Voyeur Sex


Subject: Premiership Lads part 191: The Man of the Match Part 191: The Man of the Match The 6’1 defensive midfielder felt his chest swell with immediate pride when he saw it go in: Kieran Trippier with the assist, and his boy Mason Mount getting the goal. Instantly, Declan Rice punched the air and screamed out his approval, sweeping forward with the general movement of the other players, excited to see and congratulate the goofy-grinned attacking player who had just put England 2-0 up over this Sunday evening’s hot competition. Rice’s long powerful legs took him rapidly over the Wembley grass and towards the Chelsea player who was returning from the opposition goal with his arms stretched upwards, yelping excitedly to the assembling mass of England players who were rushing to clasp him in triumphant hugs and embraces. Declan swung quickly at him, nearing the Porstmouth-born sportsman just as he finished a quick approving half-embrace with the game’s captain, Liverpool ace Jordan Henderson — a guy who seemed to have really let loose and relaxed this weekend, in Declan’s opinion, after seeming so oddly withdrawn and irritable in the early days of the training camp out in Surrey. Hendo had barely let go of Mount than Rice was throwing a long arm about him and clutching him side-on, then the other arm, cuddling at the tight-muscled attacking midfielder before Jordan had even really let go of him. The grin on Declan’s own face was one of immense pride in the most special boy in his life, lofted on the shoulders of his national pride in the team and what felt like a well-earned possible win. But no sooner had he grabbed at Mason — and given a fractional neurotic thought to the fact that the other 21-year-old wasn’t pulling away from Hendo and returning the hug as much as he would instinctively like — than he was releasing his sweaty clasp and pulling away himself, remembering the cameras and the watching eyes of the squad and opposition and coaches and everyone… even with the gaping towers of the empty stands, this moment and location felt so exposed and visible to the eyes of the world, and Declan knew he had to pull away from Mason before the bromance looked like what it really was. It reminded him, surreally, of moments back in the long slow weeks of lockdown, when his mum or sister would come into a different room of the family home, and he’d slip an arm away from the other lad’s side or lower back, releasing gentle hugs as they washed up in the kitchen or dawdled in the hallway coming in or out of the home. Oh, for the freedom of their Old Town apartment in Mykonos, he thought — to be so free and together and unwatched all the time. And with these heavy thoughts weighing on his goal buzz, Rice pulled away, clapping his large hands together and bouncing sideways over the grass to extricate himself from the tangle of manly hugs and holds that exploded around the goal-scoring youngster, his best friend and so much more. Panting, the tall young footballer lurched a few more paces away and clapped his hands repeatedly, unable for a moment to take his eyes away from the celebrated young Chelsea midfielder; he couldn’t help but notice the way that the other players grabbed at his lad, although he knew this was ridiculous. The tactile world of men’s team sports, all banter and slaps and audacious hugging that stereotypical masculinity could not tolerate beyond the sporting arena… but how was he supposed to see a procession of big handsome buggers grab at the arms and torso and even arse of his precious Mason and not feel a stir of that old insecurity and resentment…? First Trippier, short and stocky and aggressive-looking, then pretty boy Calvert-Lewin, grabbing him from front and back and even planting earnest kisses against his head; then it was big Harry Maguire, that thuggish tower of a man, sliding one strong arm about him and cradling his grinning head against the sturdy sweat-warm bedding of his chest muscles. It took lot of self-will and professionalism for Rice to pull his eyes away and jog from the scene, shaking his gangly body of pumped muscle and readying himself for play to resume, the game being barely two-thirds complete and the fight far from over. And even then he looked over his shoulder and watched as that handsome brute Dier grabbed Mount in a brief sideways hug, scrunching at his sweaty brown hair, then passing him into the glad grasping biceps of Walker and a quicker more delicate hold from Alexander-Arnold. It wasn’t that he mistrusted Mason, not at all, though he did sometimes fear for his bubbly naivety and untouchable goodwill. It was others that he found it hard to trust, knowing as he now did how many hot-blooded football aces could be swayed by a taste of forbidden fruit. He’d once woken in a cold sweat from a nightmare where he’d watched Jack Wilshere and some of his other West Ham teammates perform a lurid and stagey gang-bang of Mason Mount in his West London flat, and he’d been unable to explain to his boyfriend for days that followed why he couldn’t relax or quite look him in the eye. It was unreasonable, he knew that, and totally unfair, but… he just couldn’t help it. Eyes to the ground, Rice ran backwards into his own quadrant and position, shaking off the presumptuous mood of celebration and fixing his thoughts on holding a strong defensive line against further Belgian attacks. Kevin De Bruyne was on the pitch after all, so nobody could afford to let their attention lapse for even a moment. So he needed to stop worrying about Mason and the innocuous attentions of all their England teammates, and just get his mind back in the action…! Harry Maguire knew he’d held onto the goal-scoring twink for a moment too long, but it had felt good to wrap one powerful arm about him and just plant a soft kiss in the crown of his short ruffled hair, riled