Premiership Lads Curious Luke Shaw

By writer guy

Published on Mar 28, 2020

Gay

Part seventy: Jamie Vardy's Havin' A Party!

The 33-year-old striker grumbled awake and rolled over in bed, reaching for the comforting warmth of his wife Rebekah, but finding only her lingering heat on the bedsheets, her scent on the pillow beside his head – and, for that matter, the taste of her cunt still on his upper lip from going down on her for a good hour in the middle of the night. She was already up, of course, and he could vaguely here the sound of her lilting voice and the laughter of the kids a few rooms away in their Leicestershire mansion.

Living in such a big, luxurious pad out in the green countryside of the midland county still took Jamie Vardy by surprise. A big part of him was still the scally teen in Sheffield, drinking on street corners and running away from the police, football something to be relished but never taken SERIOUSLY. God, he'd come a long way, when he stopped and thought about it!

He stretched out in the expansive bed, scratched his sweaty balls, and idly sniffed his fingers – a little cocktail of his own musty aroma and the faint trace of his wife's sweetness. Perhaps it had only been a couple of hours ago that he'd woken her, as he often did, in the early hours of the morning, hard with desire, and insisted that he pleasure her. She always giggled sleepily and reached for him, and their shared sex drive was the absolute heart of their happy marriage. After all, what she didn't know could never hurt her, though an ambitious part of Vardy's thinking always supposed she would forgive his varied indiscretions: she knew the animal she'd married.

A mere few hours ago he'd had his stubbly chin between her legs, but he was horny again. Standard.

He rolled over in the bed, pulling his wiry frame across the mattress and reaching for his bedside table, finding his phone. He idly checked social media first, seeing the likes and comments and DMs stacking up on his Instagram. God, people were going mad for those shitty videos he'd done playing about with the family in his home fitness routines... so wholesome and preppy, he almost burst out laughing alone in bed. What a dull, wholesome family guy he was becoming, at least superficially! Things had once been VERY different.

He'd picked up his phone with one aim: alone in bed, a stirring in his loos pyjama bottoms, he was after some good porno. Maybe some horny chick-with-a-dick stuff or some MMF three-ways? But as he loaded up the browser, the fucking thing vibrated disappointingly on his palm and the screen blacked out. Bugger, he always forgot to pop it on to charge before bed. He tossed it down the duvet dismissively, and reached instead for his semi.

He didn't need porn, not really, his memory was a perfect wank bank.

And seeing those glimpses of his new life, his new persona, well, they were triggering some particular memories... It seemed like only yesterday he had been wild and carefree, a very different footballer and a very different man... Not yesterday, in fact, but 2012 to be precise.

Jamie's first season at Leicester FC: a 25-year-old wild card plucked from the obscurity of Fleetwood Town and given more time and money than he'd ever had access to. Of course he'd gone off the rails a little bit, what else was he gonna do? A hot-tempered young man displaced to a new city, handed buckets of cash and buckets of cunt. Still, cunt had never been quite... enough.

A particular game drifted back to him in the December of that pivotal year. Swansea City, away. 2-1 to the Foxes. Vardy's first Championship goal, the beginning of so much more. Yeah, they'd lost out on Premiership promotion that season, but it had been rammed full of giddy fucking highlights, and that Welsh away trip had been peak of them all.

He'd roared into the changing rooms at the Swansea stadium, powered by adrenaline and testosterone. He'd always been a goal machine, sure, but scoring in front of Championship crowds in bigger stadiums, the higher stakes for his teammates and the fans... Fuck, it was nothing else. It was a drug, and sure it wasn't quite as good as the real drugs he was taking at the time, but it lit a fire in his chest. He pounded said chest with his fists as he paraded the changing rooms, shirtless and dripping in sweat. Fuck yes, lads,' he roared, fuck yes, we are going UP.'

The manager, Pearson, came and grabbed him then, cackling victoriously and ignoring the stain of Vardy's working-class sweat against his crisp white shirt. Pearson and almost everyone else seemed to queue up to rate his performance, praise his goal, thank the fucking heavens they'd found and signed him out of nowhere.

Vardy could always sense the unease this sparked in some of his fellow attackers on the squad, but his budding friendship with David Nugent had prevented any real resentment, just a fierce professional rivalry. That day was like any other: once Jamie had finished being hugged and exalted, he'd joined Nugent at the side and grabbed his big paw in a tight handshake of mutual appreciation between the laddish strikers.

`Fucking quality, mate,' drawled the taller Liverpudlian bloke, two years' Vardy's senior, and a year his senior in Leicester terms. It said a lot for Nugent's oozing machismo that he was not more threatened by a younger rival on the side, simply boosted and playfully competitive. The 5'11 dark-haired bloke tugged off his away shirt and bared the light fur of his chiselled chest before grabbing Vardy in yet another man-scented hug of approval.

Other players were a little more wary about Vardy, he knew – some of the longer-standing Leicester lads were unsure where the hell he'd appeared from or how he got away with some of his off-pitch behaviour. But these same qualities often inspired a kind of dizzy awe from the youngest footballers, which he more than enjoyed. Just then, one such lad approached him as he was stripping down to his damp white briefs, beaming with team pride and a sparkle of envy in his young eyes.

Mate,' cooed local lad Jacob Blyth, a muscular giant at 6'3 but with a look of boyish innocence on his face. You showed them Welsh cunts what's for! Jesus. Great stuff, man, great stuff...'

Vardy grasped his hand in a tight shake and pulled him in for a squeeze, enjoying the firm feel of his big shoulders and biceps and laughing a little at the wonder on that naïve face. He shrugged off the praise with false modesty, soaking it up and feeling almost horny at the taste of all this male affection. There was more to come, from beside them.

God, I just dunno how you get that PACE,' garbled another 20-year-old junior member of the squad, eyeing him with a mixture of reverence and disbelief. I mean, you show up to training pissed as a fart, and yet...' They all laughed, and Jamie smirked arrogantly, looking at the youngster in question. In 2012, Jesse Lingard had been a nobody: a Manchester United youth graduate on loan to club after club, unwanted in the first team of his own Red Devils. Still, he'd been a smug prick even then, and something in his broad grin had riled some chaotic energy in the Sheffield-born striker as he listened to the laddish chuckles around him.

Vardy tugged down his briefs then and rolled down the clammy fabric of his long socks before hopping his way to the showers, confidently naked. He knew he wasn't particularly well-hung but he was always cocky, and he enjoyed the freedom of nudity. The freedom, and the... voyeurism. His new buddy Nugent, for example, was surprisingly ripped, and there was something entertaining about the heavy bounce of his privates as he joined Jamie in the steam of the showers minutes later. Vardy enjoyed knowing its size and seeing it bounce almost as visibly on the pitch in tight white shorts.

It wasn't just the bouncing cocks, lathered in soap and dripping between sturdy footballer thighs, that would catch Jamie's eye in the shower. Beside him, Danny Drinkwater was washing himself down after a brief spell on the pitch, and Vardy's eyes couldn't help but follow oozing droplets of shower gel trickle down the smooth back until they dissipated against the curve of plump buttocks or disappeared into the dark crack between. (Even now, eight years later, Vardy occasionally pictured that younger teammate's big backside and wished he'd gotten a taste.) A few guys on from Drinkwater, their young goalie was showering himself off too, and Adam Smith's sturdy backside was one of the hairiest Vardy had ever seen.

And there were the two young guns who had been so keen to congratulate him just then: Blyth and Lingard, excitable in their small parts in the victory, and splashing each other with soap suds on the far side of the communal shower. Both, to Vardy's mild annoyance, seemed generously endowed. Lingard's snake had shocking length flaccid and he couldn't help but wonder if he was more of a shower than a grower, the smug twat; Blyth was very generously equipped in that department, and Vardy found himself staring with momentary envy at the thick tool dangling from the well-proportioned young striker.

