Part fifty-four: When the Saints Cum Marching In
It was only eight minutes into the game when Shane Long managed to nudge in his goal and put Southampton ahead of Villa. The home crowd erupted with support and the 33-year-old Irishman threw his arms up in triumph before dashing away from the Villa goal to meet the adoring chants and yells of the Saints support, his teammates encircling him with slaps and hugs and shouted congratulations. Amused that for all his powerful leg muscles and skilled kicks, the goal had essentially been tapped in by a thrust of his crotch, Shane held the front of his shorts playfully as he approached the crowd, smirking to himself.
The striker then shook a fist at his public and grinned excitedly from one fellow player to the next, thrilled to have kicked things off so quickly and smoothly with a goal. His back and shoulders and arse stung from the congratulatory smacks of his passing teammates as, one by one, they celebrated going 1-0 up, and watched the Villa players stalk moodily about the pitch waiting for the celebrations to end.
Grinning up to the home stands, Shane swayed suddenly on his booted feet as one of his teammates lunged up onto his shoulders, riding him for a moment in a hugging piggy-back, a familiar hoarse cackle into his hear as Danny Ings' powerful arms wrapped about him then slid off.
`Well done you lucky fucking bastard,' teased the Englishman in his ear.
`Lucky! Skill, pal, skill,' the Irish striker quipped quickly, pulling Ings in for a hug and panting out misty breaths in the blustery midday air.
Aye, aye,' joked Danny, slapping him hard on the shoulderblades, 50/50, I say...' Then, squeezing one of his big hands against Shane's shoulder, he leant in with a mean smirk, and muttered, `Who you gonna dedicate that goal to, ya little fuckin' boyfriend? God he'll proud of his sugar daddy...' And then the burly, tattooed striker wheezed out a mean laugh, squeezed at Shane's shoulders and pulled away again before Shane could instinctively strike him in annoyance.
`Fuck's sake, Dan,' he grunted, his smile slipping.
Don't worry, your secret is safe with me, chief,' muttered Ings, retreating, I won't tell ya wife about it, haha... But yeh, decent goal for a pansy!' And with that, the 5'10 footballer dashed off, joining the migration of Saints players back towards their own half. Shane stared after him with a bitter rush of annoyance, then launched into a quick run to catch up and move back into the Southampton half ready for play to resume, pushing down his fury to focus fully on the game.
It had been like this for weeks, really, though it was getting slowly worse.
Shane supposed it had really started at the Tottenham away game: of course it had, he would reflect bitterly, remembering his own weird, rash actions that day, as much as he was trying to repress the mental images of it. Before that, Ings had made a series of snide remarks about young Troy Parrott, following their debauched London night out... but it had only been at the Spurs game that Long had taken any real offence, and he supposed that Danny, a natural bully, could sense that, and it must have been what drove him to keep up the naff joke.
Really, the two of them were good pals, had been ever since Ings joined Southampton. Shane liked the rough humour and boisterous character of his fellow striker, and he liked the partnership they'd forged over a couple of seasons now. He'd never been bothered by Ings' relentless banter before, despite its nasty streak, until lately.
Just the other day, for example, sat eating lunch between training sessions, he'd just been on his phone texting a cousin back in Ireland, and the younger bloke had sat down opposite him and made a ridiculous pantomime that he must be sending selfies to his 18yo old pal. Ah, the lighting in here ain't good enough,' Ings had drawled, you'll never impress a vain little teenager with that pic, buddy, I think you should...' Daft jokes, really, pretty empty, but Shane had found himself rattled by it, and ended up mouthing off and swearing at the English lad until Ings just burst into satisfied cackles and attracted the attention of other players, mortifying Long.
Or there had been a bit of a night out, a few social drinks for most of the players and partners just before their extended winter break between games (shortly after the Tottenham clash) where the pair of them had ended up in a more typical bit of banter, comparing how hot Shane's wife and Danny's much younger girlfriend looked in their dresses, until Ings had resumed his bitter teasing. Still, poor lass,' he'd said, leaning in close to Shane at the edge of the crowded Southampton pub they were occupying, cos she can't compete with your one true love, can she?'
