Part forty-nine: The Marbella Ten
It had begun as a joke, hadn't it? Just a silly bit of banter. How had it come to this?
It had begun on the first day of the squad's training boot-camp here in Marbella, where they were to spend much of their second week of the winter break, building up to the impending Chelsea game. Whilst Storm Ciara clattered at Manchester itself, the United lads were here, training and bonding in a dip of lush green in the mountains of Southern Spain. The hotel complex was fairly luxurious, the training ground was immaculate, the mood was relatively high: this might be the worst season the club had experienced in memory, but the troop of lads on this sun-kissed trip were determined to turn it round and climb back up the top half of the table whilst their rivals shuddered in Liverpool FC's shadow. And amongst them, none felt more refreshed and determined than Scott McTominay, back from injury and ready to contribute to the squad once more.
It had begun as a joke, and Scott had laughed his head off at the banter to start with.
They had been doing some finishing exercises on the Monday afternoon, a casual exercise after a more intense opening session in the morning, all eager and excited from last week's rest and arriving at the fancy hotel late last night. Scott, a 6'4 beanpole of a lad, had bounced through the day's work in a great mood, knowing he was not quite fully recovered, but enjoying the free movement and the strength in his legs.
It was as they were booting in a few penalties to round things off that Lingard had made his joke. Though goalless on the real pitch and facing so much criticism, the 27-year-old club joker was pelting them in now and lapping the huddle of other players with smug little celebrations. `We should keep score over the week,' he panted, rejoining the main group and throwing his arm loosely about the shoulders of his tall younger teammate Mason Greenwood.
Stood between them and captain Harry Maguire, Scott had just grinned and gave cocky Lingard a look. Oh, aye,' the tall Northerner had mocked in his Lancaster accent, what's the prize for the winner?'
`Fuck, I won't need a prize,' Lingard cooed cheerily, flexing and stretching first one leg, then the other.
Mason smirked at him and shrugged him off from leaning on his arm. `Someone is feeling confident,' the 5'11 Bradford lad chuckled, folding his slim athletic arms. The prodigious young striker gave his own cocky flash of a smile, and McTominay chuckled at the pair of them.
I think it is more case of what is punishment for the, er, loser,' broke in the newbie, Bruno Fernandes, hopping between them fresh from scoring his own penalty. The Portuguese midfielder prodded Lingard in the arm and winked at he and Greenwood. You not only guys here who know their skill, hah.' The wiry 25-year-old joined them in folding his arms to survey the latest lad stepping up to kick, defender Luke Shaw.
`Sounds like a good idea for healthy competition,' Scott told them half-interestedly, shielding his eyes and turning to watch Shaw belt it in and narrowly miss as De Gea saved one. Tough luck, Scott thought, the blond Southerner had a pretty decent kick there for a defender.
Healthy competition,' Lingard agreed next to him, as the guys milled about, and I reckon we have an easy punishment, don't we...' Harry Maguire was stepping up to take his kick, serious-faced and powerful at his height and breadth. `Big Captain over there can deal with the loser,' Lingard called, and Maguire glanced their way at his title.
`What, a spanking from Blockhead?' sniggered Greenwood.
Nah,' Lingard teased, we've all seen his big whopper in the showers... Loser has to suck Maguire's cock for like... two minutes... haha...' Jesse creased up laughing at his own joke and Scott just rolled his eyes, looking at the sullen frown forming on their captain's face, though Greenwood and Fernandes were sniggering too. A few of the other lads around them looked less amused by the homoerotic banter, and McTominay remembered how openly homophobic some of them were. He was a broad-minded guy, though he rarely indulged in such stupid jokes himself.
Right,' he called to still-chortling Lingard, well, you best keep your chapstick to hand all week, Lingard, `cos we all know your record this season.' He gave the winger a steely look and naughty grin, not usually so harsh, but feeling someone needed to prick the pomposity of their team joker right now. But Jesse just went on laughing, and Harry Maguire came stomping past, having failed to score his own penalty.
What do you say?' Fernandes asked the tall Yorkshire defender in his slightly jagged English, giving a toothy grin to their captain. Lingard wants to play with you when he loses, hehe.'
McTominay rolled his eyes again, and casually noted the irritated look on Maguire's face as he strolled by to wait at the back for his next turn, not saying anything to the jokes but giving Lingard a stern, warning look; after the captain came Luke Shaw, and Scott detected a bit of a scowl on the handsome lad's face. Was Shaw one of those more uptight lads who couldn't take this kind of banter, or did he just think Lingard was taking things too far?
And then the Lancashire lad realised it was his turn to shoot, and abandoned the silly banter to take up the spot and belt one in.
The joke had resurfaced later that evening in a few jokey comments, but still... it had seemed a joke. But it was back amongst them at the end of Tuesday's training too, as a slightly reduced number of players were left indulging some shooting practice to finish off the day, even though officially they had been cleared to go and get some R&R time in before dinner.
