed dial when he touched down at Liverpool John Lennon Airport.
Well,' he gasped after a long silence between them, that was... new.'
A vague non-verbal grunt from Mo, who proceeded to back off. He picked his trackies up from where they remained at his ankles and pushed his cock into them, where the damp stains of jizz were instantly visible in the crotch. His muscular torso shiny with sweat, Salah went about collecting his jersey and jacket from where they had fallen, saying nothing, whilst Trent inspected a few jizz marks on the couch and laughed to himself, then scrabbled back into his shorts and hoody, wiping his clammy face on a sleeve.
He disappeared and left his visitor, collecting two glasses of icy water, and returned to push one into Salah's awkward hand. Now, the Egyptian couldn't even make eye contact with him. He glugged the water noisily and paced the room, and Trent smirked playfully at the silenced loop of promo on the TV screen, the show still waiting for him. And the herby scent that had followed him from the kitchen reminded him of his dinner waiting - for a moment, chuckling, he thought about inviting his guest to stay for food and more relaxation, but he already knew what the answer would be. Stormy-faced, Mo was looking for somewhere to put the emptied glass down - Trent took it for him, and he smiled reassuringly.
`That was hot,' he told him.
Forget it,' the striker told him simply, bluntly. It should not have happened.'
`Yeah, but it did...'
`Don't ever mention it,' Salah commanded him - and Trent's smile half-faded, remembering why he had ended their previous dalliance - too many regretful moments with his own pleasure neglected and the stains of a messy load drying in his t-shirt. Mohamed was adventurous, but only up to a point - the snogging and the fucking seemed new, but ultimately, his brief suspension of Halal rules ended sharply with his own release, and now it was like it had always been. He looked ready to bolt. Trent just sighed.
`I'm glad I could help,' he said, half-sarcastically, and he drank from his own water. Mo shot him a strange, wary look, and made for the door; Trent followed quietly, helping him with the lock and seeing him out on the balcony. He stood there and watched as his teammate and surprise guest rushed away down the stairwell, Trent's arse-hole still throbbing from the power-fucking he'd received on the couch. Wow.
He drifted back indoors, poured more ice-cold water, and began serving his dinner, the smell of Salah's sweat and cum still all over him - and he laughed cheerily to himself as he sat back down to eat his food and press play on Netflix - that had been unexpected but delightful, and he was no longer young or naive enough to hope it meant any more than it did. Big macho Mo had just needed to unload, and god Trent had needed that action too, but it was silly to expect anything sweeter from that - Mr Right would come along for him in some other form, he trusted, and he was happy to lay to rest his steamy affair with his former captain, and the more toxic awkwardness of his Evertonian love affair in the past.
Trent put his feet up, ate his casserole, and watched a stupid whodunnit plot unfold, and Mohamed Salah drove home to his wife, bitterly disappointed in AFCON, but unloaded of the anger and frustration that had burned him on the long flight back from injury.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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