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Bully

Subject: Premiership Lads part 122: Back to Old Trafford Part 122: Back to Old Trafford A year ago today, he thought, jogging across the midfield, staring up at the empty but still palatial stands of Old Trafford. A year ago today Dan James had signed his contract here at Manchester United, and for all of the weird interruptions, what a year it had been — he loved the club, he loved the squad, he loved being up here. This wasn’t QUITE a real game, but it was as close to it as any of them had been in a long while, and it felt good. He pivoted as the pass was launched his way, stopping it with a tap then dribbling speedily along the grass, a sprightly figure amongst all these taller blokes. But two of the Albion’s stocky defenders were closing in on him so he chipped it across dextrously and stumbled loosely between them, the pressure off. It was a `pre’-season friendly, a full match against West Bromwich Albion to check fitness and move players from skills to real matchday conditions. They were all deeply grateful that it had been organised, and the mood at Old Trafford day was in some ways as thickly intense as it could be on a proper Premiership `Home’ game just like this. Okay, the terraces were empty, there was nothing to play for, it was only a Championship side like WBA, but… you could see the frenetic energy on the faces of both sides, and in the antics of the players on the side-lines awaiting their turn. Both managers were pacing up and down with a mixture of rapture and vitriol, Ole and Slavan roaring out their instructions, encouragements and condemnations as if a BBC Sports camera was on them right now. For Dan, the friendly could not have fallen on a better day. Conscious of his Old Trafford anniversary, the 22-year-old had bounced excitedly through the game with Tigger energy. This side of 11 was largely the younger end of the United squad, so there was a lot of speed and enthusiasm, Dan’s pace and intensity matched by the lads around him. Admittedly, they were drawing with the Baggies, but the score-line seemed somewhat irrelevant to the thrill of the game’s to-and-fro. In Daniel’s head, the home crowds were going wild with silent applause at every pass, volley and corner. He grinned at his teammates, taking another pass up from Brandon Williams in defence and lobbying it over to big Scotty McTominay. Up front, their teen sensation Mason Greenwood was chancing at a 2nd goal for the United lads; no luck. Aha, here came the counter-attack. The young Wales player sped from the wings to join the central midfield, nipping past a couple of West Brom lads and honing in on the man with the ball. He cut an aggressive figure, powering forward after a fluky steal, a blur of blue and white in his Albion kit. But he was a bigger, heavier guy, over 6ft, and James sped right into his path, excited to launch a rare tackle after so many weeks of contactless training, and- with a rush of breath, Dan crashed straight into the runner, bowled immediately aside by his weight and velocity. The young United winger twirled back clumsily, a bit dizzied by the force of the man’s body, then recovered — he had to get the ball out of this fucker’s feet, keep him from a second and winning goal… Dan could feel the rest of the Old Trafford midfield closing in, and the tentative shifts of defenders behind him; there would be options for passes once he nipped the ball from between those hefty legs, but — Just as he was about to lunge rapidly forward and make the steal, he found himself coming eye to eye with his adversary. Beady grey-blue eyes beneath furrowed brows of dark hair, wolfish and vicious in the moment, the Albion striker paused momentarily in decision. Dan found himself staring at the snarling curl of his red lip within the shaggy frame of beard, the short slightly balding crop of black-brown hair about the man’s head, the bulge of his chest and shoulders beneath the West Brom kit, the curving bulge in the front of those pristine white shorts… And just like that, Charlie Austin was nutmegging him with a mere tap and bursting past; as he did, their bodies made contact again, one pec and bicep bulldozering through Dan’s 5ft7 frame and angling him aside so that he almost fell to the ground. Somewhere nearby, McTominay and Pogba were wildly yelling for the referee (a United junior coach, relegated to this awkward role for the day) to call a free kick, but Dan waved embarrassingly at their way and shook his head. He wheezed into a half-run and looked back up the field in the direction of the `Home’ goal, just in time to see diminutive but vicious Williams bested and Austin burst onto the edge of the box, then take his shot. The burly beast of a forward raced back into the arms of his teammates with a jungle roar, as if he’d just scored a last-minute winner in a cup tie, not the closer of an unofficial friendly. Dan let out a long sigh of frustration, annoyed at his relative weakness compared to some of these taller and broader players, but more riled by the moment’s distracted hesitation that had cost him. He should have been able to make that tackle, change the direction of play. What had stopped him? He glanced away again at the comically hyper celebrations of a few Albion men to the side, then looked over at the sympathetic grin of Greenwood, drifting down from his attacking position. `Hard luck, DJ,’ the 18-year-old said in a singsong voice, his fellow Yorkshire-born player leaning in to give his shoulder a little squeeze. Of course, the two of them had shared more than a shoulder squeeze once upon a time, and Dan could feel a little tingle of frustrated excitement at the close contact. Mason looked younger and cuter with his short-cropped lockdown hair, his complexion clear and fresh, his performance in this friendly as impressively mature as ever. `Cheers Mase, totally my bad though — I choked. Come on, get us that equaliser.’ He slapped the taller lad’s arm encouragingly and hopped away to get into position. A whistle blew, and the first of today’s two friendlies burst back into action for its remaining eleven minutes. As round one of the training clashes closed with a shrill whistle, Brandon Williams felt a mild stab of disappointment and self-loathing. He knew he’d put in a mediocre shift there in left-back, felt both of West Brom’s goals were at least partly his fault for fumbling the defense. There had been none of his usual small-dog attack in his play back there, failing to stop Albion’s relatively unskilled attack get close and score twice. `Just a friendly,’ came the syrupy Portuguese accent of his fellow defender, Diogo Dalot. The tall young man gave him a reassuring grin as they loped towards the gathering huddle of their teammates, joining Solksjaer at the edge of the field, beneath the rising cathedral of this great stadium. Its emptiness was eerily beautiful to Brandon. `I know, I know,’ he grunted at Dalot, `but… ugh, I was dogshit out there.’ He laughed off his own harsh self-criticism, noting the cool composure of the 21-year-old as he tilted his head and patted him on the back. That fucker is never flustered, the young Mancunian defender thought admiringly, realising that the thoughtful grin never seemed to leave the other bloke’s face. `You did seem… distracted,’ Diogo pointed out gently, shaking sweat from his overgrown hair and pulling up his red United shirt to wipe his face. Brandon thought for a moment he was about to get pressing and personal, after this perceptive comment, but he just chuckled sagely and shrugged his broad shoulders. `Like I say — it just friendly. We all know you fierce little fucker, Brandon Williams.’ A deeper chuckle and a firmer pat on the back, conversation over. Dalot was speeding ahead to check in with fellow Portuguese bloke Fernandes, who had been more impressive in midfield. Brandon had been sub-par, for sure, and in all honesty, he knew why. The reasons for it clarified as, huffing and folding his arms below his chest, he slowly joined the huddled losers’ team talk form their Norwegian head coach. Stood beside the big boss, hands on hips and a look of studied and apologetic concentration on his face, was Mason Greenwood. For 19-year-old Williams, lockdown had taken its toll in one really specific way: he had barely discovered how much pleasure was to be had in the arms of the strapping, 5ft11 striker, after that first hotel intimacy and submission of his backside, before being sharply denied it. After first giving up his rear to the hot young Yorkshireman, they’d fucked three more times in a short space of time, and then suddenly they’d been trapped in their respective homes, unable to see each other for weeks. Yeah, there’d been long video gaming sessions online, frequent messages, a few extended phone calls, three or four nervously expedited Zoom wanks (before he got a bizarre and cryptic warning against such behaviour from his experienced confidant, Shaw) — but Brandon could only think about one thing, the thing he wasn’t getting. Mason Greenwood’s dick, deep inside him. The furtive teenage fucks they’d shared back in early March felt like a few years ago, not a few months. When United had set up paired training, they had been excited to be linked up for a few sessions of that — but in insanely public spots at inconvenient times. On the first session, Brandon had managed to wank Mason off inside his trackies in one of their cars, and even give him a blowjob in the third or fourth session, hurried as fuck on the backseat. But nothing more… thorough. And at the training ground, they had almost stolen their moment several times, but the regime was frantic and the lads boisterous. Between one thing and another, neither lad had really dared initiate anything. Maybe he doesn’t even want to, Brandon would find himself thinking from time to time, knowing how unique his own enjoyment had been, but supposing that big Mason might be less fussed. He met his eyes across the gathering of players, recovering from their sweaty mid-morning exertions. Mason, who was straining to follow the gaffer’s talk with his usual youthful loyalty and keenness, gave a faint smile at Brandon then broke the look, craning his head to hear their boss’s evaluation of the game. The 19-year-old local lad knew he should do the same, but he felt a little sting of his lover’s possible disinterest, and hugged his arms tighter about his lean torso, unable to hide a little scowl of double disappointment. Scott McTominay squirted cool water from his bottle and let his big shoulders sag with relief as the formalities of hearing their coach calmly deconstruct a disappointing performance came to an end. Like the others, he could back off, trying to balance the praise and criticism in his head, and look on as the other half of the squad moved past them in preparation for round 2. A team player to the core, the 6’4 northern lad felt a surge of optimistic pride in the blokes peeling off tracksuits and stepping out onto the pitch, ready to face up against the opposite half of WBA’s Championship squad. Scott felt a solid confidence that the 2-1 defeat would be erased by a more convincing performance from the older and more experienced half of United’s roster, a side he kinda wished he’d been allocated to rather than the slightly more nervous and uncoordinated assembly that had just lost their cool against the Birmingham team. Inevitably, his eyes fell on one of Manchester’s fierce stars in particular. Just ahead, on the side-line, their captain was yanking down a pair of dark blue tracksuit bottoms to reveal the black shorts of his full kit, rolling out his big broad shoulders and shaking his shaggy untrimmed mane of dark hair. His face was twisted in its usual mask of warlike determination, the big Sheffield-born defender ready to get out there and make up for the first round’s weak performance. Harry Maguire looked this way for a moment and young Scott felt a tremor of recognition to think about that evening by the bins, holy shit it had been exciting; but Harry wasn’t looking at him, he was staring straight past towards the gaffer, then marching roughly by to speak to him without even a tiny acknowledgement of the lad who’d twice noshed his frankly massive appendage. But of course. McTominay was not young and naïve enough to think that they would ever verbally address what had happened. Either that first heady group ritual in the Spanish heat, the lost dare, or that frenzied nocturnal visit just a couple of weeks back. Nor was he sure he wanted to. He was quite happy to repress mersin escort the memories (and enjoyment) for most of the time, especially when trying to keep his head on football! He couldn’t held but steal a last look towards the skipper, poised powerfully beside Ole discussing tactics, before turning away and heading for the rows of dugout seating ahead. Another defender jogged past him with a smile of greeting, making his way out onto the pitch. Luke Shaw certainly seemed happier and more relaxed at the moment, Scott noted. It must be fatherhood. Since losing his supermodel blond hair and coming back all rugged and older-looking, the handsome 24-year-old Londoner had seemed markedly different from the moody, uncomfortable lad that had bristled about United’s defence all season. And unlike even captain Maguire, he was approaching this friendly with a grin of jovial confidence on his bearded face, taking a moment to nod and grin at McTominay. It wasn’t just big Harry that brought back flashes of Marbella, of course — he had to look over one broad shoulder to watch Shaw bounce across the pitch too, pausing to slap Maguire on the lower back and pull in for a whispered conference about whatever defensive strategy was being rolled out by the gaffer, heads close and Maguire tilting down a little to talk in his ear. Scott found his eyes briefly admiring the fullness of Shaw’s backside in those white shorts, the way his shirt clung to an increasingly buff and swollen upper back. Had he sucked Luke’s cock that day in the Marbella showers? It was terrifying that he didn’t know. There had been so many of them there together, he no longer knew with clarity whose penis he’d tasted and whose he hadn’t. Another shudder, of fear and ecstasy. He had to stop letting himself think about this during training sessions, or it would make his Premiership comeback a disaster! Scott hunched his 6ft4 frame a little to enter the dugout, thinking that he should stay and watch at least part of this next friendly, as all those lads had patiently done for their counterparts. Not everyone had the same idea, some of the guys were moving into the tunnel and heading in, to sulk at loss or grab hot showers, or perhaps put in a brief spell in the gym. He saw Brandon Williams slinking away, squirting water from a bottle over his blond hair, glowering. That kid had been really off his game in left-back, Scott thought sympathetically. (Another guy that when he caught sight of his bulge bouncing in his shorts, he was mentally returned to those Spanish penalty exercises, Lingard’s dirty dare…) And after him went Greenwood, still smiling at his own goal success in spite of everything else, dipping away from the huddle of players and coaches and heading indoors behind Williams. McTominay looked away, watching the slow loping warm-ups of the second United squad in a row, the preparations of the Albion men too. He sank slowly into a moulded plastic seat and stretched out his long legs, flexing his freckled, golden-haired muscles in the pale sunlight. Oh, it felt good to be back in Old Trafford! The sunlight was suddenly blocked with mild drama, and the big central midfielder looked up curiously to see which of his teammates was panting next to him. Aha, it was Dalot. The tall muscular Portuguese lad had one arm tucked beneath his United shirt, cooling off his toned midriff, and with his other hand was scratching and tugging at his gently curling dark mane, a thoughtful expression on his long tanned face. `Hey there,’ McTominay said gently, giving him a faint salute. `What’s up…?’ `Not much, not much,’ sighed Dalot, but with a vague frustration in his voice. `Just… frustrating, you know! Er, the loss, against…’ He waved with cocky dismissal at the assembling Bromwich players on the pitch, and the vague gathering of their men a little way down the side-lines, their first squad dispersing in the same weary way as United’s. 90 minutes was a long innings for all players, after the extended hiatus. `We should have destroy them,’ the Portuguese defender announced callously, patting his six-pack and spitting on the concrete between their feet. McTominay chuckled a little at the harshness of his friend’s slightly broken English. `Aye, it weren’t our best,’ he conceded quietly, not wishing to fall into gloomy criticism of what had really been a solid but unfortunate effort by them all. He was about to try and say this in a diplomatic and helpful way when the other lad took a step forward and tapped one football boot against his, looming over him and exuding a rich scent of manly perspiration. `Hey, McTominay,’ Diogo growled in a slightly lower voice. `Aye…?’ `You ever think back to the winter break, in Marbella?’ An odd grin had settled over the sweat-greasy features of the other guy, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief. `You ever think about those penalties, eh…?’ A slow, wheezy snigger of a laugh, McTominay staring uncertainly up at him; Diogo dropped the hand from his lower abdomen and caressed it ever so gently against the folds of black fabric covering his crotch. `Because sometime… I do… heh…’ The Portuguese warrior defender winked, and walked on, laughing wickedly to himself, and leaving McTominay holding in a deep breath of panicked nostalgia. Knowledge of today’s one-year mark for his Red Devils career made Dan pause and inspect every item of the Old Trafford experience with a sense of grateful wonder. He moved slowly down the tunnel, recognising scenery that he’d probably begun to take for granted in the second half of the season — but he could still remember those dazzling debut appearances for the team at the end of last summer, fresh from Swansea and desperate to impress among the big boys. The diminutive winger padded down the hallway, watching a few of his teammates disappear into the wide-open doors of the Home dressing rooms. Plenty of them had intended to stick about and watch the next bout between squads, friendly in theory but aggressive in reality — big powerful Maguire had already crunched a young Albion forward and United had come close to half a dozen goals before scoring their first. But like a lot of his teammates, Dan was tired, aching, sweaty; he needed out of his kit and showered. It really had felt a long 90 minutes, that friendly