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Subject: Premiership Lads PArt 219 Part 219: Boxing Day Confessions Jamie Vardy took his time drying off in the home changing rooms, running the towel roughly across his chest and shoulders and making no rush to cool off and begin changing into clean gear for the journey home to a relaxing Boxing Day night with the wife and kids — he had been tasked with an extra job, after all, and he intended to do it well. The 33-year-old striker threw the towel around his shoulders and stood naked for a minute, his wiry ripped body still steaming a little with the heat of the showers as he confidently displayed every inch of his body to the rest of the room, never one to shy away from his alpha male presence in the Leicester squad. Long before his Premiership and international success, the scrawny Sheffield boy had held this same cocksure persona, and now he had the years of success and goal records to substantiate his big dick energy, even with a fairly average snake dangling between his lean soft-haired thighs. Jamie’s reputation was presumably why the gaffer had tasked him with this little job of… well, let’s call it mentoring. Discipline, perhaps. Sorting out an unruly younger member of the Premier League team, anyways, even after a relatively successful Boxing Day outing against major rivals. Vardy tugged loosely at aforementioned cock with the edge of his towel, drying off his low-hanging bollocks and wiry pubes, then running the folded towel hard against his tight glutes before tossing it at the side and plucking clean black boxer briefs from the bag of clothing at the foot of his locker, grinning to hear the general atmosphere of victory in the heated rooms — it was more like Leicester had won than drawn, the way their 2-2 with Man Utd was being celebrated by the other lads in various states of undress around him. Maddison, as always, was clowning about like a court jester, and even the quieter figures like Schmeichel were booming in their confidence about how they had managed to hold back United’s feeble title hopes after a run of good performances for them. Jamie was not even captain — he was third in line, according to the squad’s official hierarchy at the moment — but he knew he was regarded as top dog in this room of shower-blasted muscle and riled testosterone, not least today because his own shot had secured the draw and stolen the points from their Old Trafford rivals. Another day, another tour de force from Vardy at the front of their attack, the seasoned player of humble roots thought with a complacent smirk, adjusting his bollocks in the fresh pants and then unfolding his jeans and tshirt, paying no real attention to the general excitement of his teammates and the early goodbyes as some of the quicker fellas zipped up coats and exited. He took his time and then seized his moment: reaching out and snatching just above the elbow of his target as the younger bloke made to follow a couple of others out of the quietening changing rooms, applying enough pressure to seriously stall him without seeming overtly aggressive or inappropriate. The 23-year-old winger stared cautiously at him, hovering on the exit threshold, awaiting some explanation for this interruption — from his wide-eyed expression, he was perhaps waiting for some congratulations for how he’d played today, and before anything else, Jamie supposed he was due that. `Oi,’ he barked, `good innings, lad…’ Then, before the fella could make a move out into the passage and start his exit, Jamie pulled a bit more firmly on his arm. `Slow down, will ya — I’ll give you a lift home, Harv.’ Barnes frowned at him, surprised. `Actually, I’ve got a car booked, so…’ `Nonsense,’ the striker told his young teammate simply. `That sweet goal… can’t let you be using a fuckin’ taxi home while you’re car is out of action, matey. Hang on there-` he scratched ostentatiously at the package in his underpants — `and I’ll run you home to your place, bud. Here, grab one of those beers the gaffer gave out and you can have a drink while you wait, ginger pubes.’ He grinned leisurely at the short stocky winger, seeing his defiance, and shifted his tone. `We need to talk, Harvey, gaffer’s orders. Trust me, best done this way.’ He let go of his arm and patted it. `Right,’ young Harvey said hesitantly, stepping away and rubbing weakly at where Jamie’s thumb had dug needlessly into his bicep. `Right, yeah. Er, thanks?’ The red-haired young footballer stared at him for a moment more, something uncomfortable in his body language, then turning away belligerently to follow the suggestion and pick up a beard, trying too hard to seem surly and big-bollocks as he strutted about the emptying changing room and Jamie took his time to slip on a tshirt and jeans and layer up for the stormy December afternoon. In a different home changing room in a different corner of the English Midlands, a similar but less forceful offer of a lift home was made: `Hey matey, you still without wheels…? Why don’t you hop in with me and I’ll drop you to your pad? It’s no biggy, eh?’ Ollie Watkins, like everyone else in the Aston Villa ranks this evening, couldn’t stop grinning as he adjusted his bulging crotch against the zip fly of his jeans and buckled up his belt, wriggling into a baggy sweatshirt over his pale brown six pack and chest, then fiddling vainly with the short bushy spears of his hair. Just down the row of lockers and changing spaces from him, his fellow young Villa newbie looking up from towelling dry his hair and beard, and grinned appreciatively. `Yeah, sounds sweet,’ the 23-year-old defender told him gladly, `cheers bud, really appreciate that.’ Matty Cash pulled the towel away from his face and dropped it back against his firmly toned torso and bare crotch, drying himself properly with the little hopping routine of any freshly showered man trying not to expose himself too much in a crowded room of mates. `No bother,’ Watkins reassured him easily, sitting down on the bench in his crisp tight jeans and taking his time slipping into a white linen shirt and buttoning it up down his firmly muscular front, buzzing with the evening’s success even if he hadn’t managed to break a little dry spell in his own scoring for the Birmingham team. Still, 3-0 against the visiting Londoners, Crystal Palace solidly decimated by the Premiership underdogs — Ollie was enjoying the high as much as anyone in here. Their energetic captain came bustling by, loudly expressing that sentiment, slapping at Matty’s bare shoulders and then reaching down to fist-bump Ollie himself as he skipped by in skinny jeans and layers of hoody, grinning and chewing gum and whooping his goodbyes on the way out. `There goes your idol,’ Ollie quipped teasingly, watching the beloved Jack Grealish swoop and bounce off out of the changing rooms first, clearly in as much hurry as anyone else to get home to family and festivity. `What’s that?’ the other 2020 arrival demanded distractedly, in the middle of yanking a pair of white briefs about his ankles and up his legs. `You’ll have to work on them calves, mind,’ Ollie continued sweetly, reclining against his locker and winking up at the 6ft1 full-back, politely ignoring the heavy flop of his privates as they were pushed into the designer underwear and discreetly adjusted. `What are you on about?’ Cash demanded. `Jacko,’ Ollie joked. `You’re role model?’ `Oh, fuck off,’ responded the other young footballer, but not without enjoyment. `That joke got old MONTHS ago, our Oliver. Leave it out.’ He sniggered and toyed with the front of his briefs before unfurling a pair of expensive designer sweatpants to shove strong hairy leg after leg into them. `Haha, very very funny, my dear friend, hilarious…’ He grinned amiably over while tying the drawstrings at the front of his sweats and tensing his six-pack a little showily. Ollie just giggled and pulled himself back up onto his feet, finishing the buttons of his shirt and whistling further into the running joke that Cash was a wannabe Grealish with his floppy showy haircut and tufty goatee. Not to mention his weighty leg muscles and somewhat undersized white shorts, the likeness that Watkins had most enjoyed teasing the defender for when he noticed the likeness and started this banter in their first few training sessions of the season. He chuckled to himself but, always knowing where to draw the line with the fragile egos of the footballing lads around him, just punched playfully at Matty’s arm and winked again. `Hurry up anyway, slow-coach, don’t wanna spend my whole evening here wallowing in our victory…’ `Yeah, it’s not like you have a goal to celebrate,’ Cash aimed at him with just enough bitter humour to suggest he was getting fed up of the Jack Grealish comparison from other lads here, followed by a mitigating burst of laughter and then a blush as he hurried to dress himself and get ready for them to set off on the journey home. Young British players like themselves loved the opportunity to keep playing top-tier football in the Christmas break, but even so they had turkey buffets and cheese boards and a few beers to get home for with their nearest and dearest. Other players came passing them by on their way out, variously congratulating or jokily berating Cash and Watkins on their way past, including some jokey chiding of Ollie for failing to score and turn a draw into a win today at home. He took it in good humour, only disappointed because of his own internal ambition rather than any rivalry with the other attacking players — he was happy enough for the three lads who’d scored today, regardless of his own blank. `Ignore them,’ the last passer-by assured him with one of his warm, brotherly grins, pausing to squeeze his shoulder just in case he was more offended or upset by the banter. Ollie just smiled casually at the supportive wide-eyed face of John McGinn and his scratchy Scottish accent, glad of the sentiment but in no need of reassurance (yet). `It’s cool with me,’ he told him showily, deflecting the fond protectiveness of the more established Villa player on his way past them. John gave him one of those predictably lingering looks and hurried on, hoisting a bag over his shoulder, and exiting the changing rooms. `People shouldn’t be making a big deal out of you not scoring,’ he heard his changing room neighbour mutter now in a lower voice, a little touchy and defensive. Still grinning for McGinn, he turned his way and caught Matty’s almost aggressively concerned expression for a fleeting moment, just laughing at the friendly efforts of another less thick-skinned player. `Oh, it’s all good, just keeps me fighting,’ he chuckled at him, pulling on his jacket and pushing his feet into his trainers. `Get your arse in gear, Cash, let’s get outta here…! I’ve got a turkey curry to demolish and Home Alone 2 to watch. Come on.’ Harvey fidgeted against the slippery leather of the passenger seat and tried to hold in the burning resentment at this little in-car intervention. They hadn’t even left the car park yet and Vardy was laying into him with some home truths. Harvey’s softly freckled cheeks were blazing hot pink and he could barely bring himself to look at the other footballer in the driver’s seat, hearing his own behaviour laid out as identified by none other than their team manager. `So it has to fuckin’ stop, okay?’ barked Vardy at what was hopefully the end of this tirade. It wasn’t as if the 23-year-old Burnley lad could deny any of it: he had been a troublemaker of late, really dropping his standards and lashing out moodily. He knew that. It was still difficult to hear it laid out in Jamie’s nasal South Yorkshire accent: the lateness to training sessions, the hangovers on club time, the little minor scuffles with other young players or, once, with a junior member of the Leicester coaching hierarchy. The inconsistent performances, the plucky strikes alongside lazier and less ambitious outings. All of it was adding up to a grim picture, as painted by Vardy’s blunt turn of phrase, and in his words, `It’s the fuckin’ January transfer window round the bloody corner you little twerp, yeh?’ No, he couldn’t deny any of it; but to hear the stream of criticism coming from this fuck-up! Harvey bunched his hands into solid fists in the lap of his glossy tracksuit bottoms, staring fixedly out of the passenger window while the older guy went on into a new chapter of his lecture. `You can score whizzy little goals like today, mate, but if you don’t shape up, you’ll be sent packing, and you’ll deserve it,’ snapped the striker. `Are you listenin’ to me? Have the fuckin’ respect to look at me while I talk to you, kid.’ He snapped. `For fuck’s sake, of course I’m listening — what choice do I have?’ He turned and glared furiously at the stuck-up old hypocrite, stuck in the passenger seat. `Have you finished yet? Chattin’ on like you’re some kinda saint?’ His temper rose and his shoulders bunched aggressively. `Who d’you think you are, Jamie? My dad or uncle or summat? You ain’t even cap’n. Fuck off!’ His face went redder and he jabbed at an accusing finger towards the driver. `Who the fuck do you think you are to call me out, with mersin escort your past? And with… with… all the fuckin’ naughty shit you get up to.’ And there it was, out in the open, the elephant in the car. `What the fuck kinda professional are you, shit I know about you, eh? Eh?!’ On the other side of the vehicle, leaning stiffly back against his seat with his hands resting on the wheel, Jamie Vardy glared icily at him but did not visibly react in any strong way to the taboo turn in Harvey’s angry response. The younger sportsman tumbled to a halt in his angry return, unsettled by the chilly response of his senior teammate. `That it?’ snapped the older guy now. `You quite finished, ginger?’ Harvey, regretting telling Vardy to `fuck off’, if nothing else, found he was shaking a little in his seat, both in his rage at the way he was being pulled aside for this chat, and at the failure of his own words to make any particular impact on the almost smirking figure of the striker in the driving seat. He grunted dismissively in response to the questions and punched his hands weakly against the dashboard. In response to that, Jamie started the engine and silently steered them out of the car park, and the sullen passenger just stared awkwardly into his lap. Vardy only broke the wintry quiet between them once they were out on the main road, sweeping through patchy traffic. `My dodgy past, mate, is the reason I’m the one to give you this talkin’ to, alright?’ He spoke with surprising energy and feeling, which in itself made Harvey shift uncomfortably in his seat, and then the bluntness of the next comment really punched him in the stomach: `You know I never made you do owt, kid,’ Jamie said, without looking at him. `You can give me dodgy looks if you like but what you did in that hotel room was between you and JJ, wasn’t it? Nobody forced anything on ya, for fuck’s sake. So don’t come all high `n mighty with me, Barnes.’ A long pause. `If you ever speak to me like that again, you’ll be dropped from this squad like a toxic turd.’ `I- I- I didn’t mean to…’ `Sure you did,’ he was silenced firmly. `You’ve had it in for me for months, mate. But this ain’t about that. This is about you pissing away your opportunity here at a fuckin’ quality club, Harv. And me trying to talk sense into you. Okay?’ Harvey’s turn to pause and think. `I hear ya,’ the young winger answered after a while, staring out at the flitting bright lights of other vehicles. They were turning off the major road at the sign for the smaller Leicestershire town where Barnes was based. He fumed quietly to himself, now as angry at his own hot temper as the imposition of the whole conversation with this guy. He shifted and rustled against the leather of this seat, fiddling with the belt. He could feel the truth welling up in him now, threatening to burst out. As the internal pressure in him really peaked, he realised the car was slowing, had shifted off the road and into a layby, and now Vardy was staring at him with those beady piercing eyes. `It wasn’t just that time,’ he grunted, still not looking at the brooding silent figure of his teammate. `How do you mean…?’ `I mean, with guys,’ he said in a weak, silly little voice. As soon as those words were out there, he felt vulnerable and awkward. `There was another time.’ Finally he risked a look at Jamie — he could see the surprise in his intense frown, but there was still seeming cool and unshockable about his manner as he sat upright and patted his thighs quietly. `Did it happen to be at the start of this… bad patch?’ Vardy asked, and there was a mellowing to his Yorkshire accent. `Cos… yer behaviour really changed this season, y’know.’ The usually mean and sneering 30-something sounded almost… sympathetic? `It were that first fight,’ Harvey said in a hollow voice, hanging his head. `When I had that bust lip and black eye and everything, after…’ He hesitated to admit it. `After the Villa game, y’know?’ Jamie’s question was piercing. `What did you do, Harvey?’ And then, after a short intense pause, `Who did you do, mate…?’ His hand was over here on Harvey’s shoulder, and he glanced at his face — he was frowning and there was always something edgy and aggressive about the working-class hero, but there was a patience in his experienced eyes and less sneer to his face and voice. Harvey felt the confession breaking awkwardly out of him. `It was so fucked-up,’ he said quickly in a mumble. `One minute we were fighting, you know, just scrappin’… and the next I were on my knees and he was… I just let him… I mean…’ He grabbed hands at his face and huffed into them. `I felt sick afterwards, I dunno what… fuck! It was horrible, I just… ugh… oh mate…’ Jamie’s hand tightened a bit more on his shoulder and leather creaked as he moved over this way a little bit more. `Did he force you?’ he asked, and there was something quite urgent and serious in his tone, as well as that surprising kindness. `No,’ Harvey said quickly, wanting to be clear and honest on this. He could feel the dangerous accusation that might lie in some denial. `It wasn’t… like that. But I… I dunno what I was doing, or thinkin’, I just…’ He groaned dismally. Jamie didn’t need to repeat his other question. `It was Cash, y’know. Cash at Villa. Matty Cash. Oh god.’ He grimaced and looked angrily at the man he had long been blaming for his own behaviour. For months he had fixated on perverse old Vardy as the trigger for what he’d done that day in the car park of a football stadium. `You’re sure he didn’t force it on you?’ Vardy demanded, surprising him further with his fixation on this direction. `Cos if he did, mate, I’ll fuckin’ find the cunt and I’ll-` `No! No, it wasn’t that, I don’t mean that, I just…’ `Then what are you sniffling about?’ he demanded heavily. Jamie glared at him. `What’s got you so broken up if you did it of yer own choice? What is it, just… shame?’ Again, the force of his voice took Harvey aback, but then so did the gentleness with which Jamie now rubbed and grabbed his shoulder and leaned in closer to him across the front of the car. `You need to let go of some shit, Barnes, if you’re getting so eaten up over just a blowie, eh?’ Harvey stared back at him, affronted. `You make it sound like nowt…’ `Well it IS nowt,’ Jamie snapped. `It’s your body, you do what you fuckin` want with it, lad.’ `But, but, but…’ `It’s YOUR cock, mate!’ And as the striker said this, he gestured. More than gestured. Suddenly he was grabbing the front of Harvey’s bottoms and giving his bulge a feel, demonstrating his point by pulling on the floppy soft bulge there. `You do what the fuck you want with this thing, you get me? It’s yours. Nobody can fuckin’ judge a thing you do with it, our your bloody gob. So what! Eh? Eh?!’ Harvey sat there, pinned to the spot by the surprise of the way Jamie, as he’d always quietly dreaded, was touching him up, except… except it did feel kinda good, his mood or his temper was making him more sensitive and… he glared at Jamie but didn’t push the hand away, just staring at that slightly haggard and intense face, close to him. He paused and thought through what Vardy was saying then stared back down at the hand that lingered over his crotch. `You’re an angry bugger, ain’t you?’ Vardy asked gruffly. `You make everything sound so… simple.’ Vardy laughed, a cynical wheeze. `It IS simple, mate. You do what you want, what you enjoy. Nowt else matters, y’know? Like…’ He shifted a bit closer, so they were sitting side by side in the front of the car, divided only by gearstick. `Do you like my hand being here or not? I mean, that’s all there fucking is to it, Harvey. Nowt more. Do you like it, or don’t you? Cos either way is cool, right?’ Harvey stared at him, tense and on fire. `Cos if you like it,’ Vardy continued, his voice softening, `then I can leave it there, can’t I? Maybe do this-` he rubbed a bit- `if you want, y’know? But if you don’t like, then I back the fuck off and I drive you home in awkward silence and to be fair you probably never have a drop of respect for me ever again as a footballer or a bloke. But like I say, it don’t matter, not really.’ It was all a bit much for Harvey, shaking against the seat, the inside of the car suddenly feeling incredibly hot and claustrophobic. He could feel the gentle grip of the hand on his crotch, lingering over the rise of his privates in the folds of material, very much there and touching him, but ready to be withdrawn at any moment. He could hear his own heartbeat and his heavy awkward breaths. `So all you need to decide, mate,’ breathed the former England striker, `is do you like it?’ `Fuck, rain is looking bad, ain’t it?’ the other lad observed as Storm Bella pounded the ring-road and the car wound its way through outer Birmingham — they weren’t far from the big new house where Cash and some of his Buckinghamshire-based family were now living, but the traffic was crawling off the roads now under the hideous weather. `Yeah,’ Matty said in the passenger seat of his buddy’s car. `Agreed.’ He peered out into the bleary Birmingham night. The journey home had taken a lot longer than expected and the two lads’ conversation had ranged around the night’s performance against Crystal Palace, all of the other players and their contributions, and then comparing notes on yesterday’s Christmas antics. It was good to hang out with Ollie like this, beyond training and games; after all, there was little socialising for the guys outside of their football now for obvious reasons, and both young guys were new to Villa after summer transfers. God, Matty thought, I’m relishing a slow wet car trip because my social life has become that thin…! He thought back to the wild partying with his Nottingham Forest teammates while he was burning through the Championship and earning his ticket into the top league this year. It was going well, certainly, but it was hardly the lavish social experience he’d longed for as an ambitious young player…! The car inched closer to home for Matty, grateful for the lift but becoming frustrated to still be in the vehicle with his friendly, confident teammate. He enjoyed the forward’s easy humour and upbeat attitude, but talk had turned to some of the other bright young stars of the Premiership and who they’d enjoyed coming up against among their generation — Cash found himself tensing up a little and just waiting for the obvious name to come up between them and trigger those odd uncomfortable memories of that heavily repressed day and the incident in the car park. `And then there’s Barnes,’ the 24-year-old Cornish lad said, as inevitably as the repetitive sweep of the windscreen wipers in front of them. `God, you two had a right tussle the last time we faced the Foxes, huh…! I mean, I know fiery redheads is a bit of a cliché and all, but…’ Ollie laughed cheerily to himself, turning them around another corner and onto a quieter road. `Yeh,’ Matty said vaguely, picturing himself locked in that petty conflict, of which he’d only briefly spoken to other guys on the team. It had been impossible to fully hide, returning to the changing rooms with a couple of shiny bruises and an obvious foul mood — but there was obviously one detail of it that he’d kept much more carefully to himself, despite the occasional urge to confide it in another lad. He kept wanting to test the scandal of the experience against the judgement and horror of a fellow player, but he knew that once that Pandora’s box was open, there was no closing it; he could hardly spin back with `Just kidding!’ and laugh it off once he’d shared with a friend that he once got sucked off mid-fight by an angry opponent post-match. Next to him, Ollie was saying more about the Leicester player, and Matty found it difficult to tune back in and hear his friend’s review of Harvey Barnes and his potential to do well. He was saying something about the fact he’d played for England seniors already while the likes of them two were being totally overlooked by Southgate, typical Villa syndrome. `Yeah, well, he won’t last,’ Matty muttered. `He’s a weirdo, that one.’ `Harvey B…? Really?’ `Yeah. Bit of an oddball. Honest.’ `Are you gonna tell me the truth about that fight you had with him, then…?’ `Oh mate, there’s nothing to TELL, erm…’ `Sure there is, look at you, you look like you just saw a ghost cos I brought him up.’ `Fuck off, I do not — can we go back to the better banter, please…?’ `Hmm, I smell a real mystery,’ mused Watkins, irritating him with his curious eyes glancing across the car, turning them slowly down the road through the thunderously loud rain. Matty laughed, but with obvious discomfort. `No mystery! Just a bit of argy-bargy, y’know, nothing more than that, like… he’s just… I mean, we clashed on the pitch and he was being a dick about it, so… things got heated, and…’ Still Ollie was staring at him. A few factors combined there: the heavy crush of the sudden winter storm on the roads, the wheedling curiosity of the cheery other lad, and Matty’s own latent desperation to tell somebody, ANYBODY, what he had let happen that escort mersin afternoon. He let out a long, defeated sigh before he spoke. `If you must know, the fight went a bit freaky, that’s all,’ he said in a heavy, exasperated voice, almost daring to hope the conversation would end there. `Freaky?’ He found himself drawn inexorably to share more, needing it off his chest, staring out of the window at the downpour and realising they were already on his own street of boxy detached houses, the street finally devoid of other traffic. `Freaky,’ he repeated stupidly. `The weirdo got… like… he was… I think he got TURNED ON by me hitting him, or summat? He got all weird and…’ He stared indecisively at Ollie, able to hear himself sliding forward into full confession, trying hard to stop himself now the box was cracking open. `Ohhh, kinky boy!’ cooed the forward driving the car, bursting into a little giggle then punching the edge of the steering wheel as he brought them to a halt on the pavement near his place. The rain crashed and drummed at the car windows and Matty found himself regretting the detail he’d already given, but also bemused by Ollie’s response. `Harvey fucking Barnes, you say?’ the other player continued. `Kinky little bi lad, is he?’ `What, who said he was bi?’ Cash muttered, struggling with the label anywhere near himself. `Well, turned on by you,’ Ollie muttered. `Hmm, I wonder if he REALLY wanted a scrap with our Captain Jack, and just chose the cheap spare option…?’ The handsome mixed race lad was grinning cheekily this way in the parked car, the engine still gently thrumming against them. Matty was both frightened and reassured by his unshockable leer. As Matty wrestled with the possibility of sharing more, Ollie bluntly asked the important question. `So did you let him do anything?’ he demanded, giving one of his big dimple-edged smiles. Matty’s wide eyes and hanging lip must have given away the answer before he could even say anything, because Watkins now gave a high-pitched laugh and played a little beat with his palms against the wheel. `Let him do anything?’ Cash asked lamely, but he suspected he’d already said a loud `Yes’ without putting it to words. He grimaced and tore his eyes away, fiddling with the cuffs of his sweatshirt and clawing at the legs of his sweatpants. `Come on, be straight with me,’ Ollie said, and it was hard to tell if his choice of words was deliberate. `So ginger boy made a move on you when you had a punch-up, that’s it? That’s what you’ve been not telling me about that scrap all this time…?’ He made a tsk noise, a kinda casual dismissal. The Villa full-back stared keenly at him. He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, even though it was just the two of them in the parked car, barely audible against the crash of the storm. `I let him nosh me off,’ he muttered regretfully. `Do you think that’s really weird?’ He stared earnestly. `Do you think it’s dodgy that I let that happen? I dunno what I was thinking, I just… I mean, he was so weird with me and I just wanted to hurt him, wanted to beat him, and so…’ He let out a long whistling sigh of hazy confusion. Again, he was totally thrown by Ollie’s reaction: a short sharp laugh and a hand shaking him by the shoulder. `What, are you telling me it’s the first time you had some gayboy suck on you?’ He stared at him, aghast. `Sorry, mate?’ Ollie was giving him a big honest grin of disbelief. `Aha, that’ll be a yes then… god, you’re a bit green aren’t you, Matthew…!’ Cash was having a bit of trouble swallowing this new idea, this turn in the conversation — he wasn’t sure what condemnation or sympathy he’d been expecting from Watkins here but this almost mocking dismissal of his scandalous secret was impossible to process. Now the other young sportsman was just laughing again and shoving him in the arm and then stretching out comfortably in the driving seat. `Fuck,’ sighed Ollie, `welcome to the real world, Cash Money, about time…’ Quickly, Matty’s attention was shifting from his own confused memory to a dozen questions about Ollie’s life. `So — you’re telling me you’ve — had head off a bloke too? I mean, you’ve…? Jesus, Ollie.’ A little defensive frown and then an expansive gesture. `Mate, I’ve head from plenty of people, and I always fucking enjoy it, don’t you?’ he demanded. `A mouth is a mouth, a hole is a goal, you know, like they say? What the fuck kinda sheltered life you been living in Nottingham, Mini-Jack?’ `Well, we weren’t all sat around chowing down on each other,’ he returned frustratedly. `Oh come on, relax,’ Ollie said impatiently. `I’m not talking about like everyone, or — I mean, I’d never put a fucking cock in my mouth, you get me? But — I don’t really care where I jizz, alright?’ He seemed to hesitate now but the truth became more startling and vivid. `You’ve never had a blowie off McGinn at work then?’ he demanded. Matty stared at him in blinked; very suddenly, he had an image float to him of earlier on at the stadium, the little interaction between forward and midfielder. `He’s not the best,’ Ollie said in a connoisseur’s sigh, `but it sure was a nice surprise the afternoon he found me in the sauna detoxing and… well, you can fill in the blanks, mate.’ `McGinn? John McGinn? Mate…!’ `Yeah, he’s a funny slut when he wants to be, our Mr Scotland,’ the forward went on in a drifting thoughtful tone, spreading his legs and relaxing his lean body more in the front of this sleek vehicle. `Oh mate, I dunno what to say to you. You never had no queer boys sniffing around you at school or nothing? Or on youth teams? There’s always someone checking your junk out if you start to pick up on the signs.’ A worldly shrug. `I mean, we could be prudes about it, or we could get more head and stay sane, huh?’ Matty just stared on at him, and only half-heard his musing next comment, `Well well well, though, Harvey bloody Barnes, you say…’ Cash stared through the misty windows, able to make out the lights of his own house where his family would be waiting for his return to restart the festivities. But he couldn’t concentrate on that prospect, so appealing minutes ago; his mind was blown by Ollie’s admissions and his own liberation through confession. He just slowly shook his head and stroked his goatee and then stared down almost accusingly at the crotch of his sweatpants, wondering if what had happened to his prick that day in secret was not, after all, the end of the world. `You been beating yourself up about this, then?’ Ollie asked, still amused, but more supportive. He reached over to give his shoulder a squeeze and a shake. `God, mate, chill your beans. It isn’t such a biggie, is it? I mean — LOL — maybe yours IS a biggie, but you know what I mean… ah come on, give us a smile and a laugh, Cash Machine…!’ He forced out an awkward chuckle, feeling a strange almost physical relief at the sharing of his repressed memory and the strange validation he was finding in the 24-year-old striker’s easy charm. He shook his head in further disbelief, pulling golden-brown strands of floppy hair away from his brow. `I’m pretty sure McGinny has been on his knees for half the squad, if you ask me,’ Ollie mused on. `I’ve seen him making eyes at Mingers, you know, and the way he moons on after your hero Grealish, well…’ Matty realised how long he had been awkwardly silent and he just made a vague `Oh yeah’ of interest or agreement in Ollie’s comments; somehow, he had nothing left to say to his friend, but he also couldn’t quite face getting out of the vehicle and walking up the soaked pavement through the rain to get up to the amber glow of his front windows and the homely family meal that waited in there. Not now he had a mindful of clearer memory and suggested images from Watkins. He felt a bit nauseous with the rush and liberation of it all. `Well,’ Ollie said now, a sudden lilt to his vague south-west accent, `is it, then?’ Matty looked back over at the driver’s seat at him. `Huh?’ Watkins smirked playfully. `Is it a biggie…?’ As soon as Jamie’s tongue touched the lad’s cock, he moaned indulgently and then cleared his throat awkwardly as if embarrassed to have shown his enjoyment so vocally. And Jamie too was a little surprised and bashful in his behaviour, stroking gently down one of the younger footballer’s meaty thighs to get his trackies down past his knees and make it easier to lean in on the car backseat and flick his tongue across the pink head of Harvey’s short thick tool, rising from a short tangle of fiery red pubes. This wasn’t quite how bully-boy Vardy had expected this afternoon with Harvey to go, not really; since he’d been charged with watching and sorting out the ruddy 23-year-old, he’d certainly hoped he might get a little taste of him, coax more out of him than he’d seen in that seedy shared experience for Andy King’s leaving party; but the 33-year-old couldn’t explain the tenderness with which he now needed to handle the weirdly vulnerable young thug, who was quivering in the back of his car with his legs barely parted. He was almost chewing his lip off and holding his hands carefully up behind his head, looking as if he couldn’t decide why he’d agreed to this — but he had. Here they were in the back of Jamie’s slick supercar, a cramped space for such physical closeness, under the suddenly heavy rain of the prematurely dark afternoon, in a risky layby where even the partly tinted windows wouldn’t hide them for a curious passer-by. But the danger of that move was hardly what bothered a seasoned sexual predator like Vardy — it was how differently he felt he needed to handle cute-faced Harvey, and the way he was willingly about to go down on him instead of demanding the opposite. Fuck, he thought, I’ve certainly had my mind opened since Maguire and Kasper. As he ran his tongue along the shaft and kissed his lips over that swollen head, making Barnes whimper and reach for his shoulder, he supposed this was just a different kind of alpha status and control, because god knows the red-haired youth was all his right now, even as he slobbered about his member and stooped to flick his long skilled tongue against his ballbag. Jamie grinned wickedly to himself, enjoying the taste and sensation even as he marvelled at his own tender body language and desire to, what, look after this young troublemaker rather than discipline him…? With a loud snarl of appetite, Vardy put his mouth across Barnes’ solid cock more fully, pressing in against him in the tight backseat, making the younger Leicester player push back against the leather and the door, spreading his nervous pale legs a bit more. Vardy sucked on, lifting his mouth up and down and loving how vocal and responsive Harvey actually was. It wasn’t the ginger bugger’s first man-to-man BJ, Vardy had literally seen him get noshed and wanked during that hot group session that had clearly disturbed him so much. It had occurred to Jamie that he could insist on a blowie himself, since the troubled youngster had clearly gone down on that Villa yob Cash, but… well, Jamie wasn’t sure quite why he wasn’t pushing for that, but right now, it was just fun pleasuring and relaxing the redhead. With one hand, Jamie pushed him controllingly back against the seat, and the other he pushed his trackies further down onto his thick calves, drooling and kissing at his dick all the while, beginning to hunger for something a little more intimate. Jamie pulled back a little, licking his wet lips and making eye contact with the deep flush of Harvey’s anxious face. `You still liking it, lad?’ he demanded ferociously, but finding something insanely adorable in the quiver of that lip and the wide blue eyes, so boyish and innocent even here. Harvey’s only answer was to nod uncertainly, his face beginning to shine a little with nervous sweat. `Get up on your knees,’ Jamie said demandingly. `It’s okay,’ he added in a softer voice less like himself, seeing the frowning defiance of his young plaything, `it’s not that. Just trust me, lad.’ He slipped a hand beneath the lad’s baggy hoodies, stealing a brush of that wonderful six-pack that took him by surprise every time he saw the winger undressed before a match. He had to steer him every inch, helping him to turn around and bring his bare knees up onto the cushioned seating, his head and shoulders pushed between the headrests into the back of the car, and his glorious pale arse lifted in the air in this tight compartment, so that Jamie could slap and stroke at each cheek. God, what an arse — big and round and solid for such a petite young thing, a real booty on the young player, rising out of those softly haired thighs. He parted one cheek and looked into the red-tinged fuzz of his crack, and smirked hungrily. Harvey began to push back, reaching nervously for him, `I dunno, chief, can we just…’ `Give me a second, see what you think to this,’ drooled Vardy before going to work. Twisting uncomfortably on the backseat, he pulled his face in behind him and sniffed the freshly showered rump, then pushed his nose and mouth between the cheeks and darted his long tongue against his fuzzy gooch mersin escort bayan (`Ohhh, mate!’), then rolled it around (`Vardy…!’) and prodded it delicately against what must be the twink’s rosebud (`Bloody `ell, mate, fuckkk…’). Vardy closed his eyes and went to town on it, happy with the gasping responses of his new toy, both of them writhing uncomfortably for the best position, but his attention fixed on the Boxing Day treat of this big pale arse and its virgin territory. He licked and spat between those globes and began to reach around to find and stroke that cock, no longer questioning his tenderness or softness towards the rough-and-ready upstart — pleasuring birds and blokes with his tongue was what Jamie Vardy had always done best, form his wife to Ben Chilwell, and today under the storm was no exception. This, more than any aggressive show of power, would teach Harvey Barnes to relax. `Yeah, it’s a good size,’ Ollie said fairly, stroking his own prick lazily through the taut denim of his jeans, and looking from Matty’s loosely displayed prize to the nervous frown on the young full-back’s goateed face. `What, why you look so nervous, bro?’ `We’re sat in the car,’ Cash pointed out almost sulkily, `outside my house…!’ `Yeah, in a mad-ass storm,’ Watkins told him firmly, and he began to undo the belt buckle and flies of his jeans, relaxing more in the driver’s seat and enjoying the frisson of their exhibitionism. It was pretty safe, he reckoned, with Bella terrorising this corner of Birmingham and the car windows fully steamed up on every side of them. `Nobody gonna come past and catch you with your willy out, Matt. Even one that size, ha. Look, I don’t think mine quite competes…’ He got it out, secure in the knowledge it was no bad size soft and it only got more impressive hard. He flopped it playfully from the flies of his jeans, enjoying the shock and distrust on Matty’s face as he stared openly at it and patted nervously at his own impressive piece. Ollie whistled admiringly. `You SURE McGinny has never come sniffing around that thing, bud?’ Matty frowned more deeply and seemed about to put it away. `Turns out I’m not such an easy slut as you, Oliver, eh…!’ He just grinned and sniggered at this. `True say.’ He stroked idly at his brown snake, fostering the little buzz of inappropriate arousal, letting it stretch a little. `But nothing relaxes me after a tough match than some needy little queer getting on their knees, y’know? I mean, assuming my bird isn’t in the stadium already, ha. I’d always choose a girl’s gob, but…’ `You sure?’ sneered Matty prudishly, and he was still staring, so Ollie provoked and riled him more by really tugging happily on his growing semi. `God, what are you doing?’ `Getting ready for a proper comparison,’ laughed Ollie confidently, not content to leave the matter with his pal as such a clear winner in the dick-measuring contest. `Mine is a grower not a shower, as they say.’ `Who says that?’ `Oh, I dunno, cock-sluts?’ He sniggered and played with himself, bringing it slowly into a stiffer and fuller form against his jeans, and just scratching his chin casually with his other hand. `See, bud, it’s getting bigger by the second, innit?’ `Oh I dunno, let me get my ruler,’ Cash snapped moodily, writhing uncomfortably at his own privates and constantly on the verge of pushing his dick back inside the loosened front of his sweatpants, where it lay like some mythical beast — hardly the biggest Watkins had noticed in his young years of football showers, but certainly above the average, and he was competitively curious as to whether his hard-on would overtake it. `We’re not really comparing this, are we?’ Matty asked him, more anxiously than angrily. `Why not?’ Ollie asked simply. `Don’t you wanna know?’ Matty hid behind bravado. `We can both see who’s the bigger bloke here, shorty.’ `Nah, wait and see, mine gets longer,’ he boasted, spitting in his palm and rubbing it aggressively against his tool, teasing it into full life. `Whereas your fat bugger is just sitting there.’ `I can hardly get hard here!’ `Oh, fuck’s sake, grow up.’ In a dismissive and businesslike way, Ollie spat in his left palm too and reached forcefully for his mate’s equipment, giving it a couple of pulls that made Matty gasp and growl, but had the desired effect. `There,’ he said pointedly, `didn’t take much, up he comes. Give it a play. Let’s see who’s the Boxing Day champ here, after that 3-0, haha.’ `I’m not having a wank with you,’ the former Nottingham player said angrily. `You literally are,’ Ollie told him, jerking happily on his own sizeable erection, giving a grin full of challenge and opposition. `Mate, I’m gonna have to blow a load before I drive off, I’ll never concentrate on the traffic now I’m hard, you get me? Sorry — just gonna have to…’ `Mine does get bigger,’ the slightly younger footy lad began to protest at him, rubbing frustratedly at his dick and flopping his hairy balls out with it now. `See, it’s pretty long and thick, probably thicker than yours, erm…’ Ollie just relaxed back, spitting more lube into his hand and wanking his cock in long, luxuriating strokes, smirking and winking at his teammate in the other seat, who was unwittingly joining him now in this self-love and exhibitionism, the two of them toying with their hard-ons side by side. If only some slag like McGinn or that Barnes was here, Ollie thought, but only mildly; he was such an oversexed 24-year-old that he was often as happy to jerk off as to have his dick serviced by some slag. `See, look, I think mine’s bigger,’ huffed Matty Cash, all serious and determined. `More or less,’ Ollie told him dismissively, `but fuck it, I gotta cum, bro…’ Harvey quivered in shock as he unloaded his spunk against the expensive leather of the seats, hunched forward in the back of the car with the relentless licking and spitting wetting and stimulating his shivering bottom. `Oh fuck,’ he whined, `oh FUCK…’ He could feel more spunk oozing messily from his piece, some of it slicking against Vardy’s attentive hand but most of it staining the seating in a way that might well leave a mark. He whimpered in a way that he knew to be quite pathetic, but he had been so overwhelmed by his first rimming and the strange way Vardy was tending to him here in this risky spot. It was a million miles from that puppet show of homoerotic action in the hotel suite, where he’d seen Maddison used like the whiny bitch he was. Vardy went on for long moments after his own orgasm had subsided, the deeply pleasurable wetness and invasion beginning to feel weird and unwanted again, and then stopping abruptly as the other footballer sat up and laughed, slapping him gently on each buttock then stroking the bottom of his back under his tops. `Fuckin’ delicious,’ he heard his legendary teammate snarl, and he began to clamber down from this ungainly position, sliding his spit-wet buttocks against the cum-stained seating and reaching down for his undies. Again, Vardy surprised him by helping out, tugging his pants up for him and then his trackies — he grasped them from him to finish the job, gulping and shuffling sideways on the backseat, unable to stop staring at Jamie’s sleazy grin and the slick wetness of his red-brown facial hair. He was still chuckling in some happy way as if this was all a hilarious joke and not a terrifying transgression. `Taste like strawberries,’ he quipped with a wicked grin all over his thin face. `Fuck,’ Harvey panted, feeling the wet tingle between his cheeks and wiping his sweaty face on a baggy sleeve. `Fuck.’ With horror, his eyes fell away from the rimming striker’s dirty face and down to the front of his jeans, where the outline of his own hard-on was obvious down one leg. The obvious logic and balance here struck him like a slap, and it must have shown in his ruddy wide-eyed face, because Jamie just laughed again. `Don’t worry,’ he muttered, `I’ll save that one for the missus. I don’t think you’re up to it.’ Harvey stared at the outline, transfixed, unable to argue with this. Jamie began to slide away and kick open the passenger door to get out and move to the front, so he weakly did the same, getting soaked in even the brief half minute it took him to get out and back in, Storm Bella fully kicking off over the Midlands sky now. Back in the front passenger seat, he sat and shivered and stared at his own dim reflection in the mirror, while Jamie whistled cheerily to himself and began to start up the engine and switch some music on the radio. `You gonna be a good lad and get in no more fights now, aye?’ demanded the striker, not bothering to look at him. Harvey just nodded slowly, still panting a little and then looking over his shoulder as he did his belt, able to spot the wet slicks on the backseat where his cum and Jamie’s drool had marked the leather. He stared wonderingly at this filthy beast of a man now driving him down the road to his village, repelled and intoxicated by his seedy prowess — fucking hell. And smirking to himself and occasionally patting the hard bulge in his jeans, Vardy just drove him quickly home, mouthing off loudly about how excited he was to get home, lead his wife into the downstairs loo, munch her cunt til she squirted, then fuck her senseless before dinnertime. Harvey stared at him and nodded, dazed and confused. Matty pulled furiously at himself, wanting it over with. He felt achingly horny, always did after a big footy match like this evening’s, and the competitive streak of showing off his boner had got him all riled up and rigid here in his mate’s car. Fuck it was weird, but he just needed to blow, needed to unload, needed to get it out of the way. He tugged roughly at his cock and squeezed his fat balls with the other hand, pushing his back muscles into the passenger seat and tensing his thick defender’s thighs down against the seat. `I’m coming,’ Watkins announced to his mild horror, and he couldn’t help but look across and see it happen, the burst of white and the flash of semen across the steering wheel and control panels; the loud gasps becoming hooting laughs, the rocking shudder of the forward’s solid frame in the driving seat — and the frustration refusal of his own dick to just climax in his hand. `Oh man,’ groaned Ollie happily, laughing still, and meeting his eyes in the rearview, `that felt GOOD, y’know, fuckkk…’ Cash just grunted back at him through gritted teeth, locking his whole 6ft1 body awkwardly in the reclined seat, jerking quite angrily at his long thick bone, which he thought was DEFO bigger than Ollie’s, if you really compared them. `Pretend you’ve got Barnes going down on ya,’ laughed Ollie now, irking him. `Fuck off…’ `Pretend that ginger slut is sucking you after you’ve beaten him up, haha… god, you’re a kinky one, Mr Cash, who knew it…!’ `Fuck off mate…’ `Or I dunno, who at our place you wanting to blow you now, who’s on your face-fuck list, matey?’ `Just shut up, fuck off…. Ugh…’ `Is it McGinn, or does he just annoy ya? Is it your idol Jacko you want slurping on that, haha?’ `Mate, FUCK OFF…’ `Or is it Ross the Boss, haha, is he more your type? You like the rough-and-ready fella, so-` `UGH, FUCKKKKK….’ Cash felt his balls tighten and tingle and his prostate throb. His load gushed forward over the legs of his sweatpants and spattered the dashboard like a Kandinsky painting. He gave out a series of hollow wordless groans and held onto his dick as if it would fall off or be stolen if he let go. His whole body shook and vibrated against the seat. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. `Jesus mate, way to mess up my ride,’ giggled Ollie, who had produced wipes from somewhere and was now pushing one into his hand. `God, when was the last time you emptied those balls, mate?! That ain’t healthy. You cum way too much. Bloody hell. Ugh, get it wiped up, I ain’t touching it for ya…’ And the laughing footballer began industriously cleaning at the steering wheel, finding the own spots of his juice and wiping them neatly away, while Cash just stared in exhausted regret at the messy puddles of his own manhood. `Shame there’s no slag here to just clean it up for us,’ Ollie continued, talking happily to himself and opening up a little bin compartment between them to shove his dirty wet wipe into, then grinning impatiently as Matty did a terrible job of wiping up his own seed. `But maybe next time eh, haha? Can’t wait til lockdown fucks off and we can go clubs, y’know — I’ve heard Birmingham nightlife is pretty sick, right, coke everywhere. You and me, boyo, we’re gonna run this town, haha! Villains on top, right.’ Matty, pushing his prick inside his undies and just gasping for breath, stared at him in bewilderment and nodded uncertainly, back on slightly firmer territory with talk of wild nights out and lines of magic dust. He stared at his greasy hands and inspected the dashboard for any missed streaks of off-white liquid, then reached for the door handle to let himself out into the storm. `Thanks for the lift,’ he huffed at Ollie, cutting him off mid-sentence as he rhapsodised about their first proper night out when the clubs reopened, and dashing out into the bad weather and the driveway up to his comforting, family-dominated home, dick swinging limply in his pants. 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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