Voyeur Sex

Cheating Husband

Subject: Premiership Lads part 94: Caught Out I Part ninety-four: Caught Out I Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain watched as the designer fire-pit on their immaculate patio turned the marshmallow in front of him from fluffy white to charred black caramel and tried to tell himself to be content. Here he was, nestled on the comfortable garden furniture on a pleasantly warm May evening, his beautiful international pop star girlfriend right beside him, broadcasting their cosy affections to their big social media following; it had been a great day, all things considered, another great day. He’d nailed a tough new fitness regime from his fitness coach and beaten his expectations on a number of specific exercises, meaning the ever-ripped body beneath his comfy leisurewear was more defined and powerful than ever. He’d cooked new recipes to great triumph for his darling girl and after eating together in the afternoon sun, they’d fucked on the lounge rug for one of the longest sessions in ages. He’d made her squirt all over his pecs and she’d let him cum on her tits and it had been fucking incredible. He’d enjoyed a few beers before dinner whilst on a group call with some of his best Liverpool FC lads and caught up properly whilst he waited to be fed, his dick sore from the afternoon romp. Yet here he was, toasting a marshmallow, his mind elsewhere. Andy Robertson had been in high spirits on the call; his ginger-brown hair longer and curlier than Oxlade had ever seen it in their footballing lives together, a lockdown look that made the cheeky Scotsman somehow even cuter and more charming as he entertained the blokes with banter and self-deprecating humour. Alex had laughed with everyone else at Robbo’s comedy about his undying love for big Virgil, but even as he chuckled along with his iPad in his lap, he’d had to admit to himself a strain of jealousy: how pathetic, he told himself, to feel a twinge of envy at a stupid running joke between his two heterosexual pals. But knowing it was pathetic and stupid didn’t stop him feeling it, and want grinning freckly Andy to make those jokes about him. To make those jokes real. He felt like he hadn’t seen the Glaswegian joker in forever. Before the season ended, there had been such a phase of low contact between the close pals, the lingering hangover of their intense interview with Jamie Redknapp early this year. For Andy, that incident seemed to have been a darker and more intimidating event than the surprise fun that Alex remembered… though at the time he knew he had been more scared, felt more confused and vulnerable. Time had allowed him to admit more to himself — time, yeh, and a couple more experiments. Half-listening to Perrie chat on about some fantasy holiday they were booking as soon as the world returned to `normal’, the muscular midfielder sat and allowed himself to mull over the things he’d done. He thought about his hotel room curiosity and his fumbling with Joe Gomez; he thought about what it had led to in that Anfield gym, remembered the taste of not just big Joe but, most shocking of all people, Mo Salah. And more vividly and excitingly than that, he thought about a couple of weeks ago and the eventful jog. The problem was, he mused wistfully, looking into the fire, was that much of this was just lust. The South Coast lad had grown up with a heavy appetite for a certain kind of fun, he knew that; he’d been a wild `player’ as he rose through the ranks of Southampton and Arsenal and England, even in his early days at Liverpool, before he settled properly with his girl-band beauty. Wasn’t this just a relapse to that old appetite? Sure, he was tasting something other than pussy, but wasn’t that somehow more faithful to Perrie? This was a new argument that he was beginning to enjoy: his messing about with lads was a form of loyalty, because he could continue to tell himself he hadn’t touched any woman but her. This was laddish banter in its most physical form, he decided with a carefully practised confidence. Just lust, then — mostly. It was when he thought about Andy, Robbo, that he felt the guilt return. Was it normal to miss a pal this much? Why had he been quite so churned up to see him relaxing in his garden, arm about his missus, man of the house? Pull yourself together, lad. Calm down. He’s your mate. A really good mate. Nowt more! At that point, he realised he was supposed to be responding to some fantasy speculation about the distant holiday. He turned and flashed his broad toothy grin at her, puppy-dog eyes saving him from a lecture about male listening skills. `Hun, let me go get us a top-up,’ he invented rapidly, escaping the moment. A quick kiss and he was extricating himself from the cosy spot to swagger inside and top up their wine glasses. He rolled his shoulders and hips and stretched aching muscles, sore from today’s mega-session in the morning, but happy with the results; he’d be looking fucking buff in the morning, to say the least. He was beginning to wonder if he’d return to the season fitter than ever in his career, really reaching his injury-proof prime. He grinned at this thought indoors, sloshing sauvignon blanc into their glasses and grinning out through the window as Perrie posed and selfie’d for her followers. Stop letting your mind wander, he told himself, this is fucking perfect. You don’t need anything beyond this life, mate. In the pockets of the baggy black jocker shorts he wore, his phone vibrated gently. He knew from the low intensity that it wasn’t a proper text message or anything, just a notification from a lesser app. He slid his phone out, licking a stray drop of wine from one thumb, and saw it was just an Instagram messenger notification; probably some banter from the lads about his cringey posts with his missus, no doubt. He flashed over to it and paused in surprise at the name and the messay in bold at the top of his inbox. He’d thought about this a number of times in the past couple of weeks. He didn’t actually have Ross’ number on his phone, though he must have been in a shared England squad group chat at SOME point. They’d been comfortable teammates but never close. So when it had idly occurred to him that he could share a, ahem, RUN with the Chelsea bloke again some time, it hadn’t been as easy as buzzing him on WhatsApp. He’d considered using social media himself but decided it was invasive and cringe and, besides, did he really wanna see the ex-Everton yob again? (Well, yes, clearly, since he’d aimed his last five runs down that same wooded stretch at a similar time of day, and kept his eyes peeled for a glimpse of that big bouncing backside on the path.) `hey ox — goin for run in min. same route. maybe c u ???’ That’s all it said. His eyes and his thumb hovered over it. He pushed it back into his pocket, slowly licked his bottom lip, then picked up the two wine glasses. He took his time walking back out into the big garden patio with them, looking up at the pink-streaked sunset that was descending. `But it’s getting late,’ she protested when he announced his plans to go jogging. `But you’ve done so much fitness today, babe,’ she added as he smiled and shrugged and cajoled. `But am I not getting a bit more of that big, big tongue, baby boy?’ she teased at last, stroking his bicep and urging him to drink his wine. No, no she was not. `I just need to run off all I’ve eaten and drank, just an easy one on my own, that’s all babe — I’ll be taking it slow. Don’t worry. Sorry hun, sorry… but come on, I gotta do it. Those coaches are strict.’ He was glassy-eyed as he grinned and kissed her goodbye, had to stop himself bursting into a sprint as he went to pull on his running gear. Here he was, just thirty-five minutes later. On his knees, cock in mouth. The 26-year-old ran his strong lips along the shaft, loving the girth and shape of this meat, which he was pretty sure outranked his other male snacks in the size department. He was delighted to find he was so good at this: he loved the way every gentle movement of his lips and tongue earned rasping grunts from Barkley, the sense of control he could enjoy even over a big bloke like this, with just the power of his open gob. Above, splashes of pink sky were just visible through the tree mersin escort cover, fading to darkness. They were roughly in the same spot, perhaps the same tree? Ross had his tight running vest tucked up over his neck, just looped about his shoulder and upper arms, the tight lean muscles of his torso on show and beading with passionate sweat above the glorious sight of his rock-hard dick. His hands were reaching down at the sides to stroke at Alex’s curly `fro and tickle down the home-cut fade from Perrie, stroking with surprising tenderness at his small but prominent ears. He opened wide and pushed forward with his mouth to try and take it all in, but he couldn’t `deep throat’ just yet, he was still amateurish and felt himself gag; he knew from experience that the spluttering could be a turn on, and big Ross was no different for himself. The native Scouser grunted and growled in response to his clumsiness, patting his cheek and tugging at his curly hair a little bit. Alex stared hungrily up, wanting Ross to open his eyes and look back down at him, register just how much he was pleasing him, but it was almost like Ross the Boss was somewhere else entirely, with a different cock-sucker on his tool! Probably thinking of his girlfriend or some other shag, Alex mused enviously, some other slut who’s had the luxury of this inside them. He pulled back, his knees grinding painfully on the spiky knotted mess of the undergrowth. He lifted a strong arm and wiped sweat from his brow, his thin exercise kit feeling heavy and warm on his muscles after more exercise than one quarantine day should bring. Gym, shagging, running, this. He laughed at his own exhaustion and leaned back in his squat, running his hands up and down the Barkley thighs and gently stroking one side of the rigid wood. `Why you stoppin’?’ grunted the Chelsea man, his sometime England teammate, the star of several sex dreams in the past fortnight. Alex panted, dragging in deep gasps of air, torn between two answers. Because getting a breather was one reason, yeh, and the sore knees, but also… His hands wandered up and around the thick muscle of this powerful man’s legs, over his hips to where the meat of his glutes pressed up against tree bark. There was one bit of last time that he’d let himself dwell on in particular, shocked at his own adventure, but thrilled too… A dismissive, almost irritable grunt from the man himself. `You want to taste my hole again, do ya? Liverpool scum? Huh.’ The harsh aggression of it sent a shiver over Alex’s broad body, though Ross had been amiable sparse chat as they met on the edge of the woodland, humble and shy as always until his cock was hard and he had his pal on his knees. Such an interesting man! That was when they heard it. Not the engine, which must have been there in the background mesh of noises, birdsong and gentle breeze and the watery music of the Mersey down below; no, the sudden jarring cry of the siren, and the flash of red and blue lights somewhere horrifyingly close in the darkening tree cover. Alex pushed back sharply from his crotch and stared between the trees, trying to pinpoint where both sound and lighting came from. Secondary to this alarmed curiosity was the sudden and undeniable knowledge of his own nudity. Ross had made him strip off before anything began, unknowingly feeding Alex’s ego as he silently acknowledged his physique and ordered him down to his knees. Now, Barkley was moving fast. He practically pushed Alex over in his haste. Through the trees, the siren was getting louder, and it mingled with voices. Shouting, several voices. Angry voices? Authoritative voices. It was all a bit of a blur. Alex found himself scrabbling at leaves, some damp and some crispy, and swiping foliage from his shins and forearms as he pulled himself up and thrust both hands in front of his swinging semi. He hadn’t even noticed just how dark it had got, there had still been blasts of fiery gold in the sky when he followed Barkley into this riverside thicket. Now he could barely see two trees away and rustling footsteps echoed all around. It happened fast. Did Barkley say anything to him, any friendly warning or complicit exclamation at the sudden plight? Or did he just fuck off and save himself as fast as he could? It felt a lot like the latter. One minute he was leaning back against the tree gasping at a discreet blow-job, the next he was tugging his shorts up and haring into the darkness. Alex snatched his running shorts from the branch they’d snagged on, then realised how close all the noise was. His brain was to do two things at once: catalogue where all his discarded items had ended up in this little glade and figure out how close the commotion was to him. Then he saw it unfold: the two uniformed officers burst out from thicker cover, torches in hands, dashing through the woodland… but past him, straight past him, not seeing him beyond his limited cover, clearly heading for someone else. So Alex scrabbled about to try and get his things — where had his phone fallen? His house keys? Where was his fucking vest? But there were more bodies moving about in the sloping wooded area. He saw men burst out of thicker cover not far away and, terrified at the prospect of discovery, he scrabbled uphill and behind some thicker tree trunks, then looked back. Two men, mid fifties maybe, vaguely sleazy looking, one doing up his belt. Right, he thought, of course. He knew what people said about these woods by the river. He’d just never connected it with his own running route… or his own behaviour. A cruising ground, was that the phrase they used? More voices, loud, the sounds of chase. Anti-social behaviour. Arrests. Exposure. The real and imagined dangers put Oxlade-Chamberlain into a state of terror. He ran. No trainers on his feet or top on his torso, he bolted away from the path and up the hillside. No phone, no key, but some hope of preserving his dignity. Tears of panic streamed from his eyes and sweat dripped from his muscles and, wearing only a tight-fitting pair of bright blue gym shorts, he fled the Merseyside woodland. Upstairs, the kids were long-asleep and his missus was already curly up in bed with the latest episode in their box-set binge lined up for viewing. He fussed about the kitchen at the back of their big home, tidying a few dinner things away and making sure the kitchen was tidy enough, light on his bare feet as he made his way around the ground floor. He re-entered the kitchen, pulling idly at the loose green silk pyjama bottoms he wore, his privates flopping loose in their front. Ah, he’d forgot to shove the butter in the fridge. He grabbed it off the counter and stuck it in the fridge, grinning contentedly to himself and pushing the mirrored fridge door back into place. In its dull, half-formed reflections, he saw a flicker of movement. His own silhouette and the designer kitchen about him were half-mirrored in the sheet metal, but so was the view of the garden. He turned his head with a curious frown, and stepped his way over to the big French windows that lined the room. Again, movement, out there in the dark. He stopped at the glass, immediately tensing into a kind of defensive stance, ready to fight any fucker who invaded the home of his partner and young kids. The 26-year-old Scotsman tensed his arms and shoulders and glared out through the windows, which was difficult, as the low electric lighting meant he was essentially looking back into his own reflection once more… but no, somewhere out there, another flicker of movement. Becoming faintly worried, Andy Robertson flicked off the kitchen lights, clearing the dark view of the garden. He slid open a drawer and found a weapon; a knife seemed melodramatic, so he wrapped his hand about a rolling pin and clutched it like a club. Out he went, sliding the French windows aside and making his way over the broad sweep of decking and onto the lawn. Thick shrubbery stretched down its side towards where there garden overlooked the natural greenery of some patchy woodland. He paced along this side of the property, wooden rod in hand, a creeping fear joining his manly defensive instincts. There it was again, suddenly, the movement of branches and leaves, escort mersin an emerging figure… Fight or flight, fight or flight. He started lunging forward, lifting the rolling pin, ready to- `Andy, mate,’ came the familiar voice in a breath rush, `it’s me, pal, it’s me…’ Robertson paused, the wooden stick held over his head, staring in shock as Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain tumbled out of the bushes towards him. What the fuck? He was stripped down to some skimpy gym shorts, bunched up around his thick thighs; a few stray leaves entangled in his afro and grazes on his knees and elbows. His eyes were wide with panic and he was visibly shivering in his undressed state. Robertson gawped at him and had no idea what to say. `Mate, please give us a hand, will ya?’ the Ox pleaded shamefacedly, stumbling closer. `Buddy, what the fuck’s happened?’ Andy demanded, panic setting in. `What happened to ya?’ He looked him up and down again, the grass and debris stuck to his shins and shoulders and the muddy smears around his ankles. Where were his trainers and socks?! `Fuck am I glad to see you,’ Ox announced suddenly, and he lunged forward, grabbing Andy in a hug. The 26-year-old Glaswegian steadied on his feet and embraced the cold muscular slab of his teammate, taken aback. He held onto him and patted his broad back then pulled away, scanning his anxious face for any clue of what the hell was going on. Alex was muttering something but his teeth were chattering and it was inaudible. `Are you okay?’ Andy demanded of his Liverpool ally. `What the hell, man…?’ He realised how much more distraught Alex looked at each question and gave up. `Fuck, let’s get you inside before you catch a chill…’ But Ox looked nervously at the house and seemed reluctant. `I’ve been a dick,’ he confessed. `I don’t wanna upset your missus tramping in.’ `She’s upstairs,’ Andy said dismissively. `Waiting for me, in bed. You know, cos it’s like 11-fucking-pm and we’re on lockdown…? Mate… look at the state of you… where are your clothes?!’ He rubbed comfortingly at one of Alex’s bare arms and gestured towards the open French windows of the kitchen, Alex still seeming reluctant. In amongst the confusion and panic, he felt a pang of incredible gladness to see his good mate face-to-face, instead of just over a Zoom call with the lads. `I’ve been a dick,’ Alex said again, taking a few shaky steps over the lawn with him. `I was out for a run, you see mate, and I met with this bird for a bit of fun, kinda thing, and…’ `What the fuck?’ Andy asked incredulously, appalled and a little bit impressed. `Seriously, man? Cheating on Perrie…? Jesus…’ He led the way onto the decking, glancing up and down Alex’s stripped body and shaking his head. `Where’s rest of your kit, silly bugger? I’ll get you clothes but dunno if it’ll fit your bloody mountainous pecs, dickhead.’ He laughed uneasily and led the way inside the kitchen, scratching his gingery stubble and pulling the window shut behind him. `Don’t tell Rachel,’ Alex pleaded. `I don’t wanna make a scene. Fuck, buddy, I’m so sorry to turn up like this, I know I must look a sight.’ `Yeah, just a bit!’ `Bud, please, can I just borrow some threads and fuck off home? I’m in a state. I’ve been so daft. I had to run from the police before I got an ASBO or some shit.’ Alex pulled both hands up to rub his face, a few broken leaves and branches dropping from his hair. Andy sighed, leaned over, grabbed him in a second, tighter hug. `Silly wanker,’ he sighed after letting go. `Hang on. Let me grab some shit for you to wear and I’ll drive you back to yours, eh?’ He saw the shameful relief on the Ox’s face and just patted one of his rounded shoulders. `You mad prick. Wait here.’ He backed off, shivering himself in his loose pyjama bottoms and open zip hoody. He left Alex standing awkwardly in the kitchen making scruffy footprints on the stone floor. Upstairs, he lied fast. `Ice cream,’ he said mercurially to his fiancée in their bed. `I really need some fuckin’ ice cream, you know?’ She ranted half-heartedly at him about needless journeys and shopping trips, but he kissed her and pleaded his case, and abandoned her to run his errand. He moved about the house quietly, going into the adjoining room that was their walk-in wardrobe. One pair of jogger bottoms to cover his own PJs, another pair for poor Alex; he zipped up his own hoody and found a big baggy old Scottish FA jumper from years ago, one that would hopefully fit his well-built colleague. He snatched some socks and old trainers and took it all downstairs. In the kitchen, Alex was hugging his thick arms to his chest and hanging his head in shame. `In here with ya,’ Andy grunted at him, trying to sound kindly rather than impatient. The garage was almost as chilly as outside now, but he pulled a light cord by the door and nodded towards one of the three parked cars. He pressed the bundle of clothes into Alex’s hands, feeling the cold fingers against his for a moment. He let out a sympathetic sigh. `What are you playing at, Ox?’ he asked in a quiet but judgmental voice. `You’ve got it good. Why you getting up to no good in the fucking forest, lad?’ Alex backed off, ready to dress. `I know,’ he said gloomily, `I know, mate.’ Andy looked at him with a sudden flash of suspicion. He didn’t really know where the idea came from, but perhaps the memory of that transgression always rose to mind when he was alone with big Alex nowadays. That was why he’d found it so difficult to hang out with him for a couple of months, why he’d pulled back on one of his closest and most important friendships. He eyed Alex’s guilty face while he pulled the jogging bottoms up over his thin silky pants. `It was a bird, wasn’t it?’ he asked a little sharply. He knew from Alex’s twitching mouth and eyes that he’d hit on something. `What, you just went for a jog and saw a hot chick in her activewear, and…?’ He narrowed his eyes. `What you really been up to, Al?’ `Mate,’ breathed Alex in protest, fighting to get his arms into the jumper. Seized by this suspicion, Andy strode towards him and stopped him, grabbing the top to hold Alex’s bigger arms in place and glaring at his mate’s shamed expression. `Mate,’ the Ox said now, `don’t ask, it just…’ Andy couldn’t explain his anger right then; he was no homophobe, no moralist, no hypocrite. But… He tugged at the jumper he’d just offered his near-naked mate, wrenching it away in quiet fury, leaving Alex just as undressed, the other items dropped at his feet. `What the fuck has really happened?’ he demanded, keeping his voice low but showing his fiery temper in every word. `I got in some trouble, I told you,’ Alex returned, each word tight with what he wasn’t saying. The two men stood close in the quiet half-light of the garage, Andy seized with an almost maniac fear for his friend, a resentment of what had already happened, but also a desperate desire to fix things. He huffed, knowing his complexion would already be redenning in his mood. He turned his head away and shoved the jumper back at Alex, confused at why he had reacted so aggressively for a moment. But then Alex was pulling forward and grabbing his arms, coming close. `Just don’t tell anyone about this,’ Oxlade whispered urgently. `I am so fuckin’ sorry for coming here, bringing my shit to your door, disturbing your night…’ `You don’t need to be sorry,’ Andy told him through gritted teeth. `I’d do anything for ya, Ox. You know that, for fuck’s sake.’ `And the same for you,’ Alex told him earnestly. He met his eyes and looked away again, inhaling sharply. Alex’s hands were pawing at the sleeves of his hoody. He was only an inch taller but so much weightier with muscle it always felt like a different dynamic. Robertson shook himself and looked at the car, eager to get them in there and away form the house, needing this weird little crisis resolved. But Alex’s fingers were really pulling at his sleaves, kneading at his forearms and wrists, pulling closer. `You’re the fucking best,’ he heard Alex say gently. `You’re the worst,’ he returned dryly, turning his face back and realising just how close they now were. `Couldn’t you have had your half-naked jog to some other cunt’s mersin escort bayan house tonight, for fuck’s sake? Jesus mate, you’re covered in woodland shite, you’re a mess…’ `I know, I know…’ Alex hugged him again, pulling him in close so he had no choice but to return the embrace, feeling his arms stretch out around the thick trunk of his body, resting his chin vaguely on some shoulder, enjoying the comfort his own body warmth could offer in the cool environment. He heard Alex’s words as if from some distance, and froze up at their meaning: `Let me thank you, Andy mate, let me say thanks…?’ `Ox,’ he murmured, `we need to get you home.’ `We will,’ Alex whispered. `But…’ `Mate…’ He was going down, sinking towards his bare grazed knees on the concrete floor. Andy stood perfectly still, feeling large strong hands slide down the loose front of his hoody and settle at either hip. He shivered and averted his eyes, refusing to look down as Oxlade-Chamberlain settled into a kneeling position in front of him. The flat palms rubbed gently at the top of either leg, disturbing the two layers of material that rested atop his flaccid dick and balls. `Mate,’ he breathed again, and risked looking down. Alex was staring up at him with those wide innocent eyes and that big toothy grin, full of boyish play. The hands inched into his crotch and pulled at the fabric so it rubbed across his soft prick tantalisingly. `Let me thank you,’ the big English lad said in a low, gruff murmur, his voice so weirdly arousing. `Alex,’ Andy sighed back, a short gasp full of conflicted meaning. He lowered his hands to somewhere on Alex’s biceps, feeling that thick rounded muscle beneath his palms. `Oh…’ He could feel the nose and mouth on his dick through silk and cotton, testing its rise and fall, making it twitch and stretch. He held in a second moaning `oh’ and closed his eyes. This was madness, this was wrong. But he still remembered how good it had felt. `You don’t need to do me this time,’ Oxlade murmured as he pulled first the joggers and then the silk pyjamas down a few inches. `Not this time, buddy, I don’t mind, I’m happy to just do you… just let me, mate, let me say thanks… You’re the fuckin’ best…’ He stopped talking as he planted a slow kiss on Andy’s quivering Scottish sausage. Ohhh… `Come down, lie back here, get comfy…?’ Andy stared at him and then to the corner he indicated. He stammered wordlessly and backed away — but not to leave. He just twisted the key in the adjoining door, blocking out the household. Then he unzipped his hoody and crept past Alex into the corner of the garage. A load of bags of old kit and stuff were piled up, and he lowered himself to the hard floor, resting his head and shoulders back against the bags, letting his hoody fall open over his smooth lean chest and abdomen. No sooner had he taken this position than his bottoms were being dragged fully off, over his knees and down his shins and off his ankles, his feet as bare as Alex’s. That curly mop of African hair disappeared into his crotch and he felt those gorgeous soft lips on his nob again. He sighed. Reached down and plucked a couple of leaf and twig fragments from the other bloke’s hair. `Oh mate,’ he groaned, his full prick taken into that hungry mouth, every inch of him massaged by tongue. He knew he wasn’t particularly well hung but he was still impressed by how easily Alex took it inside his mouth and sucked it. It felt incredible. He felt his slim toned legs lifted and handled, pulled up so his calves rested on the bunched muscle of Alex’s big shoulders, one on either side, sliding forward, his ankles grazing down that cool smooth back. Oh…. Between his thighs, the grateful midfield hunk was lapping at his cock and then his chubby balls, then above the base at the ginger fluff of his re-growing pubes. He sighed and moaned and fidgeted with his hands, unsure where to put them. He thought back to that Anfield interview room and their tense confrontation with sleazy Redknapp; if you took that smug prick out of the equation, hadn’t he really fucking enjoyed getting so close to muscled Ox? It was the admission he had been pushing away ever since. Suddenly, Alex’s tongue was migrating south, and he tensed up again, glaring at the strong hands gripping the sides of his thighs and thinking to push away; Alex’s tongue lapped down from his tight bollocks to the gooch, lifting his legs up a bit more awkwardly, pressing his back and torso into the bags of old sports clothes waiting for a charity shop. Andy slid into position, too confused to protest more physically, then… then… oh — my — god… He stretched back and gasped loudly at the thick wet sensation pushing between his arse cheeks, totally new and unexpected. Alex’s flat tongue running right down his crack and back up. Ohhhhh… He reached down to wank his own dick, overcome with this extra stimulus, but one of Alex’s hands pushed his away, denying him that relief, gripping his hands at his sides to trap him in this everlasting moment of unexpected delight. Andy had never once considered what it would be like to receive this treatment, never in his wildest fantasy, but here he was, being rimmed by the hunky Englishman, feeling like his cock could explode without being touched. It didn’t last long, both men were very conscious of the lies and need for hurry. But for the moments of almost excruciating sexual pleasure, Andy twisted and panted, his cheeks parted and his ring quivering. Oh my god. Then, after these torturous minutes, Alex’s hands found his cock and balls, stroking at them even as he continued to lick back up his hairy ginger crack. And then, oh yes, the blowjob was back on, that talented mouth was on his thin red prick instead, and… oh yes, oh yes, Alex, thank you, oh… He suddenly realised these exclamations were out loud and not in his head. `Yes, Alex,’ he whimpered, `OH YES…’ He came against the roof of his mate’s mouth, heard the deep luxurious moan of satisfaction from Oxlade-Chamberlain. He stared down his pale body and watched Alex’s lips pull back over the head of his dick, glistening with his seed. There was a mischievous twinkle in Ox’s eyes and he met it with wide-eyed wonder and complete submission to this intimacy. `Jesus fucking Christ,’ he swore, not breaking that intense gaze, `what have we…?’ But before he could ask any more, Alex was licking his sensitive balls and ducking back down, one last lick of his arse-crack before sliding away and getting up from the ground. Andy took his offered hand and rose up next to him, shivering uncontrollably and head swimming. The stronger lad took him in a hug and he squeezed back gladly, leaning his weight into the Ox and enjoying the physical closeness for precious moments before remembering what was going on. `You don’t need to do me,’ Alex said again, and in another tone of voice, it could have sounded like a needy hint. Looking down, Andy could see the fat outline of the well hung midfielder’s privates in his running shorts, but he was pulling the jogging bottoms on over them and stuffing it away, disinterested in his own pleasure. He’d genuinely just wanted to `thank’ Andy, and the gesture was heart-melting for some reason. Andy separated from him, zipped up his top, pushed his feet into some spare sandals, climbed into the car alone and waited for Alex to join him. When he did, it took Robertson a while to start the engine. He just sat there looking from the wheel and the gearstick to the musclebound footballer sitting two feet from him. `Don’t worry about it,’ Ox said, flashing that winning smile. His lips were still a little bit shiny with saliva or cum or sweat. His eyes twinkled. Andy stared at him for a long moment then started up the car, nodding silently. `Let’s get you home,’ he said eventually, once the automated garage door had ground open and his headlights were splashing out onto the driveway. He started the car and it purred out onto the roads, out into the quiet Liverpool streets, away from the comfortable peace he’d been enjoying until his visitor crash-landed. As he reached the first set of traffic lights, he felt something on the leg of his jogger bottoms: a hand. He glanced down at Alex’s big knuckles resting on his leg, then looked up at the patient, friendly grin on the other man’s face. He paused, then smiled nervously back. **LONG OVERDUE RETURN FOR A COUPLE OF LIVERPOOL FAVOURITES THERE…. HOPE IT WAS WORTH THE WAIT!**

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