`That's me on eight,' Lingard had announced after firing one in past the new reserve goalie they'd convinced to stay with them, 20-year-old Nathan Bishop, a fresh-faced young Londoner who just seemed excited to be getting the practice in with some big-name players, still overwhelmed to have signed for United. The boyish blond lad grinned to himself before passing the ball back into the fray, where Lingard was strutting amongst the others holding up eight fingers and sliding between Shaw and Maguire.
`Pretty sure that puts me in the lead,' Jesse continued smugly.
`Well I'm going for my sixth,' Shaw told him, a little sulkily, jogging up to the spot.
`Are we really keeping count all week?' Maguire groaned a little sourly.
McTominay cracked his knuckles and stretched his ankles, watching the little dynamics of competition on his pals' faces and body language, amused that this joke was still running, and then a little shocked as Lingard went back to the idea of a forfeit.
It's good for morale,' Jesse laughed loud enough for all the others to ear, well except for the loser who has to get on their knees...' He punched Harry in the arm. `Ah, come on, Cap... it will be a fuckin' laugh. We all know you're a nearly-married man, so you must NEVER get head... haha. Not like most of us free spirits, anyway...'
McTominay watched the slow blush on the big defender's face, compared to the gleeful smirk on Lingard's impish face. Jesus, what a dick that guy could be when he wanted! Beside them, the two teens Greenwood and Williams looked amused but a little intimidated. `Oi, Scott,' came Bishop's voice from the goalmouth, bringing his attention back to the matter in hand.
McTominay had stepped up to the spot for his turn, shaking his head at the antics of the others, wondering if all this Spanish sunshine in February was making them all so silly and irritable. It was hard to say whether the joke was already playing on his mind and bugging him at that point, but he certainly felt distracted as he took his shot, and young Nathan, 6'1 of eager young muscle, snatched it out of the air with relative ease, and kicked it loosely to the next in line, Fernandes. McTominay sighed disappointedly at himself and looped around to the back of the huddle, waiting his turn. He missed his next, and then his next.
Ah, not to worry,' Lingard said, patting his back as he passed him, you look like you've lovely soft lips there anyway, Scotty boy.'
Leave him,' interrupted Shaw irritably, you ain't funny any more, Lings... Just focus on your own accuracy, eh?'
Pfft,' whistled Lingard happily, I'm still in the lead...'
Nope,' Luke told him crossly, and Scott saw the flash of rivalry between the other two, as behind him there was a light ripple of cheers for the latest player to get their shot in the box. Pereira just caught up with you,' Shaw pointed out bluntly, `oops. So belt up, Jesse.'
Scott laughed along with the others around them, including Lingard, who was enjoying the banter even at his own expense. But inside, McTominay felt the first flash of uncertainty: why was anyone giving this daft little joke any credence? Why was Lingard pushing such a naff and embarrassing idea so publicly? And why wasn't Maguire, as captain, more pointedly dismissing the idea that his big dick was some sort of sensible punishment for poor performance amongst the squad? Scott rubbed his eyes, laughed at his own line of thought, and dismissed each question, ready and waiting to take his last penalty of the afternoon, and re-join the competitive banter with the other blokes.
But when his turn came, he missed.
On Wednesday, he was a little more lucky, scoring his first two, but then came a string of misses, all successfully deflected or caught by Nathan Bishop. Between each unsuccessful shot, McTominay heard the banter emerge and develop: Diogo Dalot and Bruno Fernandes kept loudly announcing their mounting total scores and sniggering to one another in between bouts of Portuguese dialogue, seeming to have latched onto the competitive play very happily; the smirking teens Brandon Williams and Mason Greenwood too were making playful jokes to one another about their own rising tally; even Harry Maguire, in some ways the butt of the joke, was announcing his own infrequent goals with bursts of laddish laughter, and asking, on the way indoors from the cooling twilight, whether he had to try and lick his own tip if he ended up with the lowest score. McTominay sniggered along with the others, but once lagging behind them on his own, he frowned, and did some quick mental calculations: he was definitely on the lowest successful shots of them all now.
On Thursday, more guys called quits early, leaving a smaller and smaller group of players to spend their spare energy with a few final penalties for the day; only nine potential goal-scorers remained in play, with Bishop still doing time as their `keeper. McTominay had considered ducking out, heading indoors with the others, but something kept him at it: some hurt pride, or awareness that he'd been missing out for the last six weeks or so since picking up an injury on Boxing Day.
The pressure was really starting to get to the 6'4 midfielder as he took his first goal of Day 4, and saw it fisted aside by Bishop. He swore and kicked the manicured grass with as much frustration as if he'd just missed an FA cup final penalty, not some daft kickabout competition with the lads. Fists clenched and teeth gritted, he turned round, and saw how many of the other eight were eying him competitively. He wasn't the only one aware that he was at the bottom of their jokey league here: he could see the sly mockery on Lingard's face at the centre of them all, and he began to imagine similar expressions in the eyes of the other seven...
Hey Harry,' Lingard muttered, how do you think he's gonna compare to your missus?'
