premiership-lads-105

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Amateur

Subject: Premiership Lads part 105: Training in Pairs II Part 105: Training in Pairs II `So,’ Harry asked in a rather brittle voice, `how did it go?’ He rested his buttocks against the work table in the corner of his quiet garage, eyes playing with unconscious worry against the rough concrete ceiling and hoping it was as soundproofed as it looks, through to the bedroom above where his wife was getting their child to sleep. `Well,’ Luke said in a confiding tone, quiet against his own worries of being overheard, `it was quite fun, yeah.’ A pause loaded with untold story. `We did some good training, you know. And after…’ A throaty little laugh, one Harry associated with his own heavy-handed advances; it was the little laugh Luke made when he grabbed him unexpectedly on the behind or surprised him with a kiss of his upper earlobe from behind. `I see,’ Maguire said gruffly, choking on the list of questions he wanted to ask. He echoed Luke’s laugh and tried to convey his shared pleasure. `I’m glad you got to… train,’ he said, aiming for light and teasing but unable to hide a trace of envy in his voice. `It was a bit unexpected,’ the pretty defender was musing to himself two dozen miles away. `I was all ready to be on my best behaviour, you know.’ `Huh.’ `But he could NOT stop checking me out,’ Luke said with uncharacteristic vanity. `Honestly, Harry, from the second I got there… I mean, I was wearing those real tight trackies you like me to wear, you know the ones, and…’ `Oh right,’ Harry murmured. `So you were really on your best behaviour, then.’ `Oh Harry,’ laughed the other guy secretively. `I stuck to the rules, just like you said. Just like we agreed. And Harry, it was so fun, I really enjoyed myself…’ Harry wasn’t sure if he made a sour noise or if his silence communicated what he refused to, because Shaw’s tone quickly altered as he carried on. `I mean, just a little bit of fun, nothing like, you know, US, or anything, babe…’ Maguire made a sort of scoffing noise, again meant to be jokey but sounding pretty grim. `Of course it wouldn’t be like us,’ he returned quite firmly, then trying to save his sour note, `what we’ve got is just summat else, ain’t it…?’ `Sure is,’ Luke said. His voice was dreamy and wistful, and it was more than enough to satisfy and comfort Harry’s pangs of possessive jealous. Fuck’s sake, he thought, how can a guy have so much impact on you with two dumb words…? His left hand grabbed aimlessly at items on the work bench, clutching a heavy hammer then the rim of the tabletop, flexing restless knuckles. `Still,’ Harry grunted. `Glad you got some. So you… I mean… he sucked you off…?’ `I fucked him, Harry. I fucked him so good. Haha. He seemed pretty happy after.’ Maguire’s hole clenched at the thought, a memory of both pain and utter liberation. He nodded silently, tapping the phone in his right hand a little and looking about the empty garage again, unsure what he was meant to say to that. `Well done’? `Good work’? `That’s my boy’? Nowt sounded appropriate or less than shite. `And?’ Shaw asked after too long a silence. `What about you and Scotty, then…? Did you…?’ Maguire made a dismissive noise. `It was fine,’ he said, and then quite pointedly, `I don’t really wanna talk about it, mate.’ Mate, he’d said, dismissive in its friendliness. `Honestly, I’m pretty done in and I got to go,’ he said more quickly. `That’s so fuckin’ good that you got some, though, proud of ya. Naughty boy, hah.’ He tried to smile through his words, enjoying the thoughtful little chuckle from Luke, who said his goodbyes and vanished from the call. He’d insisted on it but as soon as he heard the click and was separated from it, he regretted his impatience. Scott McTominay showed up early to the closed suburban leisure centre that had been assigned to him and his partner for this morning’s early workout session, the first proper step towards Premiership training resuming by the end of the week. He threw down his jumper and waterproof as goalposts, vague tribute to schoolboy days, and fetched a football from the boot of his car to do some practice alone, energised by the prospect of this kickabout. The 6ft4 midfielder knew his fitness was tip-top after almost daily long-distance running and relentless muscle work in his home gym, the near obsessive maintenance of his body one of the key things getting him through these weird times of crisis. But