Shane, unwilling to let a pleasant evening be ruined by his younger mate's silly humour, had brushed the comment away, knowing exactly what Ings was implying. He tried his best not to rise to it, but the other footballer persisted: I mean, look at the arse on her, but you can't picture it in Tottenham shorts, can ya? What a shame... Or do you picture Troy boy in a dress, is that it...?' Shane had almost thumped him, he'd actually had to leave the party for about twenty minutes to walk the seafront and calm himself down. A casual little hey' text from Troy, who was away on holiday in the Middle East at the time, had only provoked his mood more: receiving a little shirtless selfie of the handsome teenage striker relaxing on the beach had been the last thing Shane needed interfering with his mood that night. He'd fucked his wife so hard and aggressively that night that she'd sprained a wrist in bed, and though they joked about it, he knew she was suspicious of his mood.
So, between one dig and another, he'd found himself semi-consciously avoiding Danny Ings by this morning, as he and everyone else arrived at the grounds to prepare for the midday game against Aston Villa. Shane was normally a very laidback guy and his tense mood didn't go unnoticed, with their manager asking him twice what was going on at home, a couple of younger players making weak attempts to cheer him up with little jokes, and none of his goals in the warm-up getting past even the club's third back-up keeper.
Cheer up, Long-man,' Ings grunted at him as they crossed paths in the warm-up, watched by the gathering crowd of early-arriving fans in the stands, you are getting a bit past it, aren't you? Good job I'm around to bash them in, eh!' And like clockwork, the broad-shouldered younger striker moved up and knocked one in with ease, met with a spattering of applause from the other players and the early arrivals up in the terraces.
Oh, for fuck's sake,' Shane grumbled. Well done, you smug cunt.'
Haha, I ain't smug, just self-aware,' Ings told him, flexing his big shoulder muscles under his jersey, and cracking his knuckles. Still, I've a long way to go before I've got your legendary status, eh, and have teenage losers head over heels with me, hah...'
Shane had lost it then, and grabbed him by the sleeve. `What the fuck does Troy Parrott have to do with anything right now, pal?' he'd snarled in a low voice, though not low enough to hide his anger from the nearest few players. Of course, Ings had just burst out laughing and thrown his arms about him in a patronising hug.
`Nowt, but something's knocking your game off, isn't it? Your shots are terrible, this morning.'
`And I wonder what could be fucking putting me off!' Shane snapped back bitterly.
`Calm it, Shaney boy, calm it! We've got a game to prepare for. Not everything revolves around your schoolboy crush, you know.' Shane had gritted his teeth and glared furiously at his fellow forward, watching as Ings ducked back with more laughter, putting other players between them before the Irishman's anger could spill into physicality.
Today's early goal had been a double victory for Shane. He was chuffed to score for his team of several years, to up his fading reputation, to be pivotal to a 2-0 victory for the Saints this afternoon. But perhaps more so, he was fucking delighted to be on the scoresheet without his pompous colleague, since Ings had failed to knock one in at all. Scoring a goal today felt like an important repost to the 27-year-old's constant teasing and playful rivalry.
When both men were substituted in the 73rd minute, he couldn't help but grin bullishly at his teammate on the way into the dugout, as riled as he'd been by Ings' teasing. He could see the frustration and envy on the square-jawed yob's face, at failing to find the box and being taken off three-quarters into the game.
Never mind,' Shaned jibed, gladly taking some water and an energy bar from one of the coaching assistants before sliding his sweaty arse onto the bench, there's always next season for you to meet Vardy's record, eh?' He slumped down next to his bristling teammate and slurped some refreshing water, letting it trickle over his bearded chin.
I'm chasing him as it is,' Ings snapped quickly. Far more prolific than you are, Long.'
`Yeah but when was the last time you scored one with your dick, mate?' Long chuckled. At half-time, there had been loads of banter about this, since apparently the commentators had made a big deal out of it and the Villa fans were particularly resentful that someone had bested them with a little crotch-thrust. It was daft, but Long had enjoyed the jokes and praise of it all.
Danny just scowled irritably. Night after night,' he said. And I don't need to picture teenage lads while I put one up my missus, either.'
