premiership-lads-179

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 179: Wunderkind Part 179: Wunderkind The game was a goalless draw when he was called off the pitch at the 60th minute, jogging resolutely away from the slow action and off the pitch; a brotherly elbow bump with his fellow young Englander Mason Mount who was taking his spot in the last third of the game against Finland. Suited Southgate patted him hard on the shoulder and muttered distracted praise for his energetic efforts, without really taking his hard eyes off the developing game; Jadon Sancho left him behind and stalked across the side-lines, his body recovering from the last few energetic runs chasing after a goal that never arrived. A quiet little clap of applause came from the rest of the English substitutes, all tense in their distanced seats as they awaited their turn to try and impress, a sight that gave the 20-year-old Camberwell chav a little rush of pride to be here starting the game at his young age. He looked at someone like Jack Grealish in particular, 24 now and almost 25, buzzing his skinny tits off at the prospect of getting subbed on to his first England cap of his career — not that he didn’t have a lot of respect for the Brumme bloke and his Aston Villa loyalty, but he could not help but enjoy being already more experienced on the international stage than many of these older men on the bench. Not just a debutant like Jacko, but older guys like Danny Ings at the far end, a man who’d had an incredible season for Southampton but still couldn’t seem to secure a proper place under their ambitious manager. The feeling of being considered a better chance than this row of English stars gave a special buzz to Sancho, swaggering wearily past each of them and forcing a humble nod at their brotherly appreciation. Big Ty Mings slapped him heartily on the back as he passed and he fist-bumped Ward-Prowse, moving on to the seat vacated by little Mase and tossing his exhausted body into it so that his England kit stuck to the leather of it and he spread his thick young legs wide to cool off and relax. A junior coach busied at him in seconds, forcing a water bottle into his hand and enquiring about a few scrapes and bruises on his leg and arm. He grinned and shrugged off the damage, wanting to be left alone, panting as he stared out at his busy teammates. His smugness at playing 60 minutes while these more seasoned Premiership lads sulked in substitute chairs on the edges of the Danish stadium was tempered by the dull scoreline; he would have fucking loved to smash in a goal tonight, or last time in Iceland, really fucking make his mark and prove himself to doubters back in the homeland. Here he was in September with the new season around the corner, but his future was still undecided. Even as he sat here chugging rehydration fluids and squinting onto the twilit pitch, the financial wrangling of his tentative deal to jump back into British footy was being pored over and argued by his representatives and agents of Manchester United. He looked again at keen, nervous Grealish a few yards away, contemplating that the two of them could be Old Trafford teammates in a couple of weeks, if the rumours were true. Even as a lad who had been in the top echelons of the sport since his mid-teens, Jadon couldn’t believe how complicated the business was around their talent — he thought that nervously ringing his agent when he began to feel uncomfortable at Dortmund would trigger a quick process and he’d have his pick of Premier League opportunities to select from. Nope — it was a complicated mess and he was fed up of the aimless update calls from his representatives, negotiating at the speed of treacle, while Manchester and Dortmund battled over his contract as if he himself barely existed. A weird situation, to be so vaunted and coveted, but so dehumanised and made a commodity. Soon, Jacko too was getting his opportunity, going on to replace another debut cap, Leeds player Kalvin Philips; Jadon watched the handshake and half-hug between the two lads with a certain amount of pleasure and pride, not totally lost to the smug superiority of having made his own debut at 18, shortly after moving abroad soon after his 17th birthday to seek his fortune in Germany. And it had been a great few years, it really had, really starting to flourish in Borussia Dortmund’s senior team this season before and after lockdown, drawing so much attention from English fans as he contributed to the club’s victories. He still wavered on whether he wanted to leave Dortmund or not — he knew he was valued there and he loved the success the team had been enjoying. He liked a lot of his teammates there, liked the style and culture of the club. But he did sometimes long for London and more British vibes, and for the flashy media profile of the Premiership — and the pushy suggestions of his agent had come at that funny time when his commitment to life in the German city had… wavered. Eyes fixed on the still goalless game, Sancho thought hesitantly about what had happened out there, that day just before the Bundesliga restart. Big Emre Can, all brooding and Turkish and deep-voiced, and… the young Londoner winced and scratched at his scruffy goatee, screwing up his nose, pushing the confusing memory away. That cramp had been so fucking crippling on him and the big guy’s hands all over his legs, and then in the shower… As if the other men on the edge of the game could read his mind and see his visual memory, he glanced furtively and guiltily down the line, wrapping his warm arms about his still heaving chest and flaring his nostrils irritably. Fucking pervert, he thought yet again, what’s wrong with the fella? He did his best to avoid Emre now, never engaged in his banter or accepted his invites for a drink or to his little poker nights and such at his rented city penthouse; he’d hoped desperately that the Turkish-German bloke would end his loan spell with Borussia and fuck off back to Juventus where that kinda weird shit was probably more accepted among funny kinky Italians. But nah, Can had signed a permanent contract over the summer and would be a definite fixture in the Dortmund squad. When he’d heard that, he’d briefly became more pushy with his own team, demanding to know what other Premiership offers were on the table if tight-arsed Man Utd kept dragging their fuckin’ heels. He’d even asked about a return to City, the team that had bizarrely let him slip away even after he impressed everyone in their youth academy… But nah, he thought, the manager’s eyes had been all for Phil fucking Foden, that pipsqueak! He returned to smugness and grinned rather than flinched, thinking of more cringey `debuts’ at England’s most recent game. Stuck-up little Philly Foden getting his first England senior appearance, haha, then him and fellow newbie Greenwood fucking it all up by breaking the rules…! God, what plonkers. No matter that Sancho himself had been texting birds on Tinder and come seconds away from making the same mistake… common sense had prevailed and he’d stuck to the rules like a good lad instead, not fucking up his reputation like those little tits. The game drew to its dull conclusion, 0-0; at least it was a point for them, combined with their win over Iceland, could be a lot worse. Jadon had peeled his England shirt off at this point to cool down, strutting shirtless onto the pitch to join in some muted applause and congratulation of his teammates for holding fast and at least not conceding a Danish goal. One by one, the fellas were making their way indoors, moods ranging from ecstatic relief (Jordan Pickford, clearly chuffed that his bad luck at Everton had been swapped for clean sheets in his national performance) to faintly gloomy disappointment (Trent Alexander-Arnold and Kieran Trippier both looking furious that they hadn’t claimed goals for themselves), and some guys looking really truly pissed off: Eric Dier almost bowled Sancho over as he strode past with his muscular stride, leading the way indoors and speaking to no one. `What the fuck is his problem?’ Jadon demanded of Scouse lad Conor Coady, drifting idly by him and wiping his face down with a towel. `Huh? Uh, fucked if I know!’ the Wolves captain barked at him, then moved rapidly on. Sancho made to join the flow of men into the tunnel mouth, heading to the visitors’ changing rooms of the Danish national stadium, wanting to relish what little remained of his international duty before he had to go back to being the token Englishman at German training sessions. He was halted though by Gareth Southgate appearing beside him, reaching a hand across his bare shoulder and neck and giving him an almost apprehensive expression. `I’m going to ask you a favour, J,’ the England manager said quietly, steering him along slowly behind the stomping weary huddle of the other men. `Oh yeah?’ Jadon replied curiously, glad at the intimacy with which the gaffer already addressed him, really treating him as one of the main men here, not some precocious youth any more. `Nothing major,’ Southgate promised, `just a little rooming issue.’ `What is it?’ Sancho asked, fumbling at the waist of his shorts, dragging them a bit lower to help him cool off, stretching out his thighs as he walked confidently along. Gareth rolled his eyes. `These things happen, y’know,’ he said. `All these egos and rivalries. Bit easier for you maybe, kid, not playing the same League and all. Just need to make an adjustment, is all, and this trip has given me quite enough drama so far, you know what I mean…’ Jadon chuckled, liking the idea that he was to be his boss’s saviour here. `Course, guv,’ he said quickly, `who’s fallen out now, eh?’ `I dunno if it’s a falling out, exactly,’ Gareth said vaguely. `Honestly, not a clue what the problem is.’ `Lemme guess,’ Jadonn said, pausing at the arching entrance, letting the others get further away, squaring up to his smartly attired gaffer, `is it that moody fuck Eric? What’s his issue?’ `Oh. Er, well, no. But — hmm, don’t get me started on him, I don’t know what’s going on their either, but… no, that isn’t it.’ He glanced down the tunnel after the others, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes. `It’s Sterling, actually. He came to me before the game and insisted he wouldn’t room-share with Kyle Walker tonight.’ He shrugged and adjusted his tie. `Ridiculous stuff, I’m sure, but… you don’t mind do you? I can put Sterling in with Abraham and you can share with Walker, yeah?’ Jadon just shrugged, unfazed by this. `Well, sure, makes no odds to me,’ he said. `I’m easy. No drama here, boss, haha. You can count on me.’ `I know,’ Gareth told him readily. `Dunno what they do differently out there in Germany but it works, you’re certainly no Premiership prima donna…’ He winked and laughed. `Thanks, mersin escort J. Go get showered off, kid, relax. Any news on your possible transfer yet, mate…?’ Sancho grinned at him and rolled his eyes dramatically. `Don’t ask, chief!’ He showered there at the stadium like all of them, but by the time he hit his hotel room that night after a long late dinner and two-pint chill session, he felt like he needed another. A hot late summer was hitting the Scandinavian country and the hotel, for all its little luxuries, seem to have the shittest air-conditioning he’d ever encountered. His black and gold tshirt stuck to his upper body and his boxer briefs felt damp with sweat beneath his jogger shorts as he clambered into the room, laughing along with Walker’s mean impressions of some of their teammates who seemed pissed after only their allocated two drink limit in the hotel bar. `Bunch of lightweights!’ the Man City right-back was cackling, shoving the door shut behind him and following Sancho into the small shared suite. `Honestly, you see Coady almost falling off his stool? Dunno what’s up with that fella, one little England appearance and he looks like he doesn’t even know who he is, haha.’ `Agreed,’ Jadon sniggered, quite enjoying Kyle’s shared cynical streak and their gentle banter. `Same for Jacko and Philips, yeah? Newbies,’ he chortled, wanting to emphasise that he was already two years into his international career, turning and giving a cocky grin at the experienced defender, then moving across to his side of the room, kicking off his sliders and socks. Walker was easily one of the most experienced England men on the squad, a good nine years of turning up for the country, though not without his own controversial blips. For Sancho, he was also an odd window into another version of his life; the big Sheffield bloke had moved to City just as he exited it, disappointed by the management team’s disinterest in promoting him to a senior role, lured abroad by keen German reps and promises of a bright future in Dortmund. It seemed that in a parallel universe, he and Kyle could have been major City stars together, them and Aguero and de Bruyne and all the others. Jadon was just about full enough of youthful vanity to believe that a City with him in it might even have stalled Liverpool’s race for the title. His roommate had now turned his sardonic humour to absent friends. `What a pair of dicks,’ he summarised, `getting caught like that…! I mean, I’m sure you know the trouble I had in lockdown, but still…’ The burly tattooed Yorkshireman had flopped onto his bed in a relaxed pose, his white tshirt pulling tightly about his upper arms and riding up at the tummy while his skinny-fit trackies went taut about his outstretched legs and flexing bare feet. `Iceland is not a country for getting away with shit, y’know? Didn’t they have prohibition until recently or summat, lad?’ Jadon frowned and laughed. `Fucked if I know,’ he said, pulling his way out of his tshirt, glad to be out of it and feeling clammy with his own sweat in this overheated dump of a so-called 4 star. He had certainly been informed of Kyle’s lockdown antics, read the trashy tabloid reports. `Least they weren’t scoring prozzers though, huh, big man? Hah…’ He grinned brashly at his older new roomie, unable to see what moody Raheem’s problem was with sharing with him, he was good craic. `Owch,’ chuckled Kyle, stretching out further and yawning widely. `Low blow, kid.’ Jadon just giggled, turning to stuff his dirty tshirt into one end of his big bag and then fussing about with his things, putting his phone on to charge and fishing through his toiletries, his shorts sagging a few inches around the rear as he did so. Kyle seemed to watch him, brewing his comeback to that jibe. `You’ve never paid for sex then, junior?’ he demanded eventually. Sancho grinned at him. `Never needed to,’ he boasted simply. `Ain’t about need,’ Kyle muttered. `All about want, mate. Want. Like, sometimes I just WANT to treat a girl like absolute dirt and not have to listen to her over breakfast the next day, y’know…?’ He chuckled at his own misogyny and yawned again. `The filth you can get up to with a paid-up slut, y’know.’ Jadon sniggered along with this, making slow moves in the direction of their bathroom. He knew what Kyle meant in theory but when he paused to play the thought along, he didn’t actually know what exactly one might get up to with a hooker and not some nightclub pick-up or Tinder slag or whatever. He just gave the 30-year-old bloke a dubious look and shrugged one shoulder. `Dunno what dirty shit you get up to then, old man,’ he jibed. `But I’m gonna go take a shower.’ `A cold one, now you’re picturing me and my dirty shit?’ Kyle called lazily. `Haha, whatever,’ Jadon laughed back, lingering halfway across the room. `Stupid little Greenwood,’ Walker yawned, `and as for Philly… jeez. More shocked at him.’ Sitting up a bit and flexing his chest, the defender grinned in a secretive way. `Trust me when I say that his behaviour will NOT go down well with the boss man at Man City, hah. Like seriously.’ Jadon just rolled his eyes. `Oh, isn’t he still Golden Boy up there?’ he demanded. `Nobody else could get a look in when Pep visited our youth games back in my day, fuck’s sake…! And you know all the youth coaches used to say I had the most potential they’d seen in years, mate.’ He knew he sounded vain or conceited, but then this was Kyle Walker, who oozed that same cocksure self-belief all the time. Walker just made a non-committal noise and rolled over onto his front on the bed, fetching up his phone and busying himself with some messages. `Yeah yeah, but you’re doing well for yourself,’ he said distractedly, obviously more interested in whoever he was messaging — some bird no doubt — than talking about the career of Phil Foden or Mason Greenwood, sent home like naughty schoolboys on a field trip. Sancho stared at him for a moment, a little bit of hero worship for the cocky seasoned England star who had weathered more dodgy headlines than what Phil or Mase were subject to now. For some reason, his head was a little bit stuck on their brief snatch of conversation. `Is it just the thrill of breaking the rules a bit, y’know, with prozzers and that?’ he asked, aware of an awkwardness in his voice as he circled the talk back that way. Kyle lifted his eyes from his phone screen, still grinning at whoever he was messaging (he looked like he’d just been taking a goofy selfie for them, whoever they were). He paused a while before speaking. `Maybe, for some people,’ he said. `But for me it’s just convenience and a bit more freedom to be a kinky bugger, you know.’ Jadon lingered there, holding his toiletries in both hands, awkwardly shirtless with his shorts sagging showily below the waist. `Kinky like how?’ he asked in a smaller voice. He peered beadily over at the older guy, unable to keep the curious frown off his face. `Like, what the fuck you doin’ with hookers that you can’t do with…’ He trailed off, not liking the naivety or exposure of his own questioning. `I mean, I just find girls wanna do ANYTHING when you’re a footballer, anyway, so like…’ `Mate, you’re only 20,’ Walker said dismissively. `You’ve not lived yet. Just you wait til you’re a seedy 25-year-old paying some East European slut to drink your piss or rim your arsehole after you’ve won the FA Cup, haha.’ And as simple as that, he was looking back at his phone, a look of amused concentration on his large angular face as he punched his thumbs at the screen. Jadon stared at him and wondered how much those two extremes were jokes or otherwise, then turned around and disappeared instead into the bathroom. He felt a mix of hot amusement and youthful intimidation at the brash and worldly man he was sharing with now, and he wondered if Raheem was just a bit more prudish than you’d expect, easily offended by Kyle’s jokes — he must have been joking, right, about getting up to weird shit like that with hookers and everything, haha? Right? He turned on the shower and let it heat up, shaking down his shorts and then peeling down his black underpants, letting out his sweaty privates and stretching out his 5’11 naked body before heading onto the spacious cubicle that occupied one end of the bathroom. For the second time tonight, hot soapy water coursed around the lean pale caramel musculature of his body and spattered down at the drain beneath his bare feet and large toes. He hummed a Drake tune idly to himself and scrubbed his palms over his face, glad to wash away the clammy heat of the hotel, hoping it would feel cooler in the night and he could get a good sleep, though happy in the knowledge of a slight lie-in tomorrow; his flight out of Copenhagen was separate from the other lads, travelling down into Germany rather than back over into Blighty. Suds pooled about his shoulders and flowed in streams down his lean back, across the toned muscle and then onto the promontory of his buttocks, sliding between them into his crack. Unconsciously, he pulled his hands back against his own cheeks, washing over him and parting them a little and, unwittingly, thinking about that stupid idea in Kyle’s jokes: he’d heard a few lads make weird comments about letting birds to that to them, actually, and he’d never quite understood it. He slid fingers uneasily along his crack a bit, wondering how clean your arse-crack ever was even after two showers in one night, rubbing a soapy finger between his firm muscled cheeks self-consciusly and almost laughing at himself within the confines of the steaming shower cubicle, then glancing to the left and starting a little bit as he saw the door gently open. `Don’t mind me!’ barked Walker’s voice over the noise of the shower. The glass wall of the shower was, oddly, not quite frosted, though it was hazy with condensation, but it was still clear enough for the young footballer to witness the very obvious figure of his roommate burst into the thin bathroom space in front of him; and what potentially bothered Jadon was that if Kyle looked hazy but visible through that wet glass, then so did he! But then he reminded himself that his earlier shower of the evening had taken place in a communal block of about 10 men at a time, as most sports one did — chill out, kid! But then came the noise, somehow audible over the shower itself, the echoing wet rattle of the other man having his piss with his back to the shower, a gushing splash that sounded more like a horse than a human and made Jadon chuckle self-consciously into his hands, still washing his face and suddenly wondering if Kyle had seen him curiously cleaning his own arse. He waited for the porcelain gurgle of urine to disappear and the moments felt stretched out by an odd awkwardness, escort mersin making him shake his head and think, yeah, Kyle was a coarse fucker and maybe Raheem was actually a bit uptight, whatever, just got sick of his banter… perhaps he’d had enough of him at City on away games or at social events or whatever? `Sorry `bout that, just had to!’ Kyle was calling from outside the shower, washing his hands now. `Hah, no worries,’ Jadon mumbled, twisting the nob to switch off the water and glad that the glass had begun to steam up into a much more translucent pane. But when he reached out to slide it across and reach for the towel he’d left on the rack, the fluffy white was pressed into his grip straight away, because his England teammate was lingering right by him in the centre of their shared bathroom. He snatched it to him and threw it around his waist before pulling the glass door aside, frowning vaguely at the other bloke for denying him his privacy, but too embarrassed to really question nit. `Er, cheers,’ he coughed instead, tying a weak knot in it and hesitating before dragging his dripping wet feet and calves out against the bathmat, squaring up to the inch shorter but much stockier defender in the now claustrophobic bathroom. `You are very welcome,’ Kyle said simply, and disappeared at last, trudging back into the main room in his shuffling gait, tshirt and trackies stretched over his broad back and thick legs, flicking water from his washed hands as he did. Jadon watched him go and stood in the centre of the bathroom, feeling inarticulately cross and paranoid, and grabbing a second towel to drag across his damp shoulders. He padded out into their room, drying his feet against the carpet, eyeing Kyle with a vague unsettled suspicion, feeling some unnamed invasion of his bristling young ego at having his shower disturbed with the bloke’s horse-piss and poor boundaries. He stood with his back to him, holding the second towel tightly and running it over his lean torso and tattooed arms to dry himself, feeling a little guilty jab into his own private thoughts when Kyle spoke. `You must be pretty vanilla then,’ Walker was saying. `I mean, your face when I said…’ `Just cos I ain’t paid for a shag…?’ `Nah, cos I bet you just done missionary with the lights off.’ The 30-year-old hooted with laughter and Jadon turned his way to pout defensively at him. `You’ll learn,’ Kyle advised him, `or maybe not, staying out in boring German provinces, heh… get yourself into Berlin for the weekend sometime…’ `I’ve been around,’ Sancho muttered at him. `I do okay.’ `Yeh yeh,’ the Sheffield man said, bounding up off his bed and clapping his hands together. `I’m just saying you ought to try pushing your boundaries a bit, letting loose. And sometimes a whore is the best person for that, is all. But fuck, I’ll shut up, cos I could do with one right now, and I sure as hell ain’t breaking no more quarantine rules like Fodes and Woody, the little gimps… no more Sun headlines for me this year, thanks!’ He laughed, grabbing playfully at the front of his trackies, standing there in his weird challenging posture. `Huh, sure,’ Jadon agreed weakly. He frowned with piqued curiosity. `You’re not really into like weird shit though, are ya? I mean, like piss, or…’ Kyle shrugged at him. `I’m just a man of passion,’ he said, a little dramatically, `you never know what you’re gonna do til you’re super horny. Done some mad shit with prozzers up and down the country and abroad, haha… but nah, seriously, I’m not that weird or nothin’. I mean I’ve pissed on a girl before just to see if it was fun, mostly it smelt bad. Wasn’t worth the extra £200.’ He laughed and still Sancho felt left unsure what was genuine and what was banter. He wanted to ask about the other thing, but Walker was ahead of him. `You never let a girl near your bottom then?’ he demanded bluntly. `Defo not,’ Jadon said prudishly. `I don’t even mean a finger or nothing — not even a lil lick?’ `No!’ he insisted, both annoyed and aware that he sounded uptight and lame. `Aww man,’ Walker said in his booming laddish laugh, `you don’t know what you’re missing.’ He turned away but sat on Sancho’s bed rather than his own, crashing down on it in a relaxed manner and remaining there with his arms jutting out to support him, lingering by the towel-clad youth and grinning at some remembered naughtiness. `Been a while, but some right tarty hooker in Madrid did it to me when I was like 24 or summat, jesus… opened my eyes a bit, that. You don’t get many birds who’ll do that to you, I don’t think. But your generation is more open minded so who knows…’ Jadon squinted at him. `Dunno about that,’ he mumbled, trying to imagine any of the birds he’d porked being remotely interested in that; there was always a begrudging sense of reward when they even wanted to suck his chunky brown cock, never mind… other downstairs regions! His frowning eyes met the older man’s and Kyle just laughed some more at him, relaxing further on his bed then reaching over this way a bit. `I’m not a prude or, what did you say, vanilla, I’m just… hey!’ The defender had found the hem of his towel and tugged on it lightly, but the knot was weak and he was caught unawares, and it was quickly slipping from his waist and leaving him stood bollock naked beside his chortling senior. `Haha, relax… that peachy brown bum bum, any girl would kiss it…!’ And before Jadon could move out of the way, the hand that had pulled the towel away came up and thwacked him across both cheeks in a tight hard slap that didn’t really hurt but made him yelp in surprise and hurry a few steps away from him. `Fuck’s sake!’ he complained, blushing a bit and scowling at the other guy, trying not be too self-conscious about the short thick meat swinging beneath his close-trimmed pubes below the lightly defined stretch of his young six-pack. Kyle was up on his feet, grinning widely, holding up both hands in peace, still laughing as he stepped this way. `You cheeky twat,’ Sancho told him crossly but trying to sound more up for banter than he currently felt right now. `Me, cheeky?’ Kyle muttered. `You’re the one with that little booty, haha. Aw, chill, kid. Just messin’. If you’re not cool enough to try new stuff out, no worries, maybe you’ll be one of those goody goody players as you get older… you know, a boring fucker like Kane or Dier who wouldn’t know real fun if it slapped them in the face, haha.’ Sancho glowered. `I ain’t boring,’ he said firmly. `Especially not when I’m fucking a bird.’ `Aye, with that thing?’ Walker was stood right in front of him now, eyeing his flaccid tool. `Good for you. But what… about… this…?’ And he was reaching around and placing his right hand on Jadon’s arse again, gripping and squeezing his left buttock. `You gonna let some slut lick your crack and make you get SUPER hard, or you too boring for that…?’ He leered challengingly into the lad’s face and Jadon stood up to him, refusing to be cowed into prudish shyness here. `Sure, probably,’ he muttered. `Thing is, Kyle, I’m only 20, so I got aaaages to try shit, yeh, not gonna be an old daddy like you in five minutes. Get off my arse…’ He pushed his arm away, forcing out a laugh, trying to act casual about his nude body, looking about for the discarded towels, then pausing as, yet again, Kyle reached for his bum, rested his hand quite gently at the same cheek from behind him, making a low breathy snigger. `You wanna know what it feels like?’ he said. `Huh?’ `A rimming, mate,’ wheezed the right-back. `I mean, just a little sample.’ `Quarantine,’ Sancho mumbled senselessly back, `not calling up some prozzies and-` `I don’t mean no hooker girl,’ purred the City player now. Jadon felt him squeeze ever so slightly at the pert round softness of his buttock. `It’s just a thing between teammates, kid. Won’t be nothing heavy. What you say?’ Jadon felt a little shudder run through him, a creepy little de ja vu, back in the showers of the Dortmund training complex, after he’d sprung an embarrassing hard-on in front of Emre and been followed into that steam, and… he coughed loudly and pulled a step forward ,away from that oddly gentle touch, and then glanced over his shoulder at him, caught the more intense expression on the hook-nosed face, the little spark of excitement in his beady eyes. Big rough ladies’ man Kyle Walker, leering at him and offering to… what the fuck? `Bend over on the bed,’ the Man City right-back told him. He hesitated, staring back at him, his own streetwise cockiness melting here and now in the hotel room, face to face with the heavyset older man and his own vulnerable nudity. He thought of Emre Can’s big hands on him, massaging at his legs, forcing him to unwind and loosen up, and then pushing him too far, bringing him to that embarrassing curving hardness, then… finishing things off. `You’re havin’ a laugh,’ the Camberwell youth said defiantly. `Try me,’ Walker said simply. In a mixture of embarrassed subservience and defiant rebellion, Jadon turned away and towards Kyle’s bed, climbing forward onto it, still completely naked. He pushed his hands forward into the springy bedding and pulled up his knees, until he was positioned on it on all fours, his body straight and composed, and his arse exposed behind him, and… Kyle’s hands on it, one on each cheek, squeezing them very gently. So this was DEFO a joke, he thought. Any second now one of them would laugh. What the hell, how far could Walker’s banter GO?! Jadon rested there, his lean brown body shivering a bit, and then… Very slowly, his soft cheeks were parted, and he felt the oddest tickling sensation run between them — not touch, just breath, blown softly down into the lightly haired space between them, super-clean from his showering, and now tickled and stimulated by a close warm sigh, uh… and then the feel of a face coming into that space… the rough dry scratch of short stubble brushing at either plump cheek, a big presence pushing against them, then… wet and firm, the tongue entering in, dabbing at the top of his crack and moving down a little. `Whoa,’ he said immediately, `mate… oh!’ Down it went, and coming forward, into that private canyon; his cheeks were prised further open and he felt the heavy wet stroke rove down and up and seem to fill his unexplored arse crack and make him tense up and shudder and stare wide-eyed forward at the headboard and neatly arranged pillows. And then, quite sharply, the feeling was gone, leaving just a cooling dampness between his cheeks. He heard Kyle’s throaty laugh, daren’t look at him, just saying on hands and knees for several moments. `Mate,’ grunted the Sheffield sportsman, `roll over onto your back, trust me.’ He couldn’t ignore the mersin escort bayan instructions now, not in this position, not with Kyle’s saliva cooling between his cheeks. His other cheeks burning hot with shame, he crawled forward a little and turned, catching sight of Kyle’s big body as he climbed onto the bed with him; he’d pulled off his tshirt too and exposed the hard dense muscles of his arms and torso, laced with more detailed tattooes than Jadon’s own developing sleeves. Quite firmly, his lower legs were gripped by Kyle’s hands, lifted and parted, so that he was sliding onto his back and pushing his head back into the pillows, watching in silent fascination as Kyle pressed his body down and lay on the bed up towards him, head between those thighs that Emre had massaged… It looked for a surreal moment like Walker was gonna nosh him off, go down on him, take his short but very thick semi in his mouth, but nah… he was scooping his hands under his thighs and lifting more, so that Jadon’s spine arched a bit and his butt was lifted, so… oh… he lay on his back and watched Kyle’s head dip low, saw the short dark trim of his receding hair, and then — ohhhh — felt his tongue make contact just below his fuzzy balls, and slide on… this time the tongue moved into his crack from the opposite end and it found his most intimate spot very quickly. He lay there, legs hoisted up, and felt the hot wet pushes in between his parting cheeks, dragging little surprised gasps from his pursed lips and tight frowning face. He grabbed his dick, couldn’t help himself; it had been getting harder and harder since Walker first squeezed his bum with that gentle tender interest. He held tightly to his young prick and stared right up at the plain beige of the ceiling, and felt every firm wet slide and prod of the man’s tongue, making a sluttish pussy of the space between his cheeks. Oh fuck. Since the first damp feel of Walker `rimming’ him had been so brief, he expected the same in this new prone position, but nah — the City man snuffled about below his privates while he pulled hesitantly on himself, unable to stop it. He heard the heavy raspy breaths between the slurping work, felt his arsehole twitch and tighten and shudder. Still, he wanked himself, because what else was there to do?! His dick was rock hard now, proper solid and veiny. He couldn’t stop grunting as he pulled on it, marvelling at the strange dirty intimacy of having Kyle lick him there — jesus, this was so wrong, wasn’t it? This was much worse than being tossed off by a Turk in the showers, right? Right or wrong, he knew he would cum soon. He told him so. Kyle pulled away, laughing, his back muscles rippling as he pushed down the bed and lifted aside a little; his lips and chin looked damp with his own saliva. The same saliva that tickled at his gooch and crack as he lay there, wanking furiously so that the veins in his dick and arm bulged, and then exploding cum out, angling his cock back this way so it all spurted and spilled against his soft abs, rather than daring to splash any of it towards Kyle’s arm where it held one of his thighs. He groaned and gurgled awkwardly in his moments of climax, hating being watched and seen in the throes of his orgasm, white spunk pooling about his belly button and streaking up his tummy. He held his dick once it was over and stared at Walker, mortified. The older man squeezed his thigh once and then moved off the bed out of Jadon’s intense line of vision for a moment. He stared across the room, a bit overcome with how quickly that had all happened — one minute he was alone in the shower, and next he was… `Come on, kid. It’s only fair.’ He realised that Kyle wasn’t moving off the bed to give him space. He was stood right by it, right by Jadon, looming over him there on his right; his muscular torso heaved and hovered and he’d pushed down those tight black trackies a little, and his undies with them. His hard cock was out, in his hand; like Jadon’s, it was inordinately thick, but a much more impressive length. Jadon stared at it then up at him. `Come on,’ he was told again, `don’t be like that, I just want ya to wank it…’ Jadon frowned, stared at it, curious about how similar their chunky pale brown dicks actually looked, except for about three inches. Could he really take hold of it? This was not a question Kyle was waiting to be answered — he grabbed him by the hand and pulled it around his hard-on, sighing. `Mate, just do me back,’ he grunted impatiently. `You know it’s only fair. Eh?’ Fair? Uh, maybe. He held onto it at an awkward angle and pulled forward a little bit then back, experimenting with the feel of it in his own hand, its girth and heat. Was it actually a bit thicker than his own one, actually? It FELT massive. He pulled some more on it, then shifted his arm and hand for a better grip, then looked uncertainly at the man’s face to see if he was doing it right. Kyle just nodded, grinned. He tugged on him, squeezing and holding it and trying not to whimper with confusion at this sudden turn in his last night of international duty, Kyle heaving sighs and moans and making some appreciative comments, `Oh aye, lad, that’s it, good kid, mmm…’ `You’ve never done that to me!!!’ was the first thing John Stones messaged him when he’d finished watching the video file on his Whatsapp, hunched over on the sofa alone with his missus asleep upstairs, jerking himself off in his pyjama bottoms. He’d peered closely at the low-definition footage and watched as first Kyle lay there and licked at the lad’s bottom until he spurted all over himself, and now this, his secret partner stood majestically at the side of the bed while the bewildered Dortmund player jerked on him and stared obediently up at him for approval and praise… so fucking hot. The view wasn’t perfect. It looked like Walker had just propped his phone up on an unsteady luggage pile at the wall, and not too close to the bed, so the clip was hardly detailed or totally clear, but still… their bodies, their equipment, their interaction. And the moans and mutterings. John came almost simultaneously with his on-screen hunk, spilling his own seed inside the leg of his pyjamas, while he saw Kyle unload over Jadon’s chest and tummy. The lights of the hotel bedroom caught their fluids and made glinting streaking trails over Sancho’s caramel skin. Recovering from his own orgasm, Stones panted for breath and watched the final moments of the secret recording: Jadon climbing off the bed, his face a little pale, stammering something about `that Turkish pervert’ and `why is everyone always wanting to touch him’. But Kyle was lifting up one of the white towels and dabbing at his tummy and chest to clean off their jizz, something quite tender and caring in his treatment of the confused 20-year-old. John didn’t feel envious of that, he was quite pleased to see his brutish best mate showing some softness towards this lad he was leading astray on the other side of Europe. The clip ended with Jadon drifting into his own bed and Kyle, cock swinging, hopping closer to the cam then reaching for it and secretively hitting `stop’. John considered watching it again but decided to save it for the morning; he would need to delete it after that, he supposed, it was too incendiary and risqué. `You’ve never done that to me!!!’ he texted Kyle immediately, still short of breath and aware of his oozing cum down his inner thigh. `Just u wait til I gt home lol’ `You fuckin tease!!11!!1′ He’d thought Kyle was joking when their little late-night texting session turned to some idle discussion of wunderkind Jadon Sancho and whether or not he was as fuckable as Raheem Sterling. John, who had been teasing and chiding Kyle for daring to bone Sterling without him on the night of the Iceland game, sure that the comments on how `curious’ and `game’ Jadon seemed were just little barbs to wind him up and provoke his jealousy for Kyle’s amusement. But now he’d seen with his own eyes as Walker talked Sancho into bending over and giving him a taste… wow. Rimming. He bit his lip and longed for the next training session where he would be reunited with Kyle, frustrated by his ten-day absence in the England defence. Jadon watched them go from the hotel room window, a thick hoody pulled on over his upper body and hugged about his chest, a pair of thin blue footy shorts dragged up over his legs and privates as he stood there, spying on the early morning departure of the bulk of the England squad in the hotel forecourt. One by one, tracksuited English footballers were guided onto a coach taking them to Copenhagen’s airport. On they went, Rice and Mount giggling over something, Grealish with that confident swagger in his step at having finally fulfilled an ambition, Dier seeming to march on with as much anger as he’d left the pitch last night. There they all were, slow thoughtful captain Kane, and that shifty newcomer Coady. The three tall goalkeepers, deep in heated conversation. The manager himself, looking less formal in his sweats, seeming relaxed. Jadon watched them get aboard, and the doors close. He had at least an extra hour in the room before he needed to go and check out and catch his own taxi to a different terminal and his shorter flight into Germain territory. He left the window and stared back about the double room, the tangled unmade white sheets of Kyle’s bed, the bed where… where he’d… where they’d… Fuck. Sancho went into the bathroom and stared himself down in the mirror, questioning where his usual boisterous confidence had gone. He was just in shock, that was all. What was he more shocked at? That he’d tried something so taboo, or how good it had felt? Or at his willingness to, erm, return the favour and… wank a bloke off. He pictured the big defender’s cum splashing down on his nipples and chest, close to his neck and chin, smelling so strong too. It didn’t disgust him, he realised. But this in turn brought a fresh wave of confused guilt. Why do these blokes keep wanting to push your boundaries? Asking this of his own reflection made the beginnings of a smirk form on his mouth. Well, he told his reflection, you are hot shit. Talented, young, handsome, fresh. Hah. His grin widened and he admired the fresh youthfulness of the 20-year-old winger who smirked and leered back at him in the mirror. One of England’s most promising talents, and one of so few to make any go of a foreign career so far. Debuted on the international stage long before most of his overrated contemporaries, and much less plagued by trouble and controversy than several of them… hah, he was GOING PLACES. He grinned at himself and allowed himself to enjoy, for a moment, the prospect of his attractiveness to men as well as women, and then questioned that phrase. `Going places’. Yeah, he definitely was. The question that just needed answering, by a bunch of overpaid negotiators and legal representatives, was where was he actually going? Would Man Utd cough up and sign him, or did his future lie… elsewhere?

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