he’d slacked on ball skills and his speed over short distance, things he knew would be vital back in the fray of a Premier League match. He’d barely returned from extended injury leave when the season ground to a halt, so he suspected he would struggle more with the return than some of his stalwart colleagues. Speaking of which… He looked up as Maguire approached, the towering brick of a defender who imposed on most men through height alone. McTominay knew he was a little slighter in body than the big Yorkshireman but he matched him inch for inch; still, the 23-year-old thought with momentary panic, he knew where the United captain definitely outsized him, knew all too fucking well. He stopped the ball beneath one trainer and marched across the stretching rectangle of grass, glad to see the burly captain in the flesh, despite those reservations of Marbella memory. It was exciting to start being reunited with teammates, people he was used to seeing pretty much daily, fighting and playing and triumphing side by side. He gave him a quick nod of greeting and went for a firm handshake, glad at the familiar crushing grip of the captain’s paw. `You’re looking well,’ he barked at Maguire. `Good to see ya, skipper.’ `Aye, same,’ returned Harry, somewhat formally. They milled through the obvious pleasantries and the generic but heartfelt check-ins of all friends at the moment, severe nods and warm smiles alternating on their faces as chatted. There was something stiff and professional about big Harry these days, Scott noticed; he supposed some of that was to be expected, probably others noticed the same, the careful behaviour of someone landed with their dream captaincy. Of course Harry had to maintain an air of strict professionalism and club commitment, it came with the armband. Sometimes, though, McTominay wondered if it was a little more than that. Did Harry treat him a little differently because of that silly prank in Marbella? He’d suspected so in the weeks just before the season suspension, finding it hard to chat easily with Maguire as he had earlier in the season, at the end of last summer. It seemed, and it definitely seemed so right now, that the tall powerhouse footballer couldn’t quite meet his eyes without a twitch or a frown or suddenly changing the topic. Did the memory of that Spanish training camp make Slabhead so uncomfortable as that…? In truth, there had been a short phase where McTominay felt the same. Returning to England, he’d found himself waking in hot sweats in the night, horrified by blurred dream sequences that returned him to that damp floor, surrounded by a forest of bare legs. But why should it bother Harry so much? After all, Maguire had hardly been instrumental in that scene, had he? It was bloody Lingard, that mercurial idiot, who’d schemed it and let it get out of hand; and Scott felt quite firmly that he himself could have stopped it at any minute, if he hadn’t been so bloody… proud! Pride, he insisted to himself, dwelling on the memory as Harry loaded up their training schedule and barked out some instructions to help them get down to work. Pride, definitely pride; he’d risen arrogantly to the challenge of Jesse Lingard’s daft games and pranks and when the week hadn’t gone his way, he’d been unable to step back and laugh at it. Honour and commitment were big things in the McTominay clan, he never went back on his word! So, of course he’d knelt down, braced himself, and taken the booby prize, as insane as it was. Back in the present moment, the two lofty football heroes dashed back and forth across their outside training space, silent but for their pants and jibes and the occasional buzz of traffic beyond the tall hedges. Scott was pleased to find his kicks felt fluid and natural, less rusty than worried. He also found Maguire a little less indomitable than he remembered: it was as if the older bloke was distracted by something and not as invested in their little one-to-one tackles and prescribed set-pieces. Scott himself was not without his distractions. The Sheffield giant had worn a slightly undersized pair of shorts (`My bro’s by accident, for fuck’s sake…’) that really didn’t cover much of his mighty thighs, nor do a lot to hold onto his sizeable package. Every time Harry was running his way, about to try and meg him or shoot for their improvised goal, he could see a ferret-sized presence jiggling side to side in the blue nylon. Really, it was obscene. So why did he keep looking