`Few bevvies at the hotel in order, don't you think?' grunted David, and Jamie averted his gaze sharply. Every now and then he felt as if he would be caught enjoying the immediate view, though this never gave him too much alarm or paranoia – partly because he knew his womanising reputation was already strong here on the Leicester squad, but more-so he was reckless and wistful. He needed to be caught out if he was ever going to initiate anything, after all.

Bevvies?' he giggled, rubbing both hands over his face and smearing shampoo out of his eyes. Not just bevvies, mate. Jamie Vardy's having a party – bring your vodka and your Charlie!' Nugent burst out laughing at the silly line, and a couple of the other blokes nearby caught on. Within minutes, the lads were loudly repeating the line as a chant, punctuated with sniggers and horseplay, and the club's hot new striker smirked wickedly to himself, picturing the heavy bag of magic dust in his kit bag, ready to share out with his new pals.

He talked Nugent, Drinkwater and Smith into the first couple of lines in the changing room toilets, all towel-clad and shower-damp, just to get a buzz going; but the party really kicked off a few hours later, when the communal meal of curry and beer (far more beer than curry) was over and the lads were off the leash in the hotel bar. Pearson had retired for the evening and, in those days at least, was very good at turning a blind eye to some of the rowdier elements in his squad. The club owners had later taken a different attitude, of course.

Looking back from the comfort of a marital bed in 2020, it was hard for Vardy to remember exactly how shit went down that night in Swansea. Too many pints, double vodkas, lines in the bathroom, a stray joint with one of the barmen round the back, and repeat. And, of course, the fucking mega-high of having scored his first Leicester City goal that afternoon and lifted the club to victory. Oh yes.

At some point, the assistant manager had surfaced, and moved around with tentative discipline. His reminders that they were professional athletes were largely met with titters and manly cuddles, but the message was taken all the same. Vardy ended up in an elevator with his roommate, Nugent, wasted but lucid, and feeling like he had way too much energy in his limbs to be on his way to bed. He looked across the lift at his fellow forward, whose head was lolling a little wearily, and who was puffy about the eyes. `Too old for this lark,' he mocked the 27-year-old playfully, lifting a trainer to nudge him in the kneecap.

Nugent screwed up his face and scoffed. `Nah mate, I'm ageing well like a fine wine, or a... cheese. Plenty more party left in me! But you heard the boss.'

Jamie shrugged his shoulders loosely, reclining against the mirrored wall in his dark hoody and joggers. Party doesn't have to end just cos we're kicked out of the bar!' He reached into the pocket of his hoody and tugged out the last of his stash, a tiny baggy of white crystal which he shook provocatively at the other guy. Yeah?'

David rolled his red-rimmed eyes. How much did you fuckin' buy?' the Scouser demanded. Well... why the fuck not? Hehe...'

Their room was a short walk from the elevators, towards the end of one corridor; the door just before theirs was thrown open and the 20-year-old goalkeeper Smith emerged, wiping a hand against his nostrils and blinking wildly in the first rush of a line. Heyyy,' the Sunderland lad growled at them, hyped up and energetic, just like Vardy. Jamie Vardy having a party?!'

`He sure fucking is,' he'd cackled then, glad to see this young kindred spirit still up for a laugh. The scruffy blond goalkeeper was a man after his own heart, more in the game for the fucking about and the banter than any glory or trophy. There was a wild look in his shifty eyes even when he wasn't drunk or high, but now he looked capable of anything. Anything, Vardy mused wickedly.

Smith was followed by Drinkwater, fresh-faced and wholesome by comparison, and behind them came the room's actual occupants, Lingard and Blyth. Little and large. Jamie tittered at his own internal joke and he rubbed at his forehead dizzily, feeling a sink in his high. He needed a fresh line. `Is this where the party's at?' he demanded.

