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

Subject: Premiership Lads Part 207: Afternoon Delight Part 207: Afternoon Delight `And you shoulda seen it,’ he continued down the phone, his voice in frantic puffs of his excitement at the story he was telling, `the way the big fella just got up there, fuckin’ finished like he was, and sat on his face, mate — it were so fuckin’ horny, matey, fuckkk…!’ A long whistling breath on the other end of the line. `I wish you coulda been there, dude, it would have been so much beter with ya, obviously… I mean, not just last night, but the whole thing…!’ John Stones controlled his little gasped irritation at this sentiment, keeping his voice neutral and jokey as he responded. `Well, you tell Southgate that,’ he pointed out, his thick Barnsley accent rich with forced cheer and playfulness, `and while you’re at it, maybe tell Guardiola too… be nice to get a few minutes under me belt this season, eh…?’ He summoned a little chuckle to go with his wistful joke, pacing the terrace along the back of his house — the house he and Kyle had so blissfully shared for a big chunk of the summer, sweaty bromantic days that he idly reminisced on whenever some random item or spot in the big suburban mansion summoned up a memory of those long happy weeks after their mutual break-ups and discovery of one another — and heard the moment of guilty awkwardness in his fuck-buddy (or whatever he was). `Aw babe,’ Walker murmured down the line, following it with an uncomfortable wheezy laugh that always made it impossible to know how joking or affectionate the occasional `babe’ among the more laddish northern endearments was. `I reckon you’ll be a sure start Saturday night to smash Spurs, buddy. And who knows, your England comeback is overdue…’ Stones tried to dismiss the envious little frown that crossed his long handsome face, eyes cast down to the floor as he scuffed his toes across the smoothed stone slabs. He glanced back through the big French windows inside, where his restored girlfriend was still tidying up from their little lockdown date night, very happy to be ditched while he caught up with his `best mate’ after 10 days apart. (`Oh hun, you must be missing him so much! Of course, chat with him as long as you need, don’t mind!’) John sat his arse against the low brick wall that closed off the little outdoor dining terrace, straining to fill the silence that had suddenly broken their hurried telephone catch-up. Walker would be arriving home himself any minute; he’d rang Stones up on the short walk from his taxi drop-off and the mansion he was moved back into with his troubled fiancée; the effort of cutting his taxi trip short to find twenty minutes of quiet solitude in a busy night just to ring him were not lost on John, for all his touchy emotions at the FOMO he’d suffered all through another international break. It was very sweet of him to call, John knew, and he relished his excitement and his joy at the experience he’d had — not just of the games, 2/3 won convincingly even if their place in the League was lost, but of his dirty little side-adventures too, just like the last couple of camps. Hearing about Walker’s little escapades pursuing their mutual pal Sterling, or corrupting that arrogant little upstart Sancho, they did turn Stones on; after all, Walker had even sent him the recording of his original little dalliance with Sancho in Iceland, a poor-quality production that had been wanked over thrice regardless. And tonight, hearing Kyle’s panting narration of the veritable orgy he’d become entangled in with the likes of Maguire and Kane, well… there was a certain vicarious thrill for Stones, hearing the blunt retelling and knowing he might get the juicy details more slowly and carefully when next they engineered some proper alone time, harder and harder between lockdown rules and their professional duties. `You’re not annoyed are ya?’ the burly 30-year-old footballer demanded down the phone after a few slow moments of quiet had passed. `John-boy?’ The directness of the late-night question from Walker threw him off-balance and his answer was a bit stammered and unconvincing. `W-what? Nah, fuck off — why would I be…? It sounds… HOT!’ He wrinkled his face, fidgeting where he sat, his eyes still flitting to and from the pyjama-clad curves of his partner indoors. `Just picturing it for myself, that’s all.’ A heavy pause from Kyle. `Yeah, well, it were fuckin’ steamy, aye,’ the Yorkshireman said in his pitchy, almost boyish voice. `You just sounded a bit off with me there, Stonesy.’ `Fuck off,’ he said dismissively with a little laugh in his voice. `Is it the England thing?’ `What? No, shut up, let it go,’ he said more quickly and assuredly. `You think I’m sat home cryin’ cos I don’t get to play for the country? Mate, I sank enough beers watching you lot lose from home, don’t you worry… hehe. S’all good.’ `Er, okay.’ The other guy sounded a bit unsure or unconvinced. `I better go, y’know — just getting to the house now, matey. Erm — night?’ `Yeah, yeah, night,’ John told him. `Well done on tonight, pal, great result. Thanks for ringin’. Love ya.’ `Love ya too,’ Kyle responded gruffly, both of them fumbling the affection in a way that was ambiguously matey and casual. Walker clicked away from the call. It was surreal to think that only hours ago he’d been playing against Iceland in Wembley Stadium as part of the 4-0 win that had ended the international break on a high; now he would be bustling into his home and probably going straight to the bedroom to climb on top of his missus and get stuck into her, pretending to have been starved and sexless in his absence despite the confessions he had shared with John. He remained outside a little longer, drooping his long arms against the thighs of his pyjama shorts, skin cool and pimpled in the night, but enjoying the freshness of the air before heading back inside to his own female partner and the comfortable familiar fucking she offered him. A very different flavour of intimacy to the rough almost competitive antics he enjoyed with Kyle — or had enjoyed, with such ferocious repetition and energy, for big parts of this year; lately it had been so hard for them to really find the opportunities together, especially with John often failing to make the selection for away trips where they might find themselves sharing a convenient hotel room. Okay, he WAS a little jealous, of course he was! Honestly, though, it was tough to separate his professional anxieties from the little traces of possessiveness and neglect. He could not help but worry about his lack of playing opportunities here at Manchester City, and reflect on the years when he had been a safe call-up for England, he and Kyle having first bonded on that national squad before they were ever club-mates here at City. So it was difficult to decide how he really felt about Kyle’s tireless lust and his little forays beyond their shared fun — the little pokes of action with Raheem and Jadon seemed one thing, but a full on sweaty fuck-fest with all those guys last night, well… some complicated unspoken set of rules at the back of his mind felt a bit stretched and damaged, but he didn’t want to be the stuffy judgmental prick who made a big deal out of it! How could they be exclusive, after all, when they were both two-timing each other with women…?! Perhaps, like the footballing success, it was really just the one-sidedness of it; John, in this last year of madness, had only ever really played about with Kyle. Yes, they’d shared Raheem once, but really the big-bottomed stud had just been a handy proxy while they were plucking up the courage to try fucking one another. For John Stones, man-on-man fun was inseparable from his intense friendship with his fellow defender, but for Kyle, clearly… less so. Stones was disturbed from his wistful, envious reverie by tapping acrylic nails on the glazing and a little inviting wave from the woman inside. He lifted his big sturdy body off the wall, shivering a little as the night cool got to him, and headed indoor, dragging his flip-flops over the flagstones and pulling the French windows aside to step back indoors. In there, he kissed sleepily with his fiancée and ditched his phone, focusing on the here and now rather than wondering what could have been if he and Kyle had just remained living under one roof instead, undisturbed and inseparable. These thoughts were still plaguing the 26-year-old centre-back the following day at the training ground, making him sluggish and unenthusiastic in his drills and exercises. The intensity of the training had drooped this past week, down to a skeletal squad with so many key players away on international summons; and still today, Walker was missing, along with Sterling and Foden, since they were allowed a rest after their winning match last night. Stones was a little glad: he felt spared more twinges of petty jealousy, and it was easier to join in with the rapturous praise of Phil Foden’s two late goals without having to watch his Kyle gloat and swagger about as some kinda international playboy. He also wasn’t sure he wanted or needed to hear much more about how his best mate had got his dick inside a Spurs player along with all those other macho buggers in a hotel room; no doubt it would come up plenty since they were facing off against Kane’s team in two days! The tall Barnsley lad went through the motions of the day’s work, glad to at least get a bit more attention from the coaching team with a lot of the most prominent players still either resting or en route from home countries. Pep himself, the charismatic boss, rarely gave him a second look, no matter how much he pushed himself or committed to the task — sometimes he dared to think that a transfer away to another club wouldn’t be so bad after all, but then he tried to imagine his day-to-day footballing life without Kyle, and… yeh. Here he was. The reduced roster of players threw him into the company of younger players and other less notable filler squad members, people who Stones didn’t like to put himself on par with, but who in reality he now tended to join on the bench of a large and amply talented squad. He hated the idea that vanity or ambition made him look down on some of his fellow City players, but it was definitely hard to get used to being a spare part and only occasional substitution. Especially when, like today, he was half-occupied with resenting the fact that he wasn’t getting called up by Southgate to don an England shirt, and then engaging in seedy secret group sex with a bunch of bi-curious footballers! It took him by surprise when, leaving the pitch, he actually got a firm slap on the shoulder from Guardiola and a vague affirmation of his efforts, a hint of sorts that he might get a run out on Saturday night against Tottenham Hotspur. Having slouched through the final chunk of the afternoon, the attention from the manager came as a particular surprise, and left the big centre-back striding off the training ground with an optimistic little grin forming mersin escort on his lips. Perhaps, he thought, the international break would serve him well: with so many of the City stars tired out by playing for their countries, he might be needed more urgently! He flashed his breezy smile at one of the club photographers skirting the edge of the field, giving them a thumbs-up past the other wearily strolling young men, and then got a funny look from the lad nearest him for this visible eagerness. The Manchester teen grinned uncertainly at him, panting a little and letting his breath stream in trails of mist, questioning him with his eyes. `Something I should know?’ the 19-year-old asked with hesitant charm. `Gotta smile for the cameras, youngster,’ John trilled confidently. `We wanna look ready going into the weekend, laddo.’ He reached across to slap the shorter young bloke on the back, overdoing it slightly and making him stumble a little; he laughed, leaned in and steadied him with brotherly affection, scrunching at his short strawberry blond hair. `Anyways, I don’t need a reason to grin, I’m a positive kinda guy.’ Tommy Doyle laughed uncertainly back at this, wriggling out of his playful steadying arm and giving him a bashful smile. `Aye, I’ve noticed,’ the local youngster remarked, `but normally you’re a right misery when your BFF is AWOL — ha ha, that’s what everyone says, anyway…!’ He seemed to be backtracking on his banter, youthful and shy at chancing this remark, then relieved when Stones laughed heartily and just nudged him in the arm as they journeyed indoors. `Oh, is that so,’ John chuckled, still too pleased with himself at Pep’s compliments to really give any worry to what anyone else at the team thought about his and Kyle’s constant closeness and playful banter. How could he deny that he missed him? The pair of them would be all over each other during a Thursday training session like this, piggy-backs and pranks and impressions. Even as he spilled down the corridors of the training facility, he was conscious of Kyle’s absence, thinking how they might now wind down with some laps in the pool or a bit of boxing in the gym before really calling it a day. `Yeah, I mean, every young player wants to make mates as close as you two,’ Doyle said, trotting down the corridor next to him in their matching pale blue City jerseys, scratching at his rather admirable young beard of ginger fur. `But here I am getting left behind by Foden while he makes it big on the Three Lions haha, where’s my chance?!’ `Ah, you’re just 19!’ Stones pointed out, focusing more on the teenage midfielder than his own private pangs for Walker’s company, following him idly through the dispersing group of their teammates, who were variously drifting into the gym or to see various physios and fitness experts, or through into the changing areas as they now went themselves. `You never know, could turn up in an Under-21s game next year and then next thing you know you’re at the ’22 World Cup…!’ He grinned encouragingly at the young guy, sensing some reflection of his own mid-twenties paranoia in the bright-eyed youth’s face. `Heh, you’re right,’ Tommy said, non-committal. `But Philly’s out there banging in two goals against Iceland last night and I’m stuck here wondering if I’ll even make the subs bench on Saturday night.’ A huffy little sigh. `I just thought things might move a bit faster after I made my debut, y’know.’ He seemed again to regret his forthrightness, blushing a little behind his bearded chops and strutting awkwardly ahead into the quiet warmth of the changing rooms. John, always quick to put aside his own problems when worried about a friend, following him closely and lowered his voice. `You’re making a dent, kid, don’t fret. It’s been a funny year, but you’ll make a few more appearances. Cut your teeth. You can’t be comparing yourself to the likes of the gaffer’s Golden Boy, hah…’ Tommy grinned foolishly at this running joke. `He hates it when you call him that,’ he said, though with a little relish at the humour of it. `I mean, he’s a special player though, ain’t he? You watched last night? He’s sick.’ `They were good goals,’ John agreed, but without the teen’s enthusiasm, not wanting to dwell any more on the exciting England game he’d experienced from a distance with a beer in his hand and his girlfriend curled against him, wishing he was there on the back line with Walker, instead of those other two big Premiership defenders who had apparently shared his bed too. `Playing for yer country ain’t everything anyway,’ he pointed out ruefully. `You’ve got a good career ahead of you anyway, Tommy D, you’ll make you famous grandpa proud.’ This, apparently, was the wrong tack, making the young Mancunian look more troubled rather than optimistic. `Ugh, who knows what my family will think of me,’ he said in a tone of private conflict, `I’m not sure I’m gonna quite be what they want me to be.’ There was a worried look in his wide blue eyes and the crooked twist of his chewed lips; John looked at him with genuine concern then saw his desperate backpedal from that topic. `But yeah, just gotta keep my chin up, work hard, look ahead…’ He turned away fussily, tugging at the long sleeves of his training jersey and fiddling with the short zip at his neckline. `Hey,’ John said softly and encouragingly, laying a hand on his upper arm, `I’m sure you’re making your mum and dad super proud already, matey, you’re doing great out here.’ He squeezed the short youngster’s shoulder gently and gave him a warm grin that seemed to do some little bit of reassuring. `God, need out of this kit, I stink like Kyle Walker’s jockstrap right now, hah.’ He took his distance from the other City substitute, finding some space and peeling the tight little compression vest from other his training top first, then dragging the top up and away from his body, peeling the skin-tight black vest beneath it at the same time until he was wriggling free with his long muscular torso on show, lightly shined with sweat from the long day’s exercise. When the top was away and his eyes were blinking back into the electric lights, he found Tommy looking this way with that same shifty discontent on his face, but then looking sharply and shyly away in an instant. Poor lad, John thought sensitively, aware of the pressure on promising young players to become overnight successes like his friend Phil — who, if all of Kyle’s dirty deeds were to be believed, had captured the City manager’s affections through more than just his ball skills…! He turned away and shifted down the wall towards his own locker, bundling up the layers of tops and dumping them on the shelf below his things, stopping to stretch out his arms and shoulders and inspect a little bruise against his tricep. As he did, he saw, again, that Doyle was looking this way, stripping off his own top now and then looking suddenly very interested in his neatly organised belongings; had he actually been looking this way, John wondered, or was it just his bored imagination? John was confident enough in his own physical attractiveness for sure, but it seemed a leap to assume any interest from the laddish young Mancunian, and yet… was there something about the bearded 5ft7 ginger lad after all, a certain reserve or caution that might be… and he HAD just been quite worried about what his family were going to think of him, that had sounded a bit peculiar… oh for fuck’s sake, don’t let your ego get as big as Kyle’s, not every guy who looks your way wants a piece of you…! With a big grin and a quiet laugh to himself, he thought again of Walker’s narrative last night: in the light of day and his slow churning reflection, it all sounded a bit too exaggerated and involved to be TRUE. (Kane, really? Maguire?! Mings and Winks and — Dier at the door???) He dismissed his own little moments of vanity, pulling hands across his warm face and dragging the curls of his fringe out of his brow. Then he stooped to unlace his boots and drag them off his feet, yanking off sock after sock before starting to untie the front of his tracksuit bottoms and, with a lingering curiosity, looking over at the young midfielder; no searching glance this way from Tommy now, the 19-year-old had his pale freckled back to John, in the middle of dropping his shorts and exposing the tight black briefs that covered his peachy bottom — Stones couldn’t help but feel a surge of desire for the sight of it, even if it wasn’t anything next to the meaty caramel-coloured cheeks of Walker’s backside. Stepping out of his dropping shorts and just there in his long blue City socks and skimpy briefs, Tommy did now look this way, and seemed to redden instantly at finding John looking his way with a lazy grin on his lips. John just raised his brows for a moment in some vague acknowledgement of the awkwardness, refusing to quite look away, just enjoying the sight of the 5ft7 lad’s tight pale body. There was a little moment of staring between them now, and John entertained that thought again: was there some particular admiration or interest in the way the teenager looked at him, or was he just going mad from boredom and unfulfilled sexual desire…? With a hint of provocation in his body language, Stones hooked his thumbs into the front of his skinny-fit tracksuit bottoms and peeled the glossy blue downwards so that he was exposed in almost identical black sports briefs, marked by the particularly weighty package drooping at the front between the garishly tattooed skin of his thighs. He stood brazenly undressed in these undies, trying to judge the expression on Doyle’s face, enjoying the little prickle of tension even if it was probably just in his own head. He turned away, unable to judge if the other sportsman was still watching, and took his time fiddling through his toiletries and unfolding his towel, preciously aware of just how impressive the bulging crotch of his black undies might appear in side-profile. After a little delay, he looked back to the left, but found nobody where he expected, just an empty space and, a little further down the changing room, a few other members of the reduced squad quietly undressing for their showers. He looked over his shoulder and caught a flash of bare bottom and ginger fuzz as Doyle disappeared in the shower block… aha, poor lad, probably scared him off posing with the bulge out, ridiculous…! Stones laughed at his own vanity, fiddling with the loaded front of his briefs and then tugging it brazenly down before grabbing up his towel and toilet-bag and striding on into the showers too. He didn’t deliberately take the spot a couple of showers across from Tommy Doyle, it was just an idle autopilot, hooking up his towel on the wall and strutting on to the far side; he’d punched life into the thing and rolled his head beneath its hot blast before he glanced left and noticed Tommy there, shyly naked under the water and frothing shower gel between his palms. He was staring ahead in a quite fixed way while escort mersin John looked but, as soon as he averted his eyes, he thought