Part 247: Sunday Games
- PRE-MATCH WARM-UP
Harvey Barnes was pretty delighted to be invited in to watch his club's Sunday afternoon game -- it was partly a young footballer's natural frustration at missing out on weeks of the season after knee surgery, struggling with such a long absence from the Premiership battle; but it was also the effects of lockdown, with top-flight football buying a certain exciting freedom from the mundane stay-at-home order, and injury leading to the mind-numbing monotony that most ordinary people were having to endure.
Knee bandaged and half his weight pressed into a stiff crutch, the smiling red-haired 23-year-old now found himself on the turf of the Walkers Stadium -- luckily, he was in enough pain to hold back his frustration at standing by while the guys went through their warm-up exercises, the lingering effects of the injury reinforcing his need to rest and give it time. This freed him up to just soak up the fighting mood of his missed teammates, clapping them on and trying to show his bold determination to re-join them and aid the campaign to stay on Man City's heels.
Blustery weather howled above the fan-free stadium, but speakers blared out hyping music to get the players in the mood, and it was having the same effect on the hobbling young winger. He made his way slowly around the edges of the half, exchanging grinning expressions of support with one guy after another, heading slowly back to lurk with the manager Rogers and his assistants, who he would be seated with while he watched the hosts hopefully thrash Sheffield.
However, his path was derailed slightly as he connected eyes with one Leicester City player in particular, smirking at him whilst in the middle of some short, jogged loops back and forth; rooting Harvey to the spot and making him lean so heavily on his crutch that its blunt tip dug into the turf below and he had to stagger a little to pick up his gentle walk.
It had been an almost silent year between them, 2021, with the spectre of Boxing Day looming over the muscular young lad's shoulder during January and February until his knee damage and subsequent absence. In those early weeks of the year, it had been all knowing looks and cloying tactile gestures from the ex-England goal machine. He'd done his best not to get riled or aggressive about it, learning that lesson at least, but he had consistently avoided being alone or too close to Vardy, and the one upside of his injury period was a complete separation from this uncomfortable dynamic with the older man. Well, until now.
Vardy broke almost instantly from the small cluster of blue-clad players, barking some excuse to the coach who was leading them, and steering his gait this way, cutting off Barnes' path towards the serious figure of Brendan Rodgers and his folded arms. In different circumstances, the Burnley lad might have hurried to avoid this encounter -- sped on and suddenly grabbed the attention of another bloke who might free him from an alone moment with the slimy striker. But he had to go carefully on the hurt leg and was not especially agile still on his one support, so he could only hover awkwardly on the spot, dressed in relaxed sweatpants and a big puffer jacket, much of his blushing cheeks hidden behind a Nike face-mask.
Good to see you here,' Jamie greeted him swiftly, straightening up in front of him, ever-so-slightly taller. I told the boss it would be cool to invite you in and make you feel included!'
Harvey's heart sank a little, having failed to make that connection -- it had seemed like a kind but standard gesture from the club management, to call him on a match-day in the middle of his injury leave, but of course it was a carefully engineered play from this fucking psycho, OF COURSE. He stared at Jamie and his conclusion must have been evident even with the obscuring mask, because the older forward burst into happy laughter and then gently punched him in the chest of his jacket. `Hey, was it not a kind gesture, kiddo?' the Sheffield-born striker demanded.
Yeah,' Harvey answered stiffly, yeah it was.' He huffed sulkily but tried not to look as annoyed as he felt, leaning heavily on the crutch and lowering his eyes embarrassedly. `Thanks,' he added uncomfortably, glancing at every other player scattered across this half of the field rather than meet Jamie's leering blue eyes beneath the low brim of his woollen hat.
`How's the rehab going?'
The questions were so innocuous and friendly that he felt silly and unfair, despite his bristling discomfort. He mumbled an answer in fragments, updating Vardy on the slow-and-steady progress of the three weeks since harming his knee. He was a little sick of trying to update people on it, having been asked a dozen times already since the taxi dropped him off at the stadium for a meeting with Rodgers -- but it was more than just repetition that made him struggle to summarise it now, as Leicester's experienced weapon threw a tracksuited arm about his shoulders and came side-to-side with him. Somewhere close by, another player was shouting the striker's name, and he thought maybe Jamie would fuck off to join them and resume his warm-up, but nope -- he gestured a middle finger dismissively at both the player and a confused-looking coach, and lurked beside him instead, hugging him gently from the side in a way that would look so innocently supportive and fraternal from any angle. Only he could feel the tension in the gentle pat on his upper back.
You keep working hard,' Jamie said in a casual enough voice, then adding, you sexy little fuck.'
Harvey winced and gave him a brief sidelong glare. `I'm doing my best,' he grunted, entirely ignoring the jokey little compliment of his speech.
Sure you are, sure you are, hot stuff.' Jamie's arm tightened a little bit about his neck and shoulders, pulling him to the left so that his weight shifted into him rather than on the support of the crutch. Our brave lil warrior, eh, aren't ya? Hehe...'
Harvey wriggled his shoulders uncertainly, angling his face away from Jamie's as they brushed close. He plastered a playful smile on his lips, aware of the other players finishing up, aware of the coaches, aware even of the opposition men starting to file out at the far end in their dark red tracksuits, their turn to get warmed up and prepped with kick-off looming close. Jamie,' he said insistently, can you please-`
I've missed you,' Jamie said. It was a whisper, near a hiss. You know that?'
Right. Bet you have. Heh.' He grimaced, fixing his eyes on the leaping side-steps of the nearest bunch of Leicester players, concentrating on their activity and wishing his leg would allow him such bounce and energy in the next week or two. Well, you guys are still getting the wins in without me, right, number two in the League and all that, so...'
I ain't talkin' about the games,' Vardy cut him off intensely. I'm talkin' about you, Mr.' His arm about Harvey's shoulders felt firm and imposing now, and their faces really were close, Jamie turning to smirk at him behind the patchy red-brown stubble of his beard, eyes beady and bright. `Why you so nervous around me these days, H?'
He controlled his reaction as best he could, knowing how much trouble his flaring temper had gotten him into in the past. You know why,' he said, spitting out each syllable. Leave it, will ya?'
`You smell good.'
`Stop it, Vards...'
`Great, in fact. I remember how you smelt in my car.'
Look, if you don't-
And the taste of your arse,' drawled the older man, firm and authoritative at his side. You remember that too, don't ya, Barnesy? Eh?'
He closed his eyes for a long moment, feeling the little shudder of familiarity, thinking about the stormy evening drive of Boxing Day, the way he'd been trapped in that car with his team's figurehead, his moods and issues bluntly addressed and... resolved? Well, not really. Temporarily relaxed, he supposed? He twisted his face and glared more openly at Jamie, no patience left for a fake smile -- he just wanted to be away from him and safely seated in the dugout behind the bosses. Or better yet, maybe he should really get away, tell the gaffer his leg was playing up and he needed to get home and rest properly, all these painkillers he was on...
I want it now,' Jamie said, and this time his brutal Sheffield accent was softer, lower, and so close to his ear, and it sent the beginnings of a shiver to the top of his spine. What do you say to that, eh?'
`Mate,' he hissed back impatiently.
`I can see it in those baggy sweatpants, even -- perfect fucking peach. I'd grab it if there weren't fucking Sky cameras everywhere. Hope they don't have any lipreaders working for them, y'know? You sexy little fuckwit, Harv.'
Jamie. Please. Just...' He pushed into the crutch, leaning away from Jamie's wiry body, but held firm in that supportive' arm. The warm-ups seemed to be edging closer to them, and the tone of Vardy's conversation just felt terrifying. Don't say those things, not... here...' He could feel his cheeks burning behind the mask, though the blush must creep past them and over the rest of his handsome young face. Please?'
Saying them here just makes it more fun,' Jamie said, too loud and too casual. I want you right here on the pitch you ginger stud. Throw you down and peel off your undies. What undies are you wearing, H? Briefs?'
He made to say fuck off' or none of your business', but then he met Jamie's intense eyes and there was something so commanding and irresistible in the gaze. Just boxers,' he mumbled, keeping his voice as low as possible and then turning to look with paranoid caution about them as they lingered on the edge of the looping runs and passing drills. But-`
It's what's in em that I'm after,' quipped the 34-year-old. Back and front. You liked it, didn't ye? Last time? I remember the mess you made in my car, kid. The stain's still there, if you want to see it.' He twisted uncomfortably, unable to keep holding the imposing gaze. But let's make some new stains, shall we? At half-time. Be back in the tunnel with us, not just sitting it out -- I'll see you then.'
`What?'
At half-time,' Vardy repeated insistently. I want to see you. Alone.'
`But Jamie...'
`Don't be disappointin' me. Don't you dare, sexy. I've been looking forward to this visit all week.'
`Really...?'
Oh yes, you dirty little bugger,' urged Jamie. Don't you know what you do to me, ginger-nuts?'
`Don't call me that,' he grumbled.
Okay, what shall I go for instead? Redhead? Strawberry boy? Fire-pubes?' His leer deepened. Tasty Arse?' He made a pronounced growl, squeezing at him all the tighter for a final moment. `Meet me in the changing rooms at half-time, be ready you damned fuck. I'll be crazy after the first half, thinking about you every minute of it, and those rosy blushing cheeks, aye.'
He let out a sharp exhalation of excited panic, digging both hands in against the bars of the crutch and forcing on a calmer smile, an expression suitable for the stadium cameras and their nearby colleagues. Jamie's arm began to loosen on his shoulders, his fingertips tracing through the thick stuffed jacket and slipping briefly past the collar to run one tip over the close-shaven hair on the back of his neck -- it twanged gently against one small earlobe as it left him and then he was stood fully alone, just leaning in to the crutch, and Vardy was backing away, a playful grin on his face and his bare hands clapping together once in front of his chest.
Vardy winked and rejoined the last moments of warm-up, and Barnes hobbled on, aiming for the boring safety of the dugout.
- HALF-TIME
Rehydration drinks were guzzled noisily and the studs of football boots clicked and clattered on the dirt-strewn floor; blue Leicester City shirts were tugged up to wipe sweat-shiny faces and loud celebratory calls were directed at the first half's solitary goal-scorer, Iheanacho's shot putting the home team ahead of their Sheffield visitors. And on the sidelines of this gasping half-time chaos, Harvey Barnes rested his shoulder against the doorframe and stared into the changing rooms that he might normally occupy, one of the lads, full of testosterone and ambition. Now he lingered in the corner feeling like a vulnerable cripple -- he'd even been instructed to keep to his seat out in the dugout, and he'd had to ignore that order from the boss to be here, waiting for the nod.
He could hardly blame Vardy then, could he, when he'd gone against the gaffer's word to come and lurk nervously here, hanging on the dirty whispers that the married bloke had fed into his ear 50 minutes ago. He'd wrestled grumpily with it, stuck there in his comfortable suit, jacket zipped up and hand straying up and down the thighs of his sweatpants.
Here it came: the look.
Vardy, who was chucking some brightly coloured energy drink down his neck, had broken away from the mas of his teammate, slapping the blokes he passed on the shoulder and then discreetly dipping away from the huddle. He grabbed loosely at the crotch of his rather baggy blue shorts and barked at no one in particular: `Just gonna take a piss, gimme five.' And then he was bustling forward in his bouncy pace, still clutching the water-bottle in one hand and slapping his six-pack through his footy shirt with the other.
Instinctively, Harvey backed off, into the corridor, returning some of his weight to the crutch and stepping his healing leg carefully. He kept his head low, embarrassed at the way he was lingering around the half-time action as if he wasn't a temporary outsider, and even more ashamed of his obvious acquiescence to Jamie's demands. As the Premier League ace passed him by, he knocked him lightly on the elbow but did not look at him, rounding past him and marching on a little further down the tunnel. He turned once, as Harvey made to follow, and shot him his filthy grin. `You're so sexy with that limp, you cunt.' He said it at normal volume, reckless and unafraid, when they were so close to so many others. Harvey just glared anxiously at him but put some speed into his hobble, and he followed Jamie through the open door into the disabled bathroom that lay halfway down the broad passage.
Once in, he half expected to be grabbed and wrestled by the demanding sleaze, but like in Vardy's car that night, there was a certain... tenderness. A strange and almost troubling awareness of not just his injury, but his nervousness. One of Jamie's hands slid about the side of his waist and another gripped his spare forearm, guiding him forward in the enclosed space; the striker's face was NOT tender, but a grim smirk of achievement. `We ain't got long,' he rasped. His face was a little clammy with the sweat of 45 minutes' running, his hair spiked with it, his City kit clinging to his lithe 5ft10 frame.
