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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 301 Part 301: Rivals Between Seasons The travelling crowds erupted as the men began to take to the pitch, and the 30-year-old striker felt it was less than arrogant for him to assume that a large portion of the excitement in the King Power Stadium was for himself; after all, he had unintentionally left the Liverpool fans in some suspense as the 21-22 season drew to a close, and it had taken several weeks of the summer break for his contract to be renewed and his Anfield commitment to be made 100% clear. Leaving Merseyside had never been high on Mohamed Salah’s agenda, not this summer, though he would admit to some wobbles over the last two seasons, when he felt his ethics and identity had been tested by… temptations. But those wobbles looked different to Salah now, and he’d finished their frustrating 2nd-place season with no doubts about staying put at LFC – the delays to his contract had been nothing more than financial fussiness and too much interfering by men in suits on both sides. Walking out now ahead of the Community Shield, Salah felt vindicated in this. The goofy-handsome grin split his stubbled features and he waved for the travelling Liverpool fans that took up half of the Leicester stadium for this traditional fixture. Not far ahead of him, their opposition was already in place: Pep’s Manchester City, the League winners and their obvious rivals, even without the annual arrangements of this particular pre-season clash. It was strange but fitting to be facing the City team, an odd hangover of last season’s race and a glimmering precursor to the new title challenge ahead. For Salah, it felt like a perfect last run out before the 22-23 season could begin, and he could play his part in getting Liverpool back to the top of the table. The Egyptian footballer adjusted the chest and shoulders of his new red Liverpool shirt, falling into place in the line-up with his teammates, and still scanning the assembled horde of football fans that had loaded the stadium for this afternoon’s trophy showdown. Salah exchanged confident half-smiles with several of the other first team players making up the starting 11, feeling that same renewed confidence and comfort here that had settled as he joined the squad on their summer tour work in Asia, contract extended and future placed firmly on the Mersey. He nodded confidently to his fellow forwards Firmino and Diaz as the men began to scatter and take up their positions for kick-off; he received a firm and supportive slap to the shoulder from their stalwart captain, Henderson, and cursory fist-bumps with the four defenders as they filed past to retreat further back into Liverpool’s half: Alexander-Arnold came last of the four, and the two of them exchanged only the briefest of shared looks as they passed close, some unspoken tension still lingering there. Salah was unsure why the Scouse defender was so resistant to any slide back into their secret sexual dynamic of recent years, but he knew better than to resent or overthink it: the pouting local lad had been a source of pleasure for him while it lasted, and now he needed to explore other options. He had a steely new resolve that such playtime would not distract him from giving his all to the football club and ensuring that his next few seasons in red would be entirely rewarding. Beside him, he half-noticed Trent slow down and grab arms with the skipper in a tactile handshake-turned-hug, dismissing both men from his attention and closing in on the central circle where the first kick would flip the Community Shield game into action. With one set of hairy knuckles, the North African player tugged and adjusted at the skimpy white briefs inside his red shorts, adjusting the flop and hang of his sizeable private parts, which he would NOT be thinking with for the next 90 minutes – he would be thinking entirely with his feet until the game was won and the season was started on the correct note, with City lagging behind! The ball was on the move, and Kevin de Bruyne sprung into action just as swiftly and readily as the ten other starting players in the Manchester City line-up. As coached, the solid Belgian player moved into a central position and controlled his movements, shifting himself skilfully into the right positions and waiting for the opportunities to present themselves. 31 now, Kevin still threw himself into the Shield game with the same boyish puppy excitement that had propelled his many successful seasons under Guardiola; no amount of league titles or silverware was going to dull the affable midfielder’s simmering ambition, particularly when it came to the club’s closest Premiership rivals. And like everybody else on the pitch that Saturday afternoon, de Bruyne was refreshed, his batteries fully recharged by generous downtime with his family and friends, and just as much by the team’s exciting international prep in the USA and elsewhere. There was an electric energy in the City ranks this summer, not least because of the smattering of new faces that had joined them – there was not a jot of complacency or entitlement following their latest winning season, and the team talks before this game had focused every one of them on the threat posed by Liverpool. Kevin’s summer had been one of wholesome family bonding in the sun, and intense physical preparation to get his body, already ageing in football terms, fully ready for the intensity of another Premier League season. There had been plenty of memories made with his wife and kids and many of his buddies, in and out of the City clique, and the celebratory mood of the season end had been brilliantly sustained over June and July. He was coming into today’s game on a wave of confidence at what City could achieve, today and over the season to come… But there was just one fly in that ointment, if he paused to reflect, which he made the mistake of doing as the ball went briefly out of play and he jogged into place whilst Silva prepared to take the throw-in. It wasn’t even a problem, as such, and not something worth tainting the buoyant club mood as they readied for the new season! Why was he even allowing it space in his busy brain…? It definitely didn’t matter, the Belgian athlete reminded himself, but he’d been a bit surprised that the summer training camps had seen not even the most passing reference to the rooftop party that had punctuated the end of last season. Hah… it’s not as if big Kev had expected to waltz into the training ground or take his seat on the flight to America, and immediately take part in a big shared joke about Phil Foden being everyone’s bitch, and yet… Beneath the confidence and brotherhood of the pre-season weeks, de Bruyne had encountered a frigid politeness over the events of that party. It was as if all of the men present had silently agreed that it went too far and must be never spoken of – or, worse, as if it hadn’t even really happened, and had just been a drunken fever dream that the midfield hero had conjured up whilst sleeping off the beer. He might have started to give some weight to the latter explanation, if the memories of that Manchester night hadn’t been quite so… vivid, every time he found himself playing alongside one of the other revellers from the rooftop. His casually leering smirks towards Silva and Mahrez during a team meal had met blank eyes, and his attempt at banter with his new mate Grealish had fallen flat – `Don’t be a dick, Phil and me are just pals,’ the Brummie lad had barked frostily at him by a hotel swimming pool a couple of weeks ago, quite abruptly hostile for a moment before returning to dopey smiles and footy banter. Foden himself was quiet and businesslike at the moment, bordering on withdrawn from the squad as a whole. Stones and Walker were the only players whose behaviour might reveal a glimpse of what went on, since the two well-built defenders were constantly on top of each other in man-hugs and piggy-backs, but… well, that was nothing new for them, and Kevin could never quite bring himself to be so easily tactile and playful around men like that, least of all now. KDB was jolted from his thoughts as a sharp pass came his way, and he fumbled the ball slightly, allowing it to be stolen away by a Liverpool midfielder instead; for fuck’s sake, the Belgian cursed, his cheeks instantly glowing red and his thick thighs powering him back into more focused action. Suddenly, for a moment, he was running rapidly side-by-side with one of the centre-backs, big powerful Ruben Dias charging forward to intervene at the centre of the pitch – and again, the star player’s attention wandered for a dangerous moment, glancing sideways at his teammate and picturing the seedy drunkenness of that Manchester rooftop. It was Dias around whom he felt most conscious of what had happened. And he felt that just a knowing look and a moment’s laddish laughter would be all it would take to dispel any awkwardness. They were both straight men, after all, and he knew the 25-year-old Portuguese player was strongly coupled up with an Iberian supermodel – there was no need for either of them to get weird about the close contact they’d shared that sunset, they’d done nothing more drastic than the other men, in fact far less so than either Foden or Stonesy, who had been the ones on the, er, receiving end of things. `BRUYNE!’ Dias was barking loudly, snapping at his attention, but too late – the ball was shooting past him and the centre-back was shouldering clumsily into him from the side, almost throwing the 5ft11 man straight other ground. Staggering away from his own teammate, Kevin rapidly found his balance and stabilised his runaway legs, whipping his head around to follow the direction of the dangerous enemy passes. `Get your head in the game!’ he heard Walker shouting gruffly on the way past, and some presumable swear words in another language from Dias and Rodri in the other direction; he was half-aware of shouting from the sidelines that might be aimed at him from the manager himself, and the midfielder’s face burnt beetroot. Right, he thought, back in the game! Stop dwelling on that summer night, nobody else is – they’ve all laughed it off and moved on, for fuck’s sake. Come on! Liverpool had the game under complete control, and Salah could do nothing but grin victoriously when he was eventually benched in the final moments. Sexy young Trent had put the reds ahead early on, and Mo had grabbed a sweaty hug of the lithe young man as part of the celebrations, allowing himself only a moment’s wistfulness for the days when the fresh-faced defender would linger at his hotel suite door on any away trip, eyes wide with hunger. Then Salah himself had scored a late penalty to extend the lead soon after City drew level, and his exit from the pitch came seconds after Nunez made it 3-1 – this allowed the Egyptian to jog quite smugly away from the action, knowing that this 3rd goal was needed before the boss would risk allowing him any rest, even if there were 3 or 4 minutes of injury time left on the clock. Salah couldn’t stop smiling as he greeted the head coach and others on the sideline, leaving the closing minutes of the game behind in full confidence of their latest silverware – so much for City and their big new signing, he chuckled in various different forms to the guys at the edge of the action, peeling his shirt away from his body and then scratching at the muscle-hugging red sports vest underneath. Salah was the last of several substitutions, so many of the key players were here at the bench, ready to cheer on the other mersin escort lads right up to the final whistle, Henderson, Thiago and goal-scoring Trent included; it wasn’t that Mohamed was any less interested in the outcome or their teammates, but he’d been playing on a full bladder for quite some time, so he excused himself with the assistant manager and darted rapidly indoors whilst the Liverpool crowd sang their way to victory above. Inside, the Leicester tunnel echoed with the studs of his boots and Salah tore one then the other away from his sweaty feet, his muscular chest heaving beneath the tight compression vest and his breath stabilising. He paused in his bladder-driven hurry as an opponent emerged from the adjacent door to his own changing rooms, and the Premiership icon found himself face to face with one of his most lauded contemporaries. Like Mo, the City player had stripped off his team colours, and only a skimpy black compression vest of a different brand was strapped across the broad chest and shoulder muscles of the taller man. The face and much of the exposed pale skin was mottled with typical red blush and freckling, and a shiny gloss indicated that the midfield footballer had just washed his face in cold water to try and cool down. The respectful nod of top-rank professionals. `Salah,’ said de Bruyne in a tone that was admiring but weary, and he reached out a clammy palm. Grasping the larger hand immediately, Salah gave it a tight authoritative squeeze and tried not to look TOO smug as he faced up to the other superstar of the UK league, matching the manly nod of acknowledgement – both men knew the status and skill level of the other, having come face-to-face at many award ceremonies and press events as the rivalry between their top-flight clubs grew and grew. Kevin gave one of those light boyish laughs that always seemed surprising given his physical presence and almost Viking looks. `I don’t suppose that crowd noise just now was the sound of my boys taking the lead, was it?’ the City midfielder asked in a mild, bemused voice, tilting his large head to one side. Salah could not restrain or dampen the curl of smugness in his grin as he laughed back and held his tight grip over de Bruyne’s big pale paw for a moment longer. `Not quite,’ he chuckled almost apologetically, beaming at the City player and taking a slow glance back down the tunnel at the hazy green silhouettes of the dugout – there could only be two minutes maximum left now. He flicked his dark eyes back towards the 5ft11 frame of the other player, unsure what to say that wouldn’t sound patronising or gloating now. Thankfully, the Belgium star was just grinning graciously and shrugging his bare blotchy shoulders. `Deserved,’ he grunted. `Outstanding play.’ Sliding their hands apart, the broad-bodied European landed a soft punch against one of Salah’s shiny shoulder muscles, his open face full of sporting admiration and respect – or, thought the testosterone-wired corners of Salah’s heated brain, was there a hint of a different admiration there? `I probably shouldn’t say this,’ mused the other man in a low voice, `but it’s good to see you still in this League, my friend – you would have been a big loss to the competition if you’d sold out somewhere else.’ Salah took the glowing compliment but held himself stiffly and couldn’t help a certain tart flirtation in his voice as he murmured back – `Sold out, says the City man, hah.’ Quite suddenly, the hint of banter in his thoughts was shoved aside by more primal instinct, and he was reminded of the pressing sensation downstairs, the need to piss. `Excuse me,’ he said gruffly, laying one sweaty hand against the thick biceps of Kevin’s arm – the midfielder’s body was far less ripped and high-definition than his own musculature, but it was sturdy and broad in a way that always made KDB a powerful presence on the pitch, and he found himself pausing a moment too long to take in the sight (and smell) of the other shirtless Premiership star. `I must piss,’ he found himself crudely announcing before darting sideways and passing the archway into Leicester’s Home changing area, today occupied by the Community Shield winners. Only about 90 seconds on the clock outside separated the Anfield men from picking up this latest silverware, and Mo felt like he was walking on air as his socked feet crossed the changing area towards the nearest alcove of urinals. He was reaching into the front of his red shorts before he even reached the wall of porcelain apertures, and his heavy cock was freed three feet from the gleaming white; his strong jet of pale piss almost hit the linoleum around his socked feet, his deferred need taking precedence a fraction of a second before he shuffled his sweaty body into place. Salah let out an unconscious long sigh as he emptied his bladder and cupped his privates at the waistband of his shorts and briefs, relaxing the tight muscles of his upper body and feeling the manly heat radiate from his bronzed form, all the more gleaming and toned for his summer prep. He jolted a little at the sound of the other player’s voice, not having quite noted de Bruyne following him this way – `Don’t suppose you would ever sign for us and play in sky blue, eh?’ came the jolly push of that Northern European accent – and he splashed his yellow jetstream against the wall for a second before regaining his position and bursting into a little peal of laughter, fixing his knitted brows on the intruder. `What, did you want to watch me piss, Kevin?!’ At the abrupt question from the other guy, the 31-year-old paused awkwardly; he’d followed his striking rival through into the changing area as if it was the most natural thing in the world, unconcerned by the enemy territory and still laughing loudly at the jarring sound of the prudish Muslim player announcing his bladder movements so publicly – and now KDB was lounged at the corner of the alcove of toilet facilities, leaning one bare shoulder against a jut of tiled wall, arms folded over his chest, and alarmed face fixed forward on where the Liverpool hero was still loudly pissing, half-turned this way to raise one dark brow and stare questioningly at him. Kevin let out a hollow and embarrassed laugh as he lifted himself away from the wall and unfurled his thick arms. `Oh yes, that is my thing,’ he jested lamely, suddenly questioning why he had stopped to follow the enemy player rather than heading back outside to clap for his losing teammates as the final whistle blew, any moment now. `Well, I did wonder,’ Salah grunted back at him, still staring this way, his tight muscular body angled in at the urinal and both bronze arms tucking in forwards to aim his equipment, just outside of Kevin’s awkward view; but the sound of his never-ending stream of piss echoed against shiny clean porcelain and seemed to fill the sudden quiet between them. Kevin realised a second too late that he had taken too long to throw a more convincing joke into the mix, or to simply back apologetically away and give the Liverpool player some actual privacy – instead, the hesitation hung between them and Mohamed was still staring at him in a strangely fierce manner, while the Belgian skulked awkwardly at the juncture of wall divide. And then there were subtle jerking movements of the evident muscle in Mo’s arms and back, and he was shifting slightly away from the urinal, and subtly switching the angle of his tensed body – it was a very slight motion really, and the kind of fidgeting that a nervous guy might never notice across adjacent urinals, too concerned with the unwritten etiquette that governed such masculine experience. But here and now, the gentle motion screamed at him, and he felt he instantly knew what the striker was doing – by backing a fraction away from the porcelain and angling his body, he was throwing a glimpse and an invitation, and de Bruyne accepted it almost unconsciously. `Right,’ he said in a voice that was meant to be light and jokey, but came out as a shy rattle of doubt – even as he took one clumsy stride forward into the rectangular space, capitalising on the glimpse he was being allowed, and stared down past the golden-brown sheen of Mohamed’s forearm, at the long darker snake being angled carefully into the bowl of white, jetting its pale yellow cascade against the urinal. Another couple of shuffling steps, drawn in beyond any real control of his own, and Kev was right next to Mo, so close that he could feel his body heat as their upper arms almost touched – and he was staring down into the space between them, watching those knuckles shake the final pissy drops from the chunky length that dangled there beneath the finest trimmed remnants of black bush. Kevin remembered to breathe, sucking in the rich manly sweat smells of them both, and letting it out again in a shaky anxious sigh. Then he lifted his eyes and came face to face with the intense expression of his famous rival. Indistinctly, they both heard the game come to its inevitable conclusion; a whistle had been blown, and presumably the 3-1 scoreline held firm. The runners up had trounced the title-holders and kicked off the new season as a serious contender yet again. Reacting to this background sound and not yet thinking about it as a risk, Kevin felt his eyes slip down at the girthy brown silhouette of the man’s cock, and then back up to the tight-lipped ferocity of his facial expression. `This is what a winner’s cock looks like,’ Salah boasted woodenly at him, his voice a little hoarse and betraying a little of the nervous hesitation that de Bruyne felt in his own chest. `Right,’ the Belgian said breathlessly, and he reached his hand forward daringly, and close it about the warm weight of the winner’s cock, closing his eyes as he did. Instantly, Salah let out a slow sigh of encouragement, and he brought his left arm up, flexing the shiny muscles, and laying his hand assertively against the nearer of Kevin’s big shoulders, just a couple of inches above his own – he felt the large nervous hand of the Belgian king rub and grab at his swelling cock, and a tingle of excitement ran the length of his 5ft9 physique. `The game’s over,’ he heard the midfielder mutter in a breathy rush. `It’s fine,’ he said dismissively, matching the intimacy of his whisper. `Keep doing that.’ `It’s so thick,’ Kev whispered. `You like it?’ Mo snarled quietly in his ear. No clear answer to that, but `I’ve got your piss on my fingers.’ `Bet you like that,’ Salah hissed in spite of himself, both appalled and excited by that idea. `Er – yeah,’ came the City man’s wary murmur. `Keep playing with it.’ `But the game…’ `Nobody will be coming in here,’ Salah insisted in a low growl, revealing to both of them just how strong his need suddenly was. `We won, for fuck’s sake – we’ll be taking our time. And there’s the trophy presentation.’ The thoughts were coming to him even as he announced them with faux cool, no care for the risk or challenge of their situation – he just loved the feel of the big hand on his stretching cock, and he felt gratified by the pale Belgian’s interest in him, which felt like exactly what he deserved after another stellar performance for Liverpool – the silverware was here at his side in the form of this big sweaty oaf. There were voices, suddenly, echoing out in the tunnel, and they were half-familiar – Mohamed thought he could hear the unhappy tones of the City manager himself, and he felt confident that anyone out in that corridor would be heading the opposite way when reaching the changing rooms. Nobody escort mersin in the Liverpool camp would be rushing back here when there were devoted fans to entertain and medals to collect! He reached down, squeezing the shaking hand against his cock, which was flexing into hardness with each rub of skin. `You want to taste it?’ he grunted firmly. `Get on your knees.’ De Bruyne did as he was told as if on autopilot and without any agency at all – it was either the dizzy heat of his body, or some authoritative growl in the Egyptian’s charismatic voice. Or, more realistically, an escalation of latent desire that had been on the rise for about two fucking years, ever since he fumbled awkwardly with young Tommy Doyle for the teen’s own good. Actions that he had convinced himself were entirely selfless, offering up his hard cock to the anxious youth’s mouth, allowing him to practise and experiment, as if he himself was getting nothing from it at all… His legs were bending and his body moving south as if there was no option but to obey the Liverpool forward – and yet he’d tried this before, hadn’t he? Briefly and awkwardly, but still… he’d been back in Belgium, and in bed with the Hazard brothers, buoyed along by the strange incestuous playfulness of Eden and Thorgan. Which of the brothers had he clumsily taken into his dry mouth? He wasn’t even sure. But he’d tasted one of their cocks, felt its strangeness against his tongue and lips, and felt immediately nauseous, horrified, turned off. It had worried and frightened him and made him cautious about taking things any further – Doyle disappearing away on his loan deals and career trajectory, and KDB managing to accept the frigid state of his marriage for a while. That had been until greedy Raheem Sterling had begun to approach him on team nights, and… `Go on,’ growled Liverpool’s famous goal machine. `On your knees, suck it.’ Kev stared up at him, taking in the prominent outline of the waiting cock, and then the strip of defined abdomen above the bush, intersected by the garish red of Salah’s vest – as if silently requested, the forward was dragging this clingy nylon up and away from his torso muscles now, enhancing the upwards view of his chiselled body and deadly serious face. De Bruyne’s mouth fell open and he breathed in the sweaty odour of the big thick tool in front of his face, eager and anxious all at once. `Don’t you wanna taste my piss?’ he heard the hissing demand of the horny footballer, and somehow this grossness was what pushed him awkwardly forward – he could almost still hear the echoey splash of it, and he wasn’t sure why that thought allowed him to overcome his barriers and try it. He slapped his mouth about the bulbous red head of the thing, taking it in against his quivering tongue – he couldn’t REALLY taste piss, thankfully, just a general manly musty tang, something that had been missing from his anxious experiment against Thorgan or Eden’s equipment many months ago. He opened wide, amazed by the weight and thickness of it in his inexperienced mouth, and he kept his eyes wide open, rolling upwards to take in every ridge and dip of Salah’s insanely muscular front, right up to the waxed strength of his pectorals and the faint stubble around his fierce-set mouth, flaring nostrils, narrowed eyes. `Yes,’ drawled the enemy football icon in satisfaction, `oh yesss…’ `Holy shit,’ he heard the other voice in the changing rooms exclaim suddenly, a rattle of Scouse accent to it, and yet this invasive voice came to him as if from much further away, and he didn’t immediately cease – his lips and tongue pressing against the veiny thickness of the Salah weapon, tasting and sensing its power, and then gradually sliding back as the danger of his position exploded into his consciousness. Salah pushed one sweaty palm against the tiles of the wall to steady himself, planting his fingers firmly against the cool surface. The other reached down and stroked firm warm fingertips through the fluffy strawberry blond of the Belgian’s hair, gently angling his face back into his crotch and encouraging him to ignore the interruption. Mohamed knew how powerful and sexy he might look here, stood by the urinals with his upper body glistening under the electric light, with the meaty figure of the City player hunched in front of him, tentatively sliding lips back about the huge head of his cock. `What is it?’ the striker demanded quietly, smirking at the figure at the corner, who had burst energetically into the changing rooms in search of him. For his part, Trent Alexander-Arnold looked quite taken aback – benched in the 74th minute, the right-back had cooled down and a fresh training top was draped about his bare shoulders, a pair of long tracky bottoms dragged up over his aching legs. He hovered there at the corner, holding the edge of the tiled wall, and staring this way with those wide innocent eyes that had once looked obediently up at Salah from the floor of hotel rooms up and down England. Trent blinked and failed to speak, hovering there a moment more. `Well?’ chuckled Mohamed easily, ironically aware that his current mood would be very very different if it had been almost any other teammate exploding around that corner just now – it was easy to feign cocky indifference when it was someone he had this intimate experience of, and yet he’d still feel a little more threatened if it had been that slippery teen Elliott. `Mo,’ yelped the younger Liverpool player almost reproachfully, his face and posture now play-acting an impossible obliviousness to the blow-job ensuing in front of him. `The trophy presentation. The lads. Er. Come on, la’.’ Salah, riding the way of uber confidence, planted his hand more firmly against the top of his new slut’s head, and guided more of his cock into the soft wet mouth of the Belgian hunk – fucking hell, this was so exciting, what a man to make his plaything! – and just sneered casually at the messenger. `I won’t be long,’ he announced coolly, grimacing in pleasure as the thick tip of his cock brushed the roof of Kevin’s mouth and then made him gag by pushing too far – Salah had to relax his hand and let the big man’s face pull back as he gasped and spluttered. Salah ignored this and kept his eyes fixed on the observer, who was somehow managing to pretend nothing was happening whilst letting his wide brown eyes flick up and down at five-second intervals. `Want to share him?’ the Egyptian master growled gently, running the head of his cock against Kevin’s trembling lips and encouraging them open once more to push his meat in. Was there a moment of hesitant desire on the young guy’s face, or some trace of indecision? If there was, it was subtle and well-hidden. Trent pulled back quickly, and his face was screwed up in something like prudish judgement, as if he hadn’t eaten his teammate’s cum on a dozen midnight occasions, licking jewels of it from the edges of his cock-head and whimpering for more when it was gone, back in those delicious months of submission that had eased Mohamed into bisexuality. `Be quick,’ was all Alexander-Arnold muttered at him before disappearing backwards, tossing his head with a shudder of his locs, vanishing out through the changing rooms and the echo of his steps seeming to confirm the emptiness of the rooms, relaxing Mo with the knowledge that everyone else in the Liverpool team and entourage would be out on the pitch, even if this loser’s colleagues would be filing into the other changing rooms only yards away from here! Kevin could feel the other man’s urgency now, and that too was intoxicating, just like his oozing confidence as he barely reacted to their interruption – not only was he on his knees for this smug opponent, but he’d been witnessed at it by another Premiership star, this was INSANE! And yet was he pushing away and rushing off to join his teammates, who would be licking their wounds? No! He was licking this big North African cock, exploring its length and thickness with hungry tongue and lips. It hadn’t felt like this, he thought, when he was in that bed with the dangerous Hazard brothers, drawn in by their mischief and casual fluidity – he’d felt silly and stupid with them, and barely understood his own body or his needs. It had been during the first difficult phase of disinterest from his wife, the same cold front at home that had made him so keen to `help out’ Tommy when he stumbled upon the closeted teenager’s secret – no, this was something different, he thought, rushing with excitement and eagerness. It was as if this was something he’d wanted and been thinking about all summer long, buried deep behind all the smiling wholesomeness and being the perfect dad and husband. Was this what he’d wanted at the party? Had this been at the back of his mind then, watching young Phil being used and debased like that by all of them…? Had he craved this when he saw big John going down on Kyle, or when he’d nudged so close to sturdy Ruben, stroking anxiously at him and- `Come on,’ Salah’s voice growled impatiently, `take it all, you big slut.’ And he tried, he really tried, but it kept choking him, was so difficult to accommodate within his inexperienced mouth. It was so big and so alien, and Mohamed himself was so rough and pushy now. It suddenly felt like everything he wanted, and yet was something he couldn’t quite handle or live up to, which was frustrating and made him blush and sweat even more than the heat of his reddened body. `Yes,’ he gasped and whimpered, nodding and pushing his face in against the hot sweat of the other man’s crotch, trying to open up wide for it but feeling it push awkwardly at the back of his mouth and make him struggle all over again. His knees scraped painfully against the texture of the lino and he felt increasingly conscious of the madness of the moment – the madness of his following his opponent in here and then staring so dangerously at his meat, before sinking to his knees and responding to his grunted demands. Madness, all of it! He’d been dismissive of Trent’s warning glare, had enjoyed the interruption and the risk of it – but he knew the truth, that he was expected elsewhere, and he couldn’t linger in here indulging himself like this for long. And with that in mind, he was rough and pushy with the nervous doughy face at his crotch, and then simply taking matters into his own hand, literally. He pulled his meaty cock away from Kevin’s shaking lips, trailing saliva and pre-cum from the tip, then slapped its strength against one of his soft-haired cheeks, enjoying the alarm in those bright eyes, rubbing his fat tip back over the lips once more before pulling it back upright and jerking it in tight little motions – instead, he grabbed KDB by that damp fluffy hair and pulled his mouth in against his balls instead, pushing his big loaded jewels into that wet mouth and encouraging him to lick and suck at them instead whilst he wanked himself crazily, knowing the speed with which he would need to finish off. He couldn’t just end things, even if he had the self-discipline to do so, he could hardly go out there with this erection and pretend to be normal! No – he needed to finish, needed to show this sexy bugger who was in charge, and paint his earnest face with his own winner’s cream. That thought, that imperative, added ferocity and pace to his almost violent jerks, pumping his wet cock in one fist whilst feeling that inexpert tongue roll and prod against his sac. `Fuck yes,’ he growled, suddenly daring to think that another Liverpool player or staff member could mersin escort bayan appear at that same corner any second – this was incredibly