he detected a shift and fidget in the teenager’s position, maybe peering this way after all… Hmm, maybe, just maybe… John squirted some expensive shower gel into his hand with a spunky little fart noise and then lathered it against firm pecs, throwing his head back and enjoying the needling heat on his skin. Then, his hands lubed with the shower gel, he consciously slid them further down his torso and aimed them for his crotch, slipping them against the short curls of his trimmed pubes and against the loose hang of his oversized cock and dangling balls, then looked quickly to the left and caught Tommy looking. The wet-faced youth looked away, panic in his eyes, scrubbing furiously at his upper arms and his bare chest, but John just grinned his way, lathering soap across his pubes and flaccid shaft, playing it against his fingers and thumbs; a furtive glance came back this way at his provocative fumbling, but only for a moment. Tommy set about squirting shampoo into his soaked red-blond hair and busying himself with that, and John just luxuriated arrogantly under his own shower. He might have stopped there, just enjoying the ambiguous thrill of uncertainty, but he was riled by the thoughts that had ticked along day: the way he’d unquestioningly enjoyed himself with Kyle after those initial fumbling steps, yet never branched out and explored other opportunities in the way his older best pal and lover had, so unapologetically. And driven by a little jealous mania, John twisted the knob on his own shower and sidestepped to the left, suddenly occupying the space that had divided them, knocking it into life and beginning to rinse suds away from his muscles, face, crotch. Instantly, Tommy looked this way, thick brows lifted and eyes wide, mouth hanging ever so slightly open. As John rolled fingers across his long chubby prick and washed soapy white away from the neat line of his pubes, there was no doubt about the fascination with which his junior teammate observed and admired. John grinned his way, tugging and adjusting at the hang of his balls, and taking in the attractive sight of the bearded youth, his gingery fringe coming down close to his eyes, and his lean muscular physique glistening wet. John’s eyes fixed curiously on his crotch, the little bush of frizzy red and the nervous posture of his flaccid prick, so dainty by comparison to the snake that hung between his own legs — again, something ego-affirming and jealousy-quenching for Stones in this contrast and the way it clearly intrigued the young local. John, enjoying himself immensely, bit his lip teasingly and stroked the hard-earned slabs of his six-pack, really curling his other hand around his privates, emphasising their appealing proportions for the wide-eyed audience — suddenly Tommy was looking anxiously past him with a little shudder and a few awkward steps to turn mostly away. Wet steps, creaking shower controls and heavy breathing told John in no uncertain terms that another of their teammates had occupied the spot he’d abandoned, casually interrupting the simmering intimacy of his exhibitionism, and making him just smirk carefully and finish rinsing himself down, while Doyle himself scampered out of the showers as quickly as he could, wriggling into his towel and escaping. John’s big dick and bollocks were snuggled comfortably in fresh white CKs and a tight-fitting pair of jeans when he wove out of the training facility in the same slow gradual exit as all of the other City players, barking back at the vague banter about things stepping up tomorrow when all of the international stars were back in their midst, getting primed for the Saturday night Spurs game. But the tall Yorkshireman lingered after unlocking his BMW, leaning across the car roof and watching as one of the other dressed-down footballers passed close by on the paths out of the big expensive complex. `How you getting’ home, eh?’ he called warmly at Tommy, grinning invitingly at the lad, wondering just how much his little wet striptease had interested the handsome youngster. He smiled expectantly at him, watching as Doyle paused thoughtfully, adjusted the straps of his backpack, then veered off the pavement onto the tarmac and to the other side of his car, eyeing him nervously. `Got a taxi booked,’ he said unenthusiastically. His eyes weren’t nervous, John realised, they were hopeful. `I can cancel it,’ the teenager then said quietly, thumbing at the bag straps and shifting from foot to foot, bearded and manly but diminutive and youthful at the same time. `You do that,’ Stones told him in a voice that was firmly authoritative, then he let himself into the driving seat. After a pause that felt massive, the other door open and the younger City player slid into him, visibly tense and nervous. John, starting up the engine, just reached across and patted him on the sleeve of his jacket. `My fiancée will be home,’ he said bluntly, deciding it was best to be direct here. `How about at your place?’ `I live with my family,’ he said in that same quiet and hesitant voice, but his arm was responsive to John’s touch, twisting a bit so he could let their fingers brush sensitively. `But… they’re all out for a walk in the Peaks. Erm.’ A loud gulp. `You wanna come hang out for a bit…?’ John gave him a cheeky wink and put his hands to the wheel. `Don’t mind if I do, lad.’ It was so definitely a teenager’s bedroom that John momentarily felt a bit creeped out and predatory about the 19 year old he was following in, but there was definitely something older and more mature about Tommy’s appearance and manner. Plus, his own dick was already getting semi in the front of his jeans and he was pretty sure they both equally needed this. He let the door close quietly behind him, following his host with slow steps, barely a word spoken since they parked up in the empty sweeping driveway of the house — this big house that felt kinda modest to Stones after so many years now of Premiership salary, but was really a huge family home — and this it’s teenage bachelor suite, a big cluttered space at the side of the first floor. Band posters, a couple of neglected guitars, dirty clothing on every surface. The bearded teen himself seemed to be glaring around at the stereotypical mess of his nest in vague shame, padding self-consciously across the room towards the cluttered bed, then pausing to turn and give him a hesitant look. John reached a large strong hand for his arm and smiled reassuringly. `You okay, lad?’ he asked, keeping his warm Barnsley voice quiet. `I can go whenever you want me to, aye?’ `No,’ his host said hoarsely. `No… I don’t want you to… go.’ He gave him another wink. `You like what you saw in the shower?’ Tommy nodded slowly. `Well… why don’t I just… get it out?’ He had already ditched his coat downstairs and now he was down to just tshirt and jeans, so he fumbled for the belt buckle and button flies, taking his time to do it because the look of nervous anticipation on the lad’s face was so thrilling to watch. But once he’d scooped his hand into the front of the Calvins, he made no fuss of just flopping his whopper out and letting it hang there for Tommy’s blue eyes to devour. `Fuck,’ the midfielder mouthed almost silently, and John pulled gently on his arm, fingering the warm freckled skin below his elbow. Following this hint, Doyle came closer and, very slowly, reached to touch it, brushing his fingers against the fleshy shaft, already so thick and prominent, and about to get bigger as it stiffened. He held his breath while he stroked at it and John just stroked his arm in encouragement, having quite forgotten the novelty of this inexperience, so used to the firmness and authority with which Kyle would always possessively grab him. `It’s massive,’ Tommy told him needlessly, wrapping his fingers about it and pulling it properly. `Fuck, Stonesy…’ He licked his lips unconsciously, and the rugged cuteness of it gave John shivers of delight. He pulled him closer and brought his other hand up to brush his neck and his hairy cheek and over his ear, then leant in close, saw the flash of surprise in the eyes. `Can I kiss you?’ he asked in a sexy little growl. Tommy’s answer was simple and desperate. `Please.’ John took it slow, again so unlike the roughness with which he and Kyle snogged, which almost felt like a fight for dominance every time, some oral battle for who would fuck who. He moved his lips sensitively over Tommy’s, sensing the need for care here with the 19-year-old, but enjoying the feel and taste of his mouth, and enjoying the rapturous gasp that it produced in him. He could tell from the expression that it was his first, at least with a bloke. `I never knew you were into this,’ the smaller guy told him, sinking back form his toes as John straightened up, quite towering over him as he stroked his shoulders and neck, and felt him grab a bit more firmly at his hardening prick. `I’m full of surprises, me,’ Stones told him simply, kissing him on each of his furred cheeks once, stroking the back of his neck. `Mmm… what you wanna do with that thing in your hand, Doyler…?’ `I wanna… suck it…’ `Was kinda hopin’ you’d say that, mate.’ John removed his black tshirt in one clear sweep, exposing his hard bigger body to the lad once more, then pushed down his jeans and undies as he approached the bed; Tommy rushed to overtake him, pushing at piles of clothes and junk and clearing space on the sheets. The older footballer gladly flopped past him onto his back, pants around his ankles, cock gently rising to full height between his legs. Tommy crawled onto the bed beside him, his own hard-on already visible in his black trackies, laying one nervous hand on the imagery on John’s thigh. He kept looking at him as if to check he was allowed, but John just grinned and stroked at his neck and nodded — and soon that puckered mouth was nuzzling at the swollen length of it and kissing at the tip in a way that suggested maybe he was not so virginal after all. John moaned loudly and appreciatively for him, thinking about the lacklustre bedtime blowjob from his fiancée last night — even if this kid didn’t know what he was doing, his rugged handsomeness already made this oddly more exciting. Doyle opened his mouth and took in some of it, tasting and then sucking on the top few inches then pulling away to catch his breath and wipe a hand over his beard. `Is that okay?’ he asked urgently. `I dunno if… I mean…’ `Keep going,’ Stones told him in a satisfied purr, kneading his fingertips at his upper back muscles to relax him, and so glad when his lips rubbed once more over his curling foreskin and onto the shaft. The lad’s tongue felt so soft and good. `Ohhhh, Thomas, maaaate…’ Again the 19-year-old was pulling back and gasping a little, gently wanking the base of it and just staring at it as if mesmerised by a dangerous python. mersin escort bayan `It’s so big,’ he said almost complainingly, in a voice almost to himself, `I mean, so much bigger than Kev’s, and…’ Again, that little startled regret in his manners, his blue eyes shifting this way and John grinning inquisitively at him, catching that exposing syllable. Kev. He just moaned his pleasure and the footballer tried again, licking up and down the veiny shaft and then moving his lips over the end of it, beginning to reach down and rub at himself in his pants as he did. `You’ve done it before?’ John asked gently, stroking his fluffy hair. `Few times,’ murmured Tommy in guilty tones, kissing the bottom of his rod and nuzzling the spread of his balls a little before slipping up the shaft again to tongue the foreskin. `But… not this big, not this long anyway, erm…’ The guilt in his eyes, the knowledge at the slip of a name, was evident, and John didn’t want to torment that, but he did want confirmation. `De Bruyne?’ he asked very quietly, and the little flicker of nod was enough. `Wow.’ But now Doyle did look really quite miserable about what he’d let slip, pulling away on the bed, still holding the dick but staring at it like a dangerous weapon, his lips glossy with his own spit. John sighed and reached for his head, stroking his fingers down his neck and below the line of his tshirt, encouraging him to shed it. `Well,’ he said, in a slightly rougher voice, sitting up a little towards him, reaching with his other hand and tickling it against his lower tummy, beneath his tangled tshirt and just above the waist of his pants, `has anyone ever done it to you…?’ The surprise of this question alleviated whatever guilt the player was going through. `No,’ he grunted, seeming embarrassed by this fact, but John was already moving: pushing his hand inside the trackies to find his stiff member, a short thick thing that felt perfectly formed within his commanding fingers. So sensitive in its inexperience, he shivered and moaned even at that clumsy contact. John pushed him gently away, edging him off the bed and onto his feet. Then he slid off too, to his knees, embarrassingly tall against the 5ft7 guy even in this position, but low enough kiss his abdomen as the tshirt came off, then descend rub his chin and jaw against that hard sensitive prick while pushing the trackies and boxer shorts down over deliciously thick and ginger-furred legs. He teased for as long as he could, not directly touching the attentive prick, just kissing around the waist and inner thighs and as close to the base as he could, sniffing and nuzzling those wiry red pubes, then finally… slowly… breathtakingly… opening his mouth wide and consuming the perfect red tool of the teenager, holding him firmly by the hips and taking his length into his mouth in one go. `Jesus,’ the good Catholic boy whispered, his fingertips brushing at the waxy curls of John’s hair, and then several more blasphemous outbursts. He loved to hear it, loved the shock and thrill and fear in the boy’s voice, gruff and laddish but nervous and tender. He bobbed back and forth on his prick for a while but then pulled his face back a little and wanked it instead, but flicked his broad strong tongue back and forth over the tip as he did so, slavering over it and waiting for the inevitable explosion of the teen’s joy. It was preceded by more whimpers and `Jesus Christ’, then it was there, the tasty mouthful of fresh spunk, which John licked from the angry red tip and from his own lips, savouring it now in a way he could never have imagined himself a year ago. Doyle was unsteady on his feet, gasping and panting, red-cheeked, guilty-eyed. `Sorry,’ he was beginning to say, as if it had been too quick, but John was just laughing and stroking his legs and rising up to his feet, looming over him, taking hold of his own dick. He kissed him once on the cheek and then grabbed at his shoulder — not to push him forcefully down and demand more effort, but to hold him at a slight distance, face to face, a canvas ready for art. He was beautiful, really, in a way that John had never actually picked up on before — the shy and unassuming young midfielder, the grandson of a Premiership legend, so excited and experimental. John looked at his expectant expression and his sexy bearded mouth, down at his developing chest muscles and tight six-pack: and onto it he sprayed his load, streaking his marble-white skin with a creamy paint, staining him with his salty offering. In bed, they lay quiet for a while, and John felt so comfortably pleasured that he nearly drifted off for a moment, but somehow the jarring teenaged surroundings held off the longed-for nap and made him randomly chuckle at a try-hard Nirvana poster in one corner. He turned to look at where Tommy lay beside him, equally naked beneath the warm covers, something much less relaxed and confident in his hunched arms and stiff neck. `What?’ Doyle asked, almost defensively. `What are you laughing at?’ `Nowt,’ Stones told him comfortingly, turning on his side towards him and rubbing his fingers over his chest a little, just below the furry jut of his chin. `I’m gonna have to go soon. I hope that’s cool.’ `Sure it is,’ Tommy mumbled, compliant and quiet. John found him almost painfully adorable, a little frightened by the thought of having to leave him to his apparent anxiety. `What?’ Tommy demanded again, watching him through the creases of a frown. `Was I no good? I — I — I don’t really know what I’m doing, I mean, I…’ `You’re doing just fine,’ Stones sighed at him, as if back to his career talk. `I was just thinking… you need someone nearer your age, that’s all. And someone who ain’t got a girlfriend at home with a kid, y’know?’ He grinned and patted the top of his six-pack. `But… yeah. That was fuckin’ fun, buddy.’ He let his hand linger there on the shivering heat of the young body, beginning to embrace the guilty thrill of having broken out of his jealous impatience for Walker — now he too had his own exciting tales to tell, his own devious deeds to share! As soon as he got out of here and left this sexy little fucker to wank off — he could tell he was hard again under the sheets already, jesus christ, oh to be 19 again! John, who’d had sex last night and this morning and now this, had no chance of matching that teenage resilience. In a moment, the 6ft2 centre-back was up out of the bed, and he could feel the blue eyes following the swing of his prick as he skipped about to find and tug on his pants and jeans. He enjoyed the attention and gave a sleepy grin of appreciation over to the youth still nestled in the duvet, naked and aroused again after their quiet little rest. Oh, fuck it. It seemed cruel to leave it. Still naked above the waist, he walked to the bedside, peeled the duvet off Tommy’s body, then crouched at the beside and reached for the hard-on to play with, while Doyle just gawped at him, momentarily annoyed and then just gasping his surprised appreciation. John wanked him slowly this time, rather than the quick attention of his blowie, just grinning and leering and muttering to him as he squatted there and jerked him off. `You’re a sexy little bugger,’ he told him firmly. `Don’t let a bunch of involved older jerks like me get the best of ya, eh…?’ `You’re not… mmm… a…. ohhhh… jerk…’ `Aye but I’m jerkin’ pretty good ain’t I?’ he quipped, squeezing at that excitable member, then beginning to wank him more rapidly. `Don’t you worry, though. I’ll look out for ya, lad. Obviously I won’t tell anyone you’re…’ Still gasping and moaning on his back, Tommy eyed him nervously and mouthed the label. `Gay,’ he confirmed, with a certainty that Stones had not yet been able to feel about his own sexuality. He admired the lad’s firmness and self-awareness. `I will look out for you,’ he promised firmly, meaning every word. `And Kevin,’ the lad added in pre-orgasmic whimpers, `I shouldn’t have…’ `Secret’s safe with me,’ Stones promised, pumping his teenage dick until, again, oh yes… `Thank you,’ Doyle panted, his spunk dribbling over Stones’ knuckles, `thank you!’ It was unclear if this was a polite response to the handjob or an earnest gratitutde for KDB’s discretion, but either way, it was cute as fuck, and John slowly lifted his spunky hand from the lad’s nob and, hunched in front of him, licked his fingers clean while the teenage watched, mesmerised. On the drive home, he rang Kyle Walker with every intention of a boastful story-time of his own, a smirking inversion of last night’s odd goodnight call. The knowledge of his late afternoon seediness gave him a warm glow as he greeted his teammate over the speakerphone of the vehicle, listening to his distant comments on a lazy day’s recovering and hanging out with his woman. But soon Kyle was making allusive references back to his adventures at Wembley — jibing about how he couldn’t wait to fuck Harry Kane again when their two teams played this weekend, or musing on what Sancho was up to back in Dortmund today. He was making a couple of sneering jokes about Foden too, that John chuckled along with as he drove, but felt oddly disinterested in. `How was training?’ Walker grunted eventually. `Fine. Bit boring. Be good tomorrow with you back.’ `Obviously, heh. No gossip then?’ Stones thought about it, pausing at the traffic lights. `Nah. Quiet day.’ A certain chivalry was part of it, he supposed: he’d meant it when he promised to look out for the nervous youth with his sexy bearded smile and wintry eyes. There was something very likeable about Doyle that brought out a protective brotherly instinct for him, and he oddly felt that as much as he adored and trusted his Walker, it might not be in the lad’s best interests to expose his sexuality to the most aggressively sexual and charismatic bloke in the whole of Manchester. But it wasn’t just that altruism… He knew it was also something petty and jealous. He needed this. He needed some secret or some leverage, something to make himself feel safe and confident against Walker’s experience and adventure. He wasn’t really sure where they stood with each other, not really, not like he had been in that summer honeymoon together; and for now, he just needed to know that he didn’t quite depend on this sexy beast for all of his pleasure or happiness. He was quietly resolving not to let much more happen with Tommy, if possible; he could see that the midfield player was a bit romantic and vulnerable and perhaps in need of something more solid and safe. But still — he would be able to savour the memory of this afternoon and the bond they’d created, and it would make it easier to forgive Kyle’s England escapades, his arrogance and dominance. And besides… John Stones was beginning to wonder if there might be much more fun to be had with someone else on their football squad now. Because tomorrow would not just be a return to training for his fellow defender, England’s Kyle Walker. No. Right now, their legendary midfield playmaker would be touching down at Manchester Airport, fresh from Belgium (and from beating England only a few days ago). Naughty Kevin, John thought curiously and excitedly, and the lights above turned green, signalling he was good to go.

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