at it? It wasn’t just that bouncing blue mersin escort bulge though. When Harry would burst by him, his pace always surprising for a man of his muscle mass, and Scott would hare after him to try and nick the ball from between his big feet, he’d find himself looking at the big sturdy backside that sat atop those thick legs, tight and accentuated beneath the shorts. He’d never really noticed that before. He didn’t spend much time noticing lads’ behinds, generally! By now, Scott didn’t give his Marbella humiliation a lot of thought, but being alone with Harry and getting these glimpses of what lay beneath his kit… well, it was hard not to dwell back on it. McTominay had become so privately dismissive of his submission that evening that he’d struggle to even list the men who were present for it. (He knew that in a darker mood, that too could be a source of shame and worry, to acknowledge just how many blokes were there; how many of them had he touched? How many of them had he tasted?) After all, when he occasionally envisioned what had gone on and marvelled at his own self-abasement, it was big Harry who occupied the gaudy spotlight of his feverish memory. Smell and taste were stronger than sight or sound, he thought, looking Maguire up and down during a panting break in their training. He rested against a fence post, brushing sweat from his eyes and fringe on the back of a hairy freckled arm. The morning had been sharp and cold when he set out in the motor, but it was hot now, a fiery May sun burning down on the pair of them. He watched Maguire pull up on his comparatively baggy retro United shirt and drag it over his damp face, baring the long dense muscle of his torso; there was nothing obviously deliberate or provocative in the captain’s behaviour, in fact the opposite, he seemed strangely oblivious to Scott’s presence here, his mind seeming miles away. Still, McTominay felt a touch of silent competition in the air and, meeting it, he pulled his own tight black shirt up and whipped it off. `It’s gonna be a scorcher this afternoon,’ the tall Lancaster lad announced by way of grabbing attention, a nervous chuckle following his weather commentary. Harry looked up, blinking sweat from his eyes. `Huh, aye, you’ll be right there.’ He paused, beady eyes looking across the space of grass between them. `Jeez, Scotty, how many sit ups are you doing every day…? Fuck’s sake, kid.’ Scott grinned proudly, having already received some friendly jibes from a few of their teammates over his enhanced six-pack this month, bared and boasted on Instagram because… well, why the hell not? He patted it with both palms and shrugged his shoulders, an atlas of freckles and patchy tan. `I’ve been putting in the work,’ he said with a wily grin. `Not that you’re piling on the flab yourself or anything, captain, eh.’ An almost defensive grunt of agreement from the captain. `Should hope not. You ain’t the only one been doing his drills in lockdown, Scotty.’ `I know that,’ he replied lightly. `I think I was complimenting you, chief.’ `Huh, yeh. Guess so.’ `Something bothering you today?’ McTominay asked. `You seem… elsewhere.’ `I’m good,’ Harry said bluntly. He ran a hand through his shaggy dark hair and chipped the ball Scott’s way. `Are we getting back to work, lanky, or are we gonna stand around comparing abs until we get our own charity calendar…?’ `Well, if it was naked one,’ Scott quipped before he quite knew what he was saying, `you might need a couple of months to yourself, big man, haha…’ The joke died a bit in his throat, his laughter turning into a self-conscious cough before he’d even seen Harry’s reaction. The look was unreadable, a sort of amused frown. `Guess I would,’ Maguire said mildly. `Just saying,’ giggled Scott. `I mean, I’d know, right? Heh…’ It was the first time he’d come anywhere near a clear mention of that incident in front of any of his teammates, even Jesse, who smirked and prodded him with hinted references whenever they found themselves together at work. Normally he lifted his chin and held an expression of calm disinterest as if he hadn’t a clue what Lingard was even referring to. `Guess you would,’ his captain replied quite mysteriously. He was still frowning at him. `Seems a long time ago, don’t it?’ `Guess it does.’ `Mad that we all went along with that idea, right?’ `Guess so.’ `That’s a lot of guesses!’ he exclaimed, voice shaking with nervous giggling. Shirt still dangling from one hand, he patted and stroked his ripped abdomen again, shaking his head. `Okay, I can take a hint, you don’t wanna talk about it…’ `Well,’ mumbled Harry, `it’s more… I didn’t think you would. You know. It was…’ He seemed to struggle to know what to say, and Scott felt sympathetic; surely a big macho Yorkshireman like him would never have expected to engage in such kinky behaviour with his teammates? Not that it had been in his to-do list either, but he supposed some of the sleazy buggers involved had brushed against such experiments before, especially that smirking fucker Fernandes, or Lingard himself, surely. He just grinned at Harry and shrugged, both signalling his dismissive rejection of any shame or awkwardness over what had gone on. `I lost a bet, so I took it on the chin,’ he said. He felt it almost sounded a boast, and laughed again. `I mean, I took your big bollocks on my chin, more accurately, hah…’ Too graphic, too explicit. He felt his cheeks colour, saw Harry’s hand reach to tug unconsciously at his drooping bulge. His eyes trained on it and he felt like Harry probably saw his gaze dart down. He grinned and blushed and pulled his eyes away from that sagging outline in blue. `Yeah you did,’ Maguire said, less evasive now. When Scott looked back his way, he was staring away across the pitch, either unwilling to take the conversation further, or distracted once more by whatever distant problem was bothering today. Family shit, probably. Scott sighed and questioned why he was even poking this wasp’s nest of possibilities. It’s not like he wanted to… no… he had only done it because… His eyes zoomed magnetically to the front of Harry’s shorts, enjoying a side-view of the way that VPL dangling teasingly in view. Not noticing him this time, Harry tugged and adjusted the undersized shorts a little more and, unknowingly, gave him an even better few of that floppy outline, oh yes… `Let’s get back to work, eh?’ Maguire interrupted, turning and giving him an odd look, a bit sad and worried. He kinda wished he knew what was going through that mind, but if Harry Maguire wanted to speak his mind, he spoke it. He rarely reacted well to nosy questioning. `Sure,’ Scott agreed. `What’s up next, chief?’ Harry put the phone down, Luke’s cheery half-asleep voice still echoing a little in his ear. He lifted himself from the workbench and paced the garage, listening to the sound of a toilet flushing somewhere above. Bedtime duty was clearly over. Maguire thought back sourly on how this morning had come to its awkward end, and kicked pointlessly at a heavy box of old junk by the door, hurting two toes in the process and knowing he’d regret that when next he had to pass a ball. He lumbered back through into the main house, which still felt a little alien after their extended stay with family back in Yorkshire. He’d cleaned up so thoroughly that night after the various antics of confronting Jesse and celebrating Luke, but still felt stabs of paranoia that some awkward evidence of his guests would linger in some corner of the home. He moved through into the kitchen and began drying dishes from the rack, thinking back to the training session with young McTominay. He’d felt the lad’s eyes all over him by the end of play, conscious of the glances and stares in a way he never would have been say six months back. He’d felt the tension between them as, Scotty with his six-pack out and his cheeks flushed, they’d stomped away from the pitch and towards the car park. Their chat had been idle, he wasn’t sure on what, thinking back; one minute they had been bantering back and forth in vague nonsense and then they’d been passing into the vaguely secluded space between their two biggish cars, and Scott’s hand had been at his crotch. `It’s just so fuckin’ big, ain’t it?’ the tall slim midfielder had said in a really low voice. Harry had been able to see the fear in his eyes, fear of this wrong move and what it might mean for either of them; he’d just stared back a bit blank, obviously enjoying the tense grabbing of his swinging package but also conscious of location and danger. But that’s not what had made him swipe Scott’s hand away from his bulge. `Leave it, Scotty,’ he’d barked roughly. `You sure?’ Scott had asked rapidly. `You seemed to like it last time, so just wondering if-` He’d shoved him up against the side of his own car then, grabbing his bare shoulders and bringing their faces close together. `I’m escort mersin not in the mood,’ he’d snapped, a man who was more or less born `in the mood’, shoving the ripped muscular Scottish national against the warm metal of his Land Rover. `I dunno what you think this is, but I came out here to TRAIN today, not…’ `Right, sorry,’ grumbled Scott, wriggling away from him. `Forget it, I just… Sorry, skip, I just — misread the signs, so…’ Harry had climbed into his car and driven away in a rush. For fuck’s sake. He’d been unable to really focus on their training because he was thinking of Luke and Daniel James, and now having spoken to the lad over the phone, his feverish imagination was confirmed almost detail for detail. He scowled into the crockery cupboard and thought about the unfairness of it: his libido totally crushed by little jabs of possessive envy, his opportunity for a free and easy sucking off from a handsome athletic youth… He could have ended the sunny morning on a real high before coming back to lunch in the garden with his missus, riding that stolen pleasure, but no… He’d been in a foul mood all afternoon and evening, and the call with Luke had been the pissy icing on a shit cake; not the near-dialy highlight it usually was. Of course he’d suggested the rules. He’d muttered it eagerly, proud of what they had now, confident in it. He’d set the arrangement almost entirely, so little discussion or feedback from compliant Mr Shaw, and yet… Well, this was the reality of it, wasn’t it? This was the freedom he’d granted. He dried a couple of mugs from the draining board so aggressively he almost snapped the handle off one. His fiancee’s voice drifted down from upstairs, questioning what he was up to. Harry took a while to answer, shoving the mugs into the cupboard as if they were Dan fucking James and Scott stupid McTominay, and… Another call down, tired and disinterested: `I’m going to bed, just get up here and give me a cuddle, hun…’ `Babe,’ Harry called up a moment later, `I’m just gonna nip out for some supplies, makes tomorrow easier right…’ Some vague muffled protest at the lateness and randomness of the outing. `Yeah but we’re out of milk,’ he called up to her, whilst quietly pouring the semi-skimmed contents of a 2 litre bottle down the sink, `I best go out now so we have some with breakfast.’ Scott McTominay called some quick vague reply back to his parents in the other room, disappearing through the front hall and out into the pouch. He yawned widely, filled with the satisfying sleepiness of a relaxed evening: homecooked food, well-chosen family favourite movie, the comfortable knowledge of the hard work he’d put in at the sports centre this morning. Now, the 23-year-old slipped out of the front door of the big six-bedroom house he’d bought for his Lancaster family in Manchester, ready to attend to the dull chore of bins. The night air still felt balmy against his skin as he crossed the front garden in a pair of flimsy pyjama shorts and a baggy old t-shirt. He reached the two empty wheelie bins at the front gate, empty since this morning but totally forgotten by everyone. He grabbed one with each handle, peering out into the quiet, spaced out suburban street they occupied. Then he dragged them back with him, around the bulky corner of the house into the lane formed down its side between the rise of the house and a tall wooden fence, a little alley leading into the sizeable rear garden. Scott dragged the bins into place, satisfied by the everyday dullness of the job to round off his comfy evening in. He yawned again, slapping his hands together and reminding himself to wash them thoroughly when he got indoors. Just as he turned, tilting his head back into the front garden and the glow of streetlamps, he caught sight of the big dark silhouette in the front gate, which he’d left ajar. He paused with a horror-movie sensation of oddness, still a little surprised when the figure wasn’t imaginary but tangibly real, sliding across the half-light of the narrow front garden and bypassing the porch, walking in his direction. The only light in this narrow alley of space came from a window two floors above, the bedroom of his elderly grandmother who lived with them. By this faint glow, he caught out the height and breadth and vague facial features of the figure: Harry Maguire appeared a few steps in front of him, dressed in an open zipper hoodie over his tshirt and jeans. He stepped closer into the pool of dim light and Scott caught sight of the almost threatening frown on his rugged features. `Fucking hell,’ McTominay breathed, `you almost gave me a heart attack.’ Harry stood silently a few paces away, just inside the cover of this alley space, pawing at the zip of his open hoodie, then glancing back into the front garden. Scott relaxed from his moment’s fright, confused but pleased to see the big guy for a second time today. He slipped away from the bins and took a step forward in what he hoped was a vaguely welcoming manner, about to ask what was wrong or what he could get for his friend, or- but he saw, in this dim glow of secondhand light, that Harry had reached a hand to the front of his jeans and squeezed the bulge there. Above, Granny McTominay had clearly finished reading for the night, and the dim light went off. Scott heard the rustle and steps as Harry moved forward and his heart leapt into his mouth. A dull and nervous excitement that had built in him in the morning then been carefully boxed away was suddenly awake. For a second he was back on the training pitch or between the two parked cars, seized by the manly smell of sweat and the memories of Marbella. One of Harry’s hand snatched at his shoulder and the other reached for his hand, dragging it in against that bulge. `Harry,’ he gasped quietly. `No talking,’ Maguire snapped, `just what you’re hungry for, Scotty.’ He almost stammered out a response to this; didn’t know if it would have been eager begging or a frantic protest. He reached out and grazed his palms against the jagged zips of the man’s hoodie, taking in a deep breath of his mixed sweat and aftershave. He could sense the man’s violent desperation and erratic mood, feel it in the grabbing hands. He squeezed that bulge, as he’d really wanted to do this morning, but denim was thicker and less sensual than those blue shorts. Still, it felt big, it felt good. `On ya knees,’ growled his captain. `No messin’ around.’ Scott rapidly complied, backing into the alley as shoved, and gliding down, feeling the rough stone flagging scrape his bare knees but, for now, not giving a fuck. He tottered on his knees, his tall stature brought low, and scrabbled at the big belt buckle above the bulge. Harry’s hands were patting, almost slapping, at his shoulders, neck and cheeks. He licked his lips as the belt popped open and then struggled with each button of the fly. `My family’s inside,’ he gasped, as much to himself as his sudden visitor. `Don’t care, you want this. They gonna come outside…?’ `Nah…’ `Then get fuckin’ suckin’.’ Scott’s bleary tiredness was swept away; in the gloomy dark of this side passage, he was wide awake with excitement and terror. He wrenched open the front of those jeans and pressed his face in, nuzzling the thick bulge within through soft cotton. His nose wiggled side to side over the fat length and then he lifted his lips to kiss it through the fabric. He grazed his lip against another zip but tugged the jeans open more and down a bit, grabbing the man’s cock through his undies and looking up, hoping for some glimpse of the dominant desire on his face. He couldn’t make it out, just hear Harry’s heavy breathing. `Hurry up,’ Maguire was growling down at him. He wanted it fast and easy. Scott dragged down the front of those underpants, colour uncertain in the dark, and instantly felt the big thick semi flopping against his mouth. He kissed it, recognising its fat form and picturing himself in the third person, a submitted tall hunk in the crowded shower block. He pictured his bare lithe body knelt before all those yammering blokes, hyped up and excited by the taboo of it. Here and now, he put his lips to the thick tip and eased more of it into his gob. He struggled a bit, partly because he was unsteady in his squat, and partly because Harry was pressing demandingly forward at the same time. He tottered back a little and knocked into an empty bin, almost knocking the line of them over like dominoes. He was saved by Harry’s strong grip on his shoulders, shoving him into the space between two bins so his back pressed into the brickwork. He opened his mouth wider, gladly, taking in the stiffening prick and grabbing and pulling at the loosened jeans as they slid down thick thighs. He tried to control his own gasps and splutters, relaxing his breathing and feeling Maguire’s meat fill up his mouth and throat. Again his eyes rolled upwards, glancing at the dark mersin escort bayan trim of Harry’s pubes, then up the pale front of his tshirt to what he could make of his face. He had his eyes closed and his mouth set into a