premiership-lads-204

23 Ağustos 2022 Kapalı Yazar: analsex

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

Amateur

Subject: Premiership Lads part 204: No Scotland, No Party Part 204: `No Scotland, No Party’ In a hotel in Belgrade, the celebrations were in full-swing. The men were wild drunk and raucous as they performed a clumsy conga about the conference room of the small city-centre hotel they had commandeered for their Thursday night trip into Serbia. Loungewear was stained with spilled bear and faces were red with heat and passion and drunkenness, and social distancing was an alien concept as the rugged footballers tousled at one another in the snaking dance move, chanting out the name of their chosen hero: `Daaaavid Marshall…!’ Tonight’s down-to-the-wire win over the Serbian hosts had just bought the Scotland team entry to their first major tournament in over two decades, and the lads were rightly jubilant in their third hour of celebration, a festive chaos that had started in the guest changing rooms of the Red Star Stadium and quickly spilled via coach into their accommodation. The snaking conga rapidly broke apart, since nobody was quite sober enough to coordinate it, with the chanted hero himself sinking into a nearby seat and shaking his head humbly as he absorbed the spectacle of their achievement. Marshall’s heroics in the net had combined with the shots of several men here and they had beaten their opponents at the last possible moment when Fulham striker Mitrovic had failed Serbia. Of course, the other hero of the hour was Ryan Christie, who had scored the single goal that forced a draw and penalty shoot-out — while 35-year-old Marshall was sedate and humble about his part in the win, the fiery younger midfielder was the centre of attention, arms draped around two teammates as he tried to initiate an imbalanced can-can for the next victory song. The lads’ captain leaned back against the frame of one big doorway, needing to support himself for a moment while he surveyed the rampant joy of his players, cradling a thick bottle of some local ale in both hands. Andy Robertson’s rugged hairy cheeks ached from the splitting smile that had crossed his face from the minute the final penalty was saved, and the win was secured. Scotland were heading to next summer’s Euros and would face off against England in the first round. To have accomplished this only months after another history achievement with Liverpool, Robertson was drained and dizzy at his own glee, never mind the booze he’d pouring into his wiry body for the past few hours. Detached for a moment from the chaos of the Scotch celebration, Andy slid a phone from the pocket of his tight old jeans and checked the thread of WhatsApp messages with `The Ox’. He re-read the earlier good luck sentiments with a fond grin and then the over-the-top capitalised encouragement sent mid-game when Alex knew he’d never read it, followed by the ecstatic, emoji-filled congratulations messages and voice-notes. Obviously, his phone had trembled with notifications, and many of his Liverpool comrades had been quick to celebrate his team, from adorable Trent to monosyllabic Hendo, but it was Oxlade-Chamberlain’s sweetly laddish support that he kept returning to and feeling a tingling in his chest and his bollocks. He looked at the last message and laughed aloud, shaking his head at Alex’s openness: `No worries if u need to celebrate with some1 else 2night, if u know wot I meaaaaaaan lol’ — wink, thumbs up, aubergine, peach. Yeah Ox, he chuckled inwardly, I know what you mean, you dirty lovely kindhearted bastard! He shook himself, part of him dismissing that gesture of freedom and craving the thick muscular body of his injured teammate, so rarely experienced in recent months, but the red-blooded Scotsman in him knowing that he would need to do just that. So much pressure to release. `To the Euros, skipper,’ chimed the brash accent of his young pal as the Scotland national team’s other big Premiership ace lumbered over, clashing a bottle of some cheap Serbian lager into his, and gripping him briefly by the shoulder before leaning heavily into the frame. `To us all,’ Robertson suggested, throwing an arm up around the lean shoulders of the younger defender, giving Kieran Tierney a brotherly squeeze and enjoying the bright happiness on the 23-year-old’s face, so distant from the stormy moods he’d seen from him not so long ago, before their last catch-up. `What a fucking night, laddie, what a fucking night…!’ Tierney grinned dimly at him, eyes already glassy with the dizzy happiness of too much to drink. Robertson ruffled his short dark hair and hugged him closer for a moment, full of affection for the hard worker and Premiership rival. They both turned to look at the madcap antics of the other men, several now trying to enact a poorly synchronised macarena while others had literally toppled to the floor, lounged about the increasingly scruffy carpet knocking back booze, or propped up by the windows where harsh rain lashed at the glass and darkness obscured their supposed view of the Serbian capital. `Still can’t believe it,’ slurred Kieran cheerily. Andy pinched him jokily on the arm and then patted his back. `Better believe it, kid, here we go,’ he said, repetition making his sincerity sound less powerful. He had to hold back a little bursting yawn, as wiped out as anyone else by the build-up and execution of the game, the hurried preparations and explosive climax of it all. And to think in a couple of days they were back in action with the Nations League, two more international fixtures before they had to separate to their day-jobs. His heart thrilled at it but his battered body just twinged and ached. `Hey, Robbo?’ came the younger lad’s mumbling voice next to him. `Aye?’ wheezed Andy, tearing his eyes away from the amusing sight of John McGinn giving a jokey lapdance to their hero goalkeeper, and looking over at the pasty drunken face of the Arsenal left-back. `You alright there, Kier?’ `Bit too drunk, ah think,’ grumbled Tierney, looking for a moment like he might puke. `Here,’ Robertson laughed quickly, slipping a bare forearm about his waist and supporting him, `let’s get you back to your room, shall we…? Jeez, how much have you actually had, lad…’ He laughed warmly and helped Tierney upright, feeling the strong youngster lean heavily into his body as they turned to exit the conference room and cross the quiet communal space towards the corridors of rooms clogged up with excited Scotsmen for the night. Scott McTominay shook his drooping equipment, ready to sidle away from the pair of urinals in the small communal bathroom close to the conference space of the hotel upstairs, irritated already by his weak bladder once the `seal’ was broken on a night of drinking. He was just pushing his prick back inside his boxer shorts when he felt a presence close by and heard the soft thud of the door as another bloke muscled in here and appeared at the urinal next to him, a fell almost as tall as himself. Aha, look who it was! As drunk as anyone else, McTominay brought his right hand slapping against the back of the big guy’s tshirt, brimming with pride and affection for the ageing goalkeeper who had seen them safely through the penalties. `You know you’re gonna be a national hero forever now, mate,’ the Lancaster-born midfielder informed him thickly, still fumbling at his cock with the other hand and lingering at the pair of urinals now. `Let’s not get carried away!’ Marshall assured him happily, busying himself with the front of his sweatpants and turning his head to grin this way as he unfurled; Scott, standing as tall as he did, couldn’t help but glance over the porcelain divide and down into the bowl of the other urinal, seeing the Scottish goalie’s manhood loosened between his fingers and directed to piss heavily into the white cave. `Not getting carried away,’ the honorary Scotsman told him eagerly. `You’re the fuckin’ best, man, everyone knows it, and you proved it.’ He slapped him on the back again excitedly, making him shift a little from one foot the other, his dick slipping for a moment and jetting its golden spray against the wall rather than the porcelain bowl. `Oi,’ David laughed gruffly, correcting his balance, `don’t disturb a man doing his business…’ `Sorry,’ Scott giggled back, `but you have to aim carefully with a weapon like that…’ `Er, thanks!’ the Scotland no.1 responded uncertainly, covering his hesitation with one of his deep booming laughs, squaring his big shoulders and looking back at his own never-ending stream of piss, a slight colour rising in his cheeks. Scott, made bold by drink, stared quite openly down beside him, and left his right hand resting against the strong upper back of the 6ft3 `keeper. `Nah, seriously, look at it,’ he allowed himself to chuckle in a slow, slurred fashion, glad that drunken bonhomie could at least partly veil his perving. Even as a less official Scotsman than most players on this trip to Serbia, he was overcome with pride at what the men had achieved here in Belgrade and, in all honesty, he was just randy as fuck after every match anyway. The downside to being here away from home was not having the reliable playmate of that cheeky little Welsh brat to room with. `Fuck off,’ sniggered big broad Marshall, his piss tinkling on, `or you’ll have my head too big to walk out of this lavvy, mate…’ The Derby goalkeeper turned to look at him again, that adorable blush visible on his rugged older features, normally so stern and serious. `Never mind yer head,’ teased Scott, `you’ll struggle to get THAT out… haha…’ `Jesus,’ muttered the Glaswegian under his breath, sounding embarrassed. `Hero, like I said,’ sighed the United man, rubbing his hand gently across the huge expanse of Marshall’s back muscles, not leaving the discrete position of their urinals, where his left hand still rubbed idly at himself through the open fly of his cargo shorts, his cock becoming a little stiff and awake in the patterned boxer shorts. `We all owe ya big time, Marsh,’ he said in a quick, drunken whisper, not taking his right hand off the warm bulging shoulder muscles, moving his fingers up a little to tickle past the tshirt’s collar and brush his nape. `We all owe ya so much, would do anything to thank ya, actually…! You got us into the Euros, fuck!’ `Well hardly just me,’ David muttered, shaking his equipment with both hands, making Scott’s eyes flicker and follow its chubby dance before he began to push it back in. As he did this, Scott pressed more firmly into his upper back and took his leap of excited faith. `Aww,’ he whispered, `don’t put the hero away, was enjoying that.’ `You daft fucker,’ Marshall giggled back at him, pausing with his thumbs hooked into his waistband. `Anything,’ Scott whispered to him. `Do ANYTHING to thank ya, our fuckin’ hero…’ He licked his own lips, rubbed his hand meaningfully over those broad shoulderblades, then jerked his head to the side, nodding to the open cubicle doors beyond them along one side of the small bathroom, and the little world of privacy they offered. He met David’s eyes, saw the deep surprise and indecision of them. He grinned optimistically into possible humiliation, too drunk to care. John McGinn skipped along after another hero of the night, giddy with their international breakthrough and hyperactive with the prospect of Euros football next summer. He slugged the last of the beer from the bottle as they reached the room and bundled in, driven on by the quest for supplies — the beer cases in the conference room had finally ran out and though the party was dwindling as more sensible footballers and coaching staff retired to their suites, some of the most excitable young men had no intention of stopping. `Where did fuckin’ Tierney get to?’ the leader of their little reccy crew demanded, hunkered down in front of the mini-bar to raid its supplies, as suggested by McGinn when the festivities had started to quieten through in the main room. As something of a favourite of their coach, he’d happily volunteered to have his room trashed for the boozy miniatures on offer, knowing he would get in less trouble than some of these other fellas, especially sexy Ryan Christie who was now tossing bottle after bottle to the them all from the fridge he raided. Christie, despite being a hero for his goal and passion tonight, had a terrible reputation for trouble and McGinn was glad to rescue him from more fuss by being the one to run up a stupid bill on his