match, a real test of resilience and fitness — it would do them good, show them what work was needed before the season restarted in the middle of next week. But for now, Dan and many of the others were craving a hot soak, the drive home, an evening in front of Netflix and possibly a cheeky takeaway to refuel. He made his way in the direction of the changing rooms with a slightly light-headed sense of all this, eyes roving the almost hallowed features of this tunnel and the moments of defeat and victory it had brought over the course of the season… Something made him look back over his shoulder. Some instinct or vaguely physical awareness. He paused in his slow step, boots off and socked feet damp against the linoleum. West Brom players were dipping indoors in the same exhausted fashion as United’s lads, in pairs or alone. Two of them, whose names Dan frankly couldn’t remembered, had just disappeared in through the parallel juncture, into the `Away’ changing areas — but behind them, one of the Albion lads had paused, his heavy breathing almost a growl, his familiarly predatory eyes fixed now on James. It was Charlie Austin, the same brutish forward he had clashed with not long ago, intimidating and exciting in front of him on the pitch. Dan stopped where he was, about to say something — some throwaway compliment on his goal, some comical reference to what had felt an awkward physical collision — but the words didn’t come, his mouth felt dry and his body felt particularly match-weary and weak. He vaguely reached for the frame of the doorway behind him, not quite aware that he needed it to keep himself standing upright. Why were his strong young knees wobbling? The Albion striker glared at him, unblinking. Then, toying idly with drawstrings at the front of his white shorts, he took a slow step — not in through the arched entrance of the guest changing facilities, but onwards down the corridor, which stretched broadly into the guts of the stadium and parted in a series of stairways and passages. A doorway stood between these different routes, the little stick-figure of gender marked on it in gleaming silver. Austin took a few long strides towards it then looked back, his bear-like features intense. Dan quivered on the spot, looked in to the vague steamy humidity of the United dressing room, then back down to the tunnel to the brightening midday action of the second friendly. Then back at Charlie Austin, whose broad chest was rising and falling slowly beneath the stripes of his Albion kit. His lips curled into that wolfish grin, and Dan almost whimpered aloud: with fear, and with primal desire. `Shush,’ Mason Greenwood urged, stifling his own giggle, and pulling the cubicle door to behind him, sliding its faintly rusty lock into place then clapping his large hands to Brandon’s warm cheeks. Up close, he was unbelievably handsome, really; they were both so young but Brandon felt aged and cynical next to the bright-eyed excitement of the 18-year-old, grinning down at him as their bodies connected and their lips met in a much-anticipated kiss. Williams sighed into the other lad’s mouth, and gripped his knuckles midway down the other teen’s red shirt. `This is risky,’ he hissed, after reluctantly breaking the kiss, `we agreed we wouldn’t…’ He referred to a number of hesitant conversations about this very act; too dangerous, not worth it, better avoided! But as he marched grumpily down the tunnel away from his piss-poor performance, the moody left-back had been pulled to a stop by a gentling grinning Greenwood, and led further down the corridor with silent promise. And now here they were, bundled into a cubicle and wrenching at each other’s faintly sweaty kit. Brandon’s cock was already getting hard in his black briefs and he could feel that Mason’s was the same, brushing his upper thigh a little as they cuddled and snogged. `You looked like you needed it,’ Greenwood muttered affectionately, `and god knows I do…’ `Mmm, Mase…’ `Shush,’ the young striker insisted again, `we have to be…’ `What was that?’ He squeaked the question a little louder than was ideal, but he couldn’t help it; the swing and clatter of the men’s toilet door, footsteps and barely audible breathing. The short defender pulled his body away slightly, backing into the cistern and toilet, still clinging to Mason’s shirt; he’d known this was a shit idea, he’d felt the tremor of fear as Mason took his hand in the doorway and led them in! Even if they were gonna risk anything at work, was this toilet really the best they could fucking do…?! He moved his beady eyes to Mason, who still smiled, albeit cautiously. `Relax,’ he mouthed without a sound, `we just need to be quiet…’ And as if it was the best way to silence the moody left-back (it really was), he planted his lips on his and they kissed again, trying to control their puffing breaths as they did. Their bodies jolted at another noise, the vague rattle of the neighbouring cubicle door, but they kissed on and pulled at the beloved red jersey of their team, lithe bodies pulling closer and closer. Brandon momentarily cursed their decision to slope into the middle fucking cubicle of free, but what the hell… who would even have the imagination to guess at what they were about to do in here?! Scott noted with a flash of concern that two of three cubicles looked shut, locked, little strips of red signalling `occupied’ in the universal language of the restroom. But Diogo pulled imperiously on his wrist and took quiet steps towards the furthest of the three, his dark eyes shifty and eager, seen reflected in mirrors on the far wall. Without a word, he jerked his head to the toilet door in command, and thrust Scott forward. The 6ft4 midfielder, gripped with hunger, allowed himself to be manhandled like this without a noise. He’d made his little gasp of consent minutes before, when Dalot sat down behind him and gently stroked one of his broad shoulders, right there in the dugout, both of them staring blindly at the action on-pitch, the battles of the older and more experienced United players against WBA. Scott had silently nodded his head for the man behind him and followed him here with quick nervous breaths. He felt just as he had when Maguire turned escort mersin up at his door late in the night: intimidated, emasculated, ashamed… utterly aroused. In he went, looking questioningly into the plain grey material that divided them from the next cubicle, and felt Diogo’s sweaty palms come up for his shoulders. The Portuguese centre-back was a tall 6ft2 block of lean muscle, but he still had to crane up a little to pull down instructively on Scott’s big physique. The freckled Lancastrian nodded again, as if to convince himself more than this man, and he began to sink down, bending his long legs and resting his black-clad ass to the tip of the toilet seat… He pressed his face into Diogo’s tummy, feeling his body heat through the stretchy red material of the football shirt, and he pushed his hands against the contents of those black shorts, finding the clingy outline of briefs, the plump shape of the man’s excitement. He stared up with nervous blue eyes, trying to read the discreet confidence of the 21-year-old; he’d often wondered if any more of those hormonal men would ever seek a repeat performance, but his own confusion at the desire had made it hard to calculate. Had Dalot been craving this ever since, or was he just in a funny mood today? Perhaps he’d never know. Did it matter? No. He could feel the firmness of the lad’s building erection in his shorts, his own dick twitching down below, and he knew he needed to suck something. It had been too long since he tasted his captain down the side of his family home, too long since he was subjugated on his knees. A strangled gasping sound was just about audible, cutting through the various little bumps and rattles of this enclosed space. Dan James twitched in surprise at the nearby noise, turning his head a little to the left, as if X-ray vision would suddenly spark into use and he’d see through into the next two cubicles beside them. But a strong paw of a hand was on his left cheek suddenly, turning his face back up and towards the excited snarl of Charlie Austin. Dan’s hand was shoved down the front of his white shorts right now, cradling the fat outline of his soft dick, clammy with post-match sweat and wafting its manly scent up into his face in the claustrophobic cubicle. The message in Charlie’s eyes was clear: shut up and get on with it, lad. Well, it was what he’d followed him in here for…! Dan felt absurdly terrified of the opposition player, just as he had in their little midfield confrontation, but every training session now left him incredibly horned up, much more-so since his joyful encounter with Luke last month. Charlie’s cock felt heavy and thick and he dragged it out of those shorts and tight underpants, staring down between them. He felt the rough massage of the striker’s hand on his cheek and neck, firm and commanding, something of Maguire’s forcefulness in every stroke. But now the man’s other hand was in HIS shorts too, finding the bulge in his boxer briefs, squeezing it firmly, a little too firmly, while his long breaths hissed in just above Dan’s face. Charlie’s 6ft2 frame of paunchy muscle seemed to fill the space and he wanted nothing more than to be pinned beneath it. There was another gasp, or an awkward breath of some sort, and the vague clink of a rattling toilet seat lid. The presence of other men was terrifying but enervating, the greater risk just heightening the prize in his hand. Charlie’s hands were kneading at his neck and his privates and his face leaned in, breathing hot wet pants on his forehead. `You little slut,’ the Albion player growled very quietly, `you’re gonna make me cum, okay? You little bitch…’ Brandon was vaguely aware of sound on either side of him, but now he had Mason’s cock in his mouth, he wasn’t so bothered. Realistically, they were safely locked in here, who could know what was happening? The thought thrilled and motivated him, and he slid his lips up and down the narrow meaty shaft of Greenwood’s pole. He loved the weak little sounds Mason made, trying not to gasp and groan as much as he was liable too in more private circumstances, like on Brandon’s bed that time his family had all been out! The 19-year-old pressed his knees apart, firmly down against the tiles, and leaned closer into the other footballer’s lap, running his hands up inside the United shirt, finding the gentle swell of pecs and thumbing loosely at sensitive nipples. He rolled his head in a luxurious motion of swirling licks, enjoying the sweaty taste of the dick he’d come to love. He moved his strong tongue up the underside, base to foreskin, in one long drag, and looked up wide-eyed at the tight convulsion of Mason’s body. His arms jutted down at his sides to grip the sides of the toilet, holding his torso in place, his muscled brown legs trembling; his briefs and shorts were pulled wide and tight at the ankle, stretched about the added girth of his shinpads. Brandon rested his elbows and upper arms on top of the thighs, feeling the hot skin on his, and sank his lips more fully over the dick again, his blond fringe falling messily in his own eyes as he descended, sucking and breathing deeply at the rich taste of his lover’s crotch. Diogo rolled his hips in a repetitive rhythm, and Scott focused on not gagging. He’d been so aware of how unskilled and clumsy he was, faced with Maguire’s monster, so right now he was trying to figure out how any of this worked… He’d had his fair share of oral attention from lady friends, but he’d never given much close thought to what really made an excellent blow-job, or rushed him to completion, not until he’d attempted them himself… There came another odd, disconcerting rattle from the next cubicle, sounds that made Scott’s blue eyes flicker nervously to the right, reminded that they weren’t actually alone here. It didn’t seem to bother Dalot at all though. The big lean defender had his eyes screwed closed, his face twisted in almost pained enjoyment, his arms brought up tightly with his hands clasped behind his own neck, emphasising the narrow swell of biceps within each sleeve. His body rocked back and forward, pushing his dick carelessly into Scott’s mouths with deep strokes that he struggled to accommodate; the terror of the coughing fit he might have if he did a bad job here was as motivating and focus-sharpening as his utter desperation to please. Now it was in his mouth, he remembered the size and