`Nah, these two poofs are off to bed,' grunted Smith.

`Boss said curfew,' muttered Jacob a little defensively, boyish and innocent again despite being taller and stronger-looking than any of the lads here. His frame really filled a doorway and he scratched his chin awkwardly.

`But if you've got more sniff,' Jesse cut in, muscling in next to his bigger roommate and trying his best to look playful and up for it. Desperate to play with the big boys, Vardy concluded with a little sneer. Well, let's see how you can handle that, you smug little cunt, a nasty inner voice said to him, and he lurched forward through their door.

`I sure do,' he confirmed, swaggering into the younger lads' hotel room as if it was his own, and producing the little baggy once more. He could see where the younger blokes had already been enjoying the last measure he'd sold them earlier tonight, a low coffee table pulled up against one of the double beds, a credit card still out from cutting lines. He slumped onto the foot of the bed, poured out the contents of the bag, and picked up Lingard's bank card to prep some lines for the lot of them, while the other guys milled about the room and something shut the door firmly. Lingard and Smith looked wired, Blyth looked a bit nervous and kept glancing at the door; Nugent looked weary but satisfied. And that bouncy weight was just about visible, Vardy reminded himself, as the tracksuit-clad striker joined him on the bed and sprawled lazily beside him, the zipped up top riding up a little to show the bottom of his treasure trail and the upper strands of his pubes.

That night wasn't Jamie Vardy's first dabbling with other guys, no – there had been a couple of seedy handjobs, drunk in parks or mate's bedrooms, and one or two half-remembered blowjobs in his late teens. But those had been the clumsy product of too much drink and drugs, and never initiated by him – or initiated by anyone, it seemed, just messy accidents that had never troubled him at all afterwards. No, that night wasn't his first dabbling, but it had certainly been a beginning.

He'd used Nugent's well-packed bulge to get things going. God, look at the size of that,' he laughed, a couple more lines later, pointing at the sprawled striker's front and nudging Drinkwater. Alright Nuge, nobody needs to see your trouser-snake tonight!' Uncertain sniggers from the younger lads.

`Fuck off!' yawned the Merseysider from his comfortable position, reaching a hand down his body to adjust the front of his trackies, but doing little to mask the very visible lump formed by his privates where they settled.

Hah, just look at it though,' muttered Vardy playfully. Mind, don't need to tell you that Lingard, you look at it all the time...!' More awkward bursts of laughter, but hot defiance from the United loan player, who was on his haunches by the coffee table, fingering a few stray dots of powder off the laminated surface.

`Eh?'

We've all seen ya,' quipped Vardy hypocritically, sizing us all up in the showers...'

Though Lingard screwed up his face while sucking a trace of coke off one finger, Vardy's mockery quickly caught on. Aye,' Mackem lad Smith muttered, I've definitely seen that, like, you little pervert... haha.'

`What is it, they all got tiny dicks back at Old Trafford?' put in boyish Blyth playfully, stood with his arms folded and still intermittently glancing at the door as if expecting Pearson to come in and tell them off at any minute.

`Ah fuck off the lot of ya,' Lingard grumbled.

Leave the kid,' chuckled Nugent lazily, sitting up. He can look at my dong if he wants.' There was a cheeky smirk on the older bloke's face, as Vardy had expected; he knew how proud the well-hung striker was of his manhood, always showing off in the changing rooms, always making comments about his sex life after a beer. This attention was right up his street.

`I wasn't fucking look at it!' Jesse protested, but he was blushing now. Blushing enough to almost confirm Vardy's growing suspicions of his own perceptiveness. He had been seeing hints of curiosity from the hyperactive midfielder all season, newbies here together. He just smirked silently to himself and let the conversation spiral around him.

Dunno why you would bother looking at Nuge anyway,' Smith was grunting, minutes later. Jacob here got the biggest meat in the Leicester room, anyway!' Blushes from the tall young striker, of course, but much competitive laughter from Drinkwater and Nugent, and uncomfortable squirming from Lingard; not just squirming though, his eyes, like everyone's really, were drawn to the crotch of the slim-fit jogging bottoms worn by the Nuneaton lad, hugging the front of his legs and emphasising the weighty package between.

That's true,' Vardy weighed in amongst the sniggering banter. Why don't you let him have a proper look at it, Blyth? Go on.' Mumbled jokey protest from Jacob, but Smith and Drinkwater, and then Nugent, took on Vardy's sleazy idea, and soon it was happening: on the other side of the coffee table, Blyth was pushing down his joggers and underpants and whipping out his cock, while Lingard hunkered down at his side, looking stressed out but still incredibly high and on edge.

`Fuckin' huge,' Smith grunted enviously.

`I don't get any complaints,' mumbled Blyth sheepishly.

`Any complaints from you, Lings?' laughed Nugent, then.

Maybe you should get yours out for comparison, Dave,' Vardy pushed, elbowing his good pal. He saw the surprise and indecision on the sharp foxy features of the older striker, but Drinkwater loudly agreed and the other three sniggered. In moments, Nugent was up off the bed, squaring himself up competitively, and yanking down his trackies and then his black briefs. There two cocks swinging free now, and yes, Blyth's looked a bit bigger, but... Hard to tell, soft, innit,' Jamie laughed idly, picking up the neat vodka he'd poured himself and glancing between the two exhibitionists and then back to overwhelmed, red-cheeked Jesse Lingard.

Some guys are proper growers,' Smith put in knowledgeably, not showers. Like mine is tiny soft, but...'

Oh aye,' cackled Danny, hugging his shoulders and shaking him a bit. Prove that!'

Lots of laddish laughter then, dismissive of the joking challenge. Vardy got up to go and top up his glass from the bottle on the side, and he half-listened to the developing banter between the lads; his attention was more on the fact that neither David or Jacob were rushing to pull up their pants, dicks and bollocks freely loose as if they were back in the changing rooms. He sloshed vodka into his glass, downed it, and went and stood between the two of them, then pulled down the Leicester-branded joggers he was wearing, cupping a hand to the front of his boxer shorts.

I don't think I'm a grower or a shower,' he wheezed self-deprecatingly, but it's all about how you use it!' He reached into the front of the shorts and dragged out his semi and low-hanging balls, and began to rub his own prick teasingly, his eyes roving challengingly from one lad to another.

`Alright, calm down Vardy,' laughed Blyth to his right.

Calm down? He just scored his first Championship goal,' defended Nugent passionately from his left, dropping a hand to his own flaccid length. If he wants to jerk off at the thought of it, fuckin' let him, ha ha...' And David threw his other arm supportively about Vardy's shoulders as they stood there, side by side.

`That's fair,' Drinkwater said, getting up to fetch a drink himself.

`I guess,' Blyth said.

`Could you maybe start wanking a bit further from my face though?' complained Jesse from where he still rested on his knees, in front of the three cock-bearing footballers. But he wasn't doing anything to move away from them, and his beady little eyes flitted from one dick to another. Vardy grinned and took a step closer.

`I was hoping you'd do it for me,' he grunted.

Haha, yeah, that is definitely fair!' Danny burst out, returning with a highball of vodka in one hand and a lit fag in the other. Toss off the goal-scorer, Lings...'

He's got two hands,' Vardy said. Do me AND Nuge, here.'

Jesse just stared up at him, incredulous, but there was laughter from everyone, and a frightening intimacy in the air. Wired and restless, Lingard leant forward on his knees, eyes darting up and down, then he put one trembling hand to Jamie's growing hard-on, slight but firm. Holy fuck,' Jacob exclaimed, are you really...?'

Just let him,' Vardy said. Come on, wank it, lad, and you've got two fuckin' hands, ain't ya?'