Maguire slapped Jesse gently on the shoulder, scoffed dismissively, but there was also a smirk to his crooked face and a little lilt in his voice as he said, `Ah, drop it, Lings, don't make the poor lad blush...'
McTominay looked worriedly away from both of them and drifted to the back of the group to wait his turn. He watched Dalot and then Fernandes and then Williams put in their goals with buttery ease, and then felt a little pang of relief as he saw Greenwood – the only fucking striker among them! – mess up his. But young Mason had scored almost every shot yesterday, so Scott knew he was still well behind... Fuck's sake.
Next to him, he caught Luke staring at him, the lightly bearded blond lad looking in deep thought, dark brows creased. He looked away when Scott caught him, and he watched that intense, troubled expression closely, trying to figure out what the 24-year-old defender had been thinking. But then it was Shaw's turn to step up, and he jogged forward away from Scott's eyes, leaving the Lancaster-born half-Scot to dwell on his poor performance. He was still injured, really, for fuck's sake; why was he comparing his kicking to these buggers anyway?! Jesus...
Well, there was always tomorrow, he thought, as he mucked up his next goal too, though he managed to get it in with his third and fourth and then his fifth – small comfort, really, as the other lads announced their higher scores with increasing relish and rising hoots of smug laughter. By the time the lads were lining up to take their last shot of the evening, Scott was quite resigned to losing. Tomorrow, when the last round of this daft little league convened, he would just make his excuses. Maybe he could exaggerate some pain in the morning and skip training altogether?!
Right,' Lingard called, at the front of their huddled queue, foot on the ball, this has to be everyone's last shot, doesn't it? So it's all about this last strike hah... What's everyone on? I've definitely got twenty-six now...'
`What about tomorrow?' Scott barked more instantly and urgently than he expected, at the end of the ragged line of sweating men under the late afternoon sun.
Well there is no tomorrow,' Greenwood pointed out, a few spaces ahead of him. Training is all set up for the morning then it's quick lunch and to the airport, lad, so...'
Scott mouthed some annoyed response then stumbled to silence, running fingers through the mousy brain of his short hair. He looked up the line to the victorious little smirk on Lingard's wicked young face, and felt a shudder of defeat. How far behind was he now? Did this last shot even matter, was he already last...?
Like I said,' Jesse giggled, I'm on twenty-six, and...'
`Twenty,' called Andreas Pereira confidently, the Latino Belgian lining up behind Lingard and flashing his handsome smiling face back to the rest of the lads, knowing he was pretty safe there.
Behind him, the two Portuguese lads stopped sniggering and whispering long enough to contribute their scores. Twenty-two,' Bruno Fernandes announced more loudly than was necessary; Only nineteen,' young Diogo Dalot put in, `but let's make it twenty any second now, ha ha.'
And then there was the shortest lad in line, young Mancunian Brandon Williams, who shrugged and announced his score a little less smugly: `Fourteen here, boys.'
Mason Greenwood laughed and grabbed at his shorter pal's shoulders from behind, leading a little groan of mock concern for the 19-year-old before telling everyone his own tally: Twenty-five here,' the fresh-faced 18-year-old called, giving an ambitious little wave to the gathering, who all had expressions of nervous excitement on their faces. I reckon I can beat Lingard on this last round.'
Scott, and everyone else, turned to look at Maguire and Shaw next. The captain shrugged his broad shoulders and let out a throaty laugh. Does my number even matter?' he asked. I'm hardly in this competition if I'm both carrot and stick... But fuck it, I'm on sixteen, if it matters. You better not be publishing these scores on fucking Snapchat, Jesse, or the gaffer will kick off.' There was a ripple of edgy laughter from the rest of the group.
Nah, this is just between us,' Lingard promised, rubbing his hands together gleefully. And how about you then, Lukey Boy? Not been so strong today, have you...' He elbowed Pereira and Bishop, who'd drifted from the box to join them and listen in, and made a comedy wink. `If I didn't know better, I'd say Pretty Boy Shaw had been deliberately missing just to get a taste of Captain H...'
Shaw let out an unamused groan, and Scott saw him really tense up, riled by this insulting nonsense. He watched Luke sneer and spit at the grass before answering. `Unlucky thirteen,' the stocky defender grunted to the intently listening audience, and then all eyes shifted slowly to McTominay, who felt nowhere near his majestic height as he faced their judgmental, competitive glares.
`Twelve,' he said in slow realisation that he was still in with a chance. If Luke, who really had been shite this afternoon, failed, and he managed to belt his own shot in and past Bishop, then... Well, the pair of them would draw, and the dumb game would be ruined wouldn't it? There would be no loser, and that would shut up fucking Jesse Lingard and this bunch of yes-men. Right, Scott, he told himself, you only have to score one penalty in, and then at least you're even with Shaw, and you can be losers together, and make it into a joke, shrug it off...