room. `No idea,’ grunted one of the other lads, mixing a whiskey mersin escort miniature and a small can of Diet Coke in a teacup on the table by the wall. Ryan Jack seemed even more drunk than any of them, spilling half of the soft drink over the tabletop and then slurping noisily from the teacup of poorly mixed drink, until the fourth member of their raiding crew muscled over to help him out with his hands full of supplies from the fridge. Callum Patterson boomed with laughter as he topped up Jack’s drink with more Coke and then set about mixing three more cups of whatever liquor he could snatch. McGinn had slumped down onto the bed, his bed, glancing for a second over at the other and noting that, like Kieran, Scott had rather vanished from the fun in the past half hour. No sign of him here though, so fuck knows where the lanky bugger had passed out tonight! The 26-year-old Aston Villa player loved being out here with the boys, especially since it took him away from mooning longingly over Jack Grealish and wishing his club captain would just fuck him senseless. He glanced admiringly at Ryan Jack and big Callum, gruff and laddish as they were, and then at Christie himself, dropping down on the bed beside him drinking neat vodka from a miniature bottle, yawning and wretching at the taste at the same time. Sexy fucker, John thought, picturing him in his Scotland kit earlier on, or down to his briefs in the changing rooms, almost giving McGinn an exposing boner as he bounced about and hugged everyone with force. Ugh, just look at him. McGinn was passed a teacup of randomly mixed drink by Patterson, but he didn’t take his eyes off Christie, the tight fit of his long-sleeve tshirt and the way his skinny trackies clung to his lazily folded legs. What a sexy bastard, the rabidly horny midfielder thought about his 25-year-old friend and fellow Glaswegian, wanting him badly. He sipped the noxious cocktail Patterson had prepared him, and let his eyes rove from drunken Christie to the other two — the way big Ryan Jack kept pulling at the front of his sweatpants to rearrange himself and the side-profile of Callum’s big rear in matching tight-fitting navy trackies to Christie’s. McGinn was instantly hard in his pants, feeling his cock tremble and push at his undies and shorts, full of drunken lust and appetite for his teammates. Patterson and Jack were bantering loudly about the distant prospect of their home nations clash with England in the Euros, naming which famous English players they were most excited to tackle and injure for the pride of Scotland, including his own darling Grealish, who they dismissed as a `poser’, a `show-off’, and a `total fanny’. To stop himself getting too possessive or defensive about his Villa captain, John looked back to the left at the closer Ryan: the 25-year-old goal-scorer had fopped back against the bed with his knees bent over the edge. As he sprawled out, his jersey top rode up from his waist and a good few inches of pale midriff were visible between it and the hem of his exposed Hugo Boss undies. John licked his lips as he enjoyed this view, looking at the little furry patch signalling the borderland of his pubic hair, the rising mound in the dark blue fabric below it. It was a madness that made him reach out and touch it. Well, nothing felt real tonight, here in Belgrade — the win and the drunken rowdiness in the hours since just felt like a happy dream. And if he was in a happy dream, why shouldn’t he have what he wanted? Grinning foolishly to himself, McGinn leaned over and brushed his fingers over first that bared strip of skin, and then onto the rising bulge in the nylon, stroking what was clearly the outline of the hunky Celtic lad’s nob. There was no immediate reaction from Ryan, who was so comfortably sprawled out here beside him. John ran his hand over it a bit more firmly, enjoying the chubby swell of it below the material, then let his palm rest again on the exposed band of toned skin above it. He turned his body a little to look up Ryan’s torso to the contented smile on his face, his eyes half-closed. He was looking this way and smirking. The smirk feeling like solid consent, McGinn danced his fingertips again over that Boss waistband and onto the lumpen surface of the trackies, enjoying the feel of it. He grinned back at Christie, then took the next risk, sliding his fingers in between undies and trackies and feeling the big soft shape more clearly between the layers. He heard the little gasp of reproval, the sudden lull in brash chat, signalling that the other two had seen what he was doing. Still gripped by a madness, he carried on regardless, fumbling his hand down the front of those tight Scotland tracksuit bottoms, testing out the size and weight of the dormant thing in Christie’s undies, then leaning a little closer as he did so. `McGinn,’ he heard Ryan Jack bark abruptly. `Lads,’ came Callum Patterson’s soft rugged voice, more laughing and disbelieving than shocked. `What are yas…?’ `Ah, leave it,’ came Christie’s lazy authority where he lay, and John felt one of the other player’s hands rest lightly on his lower back. `It feels good,’ slurred the midfielder whose goal had secured the draw and penalty shootout. `I’m a national fucking hero tonight, I need some servicing, y’know…?’ His voice was a sleep sleazy drawl and it sent a shiver of excitement through McGinn’s body as he continued to fondle him. Slowly, he tore his eyes away from the sight of his own fist in the front of the pants, and he looked across at the silent stares of the other two studs, hovering indecisively with teacups of alcohol in their hands. Then, still acting as if none of this was quite real, the 26-year-old hunched further over, peeled the trackies away, and planted a soft kiss on the bulge in Christie’s undies, signalling his attentions to do far more than fondle it. A little sigh of approval from Ryan himself, and gawping stares of understanding from the other two, who as far as McGinn was concerned, were going to be main course and dessert, as soon as he was done with starters… Kieran Tierney pressed the cool glass of water gladly to his lips and blinked drunkenly about him, slowly realising that he was now in his hotel suite and not the mad company of the others any more. He rubbed a clammy hand over his face, regretting necking all that vodka in a rush of competitive shots with Christie and Jack and Peterson. He laughed dumbly at his own state and glanced over the small dimly lit room at the concerned standing posture of his captain, whose hand was on his own shoulder. `Thanks, skip,’ he mumbled, taking another cool sip. `You’re a mess,’ Robertson laughed cheerfully. `No I ain’t,’ Kieran resisted, `I’m in total control.’ He grinned loosely, sat on the edge of his bed, and he pulled his shoulder away from Andy’s gentle hand — for a second the other player seemed to back off a little as if warned away, but Kieran patted heavily at the bedding beside him, keen not to be alone. `C’m `ere, Robbo, c’mon mate…’ As the Liverpool star sat down beside him, all Kieran could smell was his aftershave, something rich and woody, and he could almost feel his body heat against his own. He giggled vaguely and supped more from the glass of still water, then tried to reach away to put it on the desk, potentially missing this by some way, but rescued by his captain as Andy prised the glass away and deposited it somewhere, joining his laugh with that rugged tinkle. Kieran, driven only by drunken instinct, slapped his left hand down on the leg of the Scotland captain’s jeans, giving his leg a squeeze, bumping their two 5ft10 bodies together where they sat side-by-side in the Serbian hotel room. `Hey,’ he grunted simply, a vague suggestive noise loaded with shared memory of their last international duty together, that night in Glasgow. `You sure you wanna be starting something there?’ chuckled Andy in a softly cautious voice, rubbing a hand up against Kieran’s warm back through the thin retro Scotland tshirt he’d donned. He nodded his head vaguely, pushing his shoulder in against the other man, liberated by alcohol. `It’s okay if I touch you there, right?’ he mumbled quietly, sliding his hand clumsily over to the crotch of those jeans instead, taking a loose hold of the folded bulge there, thick denim and something thicker beneath it. `That’s okay, right…?’ `Course it is,’ Andy confirmed quietly, slipping that hand under his tshirt and against his skin, then letting out a little sigh and slightly parting his legs where they sat, allowing Kieran to take a firmer hold of his package. Kieran grinned and blinked rapidly, leaning his weight into the man sat beside him again, sighing into the hazy air. `It’s good to see you again,’ he found himself whispering, surprised at the honesty and earnestness of the remark, the truth of it through his drunken blur. It WAS true; life at Arsenal had felt dull and lonely after those last raucous trips with Scotland. He’d thought a lot about his mentor and captain in that time, he realised. He squeezed at the outline of his privates and pulled a little closer. `And you!’ he heard the gruff Glaswegian confirm, that wandering hand creeping up the centre of his back with a soft tickle of his smooth skin, holding him closer where they sat. Andy’s other hand could be felt on his forearm, pulling it more firmly in to squeeze and rub at the stiffening contents of his lap. Tierney, who had struggled so much to dwell on the little flurries of man-on-man contact that had entered his life this year, was blankly free of doubt or restriction tonight, fumbling happily at the form of another man’s dick through his jeans. In the simplified thought processes of his state, his ideas were blunt and immediate: love Andy, great guy; fucking happy to win; so proud to be Scottish; so in love with this country, this team, these guys; Andy feels good… He sighed happily, closing in against him, and then felt their faces brush close. The kiss surprised him, but the shock was dulled by the thick layer of booze, and he rubbed his lips numbly against Andy’s, feeling the tickle of that gingery stubble on his own close-shaven chin and jaw. He sighed into Robertson’s mouth, accepting the surprising intimacy of the kiss, relaxing into his side and holding onto the outline of his hard-on. `Oh wow,’ David Marshall kept muttering, his Glaswegian accent so thick and sexy up there above, and his short thick tool so delicious against Scott’s lips and tongue. His chat-up line had been no joke; there was an extra pleasure in servicing the beastly Derby goalkeeper in here, a sense of duty and service about it. This 35-year-old Scottish hero really had saved them all with his calm performance, blocking Mitrovic and knocking Serbia out of their path. For Scott right now, THIS felt like his own special contribution, as much as his leggy efforts on the pitch. Of course Marshall deserved a long wet blowie, he deserved so much more! The big macho Scotsman was clearly doing his best to keep down the noise, had one of his bunched fists pressed to his mouth while the other arm held him firmly in place against the plastered wall. His eyes were scrunched shut, as if to shut out the manly identity of the skilled sucker now pleasuring him. But his enjoyment leaked out in those awed pants, in the red flush of his cheeks and neck behind that silky beard, and more literally in the tasty pre-cum that McTominay licked with full relish. He pressed his bare knees hard into the floor, holding on to the thick chunky waist of the older guy, bobbing his head back and forth and sucking him off with a confidence that had developed over the months. Two or three times already he’d heard the clatter and splashes of other men using the bathroom, one even commenting on `Oi, you doing a shite in there, mate?’ Every time he could see the tense fear in the big straight guy, but he just carried on pleasuring him, enjoying every inch of his meat and desperate to taste his victorious seed. He soon got what he wanted, running his hands up form those broad hips and under his tshirt, feeling the sturdy hairy path of his six-pack and reaching his stiff little nipples to tweak them beneath the cotton. He pressed his face forward, really closing his lips tightly around the base of the Glaswegian sausage, and feeling the spray of hot straight cum splash against his throat, servicing this Scottish hero who had sealed their historic win. Andy peeled the tshirt escort mersin up off the lad’s body in a slow manner, cautious and caring rather than teasing or provocative; he was vaguely aware that he was a little more awake and in control right now than the other player, but not quite awake or in control enough to question what they were doing. Now Kieran was shirtless beneath him on the bed, his nipples big and red and appealing. Andy leaned down to kiss and lick the left one, running his arms against the warm smooth shoulders and biceps of the young defender, rubbing his hard crotch over one of his mammoth thighs. Beneath him, Tierney groaned and sighed, more-or-less forming his nickname `Robbo’ through his heavy distant breaths. Robertson felt his dick ache in his undies and denim, totally turned on by the passive masculinity of his fellow rugged left-back, this prime young stud and his slurring Scottish accent. He still felt the little twinge of loyalty to his number one, but he pictured those eager messages of permission and approval from Alex, the license to thrill. He sat back to grab at his own thin sweater, dragging it up and away until both of them were shirtless on the creaking bed, Kieran’s strong hands immediately grasping at the sides of his body and rubbing up and down them. Andy shivered at this strong touch, which almost reminded him of Alex, and leant in to kiss him again on the lips, still marvelling that Kier would accept it. He’d looked so bewildered and unhappy to see Scott and John do the same in their shady corner of the brothel that night. So now he kissed him sensitively, always expecting his mouth to be pushed away, expecting some awkward turn of disinterest from the young Arsenal lad that never came, though he was slow and inexperienced in his shuffling lips. Andy rolled apart a little to reach down and unbuckle his jeans, but found Kieran’s hand muscling past and inside his grey boxers before he could undress, reaching in to grip and jerk his narrow veiny cock with such strong tenderness that Robbo felt almost as if he could shoot his load already. He reciprocated gladly, fumbling inside the warm nylon of Tierney’s Adidas trackies, finding the huge semi-hard form of it, remembering just how well-endowed the young stud actually was, almost alarmingly so. He pulled at it, holding their faces apart while they explored each other’s equipment, then climbing back on top, rubbing their crotches together and pulling Kieran’s hands away, pinning his wrists down to the bed while their bodies rubbed and gyrated and the younger guy reached up with pursed lips for a kiss which Andy cruelly denied him, delaying that pleasure for now. Then he pushed backwards and dropped his own whiskery face to kiss his chest instead, spreading his knees and sliding down so that he could kiss his way over the narrow developing muscle of Kieran’s chest and abdomen, pecking at each little brown freckle with his lips, and finding his way down to the more-than-mouthful that waited for him in those tracky bottoms, which he slid carefully down an inch at a time. Soon though, he had the dark nylon away down those incredibly thick furry thighs, the tighty-whitey briefs coming with it, and the hidden Loch Ness Monster released. The Liverpool champion wrapped his lips around the thick tip and took Kieran gladly into his mouth, hunched on the bed over him, feeling his hands run over his hair and the back of his neck while he opened wide and sucked on that big thick piece, still stretching and stiffening more to full mast as he tongued it from tip to base. On his knees, he moved from one dick to another, and did his best to pull at the spare two at any on moment, whirling between them in a dance of pleasure for them and himself. Christie was still on the bed, his undies and trackies bunched about his ankles, his lean hairy legs spread to give good access to the big erect rod rising up form his wiry brown pubes; Jack and Patterson were on their feet over him, strange glassy expressions on their faces as if they didn’t want to admit just how much they were enjoying this. McGinn stooped to suck once more on his favourite of the three, the big curved weapon of Ryan Christie, a lad he’d privately craved for many years as they slowly worked their way up the age brackets of Scottish national football. Nobody was more passionate about the national team than Christie, really, and it was his ferocity and commitment that McGinn really admired, as well as this massive tool now pushing into his mouth and leaking pre-cum on his tongue. That, and his bad boy reputation, all the black eyes and bust lips he wandered into training with, always in a fight with somebody, always taking things too far. Replacing his mouth with his right fist, he jerked on the slippering girth of Christie, and moved to the other Ryan instead, sucking Jack’s long slender member in skilled sweeping motions that made the 28-year-old gasp and whimper and drool. Again, he’d wanted a taste of the tall dark Aberdeen lad for years now, never dreamed it possible. He loved the hesitance about the lad’s taut body, the way he almost pulled back from each eager suck, yet stayed here, cock available, hands clasped up behind his neck so that his biceps and chest bulged through his tight blue tshirt. And onto cock number three, the short but incredibly thick meat of Patterson, who was much less reserved in his enjoyment than Jack; beneath that bushy salt-and-pepper `tache, the big handsome Sheffield Wednesday player had a dirty smirk come and go on his red lips, and now took hold of John’s head to fuck his mouth like a pussy, starting to make louder exclamations of his enjoyment. He had a reputation as a real womaniser on the Scotland squad, and who knew how many cunts that thick bushy moustache had tickled at over the years…? McGinn desperately brought on the grunting orgasms of the men, one at a time. Ryan Jack first, pulling away from him to finish himself off by hand, but jetting his spunk against McGinn’s lips and chin all the same, allowing him to lick it lovingly from his own stubble even as the Rangers defender hurried away and out of the suite. Paterson next, loving the heavy exhausted gulps form the man above as he held one hand on the back of his head and fucked his gob mercilessly until he was jizzing into his throat, so gruff and powerful in