`No,' Barnes agreed in a nervous whisper, thinking about the dangerous whispers in his ear, and realising that it was all pretty ridiculous -- a fifteen-minute interval in the football match, a good four or five of them already elapsed. What could happen in that time?!
Vardy answered his question by grabbing the bulging front of his sweatpants, the hand on Barnes' hip sliding down there and giving his cock and balls a good strong feel through the two layers. He made a tiny yelp noise, not so much of protest, but of defeat -- he knew he could not resist this, wasn't that what he'd been afraid of in January, when he carefully avoided ever being alone with the charismatic footballer?
`Semi already.'
`Sorry.'
`What are you sorry for?'
`I dunno.'
Jamie rubbed his crotch more vigorously and leered into his face. Harvey realised how odd it was that he was still wearing his face-mask, and now Jamie fingered at it, pulling it downwards and unstrapping it from his small jutting ears. `Better,' the 34-year-old chuckled.
`Sor- I mean. Hah. Erm. Mmm.' He groaned a little, feeling Jamie's thumb find the tip of his lazy dick. The seconds were ticking by. This was madness. Vardy was needed out there. Nobody would worry about where he was himself, but this guy...!
You liked it when I sucked you, yeh?' Vardy demanded almost aggressively. He nodded, silent. And when JJ sucked you too, I think, way back when, though you were such a freaked-out little pussy about it, ha. I don't mind though. It was new to you. Fuck, your cock feels hard already.' Harvey eyed him with anxious pleasure. `How's that peach doing, laddie?'
`Are you going to do that thing again?' Barnes asked, his voice going croaky.
`Do we have time?' Jamie was smirking as he spoke, and Harvey knew that his own lust or willingness was being tested here; it was as if his obedience was not enough excitement for the older guy, and his desperate desire was needed. He was alarmed by how true that was, and he felt shaky beneath his layers. Now Jamie was grasping at the waist of his sweatpants with both hands and pushing down on both them and his loose grey boxers -- his stiffening cock released to jut free, pale and veiny.
Give me your finger,' he was commanded. He did it, bringing up his left hand and holding it lamely in front of him. Jamie, whose one hand was now on his bare dick, grabbed his wrist and brought his finger up to his mouth, then sucked on it briefly. Now,' he said, stick it up your arsehole.' So he did -- reaching behind himself, reaching under the back of his baggy jacket, touching his own smooth pert cheeks, and pressing the one wet finger in between them. Finding and pressing weakly against his hole, unsure if he was meant to actually try and insert it, or- Now, let me lick it again,' Vardy hissed.
Harvey returned his finger to the striker, who licked it and then sucked on it again. `Mm. As tasty as I remember, Ginge. Stick it up there again. Properly.' As he ordered this and licked his lips, he was jerking him, pulling hard on his tense cock, making him whimper a little. He did as he was ordered, taking his wet digit and pushing it back between his muscled cheeks, sliding it down his crack and tickling the knot of his ring, pushing it a BIT more this time, maybe feeling the suggestion of parting muscle, but not wanting to go too far... back out, and his wrist grabbed and pulled forward so that the Golden Boot legend could lick provocatively at it, giving him those bright filthy eyes as he did. Harvey just whimpered and felt his balls tighten.
`You're already close?' Vardy demanded, but not angrily or disappointedly.
I think so,' Barnes gasped back. I... ohh... fuck, Jamie...' He just felt so incredibly turned on. His cock felt utterly rigid and SO sensitive. The stupid brief rubs of his finger into his crack had turned him on even more and every sleazy snigger of Jamie's voice and breath...! He wasn't normally so utterly premature, but he really did feel like he could... oh god, the rising wave of-
Hold it in,' snapped Vardy, and his hand was immediately off his cock. He grinned at him. You think I want it over that quickly, mate?' All Barnes could do in response was let out a wobbly gasping breath, his cock still juddering on the edge but failing to climax. Jamie shook a hand in his face and he realised his fist still enclosed the face-mask.
`You should get back,' he said weakly, worried for Jamie's absence and any upset it might cause.
`One thing first,' the striker told him bluntly. He took the scrap of black fabric and its Nike swoosh logo, and then he shoved it unceremoniously down the front of his shorts and the briefs below, which bulged now with the indistinct outline of his own excitement. Harvey goggled at him in confused surprise. But slowly he understood. Jamie made a groan, really rummaging about in his pants, and then dragged the mask out and dangled it forward. Limply, Harvey took it from him in his left hand, his right clutching the bar of the crutch so tightly that it stung.