stupid, this risk, and yet here he was, determinedly pumping his cock and urging himself towards his climax, needing to unload and paint the beetroot face of the handsome Belgian. He stared down past his knuckles and dick, looking at the wide anxious eyes and pale bushy brows, looking at the glossy pink lips and the slapping red muscle of that hungry tongue. Fuck, yes! The renewed Liverpool legend grunted and gurgled and felt his balls tighten as he approached the moment of finality, his strong hairy glutes tightening behind him beneath the sweaty dampness of his briefs. `Get ready,’ he growled, `you can taste me properly, City scum…’ The aggression just spilled out of him, a kind of professional anger alongside the more urgent physicality – he wasn’t just looking down into the handsome naivety of the Belgium star, but he was about to spunk all over that smug league-winning club and all of its twattish superstars, who thought they could have it easy and effortlessly take all the glory – hah, not if Liverpool had anything to do with it! `Fuuuuuck,’ the striker growled more loudly, `oh yesss…’ Kevin felt the hot wetness against his face and gasped out in excited alarm, shocked by exactly what he’d anticipated – the salty tang of the man’s load dribbling against his bottom lip, the unconscious flick of his own tongue sliding against that and sampling the sexy bastard’s seed where it drizzled on his hairy chops. He held himself there, trembling on sore knees, and rested his sticky psalm against the strong hips of the standing man, closing both eyes to avoid a stray glob of cum going in them, and unable now to look up at the dominant footballer who had so quickly made him a bitch. `Fuck,’ he murmured awkwardly, becoming aware of just how tight his white City shorts were about his hard-on, which seemed to have broken loose of his black briefs and stretched down against one fluffy thigh. Still on his knees, he reached one nervous hand down to grip the girthy shape in the white nylon, licking his bottom lip again and opening his eyes cautiously to stare at the trembling rod in front of his face, its fat head glossy with the remains of that messy load – most of which he knew were cooling against his short beard or his flushed neck, or on his shoulders or the tight grip of his compression vest that still held his pecs. `Ugh,’ groaned Salah distantly. `Gotta go.’ And that was that. The 5ft9 Liverpool player was pushing away from him, cock swinging, and reaching down to twang at the elastic of his red shorts, dragging them up and burying his massive tool in their loose folds,his cum still dribbling gently across Kevin’s jawline and chest. The marine smell of it filled his world and made him dizzy again, and he leaned sideways to the cool tiles of the wall, worried he might pass out and slide off his bruised knees. `Gotta go,’ the striker was repeating, moving further from him, a flash of hairy thighs and shins, and a jagged tug of materials as the shorts were adjusted and the outline of the cock lost in their folds, and the vest tugged at and adjusted more. Kevin pulled himself more upright, holding the wall, shifting uncomfortably to his feet, and staring desperately at the other man – he wasn’t sure what for, exactly: approval, or validation? Apology? But the look that the Egypt star shot him was quite cold and detached. `City slut,’ he announced quite critically, his eyes narrowed and his face somewhat sneering – gone was the jolly hero of Anfield, and the luxuriously big-cocked brute in front of him was just staring him down like they were head-to-head on the pitch, the fierce warrior king that came out on when Liverpool needed him most. Kevin just gawped at him, with nothing in particular to say to that epithet – he could hardly deny it, and he wasn’t sure what would be the hot or impactful thing to say back to the stud. He just ran one hairy arm over his face, smearing away streaks of semen, and watched as the striker stalked past him and slapped his feet against the lino floor on his way out into the tunnel. Alone, de Bruyne collapsed back to the wall, letting the bare patches of his back rest and cool against the tile, and he grimaced and groaned loudly to himself, still smelling and tasting the salty mess, and feeling it grow sticky on his skin and hair. He could vaguely hear the noises of his own team, not far away, and he wondered if he could discreetly disappear in among them there to shower already – probably, he concluded, but his nervous hands drifted down and toyed with the awkward angle of his erection. He began to play with himself quietly, not removing it from his shorts but wanking it sideways in them, his imagination replaying the hurried minutes of exploration that had just taken place in here – the autopilot that had led him close to Salah and then the authoritative desire that had pushed him to try it out. He pictured the gorgeous sculpture of the Egyptian’s cock, and found himself almost drooling, whimpering to himself as he jerked himself uncomfortably through his shorts, his buttocks clenching against the wall in that same anxious way they had when he wrapped his hand around Ruben Dias’ cock on the roof garden. Salah’s cock retracted and relaxed quite quickly and he did not need to worry about it looking any more prominent than usual in the red material of his Liverpool shorts, striding out onto the pale green of the pitch to join his teammates, who hollered his name immediately as he approached. He exuded the easy relaxation of a man who has just shot his load, swaggering in among the other sweaty players and knowing that nobody would guess what he’d just been up to – and yet his mood fitted well with the moment, because every one of them felt like they’d just throat-fucked the smug City men at