his murmured, `Yes, you slut’ before a slow silent retreat. Then he was alone with Christie, noshing on the handsome beast’s tool and pausing for a worried moment when it seemed like the Glasgow lad had actually passed out. But as he lifted his head, panting, to check if he should stop, one of Ryan’s big rough hands snapped up and dragged his face down to finish the job; the tough player held his face firmly into his sweat crotch for the final moments before unloading, and McGinn made sure he licked every single drop from that shaft and those fat spreading balls, and from the hairy insides of his thighs. And in moments Christie was asleep after all, snoring loudly and lying there with his dick out. All McGinn could find to do was crawl into the other bed, Scott’s, and jerk himself off happily, his face sticky with three Scotsmen’s juices, even the sound of Christie’s satisfied snores rounding off his surreal night of triumph. Still, when he splattered jizz up his tummy and sighed happily into his soft pillow, it was a little longing image of Captain Jack that haunted him. Kieran hovered lazily on his side, too drunk and rapturous to really put more effort or energy into the clinch. He rubbed and stroked at Andy’s body, grasping at his stocky arms and his narrow waist, tickling knuckles over the fine red-brown hair on his chest, then back down to pull eagerly at his cock, which felt oddly small to a young man used to jerking off his own ten inches. In turn, Andy grasped at him with more authority and passion, not just jerking off his spit-slicked member, but reaching under to tickle his heavy balls, and then grabbing at his buttocks with the other hand, squeezing and pulling at those broad heavy glutes. The bed creaked and buckled beneath the roll of their bodies, and every now and then their faces met over the pillows for more kisses, which Kieran tasted frantically, repeatedly the one to initiate it but then pulling away for breath, confused and sleepy. He liked the taste of the man’s mouth, liked the rough novel friction of his stubble. He even quite liked the surprise invasion of a man’s tongue on his own when the kisses went a little too far. He growled his pleasure as Andy took a firmer grip of his tool, pulling again on his cheeks at the same time; the tips of fingers were entering his moist crack and tickling against it, reminding him of the way he’d been edged and teased by Lacazette and Xhaka in his first naïve wanderings this way. He was almost numb with booze but still the touch was exciting and different, lying there holding onto the other sturdy defender and being pleasured at front and back, teased and stimulated and looked after. He was quite surprised when he felt hot wetness on his own fingers, having almost forgot he was also wanking off Robbo at the same time; his blear eyes stared down between their now-naked bodies, seeing the glistens of white on Andy’s tummy and over his knuckles and wrist, the mess he’d produced from the breathy older athlete, his Scottish hero. `Taste it,’ he heard Andy’s rasping voice suggest, `taste my seed, laddie…’ Fuck, what a mad idea… he bent his right arm, pressed beneath his side, and brought the hand up towards his face, even as his crack was tickled and his big nob jerked more energetically. He stuck out his long thin tongue and rolled it over the back of his hand, tasting for the first time the salty product of this champion; recoiling almost at the strength of it, but enjoying its seedy warmth on his lips and in his mouth, swallowing it once and then letting out a shuddering sigh and reaching his own climax. He moaned loudly, emptying his bigger and wetter load in a series of growling bursts, one eye half-open as he looked down between their bodies at it jetting onto Andy’s six-pack and over his hip in silvery arcs. He moaned for a long while, his balls tingling, Andy’s finger still playing against his arse-crack. He spoke freely, the truth unlocked by far too much dodgy Serbian beer. `Oh Andy,’ he gasped, clinging to him, `I love you, fuck, I love you so much, ohhhh, mate, I…’ He kissed him messily on the lips, the taste of his cum still in his mouth, not seeing the conflicted look of surprise that flashed in those brighter eyes. It was morning, though still dark outside, and still raining heavily. Andy had been lying awake for a while now, gently holding the arm and hand that lay across his tummy, glancing over Kieran’s heaving comatose body to the other bed and unsure where Tierney’s roommate had actually got to. Who was he even meant to be sharing with, Christie…? Thank fuck the bugger hadn’t popped back here at any point in the night, though probably they were all so drunk that a bit of naked spooning but could be jokily explained away by their captain. Robertson looked back at the heavy splash marks down the windowpane, his eyes a bit achey and dry from little sleep, and then rolled over to look seriously down at the puffy nearby face of the other defender, lids and lips twitching a little bit in whatever fractious dream he was experiencing. Then, on cue, the lids flickered open a bit at a time, and the nose and lips wrinkled in some vague distressed entrance to wakefulness. He watched on, lounging naked beside him, somewhat pinned down by the arm and thigh overlapping with his own body. He heard a grimacing little sigh from the other lad, expected him to roll or crawl away from him in the sweaty heat of the shared bed, but nope; Kieran’s arm extended further over his torso to hold him and the heavy thigh over his reached forward until it brushed his soft sleepy privates. `Hey,’ Tierney murmured sleepily, breath stinking of beer. `Hey,’ Robertson replied slowly, shifting his body away an inch. `I ought to get outta here.’ `Aye,’ Kieran said, his eyes fluttering more open, but his tone uncertain, reluctant. He pulled back a little too, hand still playing over Andy’s chest so his fingers brushed on the fine hair and against one small blunt nipple. `If you gotta. I mean. I don’t mind.’ He couldn’t seem to meet Andy’s eyes as he said that, his whole body language withdrawing mersin escort bayan from the sleepy embrace they’d slipped into after blowing their loads on each other. Andy smiled warmly at him, this rugged young stud beside him. Kieran had been so torn-up by his extra-curricular activity at Arsenal, when they’d finally spoken about it on a walk home through Glasgow; so terrified of his discoveries of new pleasure, and what he had or hadn’t gotten up to with teammates and his manager. (Arteta, for fuck’s sake?!) Kieran hadn’t even seemed very clear on the details of what he’d done or not done before that night when he’d lay with Andy and the other two, all trying each other out, Kieran briefly sucking a dick for the first and maybe last time. Andy had been happy to console him and assure him that he could do what he wanted without needing to define or label it. Now, lying beside him and touching his body uncertainly, the 23-year-old looked briefly comfortable with it all. He’d been the one to initiate it, hadn’t he? Robertson wouldn’t have dared. He’d seen how wasted the lad was and though he’d been horny and excited himself, he would never have tried to lead his young friend astray if Tierney hadn’t been the one grabbing at his dick and insisting he sit with him in here…! He realised that Kieran had finally lifted his face and met his eyes, his chest rising and falling quietly as he adjusted to being awake, clearly already feeling the beginnings of the inevitable hangover. Andy felt a very strong flashback to the heated moments before orgasm and the way things had ended before sleep claimed their weary sporting bodies. He thought about what the other lad had said in the throes of his passion, his loud admission of feeling. As he thought about this, he felt the thigh creep further over his crotch and the hand on his chest move upwards towards his neck, as if to pull him in for a kiss. `No,’ he said gently, reaching up and curling a paw about Kieran’s strong hand. `Nah, buddy. I can’t… I shouldn’t have kissed you,’ he added in a small whisper. `I’m not…’ He stumbled for the right tender words, seeing the flickering panic on Tierney’s face. `There’s someone else,’ he said simply, squeezing his hand. `That was fun, but…’ He watched Kieran’s dim expression and remembered with sharp clarity the way the orgasming hunk had declared his love in the middle of the night. `Right,’ came Tierney’s mumbling voice, heavy with acceptance, and his fingers brushed against Robbo’s, turning against the hard cool metal of his wedding ring, `I know you’re married, but…’ `Nah,’ he admitted stiffly, guiding Kieran’s thick heavy left away from his hip, trying to kindly part their sweaty bodies without being too hurried or rejecting, sensing the fragility of the player in bed with him. `It ain’t her, I mean… erm — it IS, but it’s also… Kier, there’s a guy I have feelings for, I dunno what to call it, but…’ He found himself hesitating in the early-morning quiet, the rain on the windows soothing in the background, unsure how to explain his more-than-friendship with Oxlade-Chamberlain without the risk of naming the other stud, finding all his gruff words fall short of explaining the beautiful thing between them. But then something in Tierney’s posture stiffened and shifted and the space between their bodies seemed to distance. `Huh?’ grunted the other Scotsman, pulling away a little, correcting his stance, breaking the contact between their legs and shoulders. `What you sayin’…?’ Robertson grimaced. `Last night, when you said…’ `I never said nothin’,’ the lad blurted quickly, pushing a few more inches away and rolling his neck and shoulders in a pained gesture. `Dunno what yer on about, skipper, I just…’ He let out a deep barking laugh, pushing his hands beneath the covers to play idly with himself. `God, you’ve got some bloke on the side as well as yer missus…? Dirty bugger, chief…!’ He closed his eyes sleepily in his new pose, detaching himself completely from the gentle embrace they’d woken up in. `Summat like that,’ Andy said vaguely, sitting up in bed and scratching his chest. He had the strong sense of having ruined something. `You’re okay?’ he asked hoarsely, greeted immediately with a bleary chuckle and the younger guy rolling away, back to him. `I mean last night, what we did, it was…’ `Fun,’ grunted Kieran, burying his face in the pillow and giving him the cold shoulder. `Like you told me before, no labels, shit happens, heh…’ He cuddled into the pillows, dragging the sheets further over them and leaving Andy uncovered in the process. He went quiet and Andy squatted there on the bed, almost exposed and naked in the cool damp air. `Right,’ he said softly, understanding. Fuck. This poor confused young un had exposed his feelings and attraction in the night and was now stung by the rejection, clearly. The Scotland captain hunched uncomfortably there, listening to the deep fake snores of Kieran’s breathing as he simulated sleep and signalled his keenness to be alone in his hungover misery. Robertson felt a guilty urge to reach out and stroke his shoulder, but sat very still away from him, and then slipped naked out of the bed and onto his feet, stretching out his arms and chest. He glanced back at the bed and saw Tierney buried more deeply into his nest of bedding, as if nobody else was even there. His breaths were deep and loud and, Andy supposed, forced. `Sorry if I’ve upset you,’ he said while he found and pulled on his grey boxer briefs. `Mmm,’ came the vague sleepy response. `I didn’t mean to give you the wrong idea or nothing,’ the Liverpool ace said again in a low murmur, padding softly around the room to dress himself in last night’s scruffy gear, still anxiously looking from the empty bed to the door and wondering where the absent roommate actually was. `Kier. You okay?’ At last, the nesting lad unfurled a little and opened one eye. `Aye, grand, now let me get some fuckin’ sleep, Robbo…! Jeez. Piss off will ya. Someone’s snoring kept me awake all night. Hah.’ He closed his eye again and buried his face more deeply in the pillows, cold shoulder again. Andy lingered in the centre of the room, slowly buttoning up his jeans and feeling the start of a sour headache developing. He could remember their embrace so clearly, the softness of Kieran’s mouth as he enjoyed kissing him, not as much as Alex of course, but still a lot. He’d panicked as they finished and the boisterous younger player had announced his love in breathy exclamations, but as he lay awake this morning, thought it was just a cliché and an empty statement. Now, having seen the moment of hurt and retreat in the other sportsman, he was less sure, and more anxious with guilt at what he’d maybe sparked. Robertson slipped out of the room, rubbing his throbbing head, desperate for a cool shower and a fresh bed not stinking of sweat and cum and intimacy. The hangover was miserable, but it was as good a cover as anything else, since it meant he could snuggle inside his thick snood, beanie hat and overcoat as he sat on the departure lounge bench in Belgrade airport with everyone else, nobody engaging in more than passing conversation as they waited to board their chartered flight back home to bonny Scotland. This meant Kieran could sit there on his own, drumming his fingers irritably on the top of his case, and not to have to force cheery celebratory chat with any of the bleary-eyed, queasy-faced footballers who were horrified by the earliness of their return journey. Given the momentous occasion, there wasn’t even any stern lecture from the manager for being such a drunken mess — the only players actually up on their feet and speaking were the ones who clearly hadn’t slept and were still hyper with booze — and they were just allowed to wallow in their dehydrated suffering, no pretence of sobriety and good health today. Tierney couldn’t wait to be on the flight home, where he thought he might be able to get a row to himself and sleep, and totally avoid any conversation until lunchtime. By then, he supposed, everyone would begin to recover, and last night’s exuberance would return — tomorrow’s training session and Sunday’s match in Slovakia would be high-spirited and jubilant, carried along by the wind of Euro qualification last night. He hoped dearly he would be able to relax and embrace that patriotic spirit once the hangover and sickness of too much drinking subsided. He glanced nervously across at their captain, who was dozing on his own at the far end of the row, mouth half-open and head slumped to one side, making gentle snores that were being recorded for Instagram by a more wakeful player on the opposite side of the sitting area. Tierney thought ruefully about the blurred memory of their action last night, how eagerly he had been led away by Robertson and seized at him in the night. It had been Andy who made him dare to think this sorta fun might be okay — when they’d spoken about it in the past, his captain had been so soothing and reassuring, so affectionate and protective. Where the men in Arsenal made him feel weird and on edge, the tenderness of his Scottish friend had made him feel like maybe he could enjoy a bit of everything and not have to worry. The prospect of something happening on this trip had been on his mind since his inevitable call-up to the squad. You’ve ruined it now, he told himself silently. You’ve fucked up, you oaf. `I love you’! Why did you say that? You total nobhead. He couldn’t picture any of it with clarity, but he knew he’d got carried away, knew he’d enjoyed it a bit too much. He closed his eyes for a long moment of sickly shame, recalling the way Robertson had softly snubbed him in the early hours… `There’s someone else…’! What did Robbo think, that Kieran was some lovesick idiot who’d fallen for his captain just because he was the first person in a long while to show him any affection…? Fuck’s sake! He wasn’t THAT daft. To distract himself, the troubled Arsenal defender observed the miserable state of his other teammates, and found himself looking at his own supposed roommate, who had coincidentally stomped back into their room in a foul mood minutes after Andy left. Kieran didn’t want to think about the scene if the guys had overlapped, Ryan C wandering in and finding him snuggled up against the skipper, being patronised and rejected like a young fool… Now, Christie was slumped in the next chair with his face pressed into one fist, clutching a life-saving bottle of Iron Bru in the other hand. And along from him, Kieran could see two others who’d had a wild night and looked sorry about it — Ryan Jack staring moodily a his feet and seeming ready to start a fight with whoever tried to talk to him, and Callum Patterson, chomping moodily on a packet of crisps and glaring into middle-distance as if this Serbian trip had been an unmitigated disaster. And stood nearby, muttering quietly into his hand on a phone call home, David Marshall had the same agitated air of regret about him, as if he couldn’t wait for this journey to be over. Only John McGinn looked happy with himself, actually — sat on the opposite side to them, a strange dreamy grin on his goofy features as he reclined across two spaces with his feet resting on his suitcase, hands folded over his lap, the cat that got the cream. Kieran got up from his seat, needing to stretch his thick aching legs, hugging his arms over the chest of his overcoat and trudging away from the quiet, moody group of hungover athletes. He strolled across the waiting area to the rain-lashed windows looking out on the runways, trying to remind himself how happy and excited they were supposed to be today; by the time the plane touched down at their destination, he was sure the high spirits would be back, chants and songs and bold claims about winning the Euros. A little fluttering buzz in his tracksuit pocket caught his attention and made him pull his phone out to check who was messaging him this early in the day, since everybody would surely know what a heavy night it was for the Scotland lads after that game! He squinted dizzily at the screen, letting the notification buzz and then the message load up on the screen, cutting into his morning headache like a punch to the guts. `Hey kid… well done on last night, so proud of u… see you soon when you are back in London’. He gritted his teeth at this fairly innocuous message from Mikel Arteta, perhaps just a thoughtful football manager congratulating a key player on a good game… but given their recent history, something much more loaded and aggravating to Kieran, hence the angry reply he rapidly thumbed into the device: `FUCK OFF U OLD QUEEN!!!! LEAVE ME ALONE!!1!!1!’

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