snarl. Damn, this was so exciting. Even the scratching of bricks on his back, the rough slide of stone against his shins and knees, the slapping movements of Harry’s big hands… so uncomfortable but so thrilling. His cock was getting hard in his shorts, so hard in fact he could feel his tip wet against the material, leaking pre-cum in his sudden whipped-up excitement for something he’d been longing to repeat. Harry groaned again. `Careful, watch your gnashers, lad…’ `Sorry,’ he spluttered, drooling a little and kissing the thick rounded pink-red tip, licking away the foreskin and teasing it, he hoped. `Sorry man, sorry captain…’ `Stop apologising, just SUCK…’ `Yes, skip, yes…’ McTominay didn’t stop to question his submissive excitement here. There was no lost bet, no pride at stake, no excuse for his antics; just the powerful presence of his beloved captain and the wonderful sweaty taste of manhood on his tongue and lips. He took more of it in again, sliding along the pole then back, measuring the groans and twitches of this big brute as he tried to pleasure him. The vague danger of the full house behind crossed his mind again but distantly and incoherently. `You’re hard in your pants,’ Harry noticed aloud. `Yes, skip,’ Scott breathed, holding Harry’s big dick in both hands and circling his tongue on the tip. `Then wank yourself, you greedy cunt,’ Maguire chided him dispassionately. `Yes sir,’ he groaned, pulling his own cock out to play with, feeling its stick leaking on his fingers. He wanked them both, adding licks to his hand-job of his captain. Harry was staring down at him with open eyes, his mouth more smirk than snarl now. He put his mouth to the mighty cock again to suck it, wanking himself more furiously as he did so. Then Harry was taking over a bit, wanking himself instead, though the end of it still brushed his lips and tongues with each jerk. With his other arm, the tall Yorkshireman was leaning to the wall above, so he loomed fully over him, heaving in his clothes. Scott lashed his tongue in and out to meet the wanks of Harry’s majestic length. He reached down to scoop a hand beneath his cock, toying with his own tight bollocks as he wanked his average-sized prick, so conscious of its ordinary size next to this thick rod. Was that where his fascination lay? He’d always been a bit paranoid about his dick size, weirdly fascinated by bigger and smaller ones he noticed in changing rooms, but now… `I’m gonna cum on your face,’ Harry groaned. `Yes skip,’ he agreed. `Do it…’ `All over ya,’ Maguire insisted almost violently. `Please…’ `Get your tongue out…’ `Yes, yes I will…’ `Lick out ready, get ready for it, you hungry slut!’ `Yes skipper, go on…’ `Hmmph, mmmm, oh…’ `Please sir, please chief…’ Harry’s groan might have been too dangerously loud, but he saw him bury his face in against the arm that supported him, but then Scott’s eyes were drawn down as the veiny piece throbbed and burst out with sticky white goo, splashing against his high cheekbones and his fuzzy stubble and his parted lips. It dripped on his tongue and the rich salty taste took him back to Marbella. He’d still been tasting it, Harry’s and whoever else’s goo, on the flight to England the next day. `Yes,’ he panted weakly, `thank you, skipper…’ Harry just groaned more, toying with his cock and draining its load out onto his tongue and lips and the tip of his narrow nose. He felt it trickle down his cheeks and chin. He shivered and reached his own private climax. Cum spilled against both of his shaking hands and, presumably, the stone flagging beneath. He felt drops hit his thighs just above the knees. He whimpered his satisfaction then buried his face in Harry’s crotch to stop himself crying more loudly. He kissed at the rough pubes and the drooping balls and the side of Harry’s still-throbbing erection. `Oh Luke,’ Harry groaned in a long slow noise, `oh baby…’ Scott listened in mild confusion. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d heard correctly and, even if he had, did he mind? Luke Shaw was not a bad-looking boy; could he be offended if this masterful figure fantasised about other United players whilst he tasted his load? Scott felt almost disinterested in his own role here, just obsessed in the moment with pleasing his captain. He drifted back, leaning into the wall, feeling the sticky mess of his face and dreading going back indoors. Harry was pulling back, gasping for air, and forcing his oversized appendage into his pants. Scott reached up with shaky hands to held, adjusting the cum-stained undies and doing up the buttons of his fly. Harry pushed his hands away dismissively to do his own belt buckle then stepped back, almost disappearing n the dark. But amongst his dominant behaviour, a hand was thrust downwards and Scott took hold, glad of the mild gesture of support and kinship. He was dragged to his feet, feeling the warm humidity of the night. `I needed that,’ Harry said vaguely. `I can tell,’ he wheezed. `Erm… thank you…’ `Thanks for what?’ Harry snapped, sounding annoyed. `I didn’t give you anything.’ `Yes you did,’ he mumbled back. `You taste amazing. Thank you.’ He lifted the front of his baggy tshirt to smear against his cheeks and lips. He blinked wearily and followed Harry the few steps down the alleyway, feeling his desperation to getaway. He staggered after him into the front garden, watching his long strides to the still open gate. `Captain,’ he whispered loudly. `This didn’t happen,’ Harry barked back at him, pausing in the gateway. `No,’ Scott agreed. `No it didn’t, boss.’ `Right, yeah,’ Harry agreed. `See you at training, whenever that is.’ And he was gone. Scott vaguely saw him disappear into his big familiar motor a little way down the street. He stood there in his flimsy nightclothes and eventually took slow steps back to the front door, still open a tiny crack. As soon as he pushed it in and entered the hall, he could hear the low muffled voices of a couple of family members back in the lounge, clearly having barely noticed how long it took him to take in the empty bins. He shut the front door behind him and rested against it in a complete daze, shame and smugness fighting for dominance in his overworking brain. But the thoughts could fight on; his senses knew where they stood. He rested on the door, eyes closing, and savoured the taste in his mouth, the salty ooze of that man. Oh yes, he thought, it really did taste so fucking good. Harry signed the autograph with an expression of blank disinterest, then forced a smile at the mini-mart cashier who had served him. She grinned delightedly behind her safety face mask and took the precious signature away from him for her youngest son, allegedly the biggest United fan in the world. He gave her a nod of gratitude and backed out of the small Tesco with his few purchases bunched under his arm, heading over the forecourt towards his parked Land Rover. He tossed the milk and other minor necessities onto the passenger seat with a bounce then paused, leaning on the car door and adjusting the belt and front of his jeans a little uncomfortably. His dick had that sensitivity of over-use; a hard early evening fucking of his fiancée followed by Scott McTominay’s amateurish and tooth-grazing blowjob up against the wheelie bins. He hadn’t even felt that horny tonight, just… oddly provoked. But still, he told himself, he was just following `the rules’. He moved around the front of the car to the driver’s seat, fishing his phone from a pocket of his hoodie, and let himself in. He sat there with the door open enjoying a few breaths of the petrol-stained air and looked at his phone. He opened up his United emails to see if any details of squad training had been firmed up or finalised. Just as he was scanning the generic, uninformative update from the powers that be, a notification pinged over the screen and blocked his view. 1 new message, Luke S. He opened it. `Night night babe. Hope u kno I only fucked DJ cos can’t see you yet. Miss u so much. Xxx’ He stared dully at the sweet message from his beautiful boy and felt a little lurch in his tummy. He’d done nothing wrong, seeing Scott tonight, it was within their little deal, for sure, but… He felt guilty for his possessiveness, his angering jealousy at Luke doing exactly what he’d said he could do. He re-read the message twice and pictured Shaw sending it before bed, or after carefully waiting for his girlfriend to be asleep, probably having thought about it all evening and worried about his smug chuckles down the phone. That lad overthought everything and apologised too much. Harry was overcome with regret for bothering to visit McTominay and for resenting anything his handsome lover got up to without him — but more burningly, he was overcome with a desire to drive to Luke’s right now, rather than home. But that was not possible. `All good, Lukey. Miss u too — soon x’ He hit send and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir