premiership-lads-82

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 82: ’15 Part eighty-two: `15 In 2015, Eric Dier had begun to notice other guys. More accurate: he’d begun notice himself noticing other guys. Presumably it had been there for a while, even before he moved back to the UK from Portugal, where’d done so much of his growing up. Working his way up the ranks of Lisbon’s youth and reserve teams, the Englishman abroad had always found himself admiring the swarthy local men he played alongside. Admiring had seemed to be all it was. Since making the big decision to return to England last summer, admiration had becoming something a little bit more. Sat on the growling coach through the Hertfordshire suburbs back into London, he worriedly let his mind flicker over some of those confusing moments last season and in the opening months of this one: that day he’d shared the gym with midfield ally Ryan Mason and found it impossible not to watch the other lad’s biceps and chest muscles swelling under his shirt, and been caught looking for a bit too long; that awkward moment when he’d been doing training trills behind Ben Davies and got distracted by the way those Spurs trackies hugged and gripped the other defender’s tight backside with every lunge; the awkward glimpse of a guy like Danny Rose in the communal showers, and the elephant trunk between his dark legs. And that threesome Kyle Walker had talked him into in the summer, where the pair of them had shared three cheap hookers but he’d struggled to keep his eyes off the cocky northerner in the next bed. It was all a bit much for 21-year-old Eric to get his head around, so far. He had a casual girlfriend at the moment and he really enjoyed fucking her, he just found his mind flashing occasionally from their shared bed to lads he trained and played alongside day after day. Well, maybe that just came with the job: constant physical proximity to other athletic blokes. Maybe a lot of lads had these weird moments of distraction or fascination, he thought, staring at the fuzzy rush of suburbs passing outside. The coach was taking them to Wembley. Eric still couldn’t believe he was here, joining the ranks of the national side, especially so soon after returning to his home country; representatives of the Portuguese side had only recently given up trying to persuade him to use his optional residency there for an alternative international career. Tempting, but he knew his heart belonged with these Lions. He looked up and down the busy coach from his vantage point near the back, struck by two thoughts: it was fucking great to be here, in this talented young elite of English football, but he also felt a surge of guilty worry that surely none of these other blokes had the same wandering and inappropriate thoughts as he did at the minute? Again, some defensive inner voice did its work: well, none of them grew up on the Portuguese coast, where lads your age walked about topless and tanned, and the whole culture was so much more tactile and relaxed. It wasn’t Eric’s fault his family had moved out there just as he hit his teens, he had become an essentially `foreign’ figure in this English bubble, no wonder he was a bit confused! Still… Near him, a couple of his own teammates were sat on the other side of the aisle. The three youngsters had naturally grouped together, awe-struck by their ascension to the England squad so early in their careers � though the other 2 were already a bit more experienced than Dier was, he thought with a touch of envy. He felt vaguely excluded watching them: Harry Kane, his own club’s talented young striker, hunched over in deep conversation with his other close pal, Dele Alli, chatting excitedly to one another about the upcoming friendly. For a moment, Eric let his eyes rest on the tall, sturdy figure of Kane, the way his dark blue tracksuit clung comfortably to his long limbs, the long handsome face smiling interestedly to young Alli. Harry was such a quiet, reserved young bloke; it was impossible for Eric to imagine a second’s confusion or curiosity passing that bloke’s mind, that was for sure. Dele, mind? Dier had a funny feeling he’d once or twice maybe seen the cheeky 19-year-old looking here and there in the changing rooms, but perhaps it was just paranoia; perhaps he was just transferring his own confusion onto his teammate because it was easier than really addressing it! Kane noticed him staring, turned his head with a light smile. `You alright over there, Dier?’ he asked. He had a warm, kind voice, Eric had noticed that the first time they met in training at Tottenham, and the thought returned to him often in their rare one-to-one conversations. He grinned broadly and gave the other 21-year-old a dismissive nod, not wishing to seem sulky or resentful at being left out on his own over here. Kane returned the nod and turned back to Alli. It sounded like the two of them were reliving a previous England clash they’d participated in, and Eric didn’t want to lean over and attempt to be part of their conversation. It was his second match, not his first, but it still felt terrifyingly new; the loss against Spain earlier in the week had been an intense experience, so much so that he hadn’t really felt able to enjoy a minute of it! He’d been pulled on late in the second half for Delph, and done little to pull back from the Spanish victory � not the dazzling debut he’d hoped for, really, but still a tantalising bite of international football at the top level. He’d been making a slow mark in the youth squad in recent years, though not enough to burst into the senior side earlier, sadly. At the hotel, the pre-dinner team talk from Hodgson was largely reflecting on the 2-0 defeat to Spain. These were not `just friendlies’, the aged manager railed at the serious-faced young men gathered around the tables, they were crucial stepping stones to the next big tournament. England had underperformed for too long. It was quite rousing but nerve-racking. Afterwards, Dier was pulled aside for a moment by one of Hodgson’s assistants, and given the news: he would make the starting line-up tomorrow, they wanted to really see what he was capable of. Apparently one of the England youth coaches had put in a call yesterday stressing that he’d been under-used against Spain. Eric stared at the older man in gratified shock, and nodded with puppy-like enthusiasm. `I won’t let you guys down,’ he swore. `I’m ready for this.’ Tomorrow would feel like a proper debut then, he decided, giddy with the news. He was walking on clouds as he followed the lads through into the hotel restaurant for dinner. Tomorrow’s game, another charity friendly match, this time against France, suddenly seemed to sparkle with opportunity. He couldn’t wipe the dumb grin off his face at any point through the sparse, healthy courses of the meal, nor could he fully focus on the other guys’ conversations. A vague seating plan had separated him from his fellow Tottenham lads � team bonding, he supposed. To his left, Everton buddies John Stones and Ross Barkley were talking heatedly about which player on the France squad they were most keen to hack into, bristling with barely restrained aggression. He wouldn’t admit it if asked, but well-to-do Dier could barely follow their strong regional accents enough to chip in � he’d been out of England for too long! Unable to really engage with their footy banter, he instead found himself admiring their muscular profiles. Ross especially, sat so close to him, always seemed to brim with a slightly intimidating energy and physicality. In the showers after the Spain game, Eric had also yelped in surprise when he’d caught sight of the rugged Scouser in the shower � he’d never seen a butt like that on a guy before. Stop it, his inner voice warned, stop looking at him like that before he notices. To his right, Liverpool’s Nathaniel Clyne was ribbing Adam Lallana for his new tattoo. Just beside Eric, 24-year-old Clyne was booming with his deep masculine laugh and, just beyond him, Lallana had begrudgingly pulled up his red England polo shirt to show off the sprawling tattoo on his flank, simultaneously exposing the rock-hard crags of his six-pack. Eric felt his eyes bulge for a moment, a little taken aback by just how ripped the Liverpool footballer actually was under his shirt. Dier was hardly in poor shape, but you could crack nuts on that bloke’s physique, fucking hell. Stop it, the inner voice repeated, and he pulled his eyes away from this sneak-peak of what he might be treated to in Wembley’s changing rooms tomorrow. He picked up his fork and stared intently at the risotto on his plate, trying to shut out the musky aftershave and deep laddish voices of the men either side of him. This was a phase, he said to himself urgently, these distractions would stop soon. Hormones, confusion, career pressure, one or more of those, making him get all flustered and overwhelmed. At that moment, he looked up from his dinner and realised who he was sat opposite at this long table of England players. Directly across from him, his eyes met for a moment those of his new captain, a guy who’d been largely absent from his debut match earlier in the week. Had Wayne Rooney been watching him, seeing his odd little stares and thoughtful frowns at Barkley and Lallana? Nah, don’t be ridiculous � how the fuck could anyone notice? Guys weren’t mind-readers! Eric shot a nervous smile across the table, and found Rooney’s expression hard to read. The 30-year-old looked almost grumpy, sat ignoring the banter on either side of him and pushing his fork at the salad he’d been given, an impassive expression on his rugged features. He didn’t take his beady blue eyes off Eric, which was a tad unnerving, but a gentle smile curled his lip, and he gave a nod of acknowledgement before putting down his cutlery. `Hey,’ he said in a voice almost as gruffly alien to Eric as Barkley’s. `How are you feeling there, Dier?’ Here was a man slightly more used to top-level footy, who’d reluctantly tamed his rough Scouse over the years to be understood. The 30-year-old England Manchester United captain lifted his glass of water for a long sip, and his gaze mersin escort burnt piercingly into nervous Dier for a moment. `I’m good, chief,’ he said, loudly to be heard over the conversations around them. `Ready for my big shot against the French. I’m psyched.’ Wayne smiled a little more broadly, shrugging his bulky shoulders � again, his scruffy-beard expression was so hard to read, was there something faintly mocking in his little half-smile as he listened to Dier’s nervy excitement? `Well, with you and me on the starting line-up, it’ll be better than the shit-show against Spain,’ the captain grumbled, and his bluntness was shocking in this environment. Nobody had really dared criticise any of the last performance aloud, but clearly this seasoned national hero felt able to do so. He didn’t bat an eye at his snide comment, though it went unheard by the guys around them. `Huh, that’s definitely true for you,’ Dier mumbled across the table, `but I…’ He stopped himself, returned the playful grin on his skipper’s face. `Fuck it, yeh. I’m gonna make shit happen tomorrow. The French won’t know what hit them.’ He threw in a falsely confident wink, saw Rooney’s grin widen, and was then interrupted as Clyne leaned over to grab his shoulder. `Oi, Dier,’ the Liverpool player almost shouted in his face, `tell Ads, will ya, his tattoo looks like shite… come on…’ Eric blinked at him and stared past at where Lallana was still modelling his ripped midriff and laughing off the criticism of his body art. The young Tottenham hopeful stammered over his response, not wanting to admit that he found all tattoos quite crass and ugly, but not wanting to fail at this opportunity to befriend the others; he shot a distracted glance back over the table, but saw that Rooney had been pulled into conversation by the guys on his left now anyway, their brief interaction over for now. Dier fetched his heavy bag from the trolley of luggage in the hotel reception, feeling vaguely dissatisfied with the light dinner they’d been allowed, and secretly craving a beer. Of course drinking was totally off the menu the night before any game, never mind his proper England debut, but he definitely felt the need for SOMETHING to take the edge off his anxiety right now. He yanked the strap over one shoulder and shuffled after the others, keeping an eye out for young goalkeeper Jack Butland, who he’d been roomed with at the Spain game the other night; he’d kinda hoped he might be shoved in a three-bed suite with Kane and Alli, to be honest, but nope. At some point this morning at the training session, big kind-faced Harry had actually offered a swap. `I know you and Dele are really good buddies,’ the striker had murmured to him on the way between drill activities,’ so if you wanna…’ Eric had repeatedly refused, charmed by the offer, but not wishing to seem needy or vulnerable. He was trying to make a name for himself at Tottenham as a tough guy, someone really strong and dependable; desperately swapping roommates like a schoolgirl on a trip was not exactly the way to achieve that. `I’ll be fine, it’s cool,’ he’d told Kane several times until the young forward gave up and patted him on the back. Butland was a good lad, although the rugged Stoke keeper did snore like a fucking factory. Eric was just dawdling at the back of the manly huddle when the captain came striding by him, the same stony expression on his face. Rooney was only 5ft9, notably shorter than Eric, but he was incredibly broad and well-muscled, a sturdy presence as he reached over and tugged the bagstrap off his shoulder. Eric paused in surprise at this odd gesture, then spotted the key dangling in the older man’s hand with a gentle tinkle. `Come on, I’ve got our key,’ Wayne grunted at him. `Huh?’ He looked up the vague queue in search of Butland, then back at the Man Utd captain. `But I thought I was…’ `Minor switch,’ Rooney said dismissively, `and besides… they like to room newbies with the captain before their big start. Just in case, you know?’ `In case of what?’ Dier mumbled back with a surprised laugh. `But er, yeh, whatever � that’s cool. So long as you don’t mind…’ `Oh, it was my idea,’ Wayne revealed, shouldering both of their bags and seemingly unbothered by their combined weight, `captain’s duty, innit. Come on, kid.’ He nodded his heavy head towards the lifts and set off at a slow walk, shouldering both their luggage in this strange gesture of servant leadership. Eric stumbled after him, glancing about for Butland and spotting him laughing happily with the No.1 Joe Hart at the reception counter � well, so long as Jack wasn’t bothered, then… `You must be feeling really nervous,’ Rooney said once they were in a lift heading upwards. `No,’ Dier lied, `it’s not like it’s my first England game.’ `It is only your second,’ chuckled back the Scouser, who was prepping for his 109th national cap, and everyone knew it. Again, in the reflective wall of the elevator, Eric caught an almost mischievous glint to the little smile on that ruddy, freckled face, a slight sense that the older guy was toying with him or amused by his youth and naivety. `I’ve been with the youth squad a few years,’ Eric told him, trying not to sound arrogant, but wanting to dispel the idea of him as a clueless newbie who’d just stepped off the boat. `And, you know, Portugal were pretty keen to get me, actually, so I kinda had my pick of countries for a minute, so…’ Wayne looked at him oddly, less impressed than he might have expected with this revelation. `I think I skipped the youth team,’ the 30-year-old muttered to him bluntly, `you know, like, starting on the senior team at 17, and that.’ A strange, almost confrontational grin. `And I don’t think I’d betray England for any other international teammate, no matter the country.’ There was something almost icy to the gaze and grin, and Eric nodded slowly and cleared his throat. The ping of reaching their floor broke the moment’s tension. The doors opened and Rooney swaggered out into the corridor, their kitbags swinging from his muscular shoulders. Leaner young Eric followed him, a little shaken by the brief sense of confrontation and challenge. Wayne watched this preppy young hopeful skirt about the hotel room in his bedtime routine, and allowed the possibilities of the night ease into place in his mind. He was sprawled on one of the two big beds, a newspaper half-open on the sheets beside him, and a string of messages from his wife bleeping down the screen of his phone, discarded by his elbow. The 30-year-old striker lifted a hand and scratched at the thick stubble of his chin, and teased his fingers thoughtfully along his lower lip, daring to consider where these lips might go if he let them. It had been a long twelve years since his England induction in this same hotel, lying in a bed with David Beckham’s naked body beneath him. A long twelve years of footballing triumph, shifting from his boyhood club to step into David’s own boots at United. A long twelve years of courting and marrying his sweetheart, fathering their brood of kids. A long twelve years of scandals: too much drink, too many prostitutes, some of them a bit older than the mainstream appetite approved of. And, of course, a long twelve years of moments like this: moments of exploration where the weight of social expectation could be dropped and a guy like him could really… indulge. Now and then, Rooney still thought about Becks, old `Golden Balls’. Nothing more had ever happened between the pair after that night, not once. They’d barely ever been alone together in the years of England comradeship that followed, certainly never shared a room; was that coincidence or strategy, and whose part? But still… twelve years on, that awkward fumble in this very Wembley hotel remained crystal-clear in the patchwork memory of Wayne’s most private exploits. More than anything, he wondered what it meant to Beckham; to Rooney, it had been the scary but satisfying beginning of a string of discreet encounters to enrich his active sex life and boost his ego, but to Golden Balls… had that been the first time Beckham touched another lad? He wasn’t sure. Had Mr Fucking Perfect ever touched another since…? He was even less sure. Wayne had laid hands on a fair number of dicks over the dozen years, putting his lips to most of them; and thrust his own thick member into twice as many hungry mouths. His thoughts turned from the ambiguous past to the excitingly opportune present, and the handsome young blond padding back and forward in the middle of brushing his teeth whilst still on the phone to his mother, a pleasing mix of boyish youth and manly power. Rooney didn’t have any illusions about being the most perceptive or intuitive bloke in most rooms, but he felt he knew what he’d seen at dinner, and in the changing rooms after the disastrous Spain game. He’d seen Dier react to nude Barkley because quite frankly, he’d barely taken his eyes off the dumb Scouser for the past couple of years; he hadn’t been captain yet when Ross made his Three Lions debut, but he’d still… made an attempt. The signals had gone unnoticed, or at least unreturned. Their Merseyside connection hadn’t been the key that Rooney briefly hoped would get him into that beautiful backside. But this kid… he’d seen the curiosity and hunger on Eric’s face several times now, felt pretty sure this kid was on the cusp of something new. He grinned hungrily to himself and watched a dribble of toothpaste sink down the strong square of Eric’s chin, and decided he would need to recreate that image with his own juices before tonight was over. Rooney blacked out his phone, sick of the lovey-dovey messages from the missus, and rustled the newspaper shut, bored of the transfer speculation stories covering the back pages. He hopped off the bed and went to the window, brushing past Dier with well-calculated `accident’ and running his hand loosely along the bare shoulder muscles of the lean young defender. He flashed a grin of apology, not interrupting the phone call, and moved to the window to enjoy the view. This wasn’t EXACTLY escort mersin the room he’d shared with Beckham back in 2003, but it had pretty much the same framed view of the lit-up national stadium, the theatre of his greatest performances. He leant on the sill and grinned at both the image and the dim reflection of his own face. Behind him, he heard Eric’s sickly affectionate goodbyes to family. `Hey, kid,’ Wayne said, turning his back on the view, `you’ve got some toothpaste on your chin.’ Eric stood still, top off and just in his England tracksuit bottoms, raised his eyebrows in surprise, then lifted a grateful hand to wipe his chin clean. `Er, thanks big man, hah…’ And off he went back to the bathroom. Wayne heard him spit, smirked to himself. You’ll be swallowing later, boy. Rooney switched off the main light and turned on a single dim lamp between the two double beds. He knocked off the TV and shoved the remote in the desk drawer where they’d found it. He pulled his red polo shirt up and off and, for a moment, flexed his pecs in one of the mirrors, knowing how burly and powerful he looked now he was reaching peak maturity. Off came the trackie bottoms too, so he was just in the baggy dark grey boxer shorts beneath, and then he sat himself on the edge of the bed; not his own, but the one he’d allocated to his young roomie. When Dier came back through, face fresh from whatever poncey skincare routine he’d been through, he looked a bit surprised to find the undressed captain sat on the edge of his bed, but he didn’t show it more than a moment’s raised eyebrows or hesitation. He crossed the darkened room, kicking off his trainers, and passing to the other side of the bed where he’d left his bag and things. Wayne watched him with an expression of mild interest, and he stared openly, indulging himself, as down came the tight tracksuit pants and the young Tottenham player was down to only white briefs and white socks. Now Eric DID look a bit put out, turning round and clearly wondering why his route into bed was being blocked a big pale figure with his hairy chest out. `Sit down a min, kid,’ Rooney said. `Hmm? Er, okay.’ Dier flopped onto the bed, not directly beside him, reaching one hand up to fumble with a thin chain about his neck. Rooney twisted a little on the bed, leaning back on both arms, and grinned at him. `What?’ Eric asked in a nervy voice. `It’s okay,’ Rooney said with an uncharacteristic gentleness in his voice, one he’d used several times in remarkably similar circumstances now. `Eric… kid… you can admit how nervous you are. It’s just us in here, eh?’ He watched Dier’s obvious conflict at this gentle accusation and let out a warm chuckle. `We’ve all been there, lad. All of us. We just need to get you relaxed.’ Dier shifted a bit where he sat, looked kinda uncomfortable. For a second, Rooney doubted himself, wondered if he’d read too much into what he saw. But who cared? He was captain, and this newbie would be keen to prove himself, keen to befriend his skipper. The Scouser couldn’t hold in his hungry grin, could barely keep his hands to himself. He stood up off the bed and rested his hands on his hips, looking down at the twitchy expression on the Spurs lad’s face. He felt the eyes rove: Dier was looking at his thick trunk of a body, the hang of his pecs, gingery fur spreading between them, and the thick thighs and upper arms that bulged with his strength. `I guess I am pretty fuckin’ anxious about it all,’ Eric revealed in a laughing rush. `Am I that obvious? Hah… But I can only do my best, right? And I’m just so chuffed to be making a start, not sitting it out on the bench. You know?’ Wayne nodded his head slowly. `You just need a good night’s sleep,’ he said, a little clumsy in the unwritten script that hovered in his mind. `We need to get you relaxed enough to doze off � can’t have you lying awake worrying about it.’ `That’s true,’ Dier said, looking away. `That would be shit.’ `Yeh,’ Wayne agreed, too quickly. `You know the best way to chill out, don’t you?’ Dier didn’t look at him properly as he answered. `Well, a good shag is number one, haha, but…’ Then, as Wayne leant one knee on the side of the bed with a gentle creak, the blond kid did turn his head and shoulders a bit, and look towards his captain again. This time Wayne felt zero doubt: he saw those intense grey-blue eyes flick from his face to his chest, down his tummy, and rest on the view of his splayed bulge. Aha, yes. `A good shag,’ Rooney laughed heartily. `Aye. That would help.’ He saw Dier gulp, rub his face, tense up his bared young body. `It would, huh. Erm.’ `Eric,’ Wayne grunted, and he climbed properly onto the bed on his knees. He leaned forward, rested a hand on the nearest of the youth’s shoulders. `It’s ok, you know. That you can’t stop fuckin’ staring at me like that.’ He saw the expression tighten on that anxious young face. He squeezed the shoulder, then ran his hand down the bicep, and lift gently at the elbow; he brought the big strong hand of the young defender up to his crotch, and placed it gently there, then stared deeply into Dier’s sparkling eyes. `It’s ok,’ he repeated, his voice a quiet growl, `that you wanna touch it, kid.’ `Rooney, mate,’ mumbled the well-spoken youngster under his breath. `I said it’s okay,’ the captain repeated more firmly. `Give it a squeeze if ya like.’ A sigh and a flinch from Dier, but he did as suggested. Rooney let out a gentle moan, and squeezed his hand over Dier’s, pressing it into the front of his loose baggy underpants, then letting go, pleased when it lingered there on his big soft package. He sank from his knees to his arse, lounging onto the bed, flexing his thick muscles and never letting his eyes leave those of the younger man. He pushed his hand back to rub himself through his undies, and nodded slowly. `I know just what will get you away form feeling nervous,’ he bluntly said. `Mate,’ breathed the 21-year-old cautiously, `this is a bit…’ `Quiet,’ Rooney barked, revealing his impatience. `Come here.’ He gently guided the taller, leaner lad into place at his side, pleased with the sturdy smooth body and its light tan, enjoying the softness of the skin as he reached to stroke those broad shoulders and down the back a little. He nodded approval as once more Eric’s hand drifted to the front of his pants, stroking the outline of what grew in there. He let out a purring groan. `That feels good, ya know, kid,’ he breathed. `I don’t mind if you wanna keep doing it, yeh? Mmm…’ `But Rooney,’ Eric began to mumble, but he cut him off. `Don’t you wanna make it on the England team?’ He asked the question lightly, but he knew the threat that gleamed between the words, and in his sharp eyes. He kept his smile thin and intimidating, and let out another little groan. `Reach inside and touch it properly, lad. That’s better.’ As Dier’s shaky hand reached inside his boxers, he folded his thick arm along those trembling young shoulders, and held Dier’s body to his. Mmm. The bloke’s smooth hand felt so good on his swelling privates. He smelt so good too. His skin was so soft and toned. So smooth. A hot young blond, the things he wanted to do to him right now… `Like that?’ Eric was asking, taking Wayne’s semi properly in hand, a wide-eyed gawp on his face. `Just like that, kid…’ `It’s getting really hard.’ `Yeh… it is, isn’t it?’ `You’re quite… thick, captain…’ `Really thick… you like how it feels?’ `I… I… dunno…’ `You wanna taste it?’ A long pause, obvious shock on Dier’s face. `I dunno, Roon…’ `You can if you like,’ Wayne murmured persuasively. To try and relax his stiff young companion on the bed, he leant over and ran his own rough callused fingers down the firm muscle of the lad’s smooth chest, over his flat abdomen, and to the well-packed white briefs. He grabbed the bulge a bit roughly, smirking at the way this made Eric twitch and writhe in surprise, scared and excited. Wayne gave it a good fondle before pushing it down and releasing the fat cock and balls within. He rubbed his thumb over each bollock then tugged firmly on the growing length of meat. `Ohh… captain…’ Slowly, the youngster was relaxing. `Yeh, you like that…?’ `I do… Oh mmm…’ `Don’t stop touching mine,’ Wayne growled at him. `You wanna make captain happy, don’t ya?’ `Oh, yeh… mmm…’ Their arms brushed and rubbed as the mutual jerking continued. Rooney was frustrated and impatient, he wanted this to move faster. He found himself staring at the plump pink of Eric’s lips and greedily anticipating pushing his thick cock between them. He licked his own lips. He was pulling on Eric’s stiff tool with more force and rhythm than the tentative fumbling at his own privates, and that was frustrating him too. But still… god, the lad’s clammy dick felt good in his hand, impressively long and shapely, and warm on his palm, mmm… `Come on,’ Rooney hissed after a while, `come and taste me, lad…’ He tightened the arm about Eric’s strong shoulders, pulling their hold a little tighter, encouraging and forceful. His cock ached and swayed between his chunky thighs, his bollocks tight with a load that needed emptying. He chewed his lip and groaned in anticipation of the pleasure � but Eric was hesitant, resistant against his guiding arm. He could see doubt on the handsome young face. `I’ve never…’ Dier began. `It doesn’t matter,’ Rooney almost snapped, `you’ll be fine… Go on…’ The Tottenham player relented, curving his taller body down beside his captain. He rested one hand on Rooney’s big chest and another on his thigh, and knelt over. Rooney pushed his body back into the soft bedding with a little anticipatory groan. His cock was sticking up, fully hard and bulging with veins. He had a very thick meat, though he knew it was not so long. He was pretty sure girth mattered more, from the holes he’d rammed his way into since he was fifteen. And then it came: the soft wet touch of a questing tongue, tickling against the exposed mushroom of his fat nob. His whole body tensed up and he grunted out his pleasure, gripping the lad’s upper back tightly mersin escort bayan as the slow lick caressed once more over the tip of his dick. And then the magnificent pleasure was withdrawn. A nervous titter from the youth. `Go on,’ Rooney urged, almost holding him down there, impatient for the soft wet blowjob he knew was coming, desperate to fuck any hole of this beautiful young beast. `I dunno,’ Dier mumbled, pulling back, rubbing the back of one hand over his mouth. `I dunno what I’m doing here, mate. I’m not… This isn’t…’ He looked almost angry now, not just confused. But his dick was a furious red, stiff and swollen with his obvious pleasure. Rooney grabbed it again firmly to take control of the encounter, and teased back the foreskin once then twice. `Oh, captain…’ `Just fuckin’ focus on making your captain happy,’ Wayne hissed at him. `Mmm… I’m trying, skipper, just… ohh… Why don’t you… show me?’ Rooney stared at him, a little surprised by the suggestion. It had been a while since he sucked a dick, actually. A few times early on, he’d done it, in a greedy rush, but something about it had always scared him too. He could remember his greedy submission between Beckham’s furry legs. He could remember the way he’d worshipped that massive dick (was it really as big as he remembered?!) and thought about it longingly night after night in the subsequent weeks. But at some point, he’d realised that the real enjoyment (the real power!) lay in turning the tables, in being the one receiving the sucking, and… well… Those beautiful pink lips, that’s what he’d thought of when he eyed Eric up at the dinner table, he’d wanted head, wanted it BAD… `Show me how to do it,’ Dier murmured more gently. `Please…?’ Wayne stared at the long curved prick down in the neatly trimmed crotch of the young bloke, and unconsciously licked his lips. It was an attractive dick. He grunted hesitantly then crouched heavily over, planting his lips against it. Eric’s moan was immediate and loud. Wayne pushed his tongue along the shaft and sank over its length in one move. Oh boy, it tasted GOOD. `Fuck,’ he heard this fucking newbie nobody of a lad grunt above his head, `fuck that’s good. Oh yeh…’ The youthful excitement was enticing and enraging all at once. Rooney sucked determinedly on that cock, pleased at his skill and the intense enjoyment of the other footballer, but his own cock ached for attention. He lifted his head, drooling slightly, and met Dier’s eyes again with a playful glint in his own. But then one of Eric’s big hands was rubbing against the back of his head and guiding it down; with an obedience that shocked himself, he lunged greedily back down, and lapped his tongue around the loose foreskin. Rooney lost sight of the fun he’d had planned. This dick tasted so good. This tight muscular body felt so good beneath his grasping hands. He was drinking in the smells of this toned bloke. He was back in another room of this hotel in another decade. The fingers scratching through his hair, did they belong to Eric Dier, or did they belong to David Beckham…? Dier stared down his bare body, pricked with sweat, and continued to hold the head roughly in place as he shifted his hips up and down form the comfort of the bed. His mind was racing. God, how many times had he secretly wondered this? How many times, even with a hot chick blowing him, had he questioned the urban myth? Guys were way better at it, they said, whoever `they’ were. But dear god was it true… oh wow… Eric, tall and handsome, had been getting his share of action from local girls from his early teens, kicking a ball about Lisbon and standing out in his pale Englishness. But never before had his dick quivered with quite so much excitement, never had a mouth felt quite so right around his cock like this. And to have THIS bloke doing it � this meaty lump of a man, this sullen beast of a footballer… That was half the excitement. To dominate the dominant. Eric thrust up with his hips in gentle but rapid strokes, essentially fucking the hungry mouth of Wayne Rooney, England and Manchester United captain. He ran his fingers about the mousy brown hair that barely lingered on that balding head, stroked the prominent little ears, reached down the muscular neck and shoulders; he felt the stubbly beard tickle the base of his cock and his fat ball-sack, and insides of his thighs as he clenched them about Rooney’s clammy red face. `Oh yeh,’ he growled out, `suck me, you fuckin’ Scouse cunt, suck it good…’ Where had that vicious language come from?! He didn’t really know, but he felt so fucking excited here. In his head it was a wild slideshow of the images he’d been denying himself: he was picturing for a moment that it was Ross Barkley down there going at it, or Danny Rose. He was picturing Delle Alli’s lithe body pinned beneath his own. He was pretending he was fingering that ripped six-pack and Lallana’s daft tattoo while he fucked that bearded smug face instead. And, for a daring moment, he pictured Harry Kane’s kindly laddish smile on the training ground, and wished he was feeding his big cock to THAT handsome face too, oh yes… It was as he imagined Kane that he reached his climax. He pulled down really firmly on Rooney’s head, pressed his cock deep in his mouth, and shot his load. Again, a man’s mouth felt so much better, he wasn’t scared of