Lingard lifted his other hand to David's big soft girth, and he began to stroke both at slightly different rhythms, cheeks blushing deep red and lip quivering with nervous excitement. Danny had sat on the bed with Smith and both young lads were cackling with enjoyment at what they saw, stunned expressions on their faces. Nobody looked more shocked than Blyth though, and Jamie reached down; he pushed Lingard's fingers off the veiny shaft of his already full boner, and nodded to his right. `Don't leave young un feelin' left out,' he snapped. Now Lingard was reaching up and teasingly pulling on two big soft cocks, eyes wide and teeth gritted.

Fuck,' laughed Nugent with a hint of anxiety, I'll be hard soon if you keep that up, bro.'

Dirty fucker,' sneered Smith from his seat on the bed. Hey, Drinks, you gonna toss me off?'

`What? Fuck off! Get Lings to do it in a sec, ha...'

`Ah, shut up, come on...' The scruffy young goalkeeper tousled playfully with the 22-year-old midfielder on the edge of the bed, whilst in front of them, Lingard slowly continued to run his thumbs and fingers against the twitching, stretching shafts of the tall masculine blokes; this left his face hovering between them, directly in front of Vardy, who was making slow pulls on his hard-on and edging it forward, closer and closer. He didn't need to say anything, to issue any sleazy command: eye contact was enough. Whilst the other blokes laughed and muttered, Vardy pushed his hips forward in a gentle thrust, and the pink tip of his cock brushed the pouting lips of the loan player's sullen mouth.

`Jamie,' said Nugent in a low, warning voice, as if this was happening by accident.

`Mate, seriously?' gasped Blyth in shock.

`Relax,' sighed Vardy, and he pushed forward, letting his dick enter the midfielder's gob, and then reaching to scratch fingers through the little afro curls of his hair. Instantly, Jesse's slow clumsy pulls on the semi-hard pricks stopped, his hands sinking to the carpet by Jamie's trainers instead. The newly arrived striker, smug and triumphant in his new team, his fresh goal, and now this dirty blowjob, groaned his pleasure out and enjoyed the shocked gazes of the others.

Is Lingard actually sucking him off?' demanded Smith from the bed, shocked but excited. Dammit, I could do with a blowie,' the bullish young goalkeeper announced, `can I use this gob when you're done, Vards?' Drinkwater, Blyth and Nugent all looked shocked to various degrees, more-so by this request than the visual display between them.

I'm sure Lings will be a good lad,' moaned Vardy, gently sliding his cock in and out of the United player's mouth and stroking his hair and ears soothingly as he did. He smirked down at the tense expression on Jesse's face, then just groaned happily again. Ah come on, lads,' he said, `don't look so fuckin' freaked out, just a bit of fun.'

`Just a bit of fun,' echoed Jacob uncertainly, looking as if his 6'3 of pure muscle might just faint to the hotel room floor any second. Cock semi-hard, he staggered to the bed and sat down by Adam, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

God,' Smith cried then, Jacob you really have got a monster down there.' And then, a sleazy look of experimenting on his face, the blond-haired Mackem reached over to stroke it, and Danny giggled beside him like an idiot.

Here,' grunted Vardy, nudging Nugent with his elbow, you have a go.' He pushed Jesse's head back gently and stepped away a little, guiding the submissive newbie to the left and ignoring David's expression of disagreement. In seconds, Lingard was wrapping his lips about the thicker shaft of Nugent's semi and teasing it into action; the garbled moan of surprised enjoyment escaped the striker's lips in a low wheeze, and he reached to grip Jamie's arm tightly as he did.

`Fuck,' he breathed.

`Yeah, he's quite good, ain't he?' sniggered Jamie. Fuck, this was insane. Six of them, high and horny. He'd seen the glints in Lingard's eyes before, knew this weedy loan kid was up for it, just knew it. He tugged on his prick with one hand and rubbed at David's shoulder with the other, then turned his attention to the other three: Smith apprehensively playing with Blyth's erection (jesus, how big was that thing?) and Drinkwater staring on in amazement.

Vardy detached himself from the fun to pour more vodka, then he took to the bed, pulling off his hoody to cool down, and kicking his bottoms right off until he was naked but for socks and trainers. He jerked himself idly and enjoyed the buzz of too much alcohol and cocaine, and then he let one of his feet push at Smith's backside. `You just gonna play with Jacob, or you gonna reward the match-winner?' he grunted demandingly. He saw the 20-year-old looked worried but compliant. After a minute, the rough North East lad was crawling back over the bed and reaching for Jamie's cock, lip trembling. Only a few years later, Smith would be sacked from Leicester for his involvement in a Bangkok sex tape, and Vardy would hardly be surprised: this lad was pure filth.

But then Lingard was coming over, his lips shiny with drool, and scampering onto the bed. He hunched at Jamie's side and began kissing silently at his tight abs, and Smith pulled away a little to let him at the prize: Jamie groaned happily as the blowjob resumed. He enjoyed his position at the centre of the action, lying here receiving head whilst Adam hunched at his side, stroking one of his thighs; behind him, Jacob had one knee on the bed and was pumping his huge boner with one hand; Danny was feeling himself up in his trackies and David was still stood a little further away by the coffee table, cock hard but unattended – he looked like he was deciding whether to flee the room or get involved.

Nuge,' Vardy sighed, come on over... come here...'

With a big grunt, the manly striker, seeming older by comparison to the rest of the room, made his way over to the bed, and Jamie beckoned him closer; once he was near, he reached out himself and took his mate's dick in hand, pulling firmly on it until Nugent gasped and whined. Then he pushed at Lingard's head again and guided it back, once more, onto the bigger cock. Smith immediately took over where Lingard left off, having been eyeing it up indecisively for several minutes. Blyth moved down the side of the bed and Jamie reached a hand to stroke his monster, enjoying the feel of its thickness and weight. Somewhere nearby, Danny had got his nob out too, and was wanking off. The men's drunken gasps filled the room and it smelled of sweaty dick.

Oh lads,' groaned Vardy, ain't this a fuckin' laugh...'

Quite the party,' grumbled Jacob beside him, still looking shell-shocked, but clearly enjoying the surprise hand-job. Oh god, mate...' And over came Lingard, his lips seeking out the biggest dick in the room: he leaned over Jamie's bore torso to reach it and threw his mouth to Blyth's massive bone, the bed becoming a tangle of half-naked men and swinging erections. Vardy pushed gently at Smith's head and the goalie left his dick and turned round to start sucking Nugent instead, Danny wanking furiously next to them. It became a slight blur then, the room spinning: Jamie seemed to slide repeatedly from pleasuring his own dick to feeling Jesse or Adam's mouth on it, and he let his free hand wander, stroking at snatches of thigh or six-pack or another lad's nob where possible.

It was boyish, inexperienced Jacob who came first, without warning. He was just tossing himself off at that point, and he seemed as shocked by his climax as anyone: it fired off like a cannon, dropping spunk over several of the others. He backed off, red-faced and bewildered. Jamie brushed a drop off spunk off his flat chest and cleaned his finger against Jesse's hair, and looked over as Danny reached a red-faced orgasm too, spunking all over his own hand and one trouser leg. Drinkwater might have left then, it was hard to recall: it all got a bit vague and sluggish then.

Smith disappeared soon after, and Vardy neither knew or cared if the sleazy young goalkeeper shot his load; he did see Nugent's orgasm though, straight into Jesse Lingard's mouth. He lay there, completely wired, and stroked one hand up and down a hairy tense thigh as he watched Nugent deeply pleasured by the amateurish mouth action of the United lad. Seeing Nugent's reddened sex face, his rasping sighs and violently grabbing hands... wow. When Lingard pulled away, cum oozed from his bottom lip, and Vardy shoved his cock in there quickly, keen to empty his sack. Until that point, the experimental fun had been gentle, but now he fucked that mouth fiercely. He saw Nugent slink away like Blyth had, spent and ashamed, but he thrust his cock in and out of Lingard's mouth as if it was a cunt, until he too was spilling his load on that lapping tongue and crying out his enjoyment to the quiet of the hotel room.