shape of this Portuguese prick from last time, in the steamy blur of that shared shower, down on his knees submitting to Lingard’s plot. He thought of Lingard out there on the pitch and was glad to know that so many of their teammates were busy, distracted, who would really be wondering where he was right now? Okay, the bathroom wasn’t empty, but he was safe here, on the toilet seat, fed this chunky veiny cock in stroke after stroke, Diogo’s soft grunts pouring out overhead… Charlie’s hands curled through the mess of his dark hair and he felt the tip of that cock push brutishly at the back of his throat. One of Dan’s hands couldn’t help but stray inside his shorts to the rock-hard erection that Austin had clumsily whipped up with a few disinterested pulls, now stretching at his pants and shorts down one inner thigh. He was on his arse, down on the floor of the cubicle; his free hand was gripping the toilet lid, his arm curved over it, to hold his body in place while his mouth was unceremoniously fucked from above. Charlie’s big body hung over him, the man’s firm tattooed arms pressed out to either side at the cubicle walls, making the painted plywood creak and moan a little with each swing of his heavyset frame. He ploughed his long thick tool into Dan’s eager mouth at an angle that felt violent and delicious. Dan had tried to grab and stroke his thick hairy thighs and reach about his big furry bottom, but been slapped away, growled at and insulted. He stared up with wide eyes, wanting to signal all sorts to the thuggish West Brom man — his utter submission to this fun, his appreciation for the striker’s macho beauty, his desire for far more than just this sucking… his fear of what might happen next, his terror at the vague noises going on a few inches away, his curiosity to peek over the top of the cubicle divide… Charlie Austin seemed to stare down at him almost as if he wasn’t there, just fixated on the act of relieving himself in his mouth. He was so aggressively handsome, eyes narrowed and teeth bared like fangs; he’d shaved off his showy bleached hair during lockdown it seemed, his dark hair shaved short, rendering him some street thug archetype from a Guy Ritchie crime flick. God, he was exciting to look up at, exciting to feel invading Dan’s hungry mouth, to taste, leaking precum at the back of his throat and the roof of his mouth and all over his sensitive palate… There came the softest thud from the next cubicle, a tiny noise really, but magnified by these close quarters; a clumsy noise and what must be muffled voices — voiceS? — from the middle cubicle, making Dan twitch his head a little to the left (it wasn’t easy with a mouthful of sweaty cock, which dragged against his left cheek and accidentally grazed his upper teeth) in reignited interested. But again, Charlie was dragging at his face, pulling him back into his hairy crotch so that the tip of his nose brushed the wire-wool of his pubes. But staring upwards, Daniel could see Charlie’s intent, aggressive face twist that way too, registering the odd groan that suddenly emitted from the middle cubicle… It was much harder without proper lube. They’d been so careful, that first time in the hotel room, and in the rapid little occasions soon after, to use proper lubricants and condoms — Mason was desperately afraid of hurting the other teen, he would gently claim, and Brandon himself was hardly cocksure about his abilities to take a dick up there…! But now, in these desperate circumstances, deprived of each other for so long, it was just spit and determination to slick the entrance of Mason’s firm cock. Brandon was leaning forward with his palms pressed to the rear wall of the cubicle, one knee hoisted up onto the toilet seat and legs as parted and gently bent as possible, his small wiry body twisted backwards with his pale arse exposed. He felt Mason’s hands shift soothingly up and down his back, beneath the red shirt, while the spit-wet head of his dick found its way between his muscular little cheeks. More than the lube, he missed the dirty talk; Mason had such a soft and beautiful voice in these intimate moments, and his gentle kisses could relax Brandon like no drug he’d ever tried. But here in the cubicle, they were biting their tongues, he wasn’t even really allowed a moan, as he felt the tip of Mason’s wood against his ever-tight hole. In fact, he had to bury his face into the side of one tense arm and pretty much bite his own bicep to hold it in; his ring was stretching nervously to take the incoming prick, feared but wanted. And despite his efforts, he heard Mason unable to restrain a single gasp, long and low, as it began to go in. There was no mistaking that something was going on in the next cubicle. Whether Diogo was aware or not seemed to be another matter, almost robotic in the way he pushed back and forth with his firm hips, a little of his six-pack exposed where his crumpled footy shirt rode up above his waist, the dark little trail of hair creeping up from his trimmed pubes towards his naval. Scott was awash with nervous curiosity, hearing the little bumps and moans from the central cubicle. It was almost as exciting to him as the taste and feel of this hard Iberian sausage between his shaky lips. But he tried not to be distracted. He felt he was getting better at this, learning how to work his tongue and his bottom lip and avoid edging his strong white teeth against the sensitive flesh. He could move his mouth and his neck with a rhythm that met Diogo’s pushy action, allowing his mouth to be essentially fucked like a sloppy cunt or a convenient toy. It was the sense of being used that made his own dick twitch and leak in his briefs, or out of them, as it had tipped out of the lining to smear his inner thigh, begging for his touch. But he wouldn’t let his efforts on Diogo slack to attend to himself. He ran his hands around the bony hips and muscular V of the man’s adonis belt, stroking his hot smooth skin. The blowjob was paused. Dan was still on the floor, feeling faintly degraded by his position here, but knowing that it was the kind of experience he mersin escort bayan had been craving for months. He still woke up sometimes in a hot sweat, imagining himself snorting cocaine at the Christmas party, exploited in that disabled bathroom by two hunky defenders… Above him, Charlie moved with surprising stealth and grace for a man of his muscular weight, one foot poised on the rim of the toilet as he hoisted himself up, both thick elbows jutting out to prop him between the limits of the cubicle. Just below the waist, his cock and balls jutted prominently out between shirt and shorts, swinging tantalisingly a foot or two above Dan’s face; he no longer cared what was going on in the next cubicle, he just wanted to touch and taste that brutish thing again. In fact, he wanted it more than just in his mouth, his bumhole twitched and throbbed at the appetite Luke Shaw had reignited so recently in that steamy shower scene. Austin was descending from his stealthy moment of espionage, only a gentle creak in the plywood as he lowered his frame and let his booted feet click back to the ground. His cock pushed down once more to meet Dan’s rising mouth, kissing and then licking the fat bulbous head and then tasting its thick veiny sides. Charlie was shaking his head, staring through into the next toilet space, then letting out a low wheezy chuckle as he reached down to stroke then yank at Dan’s curly hair. `Are all you United players fags?’ he demanded roughly, hypocritically. `Jesus… team full of bumboys…’ Dan ignored the abuse, turned on by it as he was, and climbed up a little, daring to grip Charlie’s exposed quads again as he licked his lips. `Fuck me,’ he begged in a tiny voice, keeping it as quiet as his throat could, but so hungry for it, `fuck my arse like you fuck my f….’ Another dirty laugh from the Albion player and a push of his fat tool to Dan’s wet lips. `Fuck no, you little queer… I don’t do that… get ready to swallow my load, you dirty little slut…’ At no point since following Mason in here had Brandon stopped to wonder if the other cubicles were still empty. In fact, the riskiness of their location had long vanished form his mind. He could be pressed up against a toilet and wall, as he was, or he could be sinking into a soft luxury hotel bed, or into rough grass in the middle of a field… all that mattered was the feel of Mason’s tool pushing deep inside him again and again. Now it was really in him, Mason’s body was close, his gentle abs brushing Brandon’s lower back, their footy shirts rustling together. One of Greenwood’s long arms linked around his waist to hold him in place and every now and then he felt those soft, soothing kisses on the back and side of his neck, Mason seeming to taste his beads of sweat and gasp wondrously each time. Brandon’s hair flicked irritatingly at his forehead, his eyes, too long and lank, swinging with each violent shake of his body when the bigger teen ploughed into him. The toilet lid rattled noisily beneath one of his knees, but he couldn’t bring himself to shift positions and right this problem, he was too consumed by the burning inner sensation of a good fuck to the rectum. He kept one arm pressed out to the wall, hand and elbow holding him upright as Mason’s powerful strides rocked him form behind; the other he pulled down to his side and front, closing it over Mason’s arm, so that he could wrap his hand on top of his, squeezing it against his ribs, fingers interlocking, bodies interlocking… this was what he’d craved, night after night, ever since lockdown began! McTominay found himself so distracted by the little gasps and rattles next door that Diogo’s grunted orgasm came as a shock. He hadn’t noticed the gentle increase in pace or energy from the Portuguese man fucking his lips, or seen the even more agonised rictus of his face. Diogo’s arms pulled up more tightly, elbows obscuring his face, hands twisted back behind his neck, torso stretched out long and tall, more abs on show… He grunted something in his own language as he came. Scott felt it hot and slick on his tongue, tasted with weird relish the knowledge of the foreign man’s satisfaction. His jaw ached and shuddered and he felt his own sweat sting his open eyes. He rolled his tongue back and forward over the hot soft flesh of Diogo’s bell-end, really tasting the musty goo. But then Dalot was pulling back, dragging the sticky tip of his prick out over Scott’s bottom lip, leaving a wet trail of it dangling between tool and orifice. Scott relaxed weakly back on top of the closed toilet, cistern hard and unforgiving on his spine. He felt cum dribble off his lip and onto his chin a little, and stared wide-eyed at the defender. Diogo took a step back, or as much of a step as the limited cubicle space allowed, and pushed his cock back inside his shorts without ceremony, smearing a little of his own seed on the nylon. He still had his eyes closed, his face twisted in a series of annoyed-looking pants. Then he just panted one word in Portuguese, `Obrigado’, and backed away… A sudden and sharper groan from a foot to the right, and both of them, the two tall United players, stared blindly at the cubicle divide. Scott felt a surge of filthy excitement, beginning to guess at the wild antics that must be happening in there, but he saw Diogo open his eyes and look more worried, more appalled, more panicked. Suddenly the other guy was reaching for and unlocking the door, backing out of it and away from Scott; the lanky midfielder felt briefly exposed, as worried by the open door as his teammate’s escape, but then Diogo was pushing it back shut and he could lunge one long arm back to the lock, trapping himself in here and gripping his own unsatisfied erection, whilst Dalot’s footsteps and hot breaths rapidly left the room… Dan was confused by the sound of the main door somewhere ahead and to the right, because the rattles and pants were quicker and louder to the left; how many guys were in here?! But these thoughts were dull and periphery, because Charlie Austin’s spunk was landing on his face in streaky globs, and the big bestial striker was half-suppressing wild groans of delight up in front of him, still yanking on his tool as his orgasm finished. His load dribbled down Dan’s face, still warm, and caught at the curls of his fringe. He stretched his tongue to lick more, but he’d already got that of it which caught his eager mouth, and his hands held tightly around Charlie’s big calves, which he wasn’t yet ready to let go of. He stared up at the thuggish striker, who rolled his neck and shoulders and let out one last long gasp of climax. `Fuck,’ he growled, `fuckkk…’ He was still smirking, still enjoying himself. Dan felt he had found a man as dominant and powerful as his own captain here, if that was really possible… `Was it good?’ he whispered up in a voice that to him sounded disgustingly needy, but he couldn’t hold it back. He needed to know. The sticky load on his face and the wild groans of noise were not enough, he needed to hear how talented his mouth was, his soft his lips and tongue felt… He stared expectantly up that broad footy-kitted body and squeezed his calf muscles and firm shins, enjoying the thick hairy beneath his palms and fingers. `Good?’ growled Charlie, ignoring a rattle and thud from the middle cubicle. `You’re dirt, mate. The lot of you. United scum.’ He snarled, and gave another slow pulling squeeze to his thick snake. Dan stared at him; the insults and harsh language thrilled him in the midst of the action but now it felt colder and more hurtful, even if his own dick still throbbed at every syllable, and he had to reach into his shorts to take hold of it. `You’re all cunts,’ Austin growled resentfully, his voice loaded with Championship bitterness, `overpaid arrogant cunts… hold still, let me…’ His speech drifted to a sigh, and Dan was momentarily confused, feeling his cock in his shorts and listening to the rhythmic bumps and gasps only inches from where he crouched… Then it was splashing gently against one shoulder, and the chest of his footy shirt, and then a little of it on his chin, his cum-sticky cheek… Charlie was still stretching his heavy head and thick neck back, gasping and grinning, enjoying himself as he unloaded his golden shower on the Premier League pussy boy at his feet… Scott heard what he guessed was the orgasms: quick pants, murmured speech too low to make out individual words, a complicated series of bumps and creaks as bodies shifted positions. Listening to it, he shot his own load, hunched over the toilet alone, Diogo’s taste still in his mouth. He listened desperately to the last hot grunts of whoever had been fucking so close to him, and suppressed his own voyeur’s whimpers as he spilled splash after splash of spunk onto his knuckles and down the leg of his black United shorts. Pattering footsteps, creaking plywood, rattling lock; the couple in the middle cubicle were leaving now. He heard the swing of their door, the click of footy boots on ceramic tiles. He could hear voices, murmured but quiet, and he wasn’t sure who they belonged to. He barely dared hazard a guess. He couldn’t make out a single word. His cum oozed at his curled fist and his dick trembled sensitively within his own tight grasp. His body wilted back against the cistern and he sucked in deep breaths of restorative air, still picturing the look of disgusted satisfaction on Diogo’s face before he fled. McTominay reached for the loo roll and wrenched off enough to smear clean his still erect penis, and then his palm and his knuckles. He snatched off more and wiped it tenderly against his shorts and thigh, then some more to rub over his lips and cheeks, just in chase. He got up, lifted the lid, tossed it all in the bowl and flushed. The loud noise was somehow exposing and vulnerable, in the sudden silence of the bathroom that must have been so cramped only minutes ago. It took him a while to bring himself to unlock the cubicle door and head out, his big tall body feeling weak and exhausted. He looked guiltily at his flushed, freckled face in the mirrors and approached the sink, dropping both hands against the surface to support his lofty frame. In the mirrors, beyond his own big anxious face, he saw the middle door rest ajar, but the furthest one open. His big body tensed in anticipation, second guessing what he’d heard and sensed. The noises had been from the middle space, not the far one, right…? Out came Dan James, his opposite player in physique and style, but his midfield companion. The young Yorkshireman’s face was bright red and a little glossy looking, distinct wet patches on the collar and chest of his football jersey. He hovered in the toilet doorway, staring in surprise, their eyes meeting in the mirror. Scott turned slowly and gave him a soft, hesitant grin — Dan took a couple of steps closer and they both paused, turning as one to look instead at where the central cubicle door rested half-open, abandoned by whoever had occupied it. Then their eyes slowly returned to each other’s, sharing a knowing moment, though the details were beyond them. Scott turned back to the sink and switched on the hot water. The smaller player joined him at the next sink and did the same. As one, they squeezed soap into their hands, ran them noisily beneath the hot rush, and splashed cleansing soapy water at their blotchy faces. Then, gasping a little, they turned in each other’s direction, and let out nervous laughs; Dan’s a little pitchy and fearful, Scott’s more hoarse and embarrassed. `Well,’ McTominay whispered, `I dunno about you, but… I think I need a cold shower.’ Dan James nodded. `Yup. Erm. Do you know who was…?’ Scott shook his head. `Not a clue, mate.’ He stared with an odd sense of remembrance at the sprightly other midfielder, splashing more hat water into his cupped hand and running it over his clammy face. `Hey, Dan…’ The Wales national was just moving away, with slow heavy movements, looking dazed by whatever he’d been up to in there. He looked expectantly and almost fearfully at Scott, running a hand over the mystery wet patches in his shirt. `Happy anniversary, right?’ Scott said brightly, as if he hadn’t just blown his load in a toilet cubicle, and this was an ordinary conversation between two cheery teammates. `You signed for us one year ago today, right…? I saw on my newsfeed…’ He took a long stride towards the other lad and held out a single big hand for a shake. Dan grabbed it tightly and smiled at him in a sort of bewildered high. `Happy anniversary, DJ, here’s to many more at Old Trafford.’ `Yeah,’ Dan agreed quietly, seeming to recover a little as they held each other’s questioning, respectful stare, `here’s to Old Trafford… and all the fun she offers.’

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