and excited as he was by the tough defensive battles of the match on the back line. Before making long strides back that way he took an appreciative look at the handsome young Chelsea lad and wondered why Mount had never really caught his eye before. There was definitely a certain something about him, wasn’t there? Harry could have sworn that last time he looked at the 21-year-old he was just a big-nosed goofy kid of a player, too high-pitched and excitable to be taken seriously or looked at twice. Now he seemed to fill out his England shirt surprisingly well, beginning to bulk out despite his petite 5ft10 form. And in particular there was an attractive curved bubble to his rear every time he burst into one of his rapid sprints, which was every other minute from a player so young and spunky. The somewhat disgraced Manchester United grinned dismissively at his own lusty thoughts, knowing he shouldn’t even let it enter his head when they were engaged in such a tight battle with a top European squad like this. But the more tense the game, the more his big cock and balls swung and bounced energetically in his briefs and shorts and made him really feel like he would need a post-match fuck to find relief. Plus, he was down here in the fuckin’ south surrounded by softies and miles from the bubble butt he most wanted to fuck, hadn’t even seen Luke properly in about two weeks now, between the busy season and their respective home commitments. He was away from his wife and his male lover and blood pumped through his towering 6ft4 physique as he re-focused on the match and found his position in the squad once more, limbering up his arms and shoulders and readying for the next attacking movement from the Belgians. For now, he thought, he needed to be Big Blockhead, a powerhouse in the England defence like he’d been in the last big tournament, even if his United performances of late hadn’t quite met that standard; for now, he needed to fight for his country and keep them in the Nations League. For now… But later, the big defender thought with a sensual sneer, maybe later he would need to seek out that sexy innocent twunk of a midfielder and investigate whether his arse was as plump and delicious as it looked in his tight blue shorts, up close and personal. He licked his lips slowly and allowed himself a discreet tug and rearrange of his drooping privates in his own shorts, prowling slowly sideways across the defensive region and keeping his eyes on the action at the far end of the pitch. Another Harry couldn’t help but give a thoughtful glance towards the team’s young goal-scorer too, loping onto the pitch in substitution for a side-lined DCL. Kane jogged out into the attacking line of the national team but spared an appreciative look at Mount for a moment, having been unable to stop himself watching the bouncy youngster as he moved around the pitch before and after his impressive lead-taking goal. Obviously, that had been in between letting his eyes regretfully track the powerful movement of Eric Dier in the midfield, noting that at least his treasured ex seemed more cheerful and himself this week than he had at any point earlier in the year. Kane did his best not to speculate on the reasons for that, too consumed in guilt and regret to wonder what might be going on in the tough defensive midfielder’s private life to make him such an extrovert joker and morale-booster in all of the training sessions this past week, rather than sullen and reserved as he had seemed back at Spurs or even on the Iceland trip before their blow-up. Kane felt so intensely guilty about that whole sordid affair that he hadn’t even allowed himself to once glance down the substitute bench to Conor Coady, who still beamed proudly after his contribution to the Wales game midweek. Harry was not worried by the cold shoulder the rugged Wolves captain had given him since being reunited at Pennyhill Park, he could totally understand that the Scouser saw what had passed between them as entirely transactional! But he did dread giving him longing or reminiscent looks and being caught at it by Eric, who part of him dared to hope might mellow and forgive as time passed. Perhaps that was why Kane had found himself checking out Mount so regularly, since the 21-year-old was hardly his `type’, shorter and slighter than what he was beginning to realise attracted him to same-sex fun, or at least as he knew it. But there was definitely something prominent bouncing around in the front of those blue shorts and actually, when you looked at him, the chest and upper arms of Chelsea’s young star were filling out with surprising muscle tone now that he was entering his 20s and stepping up as a senior contender. So he couldn’t help but give him a closer look on the way past as he came on to replace Calvert-Lewin and take up his rightful place as key striker in the final quarter of the match; grabbing Mount unnecessarily by the shoulder for a moment and daring to wonder if, later on, he might congratulate him with more than a mumbled sentiment, maybe over a quiet drink at the hotel, and maybe he could thank him with his own lips in another way, if he got really really lucky… There came Kane, Dier thought briefly, suppressing the tremor of social awkwardness as that tall handsome twat came into sight, joining the ranks for the last twenty minutes or so. Professionalism over heartache, Eric tried to be glad, focused on the hope that his legendary teammate could smash in a 3rd goal and really consolidate the win — better to think of that than to look balefully at the bench and picture the scene he had walked in on between Harry and Conor on the last international break, crushing his hopes in that Icelandic harbour. Things were moving on anyway, he told himself, quickly distracted from the presence of the heartbreaker by a flurry of movement