hurting him like he was with pretty ladies. Eric twisted against the bedding and held Wayne’s face in place, pushing his hips up and clenching his buttocks, and feeding his heavy load of spunk into that greedy greedy mouth… When eventually he let go of the head at his crotch, Rooney pulled away, red-faced, panting, cum sticky on his lips. Eric couldn’t help but laugh for a moment at the sight of it, that Neanderthal brute scowling through a mouthful of his own spunk. He groaned contentedly and relaxed his limbs back against the duvet. `Oh god,’ he whispered hoarsely, `that WAS good… I DO feel relaxed now… oh god, thanks captain…’ The lazy throes of orgasm and impending sleep were coming over his strong young body now, utterly drained by the force of his own pleasure. It didn’t even cross his mind that his burly captain needed to finish to. He didn’t reach for that fat dick that he’d tentatively stroked and licked just before, because what did it matter to him now that he’d had his pleasure…? He lay there, still in his white socks and his briefs tangled about his thighs, and let his eyes drift close. As he did so, he was comfortably aware of Wayne getting up on his knees and staring at him intently as he pleasured himself, but Dier didn’t lift a finger to help. He lay there in a dozy peace, still moaning softly at the aftershock of his climax, and he barely felt the ribbon of spunk that his captain shot over his thighs and tummy, or heard the ragged and frustrated gasps of the older man before he climbed off the bed. Eric sighed sleepily, rolled over, and cuddled into the bedding, and fell asleep. Liberated and relaxed. Dier’s left hand was jerked and tugged by the dog leads it held, the two big canines ahead of him dragging him along the wooded path of today’s lockdown excursion. He half-ignored the dogs’ plaintive whines and impatience to continue their walk, his right hand holding his phone as he trotted slowly after his two pets. On the screen, he was watching the little video clip of Wayne Rooney being interviewed on his England days, and allowing himself to revisit a memory he’d put away quite some time ago. The following morning, he remembered, had been awkward. He’d obviously been a bit anguished at his own bold transgression, his first man-to-man contact. But his own conflict had been nothing next to the silent fury of Wayne Rooney, the alpha male he’d face-fucked in his hotel bed. The room was thick with tension and not a word was spoken between alarms going off and separating in the breakfast buffet queue. And yet oddly, when they met again at the champagne reception after the charity match, the tension was dissolved: England had won 2-0, Rooney had put one goal away himself, and Eric had been integral to the successful defence. The two men had shaken hands over a glass of fizz, Wayne had even hugged him, and heaped quite praise on him whilst they stood talking to Hodgson and a couple of FA officials. There had been no tremor of resentment or sexual discomfort between Eric and the older bloke at any point that evening, or in fact, ever again. From then on, Eric had always roomed with Dele, and he suspected two different reasons: either Wayne had made sure they never shared again, or Harry had insisted on a swap to make him more comfortable, or perhaps even both. As the years went on, Eric had sometimes questioned if it even had happened. As he gained experience and confident with guys, he’d almost dismissed that first blowjob as a confused wet dream: could the hypermasculine Wayne Rooney really be such a cock-hungry slut? One by one, he’d had his little dalliances with other lads, not least experimenting with lovesick Dele Alli and, eventually, seducing the man of his dreams, also an England captain… Oh, Harry. Eric tugged back on the dogs’ leads, resisting their impatience to bound on down the looping path through the dappled April sunshine. He exited the social media app and abandoned the Rooney interview, losing interest in that mysterious caveman who’d triggered his bisexual adventure, and going back to messenger and the contact who was ALWAYS at the top of his inbox. Dier stared sadly at the string of unanswered messages. `R u for real, H? Seriously m8?’ `Why won’t u answer me when I call u?’ `Plz. Plz call me. We need to talk.’ `Fuck u. I fuckin hate u. U’ve ruined EVERYTHING’ `I miss you so much xxx’ Delete all? Yes please. He blinked away a single tear as the message thread disappeared from his inbox, and he let his feet walk on, easing into the pace of the excitable retrievers on their leads, glad to be out of the house and getting some fresh air for this brief daily walk. Did quarantine days really last a week each, he wondered, or was that just if you had a broken heart…? *THANKS FOR READING, AS ALWAYS! HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS LITTLE TRILOGY OF ENGLAND CAPTAINS – LET ME KNOW IF YOU FANCY READING MORE ABOUT SHEARER, BECKHAM OR ROONEY’S ADVENTURES! COMING UP NEXT THOUGH, A RETURN TO MAGUIRE + SHAW…*

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