Bishop backed off, adjusting his gloves and tugging up his short shorts, returning to his place in the net, and it began. Lingard, complacent in his enjoyment of the tension, totally fucked up, and stalled at twenty-six. Pereira stepped up, and with slick professional ease, got a goal over Bishop's struggling shoulder: twenty-one for him. Next came Fernandes, who was as smug and complacent as Lingard, and missed (twenty-two), and Dalot, who was more successful (twenty). Williams looked heavily fucking relieved as he belted in his fifteenth, putting some distance between himself and the bottom of the competition. Greenwood missed his, and Lingard whooped with triumphant melodrama, unbeatable amongst them. Harry mockingly impersonated his smug celebrations when he smashed in his seventeenth of the week, and there was a lot of laughing and back-slapping between the men as Luke strolled up to take his place, Scott a couple of awkward yards behind, shaky and embarrassed.
This was it.
Shaw waited impatiently for some quiet, squaring up to the nine yard line, and glaring at Lingard and Fernandes until they stopped their cackling; though even Maguire was joining in, laughing away and nudging at Greenwood. Scott saw Luke give their captain a filthy, almost emotive look, then, but perhaps he was just putting his own fraught emotions onto the lad's expression. Luke returned his focus to the ball, stepped up, lunged forward, took his shot, and... MISSED. Scott's heart thundered in his broad chest. He saw the ambiguous distracted look on Shaw's face, listened to the gasps and groans from the little audience, and realised how much laddish pride rested on this next kick.
He braced himself, jogged forward, and accepted the pass from Bishop via Williams, stopping the ball beneath his boot, and trying to regulate his breathing. He stared at the blond-haired young goalkeeper, and felt eight pairs of eyes boring into him from behind. The chuckles and whispers subsided, and the sun seemed to dip, the air cooling around him. He centred himself, thought about some of his awesome performances at the start of the season: he'd been one of the unexpected stars of those troubled months, a fans' hero compared to some of this bunch of out-of-form posers...
McTominay took his kick. He saw it in slow motion as the ball arced forward and Bishop pounced. Into those skilled young hands it went, and the young Londoner tumbled aside with his catlike reflexes, hitting the ground in a neat roll before springing back to his feet. Scott felt his stomach lurch and his heart sink, and he wobbled on the spot, recovering from the desperate force of his own kick, as the laughing and cheering burst out around him. Fuck!
Then there was a tumble of excitement around him as he felt three of the others slap and grab at his back and shoulders in a mixture of consolation and mockery, a blur of voices. Bishop came strolling forward from the goal, ball under arm, laughing at all of them and wiping sweat from his smooth brow as he joined the boisterous huddle of talented footballers. Lingard, the oldest here, was whooping and cackling like a drunken teenager, squeezing at Scott's left shoulder and gesturing lewdly with a curled hand in front of his lips.
Where you gonna do it, McT?' he asked giddily. Do we get to watch, or you want some privacy?'
Oh leave him be, Lings,' Maguire grumbled loudly over the mingled voices, it was a funny game but it's over now, I think Scott is embarrassed enough without...'
`Are you too afraid to let him?' demanded the voice of the newbie Fernandes, earning more laughter and giddy fuss from the others.
Ah, leave it lads,' Williams called out in his rough Mancunian accent, look at poor Scotty, he looks like he's wet himself... This isn't funny if he's gonna be such a wuss about it...'
`Boo,' joked someone else, the voices mixing and becoming indistinct to McTominay. He looked from Lingard's insufferable jester expression to Maguire's serious frown, to the slightly judgmental disappointed from innocent-seeming Greenwood and sleazy-eyed Dalot. He could see Williams smirking and sneering at him, and Shaw's confused frown, and... Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I'LL FUCKING DO IT,' Scott burst out, cutting through the chatter. He saw their mixed reactions to this comment, his heart still going mad in his chest. I'm not a fucking wuss,' he said irritably. I get it, I lost, fair's fair...' He whirled on smug Lingard, towering over him. You can shut yer laughing up, you smug twat – I'll take my punishment, and you can fuckin' watch.' He jabbed an accusing finger into the shorter lad's chest, saw the doubt and surprise on Jesse's face, then wilted a little as it turned to one of amazed excitement. Scott caught his breath and pulled his finger away from Lingard's sternum, and then turned to look towards Maguire, who was glowering at him with a strange look on his face: hesitant, but... curious? A sort of expectant quiet settled among the group then, broken only by little bursts of laughter, and then...
`Where?' the lads' captain asked in a low growl.
McTominay felt an odd jolt of terror and regret then, hearing this assent. But... he had to do this. He could imagine the months of banter he would receive. The in-jokes, the nicknames. The snide little comments on the coach and on the bench and in training... Lingard alone would be unbearable, but he knew how quickly other lads would catch on. He couldn't face the thought of it. But if he did this... took his defeat with his chin up and showed he had real grit and bollocks, then... who the fuck would dare to tease or mock him then, eh? Nobody. Law of the jungle.
What did we say, start of the week?' Scott muttered in a forcedly gruff voice. Two minutes, was it? Pretty sure I can face that, for fuck's sake.' He shrugged, knowing he was the only lad here who matched the big captain in height, if not frame. I don't care where. Let's just get it done and forget about this shit, okay?' He looked wild-eyed among the others. If I do this, lads, then you never fucking mention this competition again. Ever.' There was a ripple of nods, laughs, frowns. `EVER,' he repeated, and a few of them muttered the word back to him.