`Wear it,' barked the terrifyingly sexy older bloke.
`What?' he asked, but in a faint and defeated voice. It'll stink of him, he thought in disgust. I'll be breathing him in for the next forty-five minutes, he thought in shiver-inducing arousal.
Just do it,' Vardy snapped, then he seemed to see the joke in his command, and he laughed loudly and heartily, patting him on the arm. You sexy little bastard. Full-time, I am eating you out and you are gonna empty those fat ginger balls, okay. Now get out of my way.'
- POST-MATCH ANAL-YSIS
The anticipation gnawed at him. With each goal, the mood in the Leicester camp shot up and up, and for Harvey, the expectation of what was to follow seemed to intensify. Not one of City's five goals game directly from Jamie himself, but he seemed to have an influence in each of them, fast and powerful in the opposition half, and particularly loud and animalistic in his celebration of each, shaking his fist to the world and -- did he imagine it? -- catching his eye across the pitch on several occasions as he leaped and screeched.
At the end of it, Sheffield United were decimated. Iheanacho had achieved a hattrick and both Perez and Ampadu had added to the haul. Everybody in the home squad and support staff was jubilant and crazed, whilst the 23-year-old injured winger kept the tightest control of his emotions. He smiled weakly and nodded fervently back at the positive comments of the nearby subs and coaches, and he lurked at the tunnel mouth with hoarse words of congratulation, but all the while, he could only think about Jamie Vardy, his eyes following the bouncy steps and tactile pleasure of the man, who grabbed at and shook every player he could get his hands on, but now paid zero attention to him. He had that mercurial ability to seem everywhere at once, posing for selfies with other players and hugging at the gaffer.
This left Barnes to drift on the edges of the celebration, sparing a gloomy glance to the visiting losers as they marched silently indoors. He remained on the edge of the pitch, fumbling with some painkillers from his pocket and borrowing a water-bottle to knock them back, hanging away from everyone on the grass as one by one the blue-clad sweaty men wove indoors. He could see Jamie striding at the heart of the gathering, could hear his high-pitched mocking laugh echo in the tunnel as he berated their woeful opposition.
Barnes quietly made his way in after them after staring around the eerily quiet Walkers Stadium. When he arrived this morning, limping and grinning, there had been a sort of hero's welcome and VIP treatment, but now the big game was over and everybody was so fixated on the resounding victory, he seemed to have become totally invisible. He hobbled his way down the tunnel and skulked near the door to the home changing rooms, not quite going in, just listening to the echoes and hoots of his triumphant colleagues. He even loitered further down the passage, stood near to the wheelchair symbol on the creaking door to the small disabled loo where he had been briefly but intensely wanked to near premature completion. And then he tottered back closer to the changing rooms, wondering why Vardy was nowhere to be seen yet.
Nowhere to be seen... and yet, also everywhere, because all he was breathing in was the musty scent of his match-ripe crotch. It had nauseated him to begin with, the mask strapped tightly about his ears and covering his nostrils and lips. But as he sat there, staring intently at the masterclass of Premier League football, he had kept having to adjust his pants for the ebb and flow of excited hard-on that the man-smell was provoking in him. It was threatening to rise up now and press against the front of his sweats, leaking pre-cum against his boxers, but some terror or uncertainty held it back.
`What the fuck?' he muttered grimly to himself, a horrible suspicion rising in his chest; was this all a really long joke? Was he being played for a mug? Exposed as deviant and desperate by that slimeball? Something approaching a panic attack took over his senses, everything seeming a bit overwhelming and crazy: well, he was breathing in the smell of Jamie's ball-sweat and traces of piss. And then he was sorta rescued, grabbed at by one of the junior coaches and dragged on into the changing rooms to join the celebrations -- a beer was thrust into his hand and he was anonymously part of the mood, distracted briefly from his confused disappointment until his eyes settled again on Jamie, shirtless and jumping up and down with the three goal-scorers clutched to him. The tattoo stretching down one side of his ripped abdomen rippled with each move as the crazed man danced and swayed and punched the air.