Lingard coughed and gagged a little bit and pulled back, looking exhausted, his chin and the tip of his nose sticky with white goo.

Jamie panted and gasped and collected his scrambled thoughts. He remembered a brief stroke of paranoia there: had he gone too far? Had he been too eager in front of the other lads? But no... Even in the midst of this coke-addled confusion, he'd been pleased with himself. He picked himself off the bed and looked about for his discarded clothes, cum still dribbling from the tip of his cock. He wiped it on the curtains and dressed, head pounding with the inevitable cocaine migraine.

Nuge,' he grunted, let's go.' His roomie and fellow striker was hunched in one chair cradling his head, looking embarrassed, pants still about his ankles. Lingard was lying on the bed, looking passed out, and Blyth was crouched near him, glancing nervously towards the senior players. Drinkwater and Smith were nowhere to be seen, presumably returned to their own room to find the solace of sleep.

Jamie Vardy's having a party, bring your vodka and your Charlie...

It was funny now to think about where those lads had ended up. Lingard, that submissive little cocksucker, back at Manchester United and now a long-time regular on the first team, for now at least. Vardy had never particularly liked the 19-year-old slut, but his mouth could take quite a fucking! Was anyone at Old Trafford taking advantage of that fact now, or had Jesse's experimental loan year at Leicester just been a phase...?

And big Blyth, well he hadn't lasted at Leicester; he was at Macclesfield or somewhere equally shit now, engaged to some reality TV slag, tattooed and butch. Vardy wondered if he'd ever had that big tool of his touched by another lad or not.

Smith, that dirty fucker, he was languishing at some shitty team, disgraced by his extra-curricular fun in Thailand, haha – though not before Vardy had scored a couple more hand- and blowjobs out of him across the next couple of seasons.

Drinkwater, poor lump, seemed to move team every year, and Vardy regretted that in their Leicester years, he had never properly gotten his hands on that muscular lad: even in that filthy coke-fuelled night, he wasn't sure Drinkwater had gotten any close contact with another lad, just watched and wanked. Pussy.

And then there was David Nugent, of course. Lying in bed stroking himself gently, Vardy couldn't repress a little snigger. He'd never forget seeing Nuge's orgasm that night, watching him empty cum into a lad's mouth in a mixture of rapture and self-loathing. The poor bloke had almost been in tears when they returned to their own room, next door, and showered away the shame of the dirty action; Vardy had soothed him the next morning with some vague half-baked reflections on how neither of them had done anything really gay, it wasn't gay getting sucked off, etc. etc. etc. And the two had stayed good buddies, David eventually standing as best man at his wedding. That, Vardy reflected with a wicked smile, was a whole other story, though.

He lay back, sighed, and jerked himself off to the memory of his wilder days. Still, he hadn't LOST it, had he? There was Maddison, and Chilwell, and that was just in the past few months... and god, had he really got his tongue in Harry Maguire's backside?! He lay there, a montage of moving flesh in his mind's eyes, and squirted his spunk against the bedsheets. Jamie Vardy was STILL having a party, even if it didn't always need vodka and Charlie; just cock.

DOING MY BEST TO KEEP THE STORIES FRESH WITHOUT THE LEAGUE GOING ON... HOPE THIS ONE PLEASES THE VARDY FANS! LET ME KNOW ANY OTHER CHARACTER WHOSE 'BACKSTORIES' WOULD BE GOOD TO EXPLORE, OR WHO YOU WANT ME TO VISIT ON LOCKDOWN... ALWAYS APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK AND IDEAS, SORRY IF I DON'T ALWAYS GET IT RIGHT!

Next: Chapter 71


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