`To the showers,' said Bruno with more relish than seemed okay to Scott, and the group began to move. He marched forward with as much purpose and resolve as he could muster, ignoring Lingard's little snigger, or young Bishop's look of judgmental disbelief. As he followed Fernandes, Scott looked back to take stock of big Harry, fearing what he knew he had to do now, and saw him avoiding an intense glare from Luke Shaw. This didn't quite make sense to McTominay, since Shaw had come so close to losing, but... He hardly had the time or attention span to give this quirk much thought, in fact he was trying to do as little thinking as possible, he just marched on over the field, after Fernandes and Greenwood, and in through the arched doorway to the changing rooms, one of several in this warren of a training complex.
The other lads would have come through here earlier, but were already showered and gone whilst the little penalty tournament reached its resolution. Scott strolled into the room in his lightly sweaty red shorts and United jersey, rolling his shoulders and flexing limb after limb. Okay, this was going to be weird, but... It was only a fucking joke, it wasn't like he was going to do it for long. Two minutes was nothing. And Maguire, well, he probably wouldn't even get hard, so...!
One by one, the players filed into the tiled box of the shower area, and Maguire came last, a strange swagger to his movements. In here, away from the late sunshine and the professionalism of the pitch, he seemed different, an odd glint in his beady eyes, a strange half-smile playing on his lips. There was a reason Harry had been made captain after only half a season at Old Trafford: his presence was undeniable. Even Lingard looked oddly cowed by him now, thought victory still blazed in the 27-year-old joker's eyes. It was him who broke the strange, tense silence that had filled the room and ten men occupying it.
Well, get it out, Blockhead,' Jesse said, though his voice was an uneasy yelp. Perhaps even he couldn't believe how his joke had snowballed over the days, a cheeky comment mutating into this strange, heated scene. But he showed no signs of backing down. Get it out so Scotty here can see what kinda burrito he's getting, heh...'
Scott turned his eyes to the United captain, and watched open-mouthed as Maguire first pulled his football shirt up and off, baring his broad, muscular physique. At this, there were little mutters and giggles from the other blokes, especially the Portuguese lads, who seemed to be finding this development hilarious – maybe shit like this was more normal on the Iberian peninsula, Scott thought bitterly. But when Harry yanked down his shorts and stood there in only a pair of black briefs, there were just awkward gasps. EVERYONE could see the weight he was packing in the front of those tight underpants. The shorts were dropped down over thigh and knee and shin, and kicked aside. Harry stepped into the centre of the communal shower in briefs, socks and trainers, and shot a smouldering look at McTominay, who took a nervous step forward, and knew what he had to do next.
As if in challenge to Harry's physical presence, he pulled his own top up and off first, baring the tight young muscle of his arms and front, less bulky, but more defined. And then he slid to his knees, pressing them against the cool hard surface of the tiles, and resting on his haunches in front of the bulging beast. Two minutes,' Scott breathed, who's gonna time me?'
`I will,' he heard Brandon offer with unnerving enthusiasm.
`Yep, get a timer ready,' sniggered Diogo.
`Is he REALLY gonna do this?!' demanded a smaller voice, Bishop, in disbelief.
`Maguire, please...' Was that Luke's voice, still mithering?
Scott ignored them, and steadied himself on his knees, and stared at the little treasure trail of hair that dove from Harry's naval and disappeared into the waistband of his briefs. And then the black fabric was being pulled down and out sprung the captain's big nob. It snaked in front of his face, improbably long even hanging loose. He braced himself, took a deep breath. `Start the fucking timer,' he barked to the assembled lads, and leant in. He parted his lips and brushed them against the middle of the dangling length, then ran them up a bit, until his nose tickled at Harry's pubes, which felt fucking weird, so he pulled back, and opened his mouth wider. He felt the heavy tip of the soft cock fall in against his tongue, its strange musty taste filling his mouth, though not so different from the taste of a wet fanny, when he really thought about it. He could vaguely hear the laughs and mumblings in the circle around him, but he just tried to count out the seconds in his head.
`Is he really...?!'
`What the fuck, lads, this is...'
`...as if he is...'
`Go for it, Scotty, haha...'
`Yes, lad, take that...'
`Whoa, Harry, you...'
Snatches of banter and disbelief. Scott kept his lips parted and pushed forward to take more of the heavy prick into his mouth, and reached one hand to hold Harry's hairy thighs just above the knee as he pulled his lips to the base of the floppy shaft, eyes tightly closed. Okay, this was fine. He could do this. It tasted funny, but not so bad as he might expected, just a bit sweaty; it definitely felt weird, but it was just a nob, wasn't it, he played with his own all the time, so... In fact, speaking of his own, why was it twitching and reacting in his shorts?