Shane paused, his pompous mood pricked and deflated for a moment, then he just rolled his eyes: why the fuck was Ings so obsessed with this?! The pair of them had spent time with Troy TWICE, and he wasn't even sure he mentioned him much afterwards? A guilty lurch hit him in the stomach: it's not as if there wasn't something sordid and embarrassing there, mind, but Danny didn't know a fucking thing about that... did he?
Their chat was interrupted then as the remaining substitutes slid along the bench to talk to them – more congratulations for Long on his early goal, and some commiserations for Ings on his weaker-than-usual performance. Shane grinned and accepted it gladly, whilst Danny scowled and shrugged and glared at the pitch as if blaming every player out there for his own shortcomings today. The match more on, becoming a sluggish battle of attrition. The frustration and hapless efforts of the Villa squad were becoming amusing to watch, especially their gifted little captain. Grealish needs to get out of that shit side,' someone muttered at one point on the subs bench, he's way too good for Villa, right?'
`Yeh, he's a quality lad,' Shane agreed, a long-time admirer of the plucky midfielder.
Next to him, Ings scoffed. `Few years too old for you though, ain't he? Mind, he likes to wear his shorts a couple of sizes too small, I bet that is good for you...' The other lads, becoming familiar with Ings' casual ribbing, all laughed, but Shane turned and glared at him without a word. In fact, he kept his mouth shut for what little remained of the game, his mood ruined by Danny's needless and unfounded jibe. It's not like Shane was the only one who kept noticing Jack Grealish's obscene bulge or tight perky backside, when the stupid Brummie pranced around in those tiny shorts all through the game – surely everyone kept seeing that?!
Shane sat in moody silence, hardly reacting even when their Scottish teammate Stuart Armstrong managed to bash in a goal at almost the last-minute, nor when Grealish himself ended things on a yellow card. Whilst everyone else went mad at the 2-0 victory, Shane just stood and clapped slowly, drained and ill-tempered.
Minutes later, he was collared by the gaffer, informed he was needed for interview. Fuck, he needed to cheer up, then. He struggled on a smile as he strode into the tunnel and found their media manager and Armstrong, who led him aside for the quick post-match interview in a quiet spot beyond the St Mary's home changing rooms. To distract from his own current mood, he focused on congratulating and complimenting Armstrong instead, and pretending he'd paid much closer attention to the goal that had been the icing on today's cake.
`You sure you're alright, Shane mate?' Stu asked him as their boot studs clicked on the tiled floor and they made their way over to the interview spot. Both men were tired and sweaty, but Armstrong looked particularly red-faced and damp, having put in a full 90 minutes. 20-odd minutes sitting on the bench had cooled and rested Long, though he felt as tense and restless as if he'd just been involved in a penalty shootout.
I'm fine,' he barked gruffly, totally fine. Fucking happy for the lads, and especially you.' He threw an arm about the 27-year-old midfielder's shoulders and gave them a slight squeeze. `Great goal there, Stu lad, fucking great.'
The 6ft Scotsman gave him a proud smile and nodded. Aye, I feel fuckin' good about it,' he confirmed. Typical though, huh, English fucking club but who gets the goals? The Irishman and the Scotsman,' he said in a low, conspiratorial voice, chuckling at the nationalistic humour.
Well, you can't trust an Englishman to do anything, right?' Long responded with a smirk, enjoying the dig at their host country. I know Danny gets lucky most weeks, but... Pfft. They need our Celtic influence to get them anywhere! Haha.' The two outsiders chuckled and patted at each other and calmed their cheeky laughter as they were joined by the media crew for their interview. Thanks to Armstrong's little anti-English jibe, Shane's mood was lifted and he found himself charming and jovial for the cameraman – both players humbly downplayed their successes on the pitch whilst simultaneously basking in the interviewer's faintly sycophantic questioning. Asked about Grealish's late yellow card and the refereeing, Shane even slipped in a little joke: `Well, if he didn't wear his shorts so tight, maybe he'd be in a better mood on the pitch?' He wasn't sure the personal remark would make it on-screen, but it ended the interview on a playful high, with he and Stu cracking up and winding each other up further as they finally made their way to the dressing room.