mersin escort from some of the Belgium players heading his way, and throwing his weighty presence in its way to protect England’s lead; he muscled the ball away from the Belgian and booted it safely away towards the forwards of the English lineup, panting and recovering and squaring up the pissed-off opposition player before he could dare make up some insult or insinuation that Dier had gone too far or tugged on his shirt. The sturdy England stalwart moved quickly away to get into a clearer position, able to keep his sharp eyes on the action whilst still letting his brain wander a little to the distractions that made it so much easier to cope with being so close to Harry Kane day after day after long fucking day. It’s not as if Ross was particularly communicative, the opposite really, but his sporadic and sparse text messages popped into the day with an unexpected charm — usually barbed jokes about the squad that showed the Scouse man’s resentment at being left out and training alone in Birmingham. Eric sparred with this more standard banter, jokily praising minor young squad members who had replaced Barkley in Southgate’s plans this year, teasing him with claims about who he expected to feature large in next summer’s Euros. That stuff was… basic, naff, standard. But then there would be slips of detail or closeness in the Villa lad’s messaging that Eric couldn’t help but find it oddly affecting and endearing — little bursts of annoyance at how tough it was to find a good rental property in the right patch of Birmingham, or scathing criticisms of Birmingham itself, little revelations that Ross perhaps missed Liverpool a lot more than he did London; tiny cheeky hints of interest when Eric would joke about visiting to help him with this search as soon as he was finished being the cornerstone of the national football team. It was enough to give Dier the giggles now and then, and he often thought about that drunken phone call last weekend, and when he did, his balls tingled. Not that there weren’t male distractions here at Wembley, the Spurs and England midfielder reminded himself, preparing to launch in the direction of a fresh movement from the opposition then pulling heavily back as one of said cute fuckers swept in and dealt with it instead — it was impressive how a daintier player like Mason (dainty compared to 6ft2 Eric anyway) could tackle so well for his build and steal the ball deftly from under the feet of celebrated Belgium stars. Yeah Eric, he laughed at himself, you’re admiring his talent here, and not that cute little arse… The 26-year-old grinned foolishly to himself, high-fiving the Chelsea lad and complimenting his tackle, enjoying the unnoticed innuendo of his chosen comment before running on to follow the action as it darted back and forth in the midfield. Ah, what a cute bastard Mason was, he thought idly, running parallel with him and mingling his physical attraction with the quality goal he’d witnessed from him earlier on in the game. For all his distraction with a certain rugged Liverpudlian, Eric couldn’t help eyeing up his young teammate for a moment and fantasising about how he might congratulate him later on tonight if the universe gave him a chance… god, how long had it been since he’d gotten to plough a hot lad properly, after his saintly summer of reflection and recovery…? Jadon Sancho held in his twinging resentment to be subbed on at this pointlessly late minute in proceedings, nodding respectfully at the gaffer and tugging down his sweatpants to reveal his readied England shorts as he jogged on the spots and prepared for the handover. The 20-year-old Londoner swung his arms in windmills and cricked his neck, tugging off a training top from over his fresh England shirt, now fully ready to spring on into action when Southgate’s chosen tired player left the fray to be replaced. Sancho was enjoying being here, though his homecoming for the international break had been soured by one daft birthday party last weekend, that had exceeded the pandemic restrictions by one or two guests, and landed him in hot bother with his people here AND back in Germany; it had left him skulking on the edges of the footy action here like a scolded child, and being subbed on at the 89th minute of this winning match was hardly going to do anything about that! Still, it had been a great match to watch and he was intensely proud of his countrymen. Ah, especially this one: he saw who he was to replace in the stoppage time of the match as England tightly defended their 2-1 lead. He grinned at the advancing but weary stride of speedy Mason Mount, Southgate and the other coaches applauding as the scorer of tonight’s second goal game hurrying off to rest his short legs, chest visibly heaving in his tight white shirt behind the logos of the country. Jadon braced himself and reached up to grab at Mason’s hand in a laddish handshake that briefly bumped their firm chests and made him appreciate how ripped the lithe young lad really was, less slight and flimsy than he looked when he was haring about the pitch. Jadon paused and glanced at him thoughtfully as he grinned at him and bustled by over the line, freeing Sancho to swarm in and take up his place for what little remained of the clash. Heh, pretty cute for a little white boy, Sancho thought cheekily, his thick young legs bursting into movement and carrying him away onto the pitch, sparing just a brief glance back at Mount as he was hugged and congratulated by their serious-faced manager. Cute, he laughed, thinking of his own little mental slip there — was he meant to find other lads CUTE? Maybe not, but his mind had been opened a little bit lately, and he wasn’t sure if he should be as uptight and panicked about that close encounter with a teammate back at Dortmund in early summer; after all, he kept thinking, Kyle Walker was such a bruiser alpha male, and the stuff he’d shown him that night back in Denmark, goading him into sitting forward on the bed and letting the older bloke… the 20-year-old player shuddered with reminiscent thrill and jogged into place, looking once more at sweaty Mason on the sidelines, still all grins and heat flushes and grabbing hands with the gaffer. Heh, wonder if that cute little geek has ever done anything that naughty, Jadon wondered idly, and the dirty little question came back to him again: if a proper man’s man like Walker could confidently lick a lad’s arse like he had that night, then what was stopping him…? For a second, the plump little bubble of Mount’s arse caught his attention in its frame of navy blue, then someone shouted his surname and he was called into the fray, joining his teammates in protecting the 2-1 lead. It was in the changing rooms after the game that Trent Alexander-Arnold most keenly felt the absence of his two close Liverpool buddies; there was always something particularly exciting about getting changed in between Ox and Robbo, knowing how many times he’d been more literally in between them in playful contrived sharing scenarios. Of course, he knew that he was the gooseberry, the third wheel to the cute thing that had developed between Alex and Andy, but he did feel so incredibly safe and unjudged in his private escapades with the two older champions. At 22, Trent was still far too new to the England squad for the novelty of representing his country to have faded, he’d been buzzing with it from the moment he and Jordan shared the road trip down from Liverpool a week ago. But he was a little surprised and embarrassed to find how much less at home he was here with England’s best than in the midst of his boyhood club. Country before club, he always heard other players say, but he wasn’t actually sure. Liverpool was everything to him. Still, the young Scouse defender thought, wriggling out of his shoulder-hugging white England shirt in the busy Home dressing rooms of Wembley Stadium, it’s not as if there weren’t other men to idly ogle here, without Oxlade’s burly physique in their midst, and with scruffy sexy Robertson playing for his own nation north of the wall. Right now he was positioned between the man-mountain of Harry Maguire — long muscular torso rippling and gleaming as he fumbled in his toilet bag for soap, bent forward so his tangled shorts pulled down and exposed some of the sweaty white briefs over his broad backside — and on the other side of him, Eric Dier, whistling cheerfully to himself as he stood there in just tight bulging blue lycra under-shorts that twanged against the thickness of his waist and thighs. For all his experimenting with those few distinct members of the Liverpool line-up, Trent was still figuring out what his interest or attraction was to the male form, having been so surprisingly awoken to it on the night of his club’s Premiership title claim. Was he actually into guys, or just getting carried away by the excitement of others around him…? The two bigger lads on his left and right swept away in a flash of nudity (wow, what the fuck were those two carrying down there?) and flaps of white towelling, leaving him stood alone in a space with his shirt off and his shorts needing to come down next, but staring across the changing room to the lad opposite him, another bright young graduate of England’s Under 21s squad. Mason Mount was down to skimpy black briefs there, his back incredibly toned and his legs thicker and stronger than expected, turned with that dorky grin to laugh along at the storytelling of a big tall Harry Kane and, beyond him, cackling Jordan Pickford. Trent found that he had no interest in the two older members of the England football elite, but saw something quite enticing in the bared physique of the 21-year-old right in front of him, reminding him of how good a man’s arse could feel in front of him — god, where was Alex’s big muscular arse when you wanted to grab summat tasty?! — and questioning for the hundredth time why he’d never noticed or addressed these urges earlier in his youth, despite being surrounded by athletic men day in day out! Well, what did any of it matter? The labels, the shame, the uncertainty… or the wasted years of clinging to the narrow market of just shagging Liver birds, when he was surrounded by lithe sports lads and their toned muscle. He was trying stuff out and making up for lost time, and… huh, wouldn’t it be great fucking fun to try stuff out on THAT lad in particular…? In the showers, Kyle took his time, rolling his thick neck and splashing his close-shaven head beneath the blast of the water, letting it cascade onto his muscular shoulders and send thin rivers of soapy bubbles down the dense tattooed muscles of his chest and arms. It was at least partly a long-held exhibitionism that made the Sheffield-born defender go so slowly in the footy showers, always opting for a prominent spot in the centre of a row so that the maximum number of lads could compare themselves physically to his dense body and generous equipment. Long before he’d dabbled naughtily in the male body — in John Stones’ body, let’s be specific — he’d enjoyed the notion of being watched and envied, had paraded his fit body through the changing rooms of every team he played for, swaggering along and daring anyone to glance too long at his swinging meat and low-hanging cum-filled balls. But now, having really discovered this new side to his overactive sexuality, the City right-back enjoyed it even more, finding something dangerous and provocative in breaking the shy norms of the British reserve and really happily flopping his bare body about in the huddled steam of the showers and out there in the complicated escort mersin etiquette of the lockerroom. Perhaps he was always on the lookout for new adventures, having strayed from his bestie in his dabbling with Foden and Sterling and even one of the lads here — the playful bully in him smirked every time he and Jack Grealish came close to each other in training, and he knew he ought to apologise to the handsome Villa coach for the way he’d dominated him back then, but he was so sure the sluttish Brummie stud had enjoyed it. He’d thought about dipping his toe in that pool again, but perhaps it had been very of its moment, him riding high on a City win, and Grealish melting like a pussy; Jack seemed a different kinda lad now, in Kyle’s eyes, more assertive and sure of himself now he’d finally been called to the England line-up. Nah, it wasn’t Jack the Lad catching the rough 30-year-old’s eye right now in the swirling steam of the shower, it was another young stud who was showering in a much more shy and private fashion in the corner, rubbing shampoo out of his eyes in a childish routine and angling his body away from the communal eyes of the shower block. Walker played idly with his cock and balls under the pretence of washing them, happy to let his dick grow and stretch a little as long as it didn’t become too exposing hard — he was self-appointed club joker even here on the England team, but he wasn’t sure he could tolerate the banter of blokes like Dier or Maguire, Trippier or Henderson, if he sprung an `accidental’ hard-on in front of everyone and ended up on some young cunt like Rice’s Snapchat. But soon the intended target of his sloppy self-indulgent strokes came to be, and Mason turned this way in the middle of rinsing off his slim pale physique, and it was obvious that for a second his wandering eyes caught sight of what Walker was advertising between his inked thighs. Mason’s dark eyes locked onto a point somewhere low down his physique, and Kyle leered, running both palms down the soapy cliff face of his pectorals, watching the lad’s eyes bulge and his face tighten up in an attentive expression for a precious moment of interest, then flash upwards, their gazes meeting for a moment. Kyle grinned, trying to be intimidating but inviting all at once; the 21-year-old might already have been red-cheeked from the heat of the shower, or maybe he was blushing in mortification, but he was instantly hurrying from his corner and grabbing for a towel, seemingly quite alarmed by what Walker was carrying down below. Even once Mount had disappeared from the steam, Kyle grinned arrogantly to himself and elbowed the shower into a fresh blast of hot water down his aching back, excited by the way Mason had visibly reacted to his endowment and its casual flopping. Yep, he told himself, you can have any pussy lad here you want, mmm… `Let me get you this,’ he said, resting both elbows on the surface of the hotel bar, blinking a little sleepily across at his young teammate, and gesturing a little boldly at the barman to indicate he would cover whatever the other England player was ordering. Jack Grealish was already feeling quite drunk, but doing his best to suppress it and focus on looking respectable, in no mood to have his second England outing tarnished by an image of being a boozy Brummie who took it too far on the night of any big win. `Ah, you sure?’ Mason Mount said to him, a metre away down the wooden bartop. `Sure — a free drink for our goal king and Man of the Match!’ Grealish slurred, sliding a bit further down the bar towards him and gently tapping his arm with his elbow, then slurping from the remains of the pint glass in front of him and awaiting his own top-up alongside whatever this cute bell-end had ordered for himself. `Have I congratulated you yet on a stellar fuckin’ performance, Mase…?’ `Er, only five times,’ the other young bloke told him with a polite chuckle. Jack had been throwing back the beers ever since their belated return to the hotel by coach, happy that Southgate had taken an early night in an informal consent to the lads getting a little bit tipsy for the first time since assembling here a week ago. In all honesty, he’d been sneaking a few cans into his room too, trusting Conor Coady to say nowt, explaining to him that he just needed a few measures of vodka to help him sleep sometimes. God, he must think I’m a right freak…! But the booze took the edge of the bitter thoughts nagging at the edge of Jack’s consciousness, centred around a figure he knew was standing somewhere at the far side of the hotel bar right now, looking cool as hell with his hair slicked back and his handsome features glued to whatever boring conversation he was forcing with anyone rather than even ACKNOWLEDGE Grealish being in the room… `You okay there, Jacko?’ Mount enquired quietly. `Hmm? Yeah, sweet as, just lovin’ life! Fuckin’ great being here for England, innit…’ `Yeah, yeah. Sure is. But you’re okay, yeh…?’ `What? Why wouldn’t I be? Ah, here’s the drinks…’ Grealish, concentrating heavily on his poor performance of sobriety, dragged the pint glass his way and pushed Mason’s two bottles towards him, almost spilling them forward against his tightly buttoned pale blue oxford shirt, but catching them just in time. He gurned apologetically at him and laughed heartily. `Two beers, you trying to invite me back to your room?’ he slurred at Mount, and it occurred to him properly how nice a prospect that might be; he of course was one of few guys privy to the knowledge of how queer the Chelsea lad actually was, having encountered his fun first-hand way back in Dubai, and become more clearly aware of his relationship via Mykonos and a certain new Chelsea transfer man. And he was a cute bastard, wasn’t he? Jack couldn’t stop thinking guiltily about how incapacitated he’d been at Villa Park last weekend, how unable to act on his lust, stopping short of the act once he felt Barkley’s hard wet tip press between his bulbous cheeks — but maybe if he was the top, if he was the one taking ownership, maybe it would be easier to throw his cock around then and actually get some relief…? He leaned a little closer and squinted at the sharp handsome features of Mason’s long cute face, the fluffy texture of his dried hair and arched, puzzled brows. `You sure you’re okay?’ he heard him demand a little more worriedly. `Fuckin’ ace,’ he claimed. `Just wait here a minute while I go take a piss. And then maybe you and me go back to my room and drink those beers away from all these dick-heads? Eh? Eh? What you say mate? Eh? Wait here, wait here…’ `What was he saying? How is he? He looks a mess.’ Mason Mount passed one of the Peroni bottles to his newest close friend, offering him a sadly sympathetic smile and glancing across the room to the spot at the bar where he’d had his order interrupted by the inebriated lurching advances of the Villa captain; when Jack had drifted off to the loos, too drunk to remember to tap his card on the payment machine, he’d had to buy his pint as well as the round for he and Ben, and now he could see the pained expression on his Chelsea teammate’s face as the pair of them settled back against the wood-panelled wall in this quiet corner of the busy bar, thronged with their celebrating squad tonight. `He’s just a bit worse for wear,’ the 21-year-old told his confidant quietly, eyeing his twitching expression, all tight-grinning enjoyment but for the flickering anxiety of his bright eyes. `You should go find him, check on him?’ he added in a suggestive tone. He saw more tension and flickering in Chilwell’s face, still looking out across the room as if waiting for Grealish to return. Then Ben shook his head gently. `When he’s like that?’ the 23-year-old murmured. `Hardly worth it. I’ll get a right earful.’ Mason sighed concernedly, looking from his friend’s sharp-jawed handsome features to the busy celebrations of the room, wondering if Jack was vomiting or passed out in the toilets by now, or just accosting another member of the England team to tell them how amazing and incredible their match performance had been this evening, even if they never actually left the subs bench. `You have to talk to him at some point,’ Mount told Chilwell, party to the up-and-down dramas of the parallel footy relationship, having witnessed a downturn in Bulging Ben’s mood ever since last weekend and the unspecified spat that had taken place over the phone. Even though he’d known of that, he’d still been shocked by the way Jack and Ben seemed to avoid one another in the hotel and the training ground, yet to be united by Southgate’s squad formations; though he didn’t exactly know what the pair of football aces had fallen out over, he struggled to believe it was worth all this pettiness and sniping. `Maybe,’ Chilly murmured beside him, a real sadness falling over his very English features. `Ben,’ he urged gently, and just got an irritable grunt by way of response. He looked about the room himself, not to check on heavy-boozing Grealish, but in search for another slightly `off’ member of the England clique — where had Rice actually got to, he’d barely caught sight of them since they piled off the coaches and into here…? Sure, they’d agreed not to overdo the public bromance these days, but everyone knew they were best mates, they could risk a beer together at a victory party like this…! `You seen Dec at all?’ he asked, thinking aloud, sipping his Peroni. `I mean, it’s not as if HE’S made the effort,’ Chilwell was muttering, `and he’s had ALL WEEK, so…’ Mason glanced at him with a mixture of sympathy and impatience, realising that his own voice was tangential to the other lad’s internal conflict. He nodded once, bumped his bottle and fist against Ben’s, and left him to his thoughts, needing to find Declan to reassure himself that nothing was wrong with the other guy. He knew that he wasn’t really abandoning Chilwell, it being so busy here and the handsome Leicester-Chelsea transfer having so many good connections amongst the gathered men. This left Mason to search quietly and discreetly through the assembly, everyone finally too tipsy and self-involved to throw praise at him for his goal or his efforts or his Man of the Match trophy. When there was no sign of Declan anywhere in the bar, he made his way out into the light pattering rain of the hotel grounds, checking for any sign of the tall West Ham stud, then back indoors and across the foyer to some stairs that led up to the wing where their shared room lay. It was odd to imagine Declan skulking back to their room early without saying anything, but it was possible. Mount meandered up stairs and along a corridor and unlocked his way into their small well-furnished suite, finding Rice sitting alone with a single dull lamp on, legs crossed and body rested against a pile of cushion, staring dourly into the pale blue glow of his phone screen and barely reacting at the noise of the door or footsteps on the carpet. After a moment he glanced up, an odd expression on his face, and Mason took a long quiet glug of beer from his bottle. `Hey,’ he called. `Hey,’ came Declan’s slightly distant voice. `Bar get too much for ya…?’ `Er, yeah. Something like that. You stay up though if it’s a good vibe, I just need an early one.’ `You got a headache or something?’ `Yeh, yeh.’ `Right. You wanna be alone?’ `Mmm.’ `Right.’ Mason stood there, watching as Declan remained in his loose lounging position, eyes fixed on his smartphone in a dazed, unseeing kind of way, thumbs barely moving. The 21-year-old Portsmouth lad let out another gentle sigh and he put his beer down on the dresser beside him with mersin escort bayan a soft glassy clink, then he turned back to quietly put the extra lock on the door, guaranteeing their comfortable privacy before advancing slowly on the double bed they’d shared every night. `What?’ mumbled Declan in that same moody, far-off voice, as Mason clambered onto the bed and pushed at one of his shins a little through the denims. Mason simply chuckeld his response, squeezed at some muscular thigh through those close-fit jeans, and crawled up fully onto the bed, resting on his knees; he leaned in, closed his hand about the telephone, and prised it from Dec’s mitts. There came a little frustrated sigh from the West Ham defender and his eyes flitted stormily beneath his craggy brows. Mason took it firmly in his hand and tossed it across the room to the other bed, completely unused by him. The two 21-year-old stared at each other, one sat awkwardly back against the stacked pillows and the other remaining on his knees, stroking him by the thigh. Mason smiled encouragingly. `What’s up, Ricecakes?’ he asked insistently, pawing a little at the buttoned up front of his oxford shirt with his free hand, and trying to force a smile from Declan’s twisted frown. `Eh? What’s eating ya…?’ `Just surprised you came up here,’ Rice murmured with a gruff touchiness. `Oh, why’s that?’ Mount asked him. A soft grunt. `Well, you could have ended up anywhere,’ he said resentfully. `Is that so?’ the young England star asked quietly, edging forward on his knees until he was close beside his roommate, hovering by him with their limbs shifting closer and their faces drawing near. `Tell me you ain’t noticed half the blokes here eyeing you up today,’ he was told sourly. `Are you really suggesting half the England men’s football team are bi-curious?’ he retorted playfully, not denying his own apparent attractiveness in the excitement of the day; he felt a little silly thrill at Declan’s outlandish and unlikely claim, an icing on the Man of the Match cake. `Everyone looking you up an down,’ Declan muttered, not moving away but holding himself still and reserved against the bedding, not reacting to the slow drag and shuffle of Mason’s body over his. `I can’t believe you didn’t end up in some other drunk prick’s bedroom for a bit before slinking back here, or-` Mason cut him off, pressing one finger over his lips, hovering over him, shaking his head gently. `How many times do we have to go through this?’ he asked softly, without annoyance. `How many times do I have to tell you I’m all yours, Declan Rice?’ And then without waiting for any sulky answer to these rhetorical questions, he placed one hand firmly on the bulge in the bigger guy’s tight blue jeans, and leaned in to kiss him first on the forehead, then the bridge of his nose, then thirdly his full lips. There was a brief sullen resistance and then their mouths inevitably interlocked in a slow, quiet snog. `Not my fault ever seedy fucker in the Prem wants you,’ Dec muttered in a voice so petty that the hints of an embarrassed smile showed on his lips and about his eyes, and Mason immediately giggled and kissed him again, and pulled urgently at his dark grey tshirt, tugging him into an upright seated position then dragging the garment up and off his torso and around his head, exposing the muscles of his chest. `Not my fault none of them is half as fucking gorgeous as you?’ Mason returned playfully, sinking his head to kiss his boyfriend’s left nipple with the same slow assertiveness. `Not my fault none of them make my tight hole twitch like the sight of you here right now?’ He dragged his body forward until the arse of his soft chinos rode over the crotch of Declan’s jeans, straddling him so his buttocks could rose and stroke him through the material, while holding both arms about his shoulders and pressing mouth to mouth once more, snogging more fully and for longer. Quickly, all pretence of sulk and distance was being dropped as the 6ft2 Kingston lad responded to the unsubtle advances: gripping eagerly to the lad in his lap, kissing roughly at the front and side of his neck, hands pawing roughly down the back of his shirt and then coming to the front for some hasty unbuttoning. The two of them shirtless, crotches rubbing and hands exploring, mouths panting wordlessly, the conversation of jealousy and teasing boxed away. Mason held onto his rare control of the dynamic, rising up higher on his knees and undoing the buttoned front of his loose chinos, pulling out his rising hard-on and guiding it into Dec’s appreciative mouth, pushing it in there with the trembling pleasure that was still partly surprise at this tall rugged lad daring to tenderly mouth his cock at all. He remained on his knees while his boyfriend stooped into his crotch and sucked very gently on him, reaching round to rub his arse through his trousers. Mason stroked his spiked hair and the sides of his long head and down his neck and shoulders, pleased with the strength and comfort of his presence. He let this continue for a while before crawling backwards and wriggling away so he could begin to push the trousers down and away. Dec’s strong hands followed to help, dragging the legs over his knees with a pleasing rush of exploration; Mason in turn reached for the belt of the other lad’s jeans and their undressing become a hurried fumbled collaboration until he was on his back with Rice on top of them, stripped to socks and undies, kissing and grinding and moaning softly against each other’s lips. `I’m sorry,’ Declan mumbled close to his hear in a pause between kisses. `I know I’m a pain, it’s… I don’t mean to be so… I’m not possessive, really I’m not, just…’ `No,’ Mason murmured sincerely, kissing him on the strong blocky corner of his jawline. `You just don’t have any clue how fucking sexy and amazing you are, Declan, that’s all.’ He ran a thumb along the lad’s bottom lip and kissed him higher on the cheekbone. `But that’s fine, because I could spend every night and day happily convincing you, okay…?’ `Let me fuck you,’ came the other young stud’s breathy demand. `I thought you’d never ask.’ And he let Declan take over then, the delightful status quo of their sexual dynamic; his own body supple and responsive as his boxer shorts were pulled fully clear and his cock stroked in one hand while Dec pushed fingers below his balls and into his crack to tickle his hole… strong biting kisses on his neck and cheeks, Dec’s hands pinning his arms back to the bedding, mmm…. Of all the positions and playfulness they roved through in their nights together, he thought he might like missionary best, just being pressed down on his back and totally consumed by his long-time best friend. Lifting and parting his strong legs, feeling two of Dec’s finger pushing hungrily into his hole, scrabbling somewhere in a drawer for the lube — and then eventually entering him, pushing his decent-sized prick in there with the same initial tenderness and slow-building dominant power that he had discovered as their relationship blossomed. So far on this international break, they had been careful of noise, but with the majority of the players drunk downstairs, Mason treated himself to the freedom of yelps and sighs, feeling Dec begin to fuck him as he pinned him to the bed, body heavy and strong over his. He groaned his name over and over, full and formal, then abbreviated and cute, then old half-remembered nicknames of their teens; Declan was like a machine when he got going, gathering pace and strength with every thrust of his tall strong body and rigid hard-on. `Cum in me,’ Mason begged, as he often did, wanting to feel that unloading inside him, breeding him deep. And, as he often did, Declan obliged, with half-contained squeals and growls of his own peaking pleasure, muffled by kisses and burying his face in against Mason’s shoulder-blade. He swiftly pulled out and kissed his way down Mason’s chest and six-pack and began to suck him off again — not as slowly or tenderly as before, now with the desperation of a finish line, a need to reciprocate his own messy orgasm, which was currently sticky and wet at his tight arsehole. Mason just lay there on his back, stretching out and groaning happily, letting his cock pull and slap at the lips and tongue of the only partner he’d fallen in love with. `Oh god,’ he purred, `that’s… it… baby…’ He filled Dec’s mouth in the same way that his arse had been solidly stuffed, loving the way that Rice still lapped and kissed at his prick as it gushed watery spunk. He loved the wet drooling noise of it, the animalistic way his hunky West Ham lover carried out this sexual chore even after his own climax. And then the pull of his body sliding up to spoon him over the covers, cuddling into his back and his neck and pressing his fading hard-on in against one buttock. Every detail of it was simultaneously novel and so very very familiar, a beautiful cocktail for Mason’s romance and lust. `I’m sick of this,’ Declan muttered in his ear, jarring words against his own mood. `What…?’ `I’m so sick of this!’ Rice panted again, more seriously, making him twist to see him properly. To his relief, the big guy added in a low voice, `I’m sick of hiding this, and sneaking around. I’m sick of not being able to congratulate you properly when you score! I’m sick of… being scared.’ Mason, seeing the distress there, twisted around out of the little spoon position to face him, holding onto him tightly and pulling their faces close, Dec’s lips still shiny with cum. `I get that,’ he said softly, `but… what do you wanna do, go down there and announce us to the hotel bar and see what happens…?’ There was something mocking but also hopefully in his own voice that made him emotional to hear in himself. `Of course not,’ Dec muttered gruffly back. `We have to be careful,’ Mason reminded him, hating to be the mature one here when he wanted nothing more than to scream his true love from the top of the Wembley stands. `We have to go slowly and look after our careers. You and me matter more than some big statement. Right?’ `I know, but… it’s all too much, or not enough, or something, I need to… it’s gone on too long, and-` Mason felt a tiny bit of fear here, hearing the intensity of emotion and conflict in Dec’s voice and in his blazing eyes, combined with the difficult moods that he so skilfully negotiated. The gorgeous tender sex he had just experienced utterly nullified any annoyance at Declan’s jealous streak and personal insecurities; but the way his speech was leaning now sounded dangerously final and decisive, and it made his heart skip… `What are you saying?’ he asked with the hesitation of terror. `It has to stop,’ Declan said, then, `the sneaking around.’ He breathed deeply, tightened his hug on Mason’s body, cutting off his fear and tension with the physical comfort and the following outburst. `As soon as we get the chance, Mase, we tell our families. I want to introduce you to my mum and dad.’ `But they know me…’ `Introduce you to them as my BOY,’ Declan growled in his face. `I don’t want to hide you from them, okay? And then we go to Portsmouth and do the same for your family. Okay? I can’t go on like this, keeping everything hidden and behind closed doors, it isn’t right… I know we have to be careful baby, but… I need us to do this. Need us to make it… real.’ Mason stared at him in the half-light of the room, bodies interlocked and the faint smell of sex in the air. `Are you serious?’ he asked, a tremble in his voice. `Totally. Dead serious. What do you think…?’ `I think…’ He stared into his lover’s eyes. `I think I’ve never wanted you inside me more.’ *LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING TO THE CURRENT RUN OF ‘ENGLAND’ STORIES… ONE MORE INTERNATIONAL MATCH TO GO THIS MONTH, SHOULD THERE BE ONE MORE ENGLAND SEXY STORY TOO…? AND THE COUNTDOWN TO THE BIG 200TH EPISODE STARTS NOW…*

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