Sucking dick had never really played much on Scott's mind. Not THAT much. Of course, he'd wondered what it was like. Everyone did that, right? When all your mates are making dumb jokes about it, and you'd spent time looking down your six-pack whilst a girlfriend went to town on you... Well, it was only natural to wonder how easy or difficult the task was, compared to eating out a pussy, and only natural to wonder how a cock might feel on your lips like this... He heard Harry groan then, an animal noise that cut beneath the chattering of the others.
`Mmm, not bad,' Maguire's verdict purred.
Fuck,' exclaimed somebody, maybe Bishop, maybe Shaw. A Portuguese exclamation that might have been jesus christ', either Dalot or Fernandes. Laughter and gasping that was certainly Lingard. A disgusted groan that could have been Pereira, but might even have been Williams. More moaning from above, from Harry.
The cock was stretching and growing. Scott could feel it against his tongue and palate. He let his lips part more, and dared to open his eyes, looking at the girthy base as he let his lips slide down it a little bit, unsure how many hard inches he would be able to hold in his mouth. He felt Harry's hand reach down then, and fingers slip through his hair. Short rough fingernails scratched gently at his scalp and thumbed at his brow, guiding down to take a little more between his open lips. Oh...
Yes, lad,' cackled Lingard, hey, is this really his first time...?'
`I hope he is careful with his teeth,' chuckled Fernandes.
`He is doing just fine,' breathed 20-year-old Diogo quite excitedly.
The voices felt a little closer to Scott now, as the circle of blokes were closing around in, though everything was echoey and strange in here, including the drip of one loose showerhead in the corner. He pressed his hands more tightly into Harry's tensed thigh muscles and ran his tongue under the base of the shaft, surprised how easily his clumsy movements earned fresh sounds of enjoyment from the big man in front of him. Was it really this EASY? Girls took so much more effort and practice...
`Yes,' Maguire's voice drawled, and those fingers scratched across his scalp again, pleasing and stimulating... and there was something so satisfying in the man's deep voice, the knowledge of how quickly Scott's lips had managed to pull him to erection, and how this big manly figure could be pleased by a lad's tongue in front of all these witnesses... so taboo, but so... Yep, Scott was rock-hard in his own shorts now: what the fuck did THAT mean?
Ten seconds,' came Brandon's voice suddenly, eager and amused, keep going, McT, finish it...' There came a bit of a countdown now, one voice after another chiming in with the enthusiastic 19-year-old, but Scott found himself tuning it out, disinterested in their laughing voices. He pushed his face further forward and felt Harry's thick rod hit the roof of his mouth and tickle further back than was comfortable, making him gag ever so slightly. He pulled off, coughing, just as the giddy crowd counted down from tow to one. He heard someone say `He did it! It's over...' but he ignored that voice, opened his mouth, and went in for more. A few blokes gasped their shock, but again, he tuned it out. All he could hear, and all he wanted to hear, was Harry's surprised moan.
Scott forgot for a moment how many of them were here. In the seconds and minutes that followed, all that existed for him was the big veiny tool between his lips. He licked and sucked and mouthed at it, soaking it in his saliva, running his hands gently up and down the coarse hair of Harry's thighs. When he opened his eyes properly and looked up, over the ridges of ab and pec, he saw the smirk on Maguire's face and the power in his eyes. The captain was loving this, he really was. Scott met his eyes intensely, and ran his tongue around the man's stretched bell-end, shivering in excitement at the low moan this produced.
Fuck it,' came Fernandes voice, then, and then someone exclaiming in surprise, Why are you getting your cock out, Bruno?!'
Soon this second prick was swinging into Scott's sight. Shorter and thinner than Harry's, of course, and less pale, an attractive tan. He pulled his right hand off Harry's thigh and wrapped his fingers around the new Portuguese player's slim boner, completely instinctively. He heard more shocked gasps, but then more rustling of clothing, more footsteps on the tiles around him. Soon a third dick was in sight on the same side as Bruno: Diogo was tossing off next to them, a pleasingly thick meat in a darker shade of sun-kissed brown. Scott lifted his left hand from Harry's leg now, and sure enough, another dick was out to his left...
That's it, Luke,' grunted Harry, let him wank you...'
Scott wobbled on his knees a little, determined to keep sucking on Maguire whilst slowly pulling his hands back and forth on Bruno and Luke's cocks, sensing more and more wavering pricks on the periphery of his vision as the excited blokes succumbed to this taboo moment of shared intimacy. Nobody was pressing the issue that the two-minute window was long over; the punishment was complete, the loser vindicated in his bravery. And yet still... he sucked and wanked.
In the slow, heated minutes that followed, Scott began to lose track of what he was doing. His right and left hand slid from one cock to another, pulling on the varied lengths of flesh, feeling other dicks brush damply at his smooth cheeks, and hands caress his neck and shoulders, but his tongue and lips saved only for the cocky captain. Moaning voices muttered curses and exclamations around him. Only after this had gone on for what felt like forever did Maguire's commanding hand push back a little on his forehead, guiding him off his huge member.
It's only fair to share,' muttered Harry's voice from above, Lings did win, after all...' Scott relaxed his neck and shoulder muscles and let the captain steer his head to the left, and he parted his lips to take Jesse's long thin brown dick into his mouth. It felt strange to suck something less gob-stopping than the Maguire meat, but it let him work his tongue more, and get more inches into his mouth, which was... exciting. He reached about with his right hand, brushing two other nobs, but his fingers finding their way to Harry's; feeling its slick wet girth that had been thrusting into his face a moment ago and pulling firmly back on it. His other hand was fondling somebody's nuts, he had no idea who now.
When the first load came, it shocked him: a warm sticky splash against his left shoulder that made him stop sucking on Lingard and turn aside. He saw Greenwood's face of orgasm and quivering arm muscles, and a last burst of the teenager's cum hit him on the neck. Whoa. Suddenly, he felt a desperate urge to taste it, and he lunged for the lad's dick, wrapping his lips against it and running his tongue over the head to sample Mason's seed. The teen yelped in surprise then gasped in post-orgasmic pleasure before retreating.
Scott leaned away, sensory overload. Rough hands grabbed at the side of his face as another of the lads went to use his mouth. His eyes rolled up and he saw this time it was Bruno, no surprise: the Portuguese newcomer had looked more excited than anyone else as Jesse's joke caught momentum day after day. Had the 25-year-old been hoping for this insane outcome all along?! Scott stared intently at his groaning face as he slid his lips and up and down the pale tan shaft.
Another splash of cum, this time against his right cheek, dribbling over his jawline. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a shirtless Brandon collapse against Greenwood, face contorted in pleasure, and then the two teenagers disappeared out of sight, and Scott reached for the nearest cocks. His left hand found big Harry's, and his right was on another... ah, BISHOP... He slid his mouth off Bruno's prick and looked at the new reserve goalie, who looked totally dazed, but had his shirt off too, and a raging thick erection swaying in front of him, now gripped in Scott's slick fingers.
That's it,' grunted Lingard's voice, suck Nathan here, welcome him...'
`Yeah, dirty little man, suck the goalie,' groaned Bruno.
`This is so wrong,' came the excited voice of Diogo, though he did not sound like he was complaining.
A groan behind Scott's back, and more cum hitting his neck and shoulders. He heard Pereira gasp and whimper to himself in shame, `Oh fuck... what are we doing...' Well, easy for him to say, he wasn't the one with jizz sliding down his spine... Scott almost laughed, but his mouth was full of Bishop's surprisingly big cock. And then he got his first PROPER taste of cum, as the inexperienced youngster climaxed inside his mouth. Scott felt it splash his tongue, tasted its surprising sweetness, pulled away and panted... No sooner had he done so than another cock was in his mouth. He wasn't even sure who it was to start with, but the cumming moan was so obviously wiry Lingard, gripping his head in both hands as he fucked his lips and blew his load. It surprised Scott how different each man tasted.
And then Scott was sliding back to the floor, his face and neck and shoulders smeared and sticky. He reached into his shorts and pulled out his own long boner, wrapping his right hand about it, and staring up at the silhouetted pricks over him as he tossed himself. Harry stepped right over him, ankles pressing against his hips, and wanked off directly over his chest. Someone else – Shaw? – came first, and it hit Scott right over the mouth and chin. He opened his lips wide to taste it, feeling himself near orgasm already, though he'd barely begun wanking. Never in his life had he felt so wild and out of control, as if he could do anything, or have anything done to him.
Another load hit him on the tummy, Bruno's he thought, but who knew any more... He watched Harry intensely and saw him explode. Drop after drop of the captain's thick juices landed on his flat, smooth pecs, one glob splashing his nipple. Scott closed his eyes, groaned, and tugged furiously on himself until he came, spilling his seed on his crumpled shorts, and writhing his body against the tiles. He heard one or two more guys groaning and moaning and the last of them blew his wad. Scott felt footsteps around him and lay there, gasping and shaking.
When he opened his eyes, only two guys remained stood over him: Harry, still straddling his middle in socks and trainers and otherwise naked, slowly pulling on his wilting beast of a cock, dripping cum from it with each stroke; Lingard, stood a little further away, an almost manic look on his face as he caught his breath and stared down at McTominay's prone form. And then Lingard too disappeared from sight, moving from the centre of the room to the roaring showers along the edges. Scott hadn't even realised that they were blasting. As he slowly sat up, he felt wet splashes and soap suds drift towards him across the tiles.
Harry's hand was being held out in front of him, and he reached up for it a little weakly, surprised at how exhausted and overwhelmed he suddenly felt. The captain tugged him up onto his feet so the two men were face to face, though only one of them had cum all over his lips and chin. Maguire gave him a strange, grim sort of smile, and then patted his shoulder.
Nobody ever says a fucking word about that contest,' Maguire said in a deep, authoritative voice, audible over every blasting showerhead, OR what just happened. Okay?' A chorus of okays sounded around the echoey shower room, and then the captain was pulling away, and stomping into a space between two other naked lads, to shower off himself.