In there, most of the lads were already showering, creating plenty of space. Armstrong, full of his own last-minute triumph, toured the few lads left in the dressing room area for high-fives and sweaty hugs, enjoying the attention. Shane, his 8 minute crotch shot almost forgotten, just smiled on and found his corner – next to Danny's things, of course, out of habit, even if at the minute he was trying his best to avoid that teasing cunt.
He sat down to recover for a minute and pulled his Southampton shirt up and off, watching as Ings himself joined in with making a fuss over Armstrong. Of course, Danny had his fucking shirt off to show off his hench upper body and detailed tattooing, still unshowered in just his bulging white briefs and dirty socks, such a bloody exhibitionist. Shane sighed irritably, wiped his sweaty face on his Saints shirt, and sat there trying to neutralise his mood. He needed to stop getting so aggravated by Ings, but it was tough... It would be easier if he could forget what he'd done in that moment of madness, left alone with Parrott, the birthday boy.
The changing lads milled about him, damp towel-clad bodies emerging from the communal showers, a few chanting songs making their way about the group. Shane knew he needed to hit the showers himself, but he felt reluctant to bother, feeling suddenly disinterested in the whole post-game rigmarole, the endless analysis and banter at the expense of the opposing side. There would be a swift drink upstairs in the club bar, a team meal was planned, he'd rather just be able to fuck off back to his wife and three kids... ugh. Several more hours in which stupid square-jawed Danny could make his weak, pointless remarks and...
`You not showering, champ?' came Stu's voice a few feet away. Like him, the tall Scotsman was shirtless, down to his red-and-white shorts and long footy socks, boots still on and releasing nuggets of mud to the messy floor.
`Aye, aye, just having a moment,' Shane told him thoughtfully.
A lot of the others were dried and dressed now, the flashes of bare arse and swinging dick replaced with tight jeans and designer t-shirts. One by one, the Southampton players were making their way out, heading upstairs, laughter and chanting echoing down the corridor behind them. Shane's eyes focused inevitably on one figure amongst them, swaggering Danny Ings. In a moment, it would only be the three of them left in here, he supposed – he and Armstrong delayed by interviewing, and that prick delayed by needing to be involved in every bit of banter going, the smug twat... He realised he was clenching both hands into fists, and forced them to relax.
He saw Danny yank off his socks and drop his briefs, his big hairy arse briefly exposed, and then his broad muscular back disappearing around the corner into the shower block. Shane rose to his feet in a moment of sudden purpose. Stu,' he muttered quietly, do me a favour, will ya?'
Huh?' The handsome, gingery midfielder looked over questioningly at him in the middle of undoing his bootlaces. What's up?'
Watch the door for me,' Shane commanded, seeing the last few of their teammates disappear out in the corner of his eye, and squaring up his pale toned torso. I need to speak to Danny. Alone.' Armstorng looked alarmed, confused, a little bit like he might burst out laughing. It's like we said,' Shane added, these fucking English pricks... need a talking to, now and then. Aye?'
Stu shrugged, bemused but loyal. Aye, whatever you need, lad,' he grunted, forcing off one boot then turning his attention to the other. I'll keep watch.'
Shane nodded, and left him. Still in his shorts, socks and boots, he strode over the mud-strewn mess of the changing room, littered with dropped towels and abandoned kit, the adult men of the squad no better than young boys. Again, Long felt his hands closing into fists, a slow-burning aggression consuming him. He couldn't go on like this, feeling riled and ridiculed every day at the club, especially not from someone supposed to be his mate, supposed to be his close ally...
There he was, Danny, showering in the middle of a row of rusty heads, the hot spray trickling over his well-built physique, 5'10 of toned muscle that he loved to show off at any opportunity. An inch taller but far less ripped and much paler, Shane strode towards him, boots clicking noisily to the floor of the communal shower, alerting Ings. He turned, rubbing soap suds off his bearded chin, and stared in confusion.
`We need to fucking talk,' Shane snapped.
`Hah, do we?' Danny began to ask, but he was taken by surprise as Long lunged art him. The Irishman grabbed both arms and shoved him aside, away from the rushing water, and pressed him hard into the tiles of the wall. Danny yelped his surprise, grappled back, but didn't see the strike to the face coming. He reeled away clutching his lip and nose, a little bit of blood meeting his fingers. Shane moved for him again, but this time he was ready, catching the other striker's fist and slamming a hand into his bare ribs. The two men groaned in pain and backed away from each other for a moment to gather their strength and balance.
`What the fuck?' Ings demanded, smearing blood from a popped lip.
What do you think?' demanded Shane loudly. I've had enough of your shit.'
Danny seemed incredulous. `I'm just taking the piss, lad!' he barked, as Shane rushed at him again. Danny was shorter but heavier and much stronger, but Shane's fury and indignation counted for a lot. Again, he grabbed his mate by the arms and shoved him into the wall with a fleshy slap, then grabbed a hand to his opponent's throat and pushed his head back firmly against the tiles with real aggression.
Apologise,' Shane yelled into his face, trying to bat off Danny's struggling arms and striking fists. Apologise for being such a piss-taking bell-end!'
Fucking hell, I'm sorry,' Danny yowled, breaking out of the hold and grappling wildly with him, slippery and naked. It was... just a... fucking joke... Why are you so... fucking bothered...?'
What's your game anyway?' Shane yelled at him, slamming him yet again into the wall as their awkward soapy wrestle continued. What are you trying to do? Get inside my head? Ruin my game to keep your own position safe? Make fucking sure you're top goal-scorer?!' He grunted in pain as Danny landed a blow on his chest, but persevered. `What, do you just want to ruin my marriage or something with your dumb fucking banter?! I don't get it, Danny, fucking tell me... What is it, are you... jealous?!' With that last question he shoved Ings right into the corner of the room, bearing up against him forcefully and bringing their faces an inch apart as he snarled and glared. And as he did so, he saw the expression shift for a dangerous moment on Danny's face: not the bullish anger he'd provoked, or the righteous indignation at his sudden attack, but a flash of – what? Panic? Doubt? Shame?
`Lads, lads! For fuck's sake!'
It was Stuart's Inverness growl, and suddenly the other Southampton player, taller but more slender than either of them, was in amongst it, dragging Shane back and steadying trembling Danny to the wall. Lads!' Armstrong repeated loudly in a voice of wild concern. What the hell are you playing at? You could both be suspended for... Jesus, lads... Wait, what the fuck?' His intervening rant rattled to a sudden, bewildered halt, and both Shane and Danny looked sharply at him, unsure what he meant. Shane saw the shocked expression on that lean face, mouth wide open and framed by the gingery fluff of his beard. He followed Stu's wide eyes down, across to the slippery wet landscape of Danny's muscled body, and...
`Oh,' he mouthed in shared shock, seeing exactly what had freaked out the Scotsman.
`Fuck's sake,' grunted Danny Ings, his face going completely red, and not just from the little trickle of blood on his lip and chin, mingling with his wet dark beard.
Beneath the tight rows of his six-pack, beneath a firm bush of dark pubes, his dick was rising up at an obscene angle, thick and veiny in its 7-inch erection. The foreskin was half pulled back over the swelling of the head, and his big hairy balls were tight beneath the rising prick. At some point in the tousle and argument, Ings had sprung this ferocious boner, and Shane couldn't stop staring at it: since when did being punched in the face turn anyone on?!
Mate,' breathed Armstrong eventually, what the hell is going on here?'
`You ARE jealous,' Shane cut across in a slow voice of realisation.
`Jealous of what?' protested Danny in a smaller voice, his bravado fading.
`Lads, this is weird,' Stu exclaimed.
You're making a big deal out of my friendship cos you're fucking JEALOUS,' Long continued, slowly reassessing the whole dumb situation, thinking over Ings' bitter jibes and remarks, his apparent obsession, his need to talk down to and about that charming young lad, and... He lunged forward again, Stu immediately trying to intervene. You've been fucking with my head for weeks cos you've got a crush on me yourself? You mad fucking...'
`Get off, get off,' grumbled Danny, shoving at them both, his feet sliding on the towels so his back ran awkwardly down the wall until he was slumped n the corner with the other two looking over him. Stu looked totally lost, and he stared from the squatting Englishman to Shane, needing answers. Shane just glared down at his friend, bully, rival, an aggressive scowl still on his face.
Danny here has a thing for me, apparently,' he remarked nastily to the Scottish player. Can you believe that? Look how fucking hard he is just being near me.'
Lads,' groaned Ings woefully, just fuck off and...'
You want me all to yourself, don't you?' Shane barked down at him, not just angry now, but... excited. He grabbed the front of his shorts tightly. You want a bit of this, don't you?! English prick...'
Mate,' cautioned Armstrong uncertainly, but Shane ignored him. He reached down, grabbed Danny's shaking hand, and pulled it to his crotch. Yeah, thought so,' he snapped, pressing Danny's limp fingers to his bulge, then looking Stu's way. `This dirty lad wants a bit of Celtic cock, that's the problem, Stu. He's been a right arsehole about it.' He left Danny's hand there, resting against his package, and clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly.
Is that true, Ings?' Stu asked in a dazed, uncertain voice. Are you...?'
All those fucking jokes,' Shane went on bitterly, and just cos you were... Fuck's sake. Get up.' He grabbed at one of those muscled arms and gestured for Armstrong to do the same, until Danny was back on his feet, cornered by them, his dick still rock-hard, his face beetroot, his muscled body shaking with exposure and embarrassment.
`Shane, please,' the normally arrogant striker mumbled under his breath.
You want this, don't you?' Long asked, and he began to peel down his shorts and the tight compression briefs underneath, dragging them down over the dark fluff of his thighs. He let them fall down over his legs and stepped his feet out of them, naked but for socks and studded boots. His dick was at semi now, a floppy length beneath his more delicately trimmed bush, just how his wife liked it. He could see Danny staring intensely at it, and the wide-eyed wonder and shock on Stu's face, too. You want it, fucking grab it,' he barked harshly at Danny, who looked conflicted. `Just fucking do it, mate, enough of your stupid banter now.'
Danny did as he was told. He reached out a trembling, hairy paw, and wrapped his fingers about the soft but extending length of Shane's Irish meat. He let out a tiny little murmur of either fear or excitement as he did so, and Stu gasped his surprise. That's it,' Shane said commandingly, give it a good feel, since you've been fucking after it for so long, you dirty prick.' He turned his fierce glare on his accomplice. `Get yours out too, Armstrong.'
`Huh?!'
Come on, he wants them both,' Shane grunted dominantly. Let's give him what he wants.'
Shane, please,' Danny groaned, this is... I'm sorry about... Fuck...' He pulled gently on the Irish dick then looked with pleading eyes at Stuart, though it was hard to say what he was pleading for. Escape, or another dick to fondle? There was a deeply conflicted look on his rugged face.
`Isn't this what you've been craving, Danny lad?' Shane said.
Danny slowly nodded his head, closed his eyes. `It is,' he confirmed in a shaky voice. Then, he reached his other hand over, and began to feel the front of Stu's shorts. The Scotsman gawped at him and then at Shane but did nothing to stop these greedy grabs and strokes. The three of them stood close by in the corner of the shower block, surrounded by echoing drip noises, but nothing else.
`How do they feel, you English cunt?' Shane hissed.
`They feel... good,' mumbled Danny sheepishly.
Shane recognised something in the quiet submission of this burly muscled bloke, saw himself in his own memory, crouched in front of young Troy, needing to please – the thought and comparison made him more angry, more excited. Get on your knees,' he said urgently, and repeated himself when Danny stared blankly from him to Stu. Get on your fucking knees,' he ordered eagerly. Danny did so, sliding down, stark naked in front of them with his cock still upright and twitching.
Beside him, for all his exaggerated confusion and doubt, Stu was pulling his shorts down to match Shane. Danny was on his knees between them, a wide-eyed look of innocence on his usually smirking expression, reaching one hand each to their exposed cocks, pulling and stroking on the Irish and Scottish meat, making little gentle moans of either fear or enthusiasm.
Stu,' grunted Long quietly, our lad here... he wants to suck you off... you gonna let him?'
