premiership-lads-278

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

Ashley Adams

Subject: Premiership Lads Part 278 Part 278: Temporary Canary There were a lot of things Brandon Williams missed about life at his parent club, Manchester United, but few of them got to him like not seeing his secret boyfriend on an almost daily basis. Waking up and messaging the other young footballer across the country was hardly the same, especially since intense training schedules and alternating away conditions meant that most days the pair of young lovers even struggled to fit in a proper phone-call. Brandon’s visits back to his home city had been few and far between, and though he respected the decision to send him away for a season and let him sharpen his claws in a scrappy relegation battle, the defender’s lovesick pangs occasionally pushed him to resent the loan deal in Norfolk. Today was one of those days. The large master bedroom of his Norwich city-centre apartment felt a bit bleak and lonely, still unfamiliar and unhomely to the 21-year-old defender even after several months here. He’d refused the option of co-habiting with other young players, briefly enjoying the fantasy that his Mason would be down visiting all the time and it’d be great to have some space and privacy… but that had been a pipe-dream for the two lads, really. The short wiry Mancunian pulled himself out of bed and set about his quiet morning routine, turning up the central heating and pulling a fluffy Old Trafford-branded bathrobe over his vest and underpants, warming his slim pale body and making himself a protein shake breakfast whilst bland local news blared on a wall-mounted TV set. Leaning on a shiny soulless breakfast bar and half-watching the screen, Bran picked up and thumbed about with his phone, re-reading some messages from last night and disappointedly finding out that Mase had still yet to reply to him — this he did not resent, knowing how busy Greenwood would be with United’s trip to Watford and their spiralling chances in the league. Finishing his breakfast and running himself a bath, Brandon dully enjoyed the slow start to his day due to a home game, mainly relieved that he wasn’t on an away trip like his pal this weekend — although, he thought, sliding his toned limbs and torso into the frothy water, maybe if he’d had a game in West or North London, he could have figured out some secretive way to link up with the young Manchester striker that he loved, even if only for a brief cuddle. In the bath, the slim Manc scally played with himself, running a hand down his hard tummy, and tugging on his loose warm balls, letting his prick jiggle side to side, stretching and waking as he soaked himself in the pleasant-smelling waters of the tub. He thought longingly of Mason, especially since the clinking chain bracelet that had been his 21st birthday gift from his boy was rubbing at his skin. memories resurfaced: those first experimental encounters that they’d shared in a discreet bedroom, alternating between bouts of FIFA and learning to touch each other… Greenwood just as nervous and unsure as he, but the pair of them relaxing into each other’s private company, and starting to really discover what they liked and wanted. Brandon’s dick was near-hard before he knew it, its tip pink-red as his foreskin stretched back, and he stroked himself with teasing lightness, closing his eyes and letting his head and shoulders sink further back into the warm hug of water- Then jolting upright with a messy splash as his phone vibrated and sang from the sink unit where he’d left it. Hardened cock flopping, Williams lunged out of the tub and almost skidded right over on the tiled floor, catching himself on a rail and snatching up his ringing phone in damp fingers. His heart sank immediately when he found it was not Watford-bound Greenwood on the other end, though he answered instinctively when he might have just ignored it. It was his captain, insisting on giving him a lift to the training ground rendezvous, and cutting right through the relaxed slouch of Brandon’s morning wallow. He responded as politely and patiently as he could down the line, pulling his other damp hand away from his stiff prick, and feeling stupidly self-conscious to be naked and erect while he spoke to the Norwich skipper, Grant Hanley. Call ended, Williams stood there by the sink with soapy suds finding their way down his slim arms and legs, catching on the light blond fuzz of body hair, and he stared accusingly back at the steaming bath-tub, unsure he could be arsed crawling back in and trying to enjoy the soak now that he had a deadline to be ready and waiting for Hanley. The 21-year-old just grunted resentfully, locked his phone and snatched for a towel, his hard-on fading down against his sack. Brandon was someone who found it easy to make new friends, enjoying an easy patter with the club captain on the short country drive to the meet-up, and instantly connecting with several other new pals in the squad as they milled about in tracksuits waiting for the coach that would ferry them over to the stadium itself. Here, Bran put aside the little seed of resentment, because he really was determined to make the most of his season as a Canary, knew full well that he needed to earn his stripes and return to Old Trafford as a serious contender for big Luke Shaw. So the 21-year-old was all confident smirks and low, friendly banter as he circled the clubhouse rooms with a soft drink in one hand an energy snack bar in the other, eventually closing in one of his closer Norwich pals on a low sofa by the windows. `Oi, boyband,’ he barked at the other Norwich player as he flopped down close to Todd Cantwell, referencing the team’s general affectionate mockery of their long-haired pretty boy and his neatly scraped-back goldilocks. Cantwell reached over one hand for a simple palm slap and returned his attention to the phone in his lap, seeming drowsy and comfortable, but happy to be joined. `What’s new, scally?’ Todd returned lightly, not letting his eyes leave the social media he was clearly absorbed in. Bran smirked a bit, always silently critical of what a poser and attention-seeker the admittedly beautiful 23-year-old lad was. `Nowt, nowt. You?’ `Nah, not so much.’ `Right. Great chat.’ `Haha. Fuck off. We’re both boring old fellas here, BW.’ Bran scoffed, shoving a bit at Todd’s arm, but relaxing into his company and craning his neck to survey the rest of the room a bit more. He enjoyed the banter that they shared, and would never do more than joke about Cantwell’s looks and ego — he liked his confidence and his ambition, and would be happy to see the lad move on from this doomed club to get a bit more attention and credit somewhere else. After a moment, Todd finally put away the phone and its apps to talk to him properly, fidgeting about to shove it in the pocket of his shiny green trackies — in doing so, the slightly older player emphasised his full crotch for a minute, an obnoxious green bulge bouncing between his legs as he moved into a more comfortable and sociable position. Brandon worried that his eyes were drawn too obviously to follow it, hardly for the first time. This fucker bounced and jiggled like anything on the pitch, front and back, and Brandon was a sucker for those bargain-bucket-Harry-Styles looks. `Cat got yer tongue?’ remarked Cantwell pointedly, in such a way that Williams really wondered if he’d given away the game this time and ogled too publicly at the midfielder. He tossed the moment aside with a grunted joke back, shuffling a few inches further away on the sofa and resting his arms behind his head with exaggerated disinterest. `You seem out of sorts,’ Todd told him in a kindlier voice. `Missing home?’ That was the thing with Todd, Bran thought: a showy poser on one level, but also a very soft-hearted and genuine lad on the other. Brash celeb parties at his rural pad, but also chilled talkative hangouts and walks on the coast, a really sweet fella and someone Bran knew he’d want to keep in touch with after he inevitably returned to his beloved United. `A bit,’ Brandon said, not wanting to get into it right now. His longing for home was way too specific to risk chatting about: he’d sat in Grant Hanley’s motor all the way here picturing his last fuck with Greenwood, longing for his sweet younger mate and his big brown dick. `Well, don’t ever feel like that alone,’ Todd told him sincerely. `Always give me a bell when you’re lonely, bud, and you are just ALWAYS welcome over at Casa Cantwell, you hear me? Get over to my yard whenever you need it, crash the weekend and take your time. No point being gloomy and on your own down here in beautiful Norwich, right?’ He looked very serious and hopefully, what a babe, but Williams just could not help but start to read TOO MUCH into the offer: what if Todd had actually caught him checking out that saggy green package, and was hinting at…? Williams chided himself for this, stiffening up and nodding vaguely at the kind words. `Yeah, that means a lot,’ he assured the other player, but made no noise about taking him up on it — he was annoyed with his own presumptuous thoughts, both on making wild assumptions about this blatant hetero lad, and also because he was fucking taken! He’d been SO mersin escort careful about behaving himself down here. Girls were different, he reasoned, but he couldn’t have his head turned by no new pretty boys, not when he had the deluxe package waiting for him in the North West! Trying not overthink the very vague undertones of Todd’s kindness, he just changed the subject, making idle chat about today’s clash with Southampton, and the struggling club’s general position near the bottom of the Prem. He spoke about their new manager and different training methods that had begun this month, but Todd was not easily knocked off-course. `Hey,’ the local boy said bluntly, reaching and patting him softly on the knee, `don’t be shy about the homesickness, Manchester kid. It’s fucking real, and we lads need to look out for each other.’ Williams was touched by this, and he paused quietly, feeling Cantwell’s fingers stroke away from his kneecap on the matching shiny green tracksuit. `Right,’ he echoed. `That is really kind of you, mate, but I am fine, I am. Hah, don’t you worry. I’m not like that.’ `If you’re sure,’ Todd told him, leaning back to the other side of the sofa and idly adjusting his hoody and the clingy fit of his trackies — again, for a flash, the prominent bulge in their front was particularly evident, a bouncing protrusion between two resting legs, and Brandon had to drag his hungry eyes away from it. Oh god, he thought, I’ll be watching for that all the way through the sodding game, won’t I? But aloud, he thanked and praised his mate again, and made further efforts to change the topic — very relieved when a couple more Norwich players drifted this way to join them at their vantage point, flopping down into the space that divided their green-clad legs, crashing into the quiet intimacy of Tod”s offers and assurances. Surrounded by this new noise, Williams looked away to compose himself, batting away the image of how well-endowed his mate was, and trying to stop himself from needless analysis of these kind gestures from the renowned bachelor… Unfortunately, this little moment with Cantwell wasn’t the only challenge to Brandon’s focus and loyalty that came that Saturday in the build-up to the Southampton game — neither incident was particularly difficult or important, but both combined to make Williams restless and frustrated when the match itself came around. This wasn’t totally a bad thing, as it helped him to enter his left-back position full of unspent energy and extra aggression, contributing well to their 2-1 win and earning one of three yellow cards for his defensive enthusiasm… but the problem was more personal and professional, with his cock threatening to bust into a hard-on at random moments throughout the 90 minutes and in the changing rooms afterwards! The Todd incident was easily brushed aside, because the Dereham lad was always half-flirty in his showy friendliness, and it wasn’t hard for Bran to convince himself that there had been nothing but friendly earnest in the invites — plus, as attractive as the lean blond was, he was somehow not QUITE his type, even with his boyband looks, pert bottom and visible bouncing bulge. The bigger issue for Williams came later in the day on their boisterous coach trip over to the stadium. He tactically avoided ending up sat with Cantwell, JUST IN CASE he felt his lonely eyes wander in the wrong direction too much; with this in mind, he muscled his way down the aisle to perch somewhere else, hoping to end up actually alone, dragging himself past Gibson and Pukki and Krul. Bran took an aisle seat in one of the back rows, hoping his obstinate choice would stop another lad from trying to join him — he could do with a brief bit of alone time, albeit on a crowded coach, to get his head back in the game! And for a moment it worked: ratty Scottish youth and fellow loan visitor Billy Gilmour stalked awkwardly past after glancing curiously at the spare window seat, heading for the back row instead, it had the same effect on Rupp and Sargent. But the fourth player to join him at this position looked hard past him at the spare seat, frowned impatiently, and then told him what for. `Shift over, will ya?’ But then, when Brandon took a moment too long to react, the other Norwich defender bustled in closer and made to move right over him for the spare seat: this, to Brandon’s immediate alarm, involved the other young athlete gripping the seat in front and swinging himself into seated position towards the window space. And in doing so, the nylon-clad globes of one of the most perky and rounded backsides in the whole of Norfolk came sliding gracefully over Bran’s lap, clashing on his thighs and briefly surrounding his neatly packed semi. For a slow-mo awful moment, the other player was pretty much sat on his lap, and even then as he moved further over and leapt into the free seat, he was bent over with his rump stuck in the air, round and beautiful and the most visible wedgie of green nylon eaten up between those cheeks. Max Aarons huffed irritably as he made himself comfortable in the seat, but he had a jovial look on his face as he elbowed him and rolled his eyes. `Now, you coulda just moved over, couldn’t you?’ the 21-year-old Londoner demanded with jokey severity, fiddling with his seatbelt. Williams was still briefly stunned by the experience, but just like when caught looking at Todd’s bulge, he acted fast to shake it off and appear uninterested or unaffected. `Okay, I was hoping for extra leg room, alright?’ he said with an exaggerated sulky air, elbowing the right-back and wiggling about to reclaim his space, the two defenders trying to get comfortable without bashing and brushing into one another as the coach growled into motion below their arses. `Leg room? You’re fucking tiny!’ And Max talked on, in that quick boyish way he had, while Bran mentally recovered from the beautiful sight of his big bottom and the feel of it rubbing over him like that. Now, Aarons WAS his type, he’d had to admit to himself, a similar gorgeous caramel brown to his Mase, though far less gangly and erect — the London-born defender was a reasonable 5ft10, but thickset and low-slung, a good heavy build for his footballing position. And god, Bran thought, what an arse he had on him. Sometimes, spying it in the showers, he’d had to actually shut his eyes and count to 20 to stop himself fantasising. After all, he’d had to confess inwardly, he still had those little curiosities that his sex with Mason had not yet allowed. He’d teased at his desire to swap positions with his top, of course, but he’d always sensed that Greenwood wasn’t quite there yet, and since he loved being tupped by the striker, he’d hardly rocked the boat and pushed for breaking him in — not even after that silly incident where his Mason had almost got into big trouble in Iceland with City’s Foden. But back in the present, cherub-faced Aarons was giving him a hard stare and nudging him for a response. He repeated himself, apparently, asking Brandon whether he was such a fussy brat on the Man United coach with those lot, and then he burst into nervy laughter until Bran fully adjusted to the dialogue and bantered back with him, trying not to think about how perfect his buttocks really were. Buttocks that he soon found himself catching delightful glimpses of on the pitch at Carrow Road, as regularly as he had to see that bulge in Todd’s shorts, the three youngsters all integral to a big Norwich performance as they snatched vital league points from the visiting Saints — and though his sexual frustration helped the Manc lad to perform well in aggressive defence, it also made him hyper and anxious, over-reacting to challenged and almost turning his yellow card into a red. Despite the win, he found himself nudged aside by a senior coach in the victorious aftermath and warned that teams other than Man Utd couldn’t get away with such dirty tactics in front of biased refs — he needed to watch himself and work on his professionalism. The brief talking-to, though friendly and constructive, did sting a bit, and it somewhat soured Brandon’s enjoyment of the locker-room atmosphere once he was joining the lads there and peeling away his brightly coloured jersey like everyone else. Still, he accepted a cold beer and sat on a bench with his top off, his developing torso on show and his dirty-blond fringe hanging above his frowning eyes. You’re just missing your lad, he reminded himself, trying not to take anything too seriously. He was hoping to be reunited with Greenwood soon, was waiting for their schedules to align and a convenient couple of days back at the family home in Greater Manchester, that’s all. He wasn’t really THAT into any of the lads here — although the sight of Teesider Ben Gibson bouncing past in just saggy white briefs, being hugged and slapped by Scotsman McLean briefly tested that, as did a glimpse of Grant Hanley naked with a towel over his shoulder, belly-laughing at the chants and song of Finnish Teemu Pukki. No, he thought, this lot aren’t anything special, I just need my Mase. He did his best to join in the cheery mood of the day, taking his quiet shower once there was less of a rush, escort mersin and making his way up to the stadium’s hospitality bar where the new management regime were putting on some victory drinks for the fellas — though as soon as he was up there, itching under the formal white shirt and club-branded suit that they’d been asked to wear, he wondered if he would really stick around for long. Try as he might, he just wasn’t in the mood, and he suddenly just wanted to be in Watford with his real team, helping to turn things around for poor embattled Solksjaer. He bought time with a weak gin, keeping a slight distance from the more vocal and party-minded members of the Norwich squad, the bar gradually filling up as more of them emerged from downstairs to crowd the bar and toast the win — some must still be downstairs getting changed, he surmised, and perhaps the manager and his closest advisors were still enjoying some post-match analysis for now. Brandon supped his weak drink and then fiddled instinctively with the cuffs of his shirt and blazer, feeling something odd and unexpected about his left wrist for a moment — oh, he realised, no bracelet. He wore the gift almost all the time, after all, but never to play football, and somehow he’d left the prized item in his locker whilst hurrying to dry and dress after his shower, determined not to check out the big naked goalkeeper Tim Krul who was positioned next to him in the Home changing rooms. Bugger, he thought, putting down his glass and making a quiet exit to head down and fetch it. Working his way back down through the stairways and halls of the football stadium, Bran was fully aware that the bracelet was just a handy excuse. It would be safe enough in the open locker, their personal effects generally were, and he’d just get it back via one of the team handlers who always picked up after sloppy pro footballers. But retrieving the important gift allowed him to partly ignore the fact he was blatantly ditching the event and heading back to his apartment so he could pop the Utd-Watford game on Sky Sports and hope for an exciting glimpse of his teammate and lover in action; better yet, give Mason a call to celebrate him after the travelling Devils beat their hosts! On such mildly embarrassing personal excitement, Williams moved quietly back into the seemingly deserted Home changing rooms, surprised that they were empty after all and the bulk of the squad must be already upstairs having a bevvy. On the way in, the young player fiddled with the blazer more, and with the knot of his green-and-yellow striped tie; even at 21, Williams felt like a schoolboy in formalwear, and felt his diminutive stature was emphasised by slightly oversized men’s suits next to the average tall and strapping players he associated with. The 5ft6 scally was much happier in baggy tracksuits and summery clobber, he felt like a chav on his way to his first court trial. On his beeline for his locker, a noise made Brandon pause. He was moving through one of the partitioned changing areas, heading for the long side of the room where he and many others had changed into their formalwear not so long ago; the air was still thick with anti-perspirant and aftershave, and the sweaty fug of so many athletic bodies. Dirty kit was strewn on the floor at awkward angles, and a little hot steam still clung and condensed on surfaces, still rolling out of the communal shower blocks towards the other end. It was instinct rather than suspicion that made him stop, rather than just carry on and make a more open effort to see who was left here. Brandon was a secretive kinda lad, for obvious reasons, and it was second nature to him to pause and be a bit more discreet with his presence… which was how he ended up resting his hand against the partition and edging slightly to the corner so he could look beyond it, and seeing… Well, in a way, all he was seeing was two of his teammates, left behind in the changing rooms and taking a bit too long to be ready. On the surface. But the body language screamed at full volume. There was Max, he of the perfect bottom, stood with a crisp white towel knotted tightly at his waist, his developing arms and chest on show, smooth and brown and muscular; and in front of him, ever so slightly shorter but for the knot of blond hair tied up above his head, was Todd, bringing one pale hand up to stroke down the side of the other lad’s bare arm. Their faces were locked in eye contact, and their whispers were clumsily loud enough to hear. `Don’t,’ shuddered Aarons, `you’ll get me going.’ `What if that’s what I want?’ demanded Cantwell. Bran could only stop and stare, one palm pressing tightly to the partition and the other hand clenched in a nervous fist at his side. Ahead of him, clear despite the steamy haze, the two other young Canaries were sliding into a slow quiet embrace. Todd had pulled on his starchy white shirt, but it hung open down his lean muscled front, and the cuffs were loose and unbuttoned about his hands — his hands, which stroked up and down Max’s arm and side and then cradled his head as the two lads moved ever so close and then… the kiss was slow and tender, pouting lips brought together in tentative pecks before a slow deep snog of contained passion. Whoa. `Mmm, Toddy…’ `You always taste so good, Maxi baby…’ Close touches, wet kisses, baby talk. The midfielder and defender cuddled close, hands roving, and Brandon carried on watching in spite of himself. He knew he ought to back off and pretend he had seen nothing. He could creep and retreat from the locker-room just as softly as he’d arrived, and this secretive pair could be none the wiser for his presence… but his body and his eyes were resisting such logic and kindness. He bit his lip and uncurled his fist, found his hand reaching to the crotch of his suit pants quite aggressively. As Todd’s white shirt was peeled away from his rippling shoulder muscles, Bran did nothing to sneak away. If anything, he leaned more directly at the corner, crouching into the thin pillar and training his narrowed eyes on the sultry sight. The shirt fell to the floor and then Max’s fingers were scratching across those pale back muscles, scratching little red lines into his wintry skin; in response, Todd was pushing the stockier lad back into the wall of lockers and kissing his neck, and over that white shoulder Max’s gasping face, eyes squeezed tightly shut, was beautifully visible. But then they were moving away, disappearing momentarily from sight. Todd was push Max quite eagerly against clattering locker doors, and unself-conscious giggles were bursting from both the local lad and the younger Londoner. Without logic or caution, Brandon followed. He edged around the corner, unable to stop pawing at his semi through his suit pants, finding himself behind a parallel partition and following the clumsy progress of the couple. Max’s damp towel made a soft thump as it hit the floor tiles, and there it was: that glorious peachy arse, so pert and round, and now grasped luxuriously by Todd Cantwell. Bran had a full view of Aarons from behind, the ripple of every cocoa muscle, not least the glutes, held and fondled and kissed by Cantwell. When Max pushed Todd back into the bench, Bran had to pull back a little and limit his own view. But he coul still risk crouching enough at the corner pillar that he could see a halved silhouette of the action: the slim Norfolk bugger pressed back into the wall and seated on the bench, his pinstripe boxer briefs dragged past his knees. The London defender on his knees, bare arse pushing back, and face stooping down into the bulging crotch that Brandon had stared at earlier on. As Aarons fellated him, Cantwell moaned and gasped in a showy manner that was unsurprising but oh-so-exciting. Williams couldn’t help himself, even in this dangerous position. He unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock, jerking it to hardness while holding himself carefully in position, watching the bisected view of the steamy blowjob on the bench, fascinated and lusty. He bit his lip and flared his nostrils and fisted his stiff cock, enjoying every second of the private show that was revealed to him! Then it was pausing, no more wet slurping, but more kissing — Todd leaning down and holding Max’s head between both hands, angling their faces so that they could snog properly, all of that blond hair coming undone from its topknot. Their bodies and limbs interlocked. They rolled out and then back into sight, making Bran crouch back nervously, dick in hand. Then, with wet slapping footsteps, they were moving further from him, disappearing into the echoey space of the showers. It felt a decisive moment, but Brandon made the risky decision, and followed, shifting himself to the expect spot where he’d just seen one lad suck off the other… kneeling on the little length of bench right beside the archway into the showers, holding himself there and staring into the darker steamier space, treated to the sight of both naked lads grabbing at each other against the far wall. A new conflict pressed at Brandon as he played with himself and let his eyes grow accustomed to the dimmer shadows of the space the lovers mersin escort bayan now occupied. He should clear his throat and announce himself. It was only polite. And… well, they were both flirty fuckers, and good mates of his, so maybe… whatever they had going on, they might still be… open to some… fun? Brandon clenched his teeth and squeezed at the base of his cock. But what about Greenwood? Loyalty or not, the moment seemed to pass. It was too late to make his presence known. He’d seen too much, it was too obvious and voyeuristic. And yet… still, he couldn’t back off, zip his cock away, scuttle out of the changing rooms and leave them to it. Not yet. Not now… oh god, yes… Not now that Max was facing the tiles of the wall, arms splayed above him and shoulders tensed. His back arched a little, pressing that beautiful big arse backwards, slapped and fondled and groped by both of Todd’s hands. There was no doubting the position the lads were getting into. He could see Todd’s slimmer arse too, pale and clenched, and he couldn’t quite make out his dick, but he knew it was rock hard and being angled between the tops of the defender’s solid thighs. As he watched one lad mount the other, Williams very nearly gasped out in lust and gave himself away. Somehow he swallowed that noise, but couldn’t quite stop the fap fap fap sound of his own damp erection, wanking himself silly as he squinted into the shadows and watched it happen. Like Williams, Aarons was doing his best to make the minimum noise — some scrap of caution and discretion remained for the Canary lovebirds. In fact, Bran saw Todd reach up and cover his lover’s mouth protectively, especially as his body began to gyrate and thrust. Cantwell fucked the other lad into the wall whilst holding him tenderly, kissing the back of his skin-fade hairline and snogging the top of his spine. Both lads rippled with lean muscle under smooth young skin, gorgeous and a little glossy. Breathy moans leaked from the shower block and reached Brandon’s protruding little ears, reached his lust mind. `Fuck me, fuck me baby,’ he heard the London-born defender gasp — even gentle noises echoed in there. `Yes,’ came Todd’s grunted replies, `oh yes, take it all, take my dick babe, mmmph-!’ Harder and harder the United player wanked, utterly hypnotised. This was ridiculous. If the other two young men shifted position or glanced this way, they would easily see him silhouetted against the lighter space of the lockerroom, and his voyeuristic wank would be exposed. Worse still, he knew, somebody else could come creeping into the Home changing area just as he had, and catch him at it, jerking off and watching the sordid shag between Max and Todd. Their lithe bodies buckled and shook, and their gasps became more riskily loud as they forgot everything but each other. Todd slapped into that chubby arse with rhythm and snogged deeply at the sides of Max’s neck. Fucking hell — Brandon was already close to blowing his load. He so wanted to rush in and join them. He could suck Max off whilst the beautiful lad took it up the bum from Todd, or he could take his place and spread his own cheeks for the charismatic Norfolk guy. Better still, he fantasised, maybe he could share in the real action, and try fucking a lad’s arse for the first time, pushing himself into that gorgeous buoyant backside! But that specific fantasy brought him back to thoughts of his Greenwood, and his desperate loyalty to his long-distance boyfriend — although not quite enough to make him calm down and retreat. No, he stayed and he watched, his eyes fixated irretrievably on the action in the dark: Max juddering and squealing, pushed harder and harder into the wall by the motion of Todd’s body, his mane of beautiful hair flopping and dancing as he picked up speed and force and really fucked his younger friend. Bran’s head was a whirl of questions about how long this had been going on, and what exactly existed between the good-looking pair — was it anything like his own secret affair? Was there a tender love here just like he shared with Mase? That question brought waves of guilt that mixed with the orgasmic peak of his masturbation. It was with a surge of regret that he spilt his juices down the front left leg of his suit trousers, emptying tight balls and forcing himself to suppress a climactic moan. Pleasure and discomfort mixed dizzyingly for him and he leant his body to the wall, knees aching against the bench, while in front of him Todd just got faster and noisier, fleshy slaps sounding with each thrust of his narrow hips and clenched butt. Reeling away, Williams heard rather than saw the climax of the 23-year-old’s action — he heard a stream of swear words breaking through into muttered repetition of Max’s name, and knew that the Norwich hero had spilled himself inside that beautiful bottom. More muffled noises came from Max, and then Todd’s urgent voice: `Turn around, let me suck you off, I need to taste you!’ All of it echoed dangerously from the shower block, and the two lovers were so absorbed in themselves that Brandon barely made an effort to creep as he escaped the lockerrooms, pushing his stiffy away and zipping up his fly, feeling prickles of sweat on his face and in his fringe. He stopped only to pick up a spare soggy towel and use it to sponge away streaks of cum from his trouser leg, pausing once more to listen to a subdued squeal of pleasure as (presumably) Aarons shot his load on Todd Cantwell’s hungry tongue. Williams fled the stadium without a brief appearance at the drinks upstairs, summoning an Uber and escaping away in its backseat, ashamed of himself for perving on his mates like that, and dubiously relieved that he hadn’t tried to get involved — at least he had remained loyal and touched nobody but his Greenwood! The effects of the single beer and the risqué experience made him dizzy and clumsy all through the Uber ride home, and even once he was back in his flat, he couldn’t bear to read any of the messages from teammates demanding to know where he’d gone. Among them, he realised, was an eventual text from Todd, asking if he was still at Carrow Road and would join him and Max for a pint elsewhere after, bit of a lads’ night out on the town…? The temporary Canary grimaced at this and turned off his phone. He spent the night unable to concentrate on a Netflix box set, and fell asleep to feverish dreams of faraway lover, wishing he was back in Manchester and able to grasp Greenwood with the passion he’d secretly observed just now in Norwich. Oh, if only! Sunday dawned, and whilst Norwich players and fans could largely bask in the temporary glory of yesterday’s win, it was a different story for the Manchester United team and crowd that had stayed overnight in chilly Watford. Whilst Brandon woke up in his Norwich apartment to a mixture of guilty regret and relative relief at not having strayed, his boyfriend came to in a bleakly corporate hotel suite that sounded with the muffled hiss of the nearby motorway, and smelled of the bleak defeat of 4-0. Just like his Norwich-based lover, Mason Greenwood’s often first thought was at the absence of his beloved, not that the young pair had often been able to wake up together in reality — except occasionally on just this kind of away trip to another part of England. And so naturally, one of Greenwood’s first thoughts was one of slight loneliness and disappointment, knowing that he couldn’t roll over and see the beautiful features of his skinny scally boy. Half-asleep still, the striker could smile to himself imagining such a prospect, and longing for the imminent opportunities of Christmas time, where surely they could find a way to reunite…? But then something else struck the 20-year-old forward: the oppressive reality of yesterday’s big loss, and the consequences it must surely bring for their beloved head coach Ole, a club legend. But… not just that. Mason began to blink his sleepy eyes, shifting his tall slim body against the musty sheets, scratchy and cheap on his smooth skin… shifting onto his front, face to the pillow, and then pausing with his palms pressed to the mattress. Very slowly, not quite sure he wanted to confront Sunday’s reality and the aftershock of yesterday’s league loss, Mason began to turn his head to the right, across the other side of the hotel double bed. Still lying on his front, with his arms brought up close against his bare sides, Greenwood allowed his fuzzy eyes to open, and he stared into the occupied other half of the double, confirming that last night had not been a dream or nightmare after all. Not the game and the 4-0 result, not the tensions and confrontations after, and not… this. The 20-year-old’s heart rate increased and his breath came out in anxious morning huffs against his pillow. Once again, the striker thought of his boyfriend, waking up in a bed in East Anglia, but not now with lust and longing, but with horrible deep-seated guilt. He stared more openly at the rest of the bed, the way the duvet had been rolled and pushed about halfway down, exposing much of the huge tanned body that occupied the space next to him, an expanse of sun-browned muscle that looked like something chiselled by a classical deity. There next to him in the Watford hotel bed lay Cristiano Ronaldo, statuesque even in sleep. Beneath the duvet, Mason’s arse clenched and his hole stung, and he made a dismal face of realisation. Oh fuck, what he done?!

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

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *