Part fifty-one: Late Night Feelings
Madrid, and the musty warmth of a shared hotel room. An ineffective air-con unit somewhere up on the walls hummed aggressively in the background, and the muted hubbub of the Spanish city was almost audible through the big windows of this fifth-floor suite. The curtains were dragged shut by lazy hands, leaving enough gap for a little bit of city light to leak into the darkened bedroom.
Oxlade-Chamberlain lay restlessly still in his bed.
The broad muscular 26-year-old stretched his big shoulders into the mattress and flexed his calves against the lower reaches of the bed, then pulled his hands up to rub at his greasy, sleepless face and let out a little groan of frustration.
There was a funny mood over all of the Liverpool players tonight: after all, losing a match was becoming a rare and irksome interruption to the repeated thrill of the well-deserved wins. Atletico Madrid's win after such an early goal had felt an incongruous experience to every member of the squad, and left the players and coaches in foul moods as they left the pitch and stomped into the changing rooms. Of course, morale had remained almost falsely high, and there had been all sorts of vengeful banter in the dressing room: the next leg of this round was at Anfield, where the lads felt truly unbeatable, and yet still, the 1-0 defeat had left a bitter taste for them all tonight.
Was that why the Portsmouth-born attacking midfielder was lying here in a sheen of sweat, unable to catch much-needed sleep before the early flight back to Liverpool tomorrow? No, not quite...
In part, he reflected moodily, it was that he'd spent so much time on the bench, and only been able to contribute to the side's uncharacteristic goalless performance in the last quarter. He wasn't as wiped out from running as most of his teammates, like the lad snoring in the next bed, and as he always did after an unsatisfying game, he felt like he could play a whole extra game now, each bulky muscle of his body pumped up with adrenaline and testosterone. He'd worked so hard over their winter break to get fully fit, really ready for battle, and tonight had felt something of a waste... the Ox wasn't quite arrogant enough to believe he could have single-handedly changed tonight's outcome, but it would have been nice to try!
Plus, of course, there was Perrie, his girl-band amore, who was partying in London tonight after the Brit Awards: selfie after selfie of her beautiful body had come his way leading up to the game in Madrid, and her filthy sexts had pinged into his inbox whilst his muscular arse warmed the bench most of the way through the 90 fucking minutes. The couple had barely spent any time together lately, even with his extended winter break, their careers often holding them apart for periods of time that left Alex totally blue-balled.
He heaved another sigh of nocturnal frustration and slid off his bed to cross the hotel room in just his baggy pyjama shorts, which sagged about his thick waist and let his privates bounce freely as he walked. He crossed over to the little mini bar between the big windows, tugged out a bottle of icy sparkling water, and unscrewed the lid. He stood slurping it, twitching the curtains to enjoy the dim view of Madrid in the small hours of the morning, and dared to think about the other reason for his frustration, the reason he couldn't QUITE put into words just yet...
Against his control, his thoughts wandered to the changing rooms after the game: the sight of Mo Salah's utterly chiselled torso, for example, the handsome Egyptian who he had relieved as substitute late into the game. He could picture every inch of that other bloke's sandy-brown six pack bared in front of him in the changing room. Or their forceful, talented captain Jordan Henderson, his hairy arse bared as he strode about trying to lift spirits, grabbing lads in hugs and delivering abusive jokes where necessary to those who needed distracting. Or Trent Alexander-Arnold, their young Scouse hero, with his long brown dick swinging about in the showers as he did a playful victory dance at the prospect of the second-leg game back at Anfield...
Alex groaned, pressed the cool bottle to his brow, and closed his eyes, though that only made the memories more vivid, and not just the sights: the sweaty, manly scents, the fleshy slapping sounds of all those lads undressing and showering...
It had all started with that first taste of spunk, he knew, like he'd sipped some intoxicating potion and become a secret addict to something weird and taboo. And that day had just been another one like this, where frustrations had got to him! He'd been restless then, and missing his girlfriend, and filled with the same chaotic energy as now... He pulled away from the window, letting the curtain fall back, and taking another glug of the cooling fizz.
And of course, things had taken a strange turn that afternoon with Redknapp, the old sleaze-bag... an incident that had both normalised Alex's awakening desires, and terrified him with his own submissiveness. He couldn't quite believe how willingly he had put his thick lips about the retired footballer's member, and then that of his own teammate and close pal... Alex padded quietly over the room to where he had left his phone on the bedside table, and checked for messages. No more drunk texts from his beautiful missus, and no response to his own earlier little `sext'... He sat on the edge of his bed and thumbed open the conversation with Andy Robertson.
`hey... u still awake?' – that was the text he'd sent the Scotsman about twenty minutes ago in another burst of restlessness, and there was no reply from the 25-year-old Glaswegian. Of course, Alex reflected fairly, it was likely Robertson was flat-out asleep, just like Oxlade's own roomie here, snoring gently into his pillow, tangled up in sheets in front of him, having played a full 90 minutes (and taken half of his frustrations out in a couple of salty post-match interviews for the eager media). Alex cradled the phone screen in his big hands, staring at his unanswered message, and questioning why the fuck he'd even sent it: of course the Scots lad was asleep, and what the hell would it matter if he wasn't?!
Alex knew, with a pang of guilt, why he'd sent it. For a moment, lying there in his own bed, he'd wished he was rooming with Andy this trip, and not someone else. That's why he'd sent it, he'd been wishing Robertson was here, for... some reason. He let his visual memory drift back into the changing rooms after the game once more, seeing the red-hot flush of Andy's neck and chest as he stripped off, still fired up from his interview, mouthing off about a couple of annoying Atletico players, making wild claims about how he'd be fucking them up on the Anfield pitch very soon... and then Oxlade-Chamberlain wasn't picturing his mate's excited rants to the rest of the squad, but his sweaty white briefs, and what lay inside them, and remembering himself on his knees attending to it in that risky little interview room, fucking hell...
He realised how long he had been staring, unseeing, at his own roommate for the trip, sprawled out on the parallel bed in front of him, and slowly let his eyes focus in the half-light. There lay Joe Gomez, his younger Cockney teammate, turned away from him with his duvet almost entirely kicked off his body. Alex looked at the toned muscles of the 22-year-old Londoner's back, leading his wandering eyes down to the black boxer briefs that hugged an ample, rounded backside, and a flash of intensely muscular thigh where his legs disappeared into bedsheet.
Like Salah and Hendo and his own good pal Andy, he had found himself observing and admiring Gomez a few times lately, noting the youngster's impressive physique. To begin with, it had mostly been the guys from the soggy biscuit game that he found himself... `checking out', so to speak: after all, they'd shared a weirdly intimate moment, he'd literally seen their cum-faces and sampled their seed on a cookie, so... Alex found himself shift from buttock to buttock on the bed as he thought about this, and need to rearrange his stirring nob in the front of his PJ shorts. It had been difficult making eye contact with Becker or Lallana for days, weeks after that incident, and especially with Hendo. A mixture of shame and exhilaration had forced him to avoid much interaction with those other lads... though he had felt much safer with Robertson, of course.
Just then, young Joe Gomez turned over with a sleepy little gurgle. For a second, Oxlade thought his intense night-time staring had woken up the younger footballer, but no, he was just tossing in his dreams, lifting those strong thighs as he rolled over to face the other way, baring more of his body to Alex as he did so... that handsome, intensely frowning face, with its little frame of beard, pressing into the sprawl of pillows, eyes tightly closed with no idea Alex was watching. He found himself idly assessing Gomez's physique and comparing it to his own: Joe was not so broad or built as the Ox, but he was very developed for his age, very defined in his muscles. His darker brown skin almost gleamed against what little light crept into the room, Alex letting his eyes rove from the flat, shapely pecs across the tight lines of six-pack, to... the, ahem, sagging bulge between those awkwardly spread thighs.
Alex thought admiringly about how well the 6'2 young hunk had played tonight, a really smooth and committed defender, less rough and snappy than Robertson, but a commanding presence... Gomez had picked up a yellow card, though, for an ambitious tackle, and Oxlade found himself thinking with a twinge of excitement about seeing the power of Joe's attack on the Madrid player at the time. He realised his hands were gripping the edges of his own mattress beside each of his thighs as he thought this over and stared up and down the taller player's body.
Unconsciously, with no real awareness of how burning his own passion was becoming, Alex licked his lips once, and then heaved another sigh of irritation at the warm, sleepless February night.
What was it that made him lean forward off the edge of his bed and reach a hand over the silent, dark gulf between the men's beds? Curiosity...? Admiration...? Lust...? Desperation...?
He lowered his thick knees onto the carpeted floor between the two double beds and reached a couple of fingers forward onto the firm muscle of one ab. Joe, deeply sleeping there, did not seem to react at all as Alex ran these two fingers over the tight warm muscle. He hunched at the side of the bed, a 5'11 mound of tense muscle himself, and played one fingertip along the centre of Joe's tight six-pack, tickling at his naval: still no response other than the low gruff breathing of the sleeping defender. Go on, he told himself, just a quick feel, won't do no harm... He let his hand drift down into dangerous territory, and stroked the same two fingers gently to Joe's package, holding his own breath as he nervously fingered its outline and then, taking more risk, close four fingers about it in the softest of squeezes.
Alex froze in alarm at the slight grunt of noise from Joe, but there was no sign of waking on his face, and it was hard to tell if the little noise had anything to do with Oxlade's wandering fingers, or if it was just part of his private dream narrative. Alex hunched there watching the sleeping bloke's face, his hand still resting on his package, and he felt himself at a turning point. He knew full well what the right thing to do was right now, the safe thing, the moral thing. And yet... He ran his thumb slowly back and forward against the form of Gomez's schlong and stayed still on his knees. He could feel the thick snake in their gently responding to his touch. Or responding to whatever Joe was dreaming about!
Alex carried on for several tentative minutes, feeling the weight and size of Joe's package, trying to figure out if it was growing and swelling or if he was just imagining it. Now and then he took his fingers from it and slid them about the lines of Joe's lower abs or the sweep of his adonis belt, or against the sturdy insides of his thigh. After a while, another noise, and Alex was less alarmed this time, and much more sure that the sleepy little groan coincided with his fingers cuddling around the outline of the tough defender's prick. Mmm,' came the indistinct moan of reaction; Alex dragged two fingers over it and, again, Mmmm...'
Oxlade-Chamberlain was rock hard in his own shorts now, but he didn't dare touch himself. He hunched there for a while longer, just staring at Joe's sprawled muscular form, and wondering if he should quit while he was ahead. But there was something so exciting in this secretive touching, and the heat and firmness of Joe's body and bulge so intoxicating for Alex's restless desire... He edged fingertips into the waistband of the black boxer briefs and very gently pulled on them to get his hand inside... brushing the wire-wool of pubes until his fingers were skin-to-skin with the weight sausage within. A gratifying moan purred from Joe's lips as Alex's big hand disappeared inside the fabric to hold that meaty package in full... wow.
It was only when he slowly and delicately pulled Joe's stretching cock out of the undies that he heard the first mumbling comment from the other lad, Oh yes... baby...' Alex stared hard through the gloom and took a moment to realise he wasn't baby' and that Gomez was contentedly sleeping, shifting his body a little and enjoying some dreamed scene very different to this... the muscular midfielder sat there indecisively, hand about his friend's cock, the thrill of taboo becoming a little overshadowed by fear and guilt. But then, Come on,' purred Joe's South East London accent sleepily, and go on girl...'
Alex slowly realised how hard the dick in his hand actually was, and he stared right at it. Joe was a well-hung lad, a thick rod growing between his fingers, a shaft the same beautiful chocolate colour as the rest of his skin, perhaps a shade darker even, except for the paler pink of its fat head. Another gentle moan from Joe and Alex couldn't help but slide his hand up and down the pole a little in response. Joe's body twitched and adjusted ever so slightly in reaction, and Alex hunched closer, leaning in over the other guy's bed, trying to get a better angle with his strong right arm, and letting the fingers of his left hand play once more on the washboard of the Gomez abdomen.
He could only keep that up for a short while, though. His own dick was throbbing and aching, a tentpole in his shorts, and he had to reach his left hand in to stroke it before he let out a gut-wrenching cry of sexual frustration. He began to stroke both cocks then, one in each hand, his eyes darting furtively from the beautiful thick shape of Joe's prick to the vague expressions of confused pleasure on the sleepy face... This was definitely several steps too far, and yet... he just couldn't stop himself! A victimless crime, right?
Mmm,' moaned the sleepy voice, that's good, baby...'
Alex stared intensely at the little bubbles of precum oozing around the head of Joe's cock, and again, he licked his lips. What was it about that salty taste that he now craved? Was it really the spunk, a sleazy drug to him, or was it the knowledge of the other man's peaked excitement...? Either way, he had to taste it. He leaned forward, stuck out his tongue, and lapped it once over the fat head of Joe's raging boner. The moan from the 22-year-old was louder, more definite, and – fuck! – one hand had crept over the mattress and was now stroking over the back of Alex's neck as he leant in. He was terrified and excited all at once.
`Mmm...'
The fingers pushed and kneaded at the muscle of Alex's thick neck as he leant his head by Joe's cock, circling his tongue around the bell-end, and looking intently up the ridges of muscle to Joe's unreadable, sleeping face. Which girlfriend or lover was the Londoner imagining now? Did it matter? Alex felt Gomez's fingers pushing up the back of his head, over his fade trim and into the tight curls of bleached afro hair, guiding his head forward... And suddenly this didn't feel so wrong or immoral, because Joe was literally pushing his head into what came next: Alex opened his lips and pressed them around the girth of Gomez's cock with hungry enthusiasm. He played his tongue against the sticky warmth of the head and tried to take a few more inches inside his inexpert gob, remembering his furtive first sucks on Jamie and on Andy, the familiar but nuanced taste of masculinity in his mouth.
Alex was tugging himself off with jerky strokes as he began this blowjob. He was pumping his own thick rod but trying to be quiet and not too aggressive with it, for fear of disturbing Joe's dreamy pleasure. Still, it didn't take long before he was cumming, his frustrations finally released. It was a good job there was a thick black cock in his mouth preventing the squeals and groans he might have let out as he blasted cum inside his shorts and down the fingers of his left hand.
Bizarrely, his own orgasm did nothing to slow him down. It barely crossed his feverish mind that he could give up now and return to his own bed, his sordid pleasure fulfilled; apart from anything, Joe's fingers were dragging through his curls and pushing his head further down on his dick, almost making him gag and splutter. His right hand was clutched to one of Joe's taut thighs and his lips were pulled up and down the shaft with urgency, keen to make the other guy cum too.
Oh baby,' whimpered Joe's voice in the darkness, oh baby...' The high-pitched edge that had come into the usually gruff Cockney of Joe's voice would have been the final straw if Alex hadn't already spent his own load: the defender sounded so utterly delighted with the oral, enough for Alex to vainly convince himself that he was quite skilled on only his third attempt, perhaps better than whatever tarts his young teammate was used to... `Ohhh,' whined the voice again.
Alex pulled his mouth back a little with only the top couple of inches between his lips, wrapping his firm hand about the base and really going for it. Soon he felt the twitch and tension of it, and his prize was soon spilling against his tongue and lips. Thick, creamy, salty. Trying to control his own furied breathing, he swallowed it, and licked for more, tasting Joe's seed, counting in his head how many men he had now sampled: all of the guys on the biscuit, and smarmy Redknapp too, and now... He circled his tongue one last time about the sticky bell-end and then licked his tingling lips. As he did so, he felt the fingers loosen their grip in his curls, felt Joe's hand pull away, heard the soft, vague mumbled delight of the sleeper.
Careful of noise, he retreated to his own bed with some haste, suddenly so much more conscious of the risk and dubious morality of his behaviour. Yeah, he'd satisfied the other lad, but... Fuck, what would Gomez have done if he'd woken up?! Imagine being caught in the middle of... shit. Alex pulled himself under the covers of his own bed, feeling both the weary relief of his own orgasm, and a terrified consciousness of what he had just done to his teammate. He lay flat on his back and stared at the ceiling, his big pecs rising and falling slowly as he turned the dark scene over in his head, how far he had let this weird new appetite take him...
But then, out of the gloom, a satisfied sigh from the younger bloke, and a final muttered comment: `Mmm... thanks for that, mate...' MATE?
Alex propped himself up sharply on his elbows and stared over, blinking rapidly. But without another sound or comment, Joe turned his body around away so that he was lain in the same position as earlier, back to Alex, plump arse partly on show, head buried into the other side of the piled pillows, his breathing shallow and sleepy. Alex lay there staring for several long moments of confusion.
Baby, baby, baby... mate?
If, as he suddenly suspected, Joe had been half-awake after all, then he soon wasn't: the shallow breaths turned to deep, raspy snores, and there was no sign of life from the lad's body. Alex slowly sank back down from his elbows and stared at the ceiling once more, his mind turning it over, and over, and over, and...
It was still warm in the morning, but drizzly. When Alex woke up, Joe was strutting about the room getting dressed. The humidity in the air and the pleasant piney scent told him Gomez was showered, and the 22-year-old was humming cheerily to himself as he pulled on a hoody. Alex shifted his head a little and blinked sleepily at his young roommate.
`Morning,' he grunted hesitantly.
Oh, hey,' Gomez said, brightly. Morning, chief.'
Alex watched him quietly, snapping back mentally to what had happened. Instinctively, he licked at his chafed lips and brushed at his chin a little with a couple of fingers. Joe turned and gave him a casual smile, sitting down on the foot of the bed to start pulling on his trainers.
`You better get showered, bruv,' the Londoner remarked.
Hmm, yeh,' Alex grumbled. I didn't hear my alarm go off...'
`Right, yeh.'
Slept badly,' Alex mumbled, climbing out of bed, had some... weird dreams.'
`Oh?' Gomez said disinterestedly.
Alex stood near the beds, watching him preen over his pristine Yeezy trainers, and scratched at his own bare chest, then turned away. So... either Gomez had fuck all idea what had gone on last night, or was choosing to pretend that way. Uncomfortably, Alex disappeared into their en suite, and took a long hot shower, knowing he was already running late, but needing the privacy to think. As he had after the biscuit, and after Jamie, he felt soiled, ashamed, worried. But he also felt... hungry for more. He thought guiltily of his oblivious girlfriend and was glad that when he emerged from the shower, muscles dripping wet, Gomez and his things were already gone, downstairs to breakfast and to await the airport coach journey.
Oxlade-Chamberlain found himself withdrawn and distracted all morning. At breakfast, he deliberately sat with a couple of the newer foreign players whose English was shit, enjoying the simplistic conversation it allowed, and the easy silences that took over. He tried to discreetly watch Gomez to see if there was any sign of their weird encounter, but the youngster was as relaxed and casual as could be. `Thanks for that, mate,' he heard again, remembering the sleepy purr from the next bed.
When they were waiting in the lobby for their coach, Alex held back from the main group, sitting himself on a ledge away from the others, reading a couple of whiney hungover texts from Perrie, who was now wishing he was with her to cook breakfast, rather than lick her out. There was something comforting in the mundanity of this, away from last night's cum-gobbling. But he was just in the middle of texting her his expected flight times when he realised another figure had drifted his way. He looked up, and there stood Andy Robertson in the garish red tracksuit they all wore.
`Hey,' grunted the Scotsman quietly.
Alex gave him a slightly surprised look, and then suddenly remembered his own little midnight texting, and wondered how his Glaswegian pal might have reacted when seeing it in the morning. Judging by the uneasy look on his sharp-cheekboned face, not well.
`You okay?' Ox asked him softly.
I'm good,' Robertson said, a bit sharply, not his cheeky self, but gruff and serious. Look, pal...'
`Yeh...?'
`This has to stop,' he said, and his voice was a bit sharp, the sound of the streets of Glasgow.
Alex frowned back at him, asking `What does?'
Andy moved from one foot to the other, shifty, darting looks back to the main group then glaring a little at him. Look, pal,' he muttered, you can't be texting me like that. It ain't right. Not in the middle of the night. It's-`
Mate,' Alex said, trying to keep his voice light and jokey, I was just bored and wondered if you wanted to chat, or...' His voice trailed off, seeing the hardened expression on Andy's face. `It wasn't anything dodgy,' he added, and he knew how weak and pleading his voice suddenly sounded.
Just stop it,' Robertson said firmly. What happened, happened, but... Mate. We both have birds. This ain't us. Let it go.' There was something desperate and pleading in the Scotsman's voice too now, and Alex felt incredibly guilty and embarrassed. It was just a fuckin' laugh, but it was one-off,' Andy almost hissed. Don't text me like that, pal. DON'T.' And before Alex could say anything more, the usual cheeky chappy and supportive mate was backing off with an almost threatening look in his bright young eyes, and rejoining the others.
Alex sat there, abashed. This felt unfair. He knew why he had messaged Andy, but he thought about the text itself, so innocent... the little moments of giggling memory they had shared at various points in training when accidentally meeting the other's eye... the way Andy had helped and protected him against Jamie's dominant behaviour. For Alex, there had been a... spark, or something, between them, and now... He watched silently as Andy muscled his way into some chat between the gaffer and the skipper, totally transformed from the hard-faced Glaswegian thug who had just glared him down in this quiet corner.
Outside, a damp roar signalled the engine of the arriving coach, and their journey home to England, to Liverpool. Alex got up, picked up his back, and rubbed a hand over his weary eyes. For fuck's sake, this was getting out of hand, and Andy was definitely right: he needed to forget it, let it go. It had just been a game, a laugh, a couple of silly one-offs away from his heterosexual life, that's all...
But as he followed the milling group of footballers out through the revolving doors and onto the damp courtyard outside, he found himself walking just behind his roommate, and looking at the way that same red tracksuit clung to tall Joe Gomez and his physique, especially his rounded backside, and Alex allowed his mind to wander back, seeing himself in the third-person, hunched at a bedside and noshing off the hunky defender. For a second, he could taste again the salty release of the other lad's load, and his stomach lurched with... repulsion? Or eagerness?
In front of him, Joe turned for a moment, looking over his shoulder, and on his face was a little smile. No, a smirk. A knowing look. Their eyes met. Alex gulped. And then Gomez looked away, as if the moment hadn't happened, and burst out laughing at something Hendo had said, along with the others. On to the coach they went, away from the warm Spanish rain, and the late night feelings of that hotel room.