There was hesitation. Danny looked shocked by this development but his mouth hung open and his eyes were all over Armstrong's long pink tool. Stu was staring from him to his own dick to Shane, eyes full of questions. Shane reached over, stroked a hand up and down the clammy sweaty skin of his pal's back, and nodded encouragingly. `Give him what he wants, pal,' he muttered.
Danny leant in, stuck out his tongue, and rubbed it carefully against the tip of Stu's dick. The Scotsman let out a little breathy moan, swayed a bit on his booted feet, and then Danny lunged his head forward a bit more, squeezing Shane's dick at the same time as he closed his lips around the Scottish dick. For Shane, it was a powerful sight: this big arrogant 5'10 stack of tattooed muscle who had been so relentlessly winding him up for weeks, making him uncomfortable, forcing him to dwell on a memory he just couldn't process. And now here he was, a slut on his knees, revealed in his secret lust... He watched intently for several minutes as Ings sucked greedily on Armstrong, the bobbing of his head, the tension of his decorated shoulder muscles... That's it,' Shane groaned to them, that's it... take it... suck him, you English cunt... do it...'
But he could only watch for so long.
After a while, seeing the gasps and groans of Stu, who looked already close to cumming, he elbowed him aside a little and guided Danny's head off by one of his small protruding ears, and pushed his own straining cock towards those pouting red lips. `Aye, here's what you wanted, you fucking bully,' he muttered, and pressed his dick forward against Danny's tongue.
A filthy idea struck him, and he smirked at his Scottish accomplice. `Let's see how much meat he can actually hold,' he moaned, and he laughed nastily at Stu's alarm. Danny looked wild-eyed, panicked but excited, and he opened his mouth wider as both dicks slid in at once. Two veiny pricks, pressed side by side, forcing into his wide open lips. Both Shane and Stuart let out low, dirty chuckles and felt their cocks rub against each other's. Danny's big hands ran up and down their outer thighs and around to squeeze one each of their taut buttocks.
Fucking hell guys,' scoffed Armstrong, as if he wasn't just as into this as the other two, a look of shame on his handsome, bearded face. What are we...?'
Relax,' Shane muttered, we're just... giving him what he... wants...'
And Danny nodded his head, with some difficulty, trying to wrap his lips around both of their members and lick uncomfortably at their swollen bell-ends. But Stu pulled away, seeming to doubt what they were up to, pressing a hand almost protectively to his hard-on. Shane laughed, and slid his cock further into that hungry gob. Go on then,' he told Stu, sort yourself out if you must, I'll have this pretty mouth all to myself...' And he laid a firm hand on Danny's head so he could begin to thrust more forcefully, slow-fucking that inexperienced mouth, feeling the beard bristles on his balls as he did. Next to them, Armstrong looked conflicted, but was wanking his dick energetically.
Go on,' Shane told him encouragingly, cum on this dirty cunt's face, aye?'
For all his apparent doubt, that seemed to really drive the Southampton midfielder wild. Stu tensed and stretched his tall body, pulling desperately on his long slender prick, face red with exertion. Danny was mouthing his way up and down Shane's thick length but his eyes were on Stuart, anticipating the load aimed right at the side of his face. It soon came: fleck after fleck of Scottish juice splashing at Danny's hair, his ear, his bearded cheek, dripping down onto one of his bulging shoulders. Armstrong gasped and moaned and whimpered.
You like that don't you?' breathed Shane. Danny nodded. You want my load too, aye?' Another, more furious nod. You want it in your gob, do ya? You English prick?' Fast nodding jerks of the head, and Shane let out a menacing snigger. Well, tough,' he said, and pulled his hips back, releasing his prick from those desperate lips. `I'll cum where I want,' he announced bitterly, excited to deny Danny the satisfaction of unloading right there on his hungry tongue. He held the younger man's head back away as he began to jerk his cock, watched intently by both Ings and Armstrong.
Long was high on his own power here, loving the dynamic, feeling something restored to him that had been missing ever since he went down on his knees for Troy. He was filled with the same energetic fury he'd had that night when he'd over-aggressively fucked his wife until she wondered what was wrong with him. He tugged in long hard strokes on his member, let out short grunting sounds, felt himself approaching climax... As he did, he took a step back, not wanting a single drop of his explosive orgasm to satisfy Danny's wide-eyed, waiting face.