Scott lingered in the centre of the room, as if waking from a dream, swaying on his feet and spotting the only free showerhead left in the far corner. He drifted towards it like a zombie, pressed a hand to the wall to support himself, and bashed the switch to turn it on. Hot, comforting water rushed against his face, smearing away the remains of the episode. He let out a desperate gasp of relief, leant his full weight into the wall, and then slowly began to soap and clean himself. He turned around, water pouring from his head and down his body, and watched as one by one the other men left the shower room, snatching fresh towels from the rack as their pert, muscular backsides exited into the main dressing room. Scott pulled his eyes from the sight of these bare buttocks to the man lingering next to him at the next shower. Luke turned slowly and gave him a look of contempt.
`I hope you enjoyed that,' Shaw snarled bitterly.
Scott shrunk back at the look and the tone, ashamed. Of all of them, he wouldn't have expected such nasty response from Luke. He'd heard or seen the pretty boy blow his load with the rest of them, lost in the game just like everybody else, so... What the fuck was he so arsey about now? The words stung Scott, who had no idea to describe what had taken over him since first tasting Harry Maguire's heavy cock.
Mate,' McTominay grumbled, I dunno what to say, I've never...'
`I'm not your MATE,' Luke spat, and gave him another look before vanishing away from the showers. Scott's eyes idled over the thick tanned form of Luke's body, the round bouncing cheeks as he walked, quickly disappearing beneath fluffy white towel.
Left alone, Scott McTominay leaned back against the wall, re-started the timer button on the hot shower, and let it splash all over him. He'd just submitted himself to each of those lads in a way that he'd never explored in his sex life before. He'd tasted cocks and spunk and felt so many more than he'd sucked... Fucking hell.
It had begun as a joke, hadn't it? Just a silly bit of banter. How had it come to this?
That evening, dinner was quite an event, at an expensive local restaurant a short drive from the training complex: authentic Spanish food, a liberal serving of sangria, and a real holiday mood amongst the hardworking team, determined to fly home to England this weekend and face down Chelsea with everything still to fight for.
Scott ate mostly in silence, feeling quite relaxed, but dazed. He was shocked at how little regret or embarrassment he felt, although he could see that others were consumed by it. Andreas Pereira was directly opposite him, and the 24-year-old Belgian Latino was lost in a permanent frown that the oblivious lads on either side of him were joking about now, teasing the grumpy midfielder relentlessly as the meal and drinking wore on. And further down this long table, he had noticed Shaw still scowling and seething in moody silence, seemingly appalled by the scene he had been involved in. There couldn't be another reason he had been such a cunt in the showers, and blanked McTominay in the taxi ride here, could there...?
To Scott's left, the two Portuguese lads were clearly unfazed. Young Diogo Dalot seemed enthralled by their charismatic new teammate. God knows what story the confident Bruno Fernandes was regaling the 20-year-old fullback with, but Scott was willing to bet the tale involved some... filth. And at the head of this table, there was Jesse Lingard, the original joker himself... He was quieter than normal perhaps, a little cowed at the madness he had wrought, but he was smirking and chatting away with one of the coaches, no sign of guilt or shame on his face. What about the teens? There they were, on the other table: Mason and Brandon looking thick as thieves, whispering to one another at the other side of the crowded dining room. Had those two kids been so close and cliquey earlier this season? It was hard for Scott to remember. He felt like he'd missed so much in his six weeks' injury absence.
He was interrupted from his reverie, his strange guiltless reflection at what he had given in to, by their manager getting up to begin some jokey awards. A few daft prizes to end the week's sessions and to boost morale further. Scott paid loose attention, still trying to figure out why he wasn't more freaked out by being the centre of a ten-man wank-fest in the showers...
A stupid trophy was given to Lingard, surprisingly humble in receiving it, as Club Joker. A Goal of the Week certificate was handed to young Greenwood, and Williams whooped applause at him throughout his nervous little speech. A couple more silly prizes passed by, and then... And now,' Solksjaer said from the head of the central table, we have our Team Spirit award, nominated by our delightful Captain Maguire...' The Norwegian footballer manager chuckled to himself, held up a cheap, naff medallion, oversized and dangling from gaudy ribbon. This prize,' he continued in his very slow, formal English, goes to... Scott McTominay, our returning midfield hero...!'
Blushingly, McTominay got up from his seat, letting out an uneasy laugh as everyone clapped for him. He shuffled his way around the other diners, up to the front, where Ole grabbed him in a little hug and threw the daft medallion about his neck. Scott turned with a glazed smile to the room, and saw at the far end of this central table, Harry Maguire smirk directly at him. The knowing look on that powerful man's face took Scott straight back to the tiled floor of the showers, cum hitting his chest. He gulped back his overwhelmed flashback, joined in the jovial laughter of the room, and gave a little wave. But as he returned to his seat, he couldn't take his eyes off relaxed, dominant Maguire, sprawling in his chair at the far end, legs spread a little like some medieval king at a banquet.
And midway between Scott and him, he saw someone else looking his way, with the same utter contempt as earlier today. Yikes, he thought, would Luke Shaw ever stop glaring at him...?