once, knocking them from their perch to collect today’s Community Shield. As the men began to form a straggly queue to step up and collect their medals, he made brief eye contact with young Trent, and smirked knowingly at the defender who had been sent to find and hurry him – the Liverpudlian gave him a stern look back that seemed full of hypocritical judgement, or Mo decided to consider, some churlish envy. And wasn’t that a pretty prominent angle pointing one way in the younger man’s red shorts?! Oh, he realised, that was just the outline of his shin-pads tucked into the waist of his shorts; disappointing. There was a mild commotion amongst the players as various squad members began to loudly insist that Salah should be up nearer the front of the line, everyone’s favourite, and he grinned with false modesty as he skipped past the others in his way. He passed Trent by and pressed at him with a broad smile, determined to play on the suspected jealousy of his former toy, and pushed in front of him, taking up his spot behind the captain himself – who glanced a bit awkwardly over his shoulder at this, first at Mo and then past him at Trent, with a faint little frown of concern. But then he was grinning this way and giving him the nod. `Another one done,’ Hendo remarked coolly, elbowing him gently. `Yep,’ the striker agreed happily – this was a perfect way to re-start his career here, after the summer negotiations and uncertainty, and he was more than ready for the challenges of the new season. Today, he thought ambitiously, would just be the first time that they gave City a taste of their power, in more ways than one. Kevin could still feel his own cum dribbling on the inside of his thigh as he joined the busy changing rooms of the City squad, but he’d washed any hint of Salah’s juices form his face and shoulders in a sink in the other dressing room. Still, he knew his cheeks and neck blazed with the fire of a ginger left out in the sun, and he felt his bad behaviour must be obvious to all as he skulked in among the match losers and began to undress in a hurry, squashing his body in between Grealish and Gundogan. He kept his face low, suspecting it would be shiny with man-seed, even after being furiously scrubbed at in the sink. Around him, the City players were trying to laugh off a trivial loss, taking the same philosophical view of it that he had as he hung back here before bumping into Mohamed; but it was harder for him to dismiss it as pre-season nonsense no, having allowed it to become so… personal. He sulked and scowled and earned a few supportive back-slaps from passing men: `Don’t worry about it, Kev,’ insisted Stonesy in a kindly drawl, and `Take it easy, big man!’ chirped new boy Phillips on the way past, looking more annoyed to have sat on the bench all game than about the result itself. Kevin laughed these remarks off awkwardly, pulling a towel about his waist before uncomfortably pushing his black briefs down his thighs – when they dropped about his ankles, he stared down at them and saw the silvery streaks of his load where it had stained inside them after he came in his shorts next door. Instantly, he kicked the soiled pants away from himself into the general detritus of dropped kit, before anybody else could notice these ghostly traces of his secret orgasm. `Come on, grump features,’ urged Jack Grealish lightly, `go wash that frown off your face in the showers, you big sexy bastard.’ And as Kev turned away, he received a light spank to the bottom through his towel from the other midfield player, and he felt another of those uneasy jolts of excitement at the contact, unable to stop himself momentarily picturing the ex-Villa man as he’d topped Foden on that table in front of them all… And the problem with the idle fantasy returned, the problem that had quietly plagued his thoughts all summer: that had been so hot, the way the men had made use of the eager slut together, and he knew he couldn’t be the only one turned on by it, not after what he’d seen…! And yet when the image invaded his fantasies during the summer heat, there was something wrong with it. Why, when he pictured that sordid scene, didn’t he picture himself in Jack or Kyle’s position, taking charge and being the man in the scenario? Why did he picture himself looking up at it, spread backwards over the low table just like little Phil…? Why…? `Last one showered has to suck a dick!’ hollered Kyle Walker somewhere nearby, barrelling into the communal showers with a few fleshy slaps and no towel in sight. It was a joke, Kevin knew, hearing the peals of giddy laughter that followed it – but it broke some tension for him, hearing his friend banter about something like that, something naughty and queer like so many of them had toyed with at the start of summer. He joined his throaty laugh with the others’ and headed into the showers, glad to plant himself beneath the hot watery blast and scrub away the shame of what he’d done with Salah – they were all just horny lads, weren’t they? Too long away from their wives and girlfriends, he mused, and with way too much energy and adrenaline and testosterone flying about… no wonder so many of them had got a bit over-excited together at that party. He buried his face in soapy wet hands and stood there, letting the hot blast needle at his back and shoulders, whilst the alarming truth lingered on the edge of his consciousness – yep, loads of them had lined up to have their cocks serviced that night, and yet only a couple of them had provided those services. He pictured himself on his knees, Salah’s slut next door… and knew that there was something very different in allowing himself to do that. Oh, fuck. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

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