No, he stepped back, tilted his throbbing prick down a little, and shot his load. Oh yeah,' he groaned loudly, not even caring who might hear, OH YEH...' And for a flashing second as he came, he pictured Troy on the bed, cock hard and huge, and his own eagerness to touch it, taste it, please that beautiful lad, and... FUCK'S SAKE. His aggression swelled and he had to grab at the wall to support his body as he exploded his seed to the floor. It streaked the tiles in thick splashes.
`Well, lick it up, for fuck's sake!' he yelled angrily at Danny, and he saw Stu's shock.
The Scotsman's juices were still oozing down the side of the big brute's face as he stared up at them then slowly lowered his head down, darting his tongue back out to lap a drop of Long's semen off the damp floor. And the rest of it,' Shane barked in a throaty gasp, shaken and dazed by the force of his own orgasm. Get it all.' He looked down, seeing that globs of his own seed had dropped from his hard-on to his football boots. Lick my boots,' he grunted furiously, get the cum off them you dirty English scum!'
`Mate!' came Stu's protesting voice at his side.
Oh fuck off,' Shane snapped at him, no time for weakness here. And Armstrong did. His load spent, his mind spinning, his face bright red, the Scottish lad burst away from them with a string of muttered obscenities and homophobic slurs, leaving them alone as Danny Ings, big muscular lad that he was, leant in and ran his tongue along the colourful leather of Shane's boot. He made a little whimper noise as he lapped cum off the laces and tongue, then looked up again, with desperate eyes. Good lad,' Shane sighed, `good lad.'
He backed away from him then, panting still, and began to kick off his boots, reaching down to unlace them and peel back the socks, stripping off so he could be fully naked and climb under one of the showerheads. He hit the switch, squirted out some shower gel, lathered up and relaxed under the blast of heat. It took him a while to hear the frenzied groans, but when he looked over, he realised Danny was still sat on the floor, wanking himself off and staring across the tiled room at him. Shane just smiled faintly, and put on a shower, letting the soap suds trickle and sweep over his pale smooth chest and abdomen, across the hair of his thighs and the swing of his relaxing tool. He saw Danny's red-faced climax and whining, panting recovery, and laughed gently before quitting the showers.
In the changing room, Stuart was just buttoning up his pale green shirt, a dazed look in his eyes. Shane grabbed a towel from the rack, and smirked at the stressed Scotsman. `You ok?' he asked meaningfully. Armstrong just nodded, finished buttoning his shirt, and hurried out. Long sighed contentedly and began to dry himself. A moment or two later, Danny pottered out form the showers, grabbing a towel for himself, hanging his head. He approached Shane silently, not able to look him in the eye.
`I'm sorry,' he said softly.
Shane smirked and laid a hand on his shoulder. If you wanted to nosh me off pal, you shoulda just asked... you didn't have to tease me like a jealous prick for two months, eh?' He patted the broad firm muscle, enjoying his power over this brutish 27-year-old, and then laughed to himself once more. But you're a good lad, Danny. You did well.'
`Did I?'
Oh yes. Very well.' Shane hugged him, their warm torsos pulling together as he leaned in to whisper in his ear. I think I might need to fuck your mouth again, lad, I really do.' He felt Ings shudder and tense up in his arms, feeling his dirty excitement, his submissive craving. He ran his lips very close to the lobe of Danny's ear as he spoke again. `You make a good bitch, Danny Ings, you really do.'
HAPPY READING! HOPE THE PAST FEW CHAPTERS HAVE BEEN WORTH THE WAIT AFTER MY LITTLE BREAK LOL. I CONSIDERED ENDING THE SERIES AFTER PART 50 IN CASE I LOST MY TOUCH, BUT I JUST COULDN'T STOP! LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU ARE EAGER TO READ NEXT... MORE FROM THE MAN UTD LADS? A RETURN TO FRANK'S OFFICE? FURTHER ADVENTURES AT CITY OR LEICESTER OR NEWCASTLE...? ALWAYS OPEN TO SUGGESTIONS AND FEEDBACK!