Then, in the middle of it all, came that same devil-may-care announcement. Fuck me,' he yelled, my bladder's gonna burst. Let me go piss.' And the shirtless stud was striding away -- not out into the tunnel but further into the home changing rooms, past the last row of lockers and past the showers entrance, and off further into the stadium floor, where more showers and toilets awaited, and... Harvey was following as quickly and discreetly as he could, abandoning his crutch at the wall so that he could slide more easily between the undressing lads. He chugged back as much of the beer bottle as he could before lifting the mask back over his nose and sucking in a deep breath of Vardy's musk.
Jamie was waiting for him in the doorway of a centre-cubicle, one hand shoved down the front of his bottoms, the other clinging to the frame over the cubicle door. He leered invitingly, flexing his tightly muscled body. Harvey lunged clumsily closer to him, unsteady on his sore leg, and dragging the mask of his face, pulling its manky smell away from his lips and nose, and staring needily at the older man -- he was remembering the tender way this goal assassin had handled and cared for him in the car, and he wanted to feel that attention again. His hole squeezed tightly.
Ah, ginger,' sighed Vardy, I'm really sorry.'
`What? What is it?'
You know what today is, don't ya? I mean -- I can't be late home, kid. It's mother's day -- what sorta shit hubby and daddy would I be if I was hanging around here with my footy mates and not rushing back to cook the roast and...?' Barnes stared at him, agog, that sickening panic rising up in him again -- but Vardy was immediately laughing, leaning backwards into the cubicle, pulling his long slender dick out of the shorts and rubbing it. Your face, mate! A picture. Get here now you slut.'
With a whimpering breath, Harvey joined him in the cubicle and was immediately pushed forward against the thin divide. He pressed his forearms and elbows against it and felt Jamie's breath on the back of his neck. A soft kiss itched his skin. Then his sweats were being pushed down, the boxers too, his arse out in the air. He could feel Jamie's cock slap and brush against his buttocks and he began to panic, but Jamie was laughing in his ear. `If I wanted to get my dick in a tight hole, I'd be racing home to Rebekah, you idiot. Now open those legs and relax.'
His hands raced down over the back of Harvey's tshirt, his jacket discarded back in the busy changing room; the hands reached his glutes and pushed them open. He braced himself and then felt it -- the spittle in his crack, the warm breath tickling the fine red hairs that curled there, then the muscular push of that long experienced tongue. `Oh god,' he gasped, and Jamie laughed again, even with his face buried in his arse. Oh god, oh god, oh god. One of Vardy's hands found the mask where it wrinkled at his chin and pulled it back up, completing the treatment -- now he was breathing in the rimjob king's musky crotch even as his crack was licked and kissed and slobbered over. He shook and fidgeted and was conscious of the way the cubicle wall creaked -- if anyone came wandering this way, then they would know something was going on!
Vardy,' he cried, resting his face between his tight arms, oh Vards, maaaate...'
Vardy didn't stop to answer or gloat or tease, he just busied himself. His tongue pushed and played against his virgin hole and his hands squeezed and slapped at his buttocks, then moved around to toy with his balls, not daring to touch his cock in case it went off like a pistol. Then they scrabbled under the front of his tshirt and scratched at the bottom of his six-pack. Oh god. His hips were pulled back a bit more, bending his body more, so he tried to respond, pushing back and lifting his rear, and delighting Jamie with this acceptance: the tonguing of his crack and hole became all the more ferocious. It seemed to go on forever and also end in an instant.
He wanted to reach down and handle his dick but he knew he'd cum instantly if he did, as if a pause' button had been hit in the disabled room earlier, and he was ready to spew his load as soon as he had Jamie's permission. So he resisted, his thick young prick just jutting ahead of him, the tip an angry red. His hands remained flat on the wall with his elbows, his breathing laboured and his eyes almost watering with frustrated pleasure. FUCK,' he wailed, and it was a good job that the Nike mask did muffle his throaty voice.
When it stopped, he was shaking, clenching his buttocks together and feeling the slick wetness between them. He turned his head over his shoulder and found Vardy standing behind him, grinning wickedly, licking his lips. He nodded downwards and the young winger instantly complied -- what else could he do? He slid compliantly down, using the shaky barrier to support himself -- as he neared the floor he remembered the knee injury and he had to struggle to find a comfy position, stretching out that leg rather than resting on it. Jamie reached down to help him, the same hands that had slapped and grasped his arse handling his limbs with quiet care. But then, once Harvey was squatted as comfortably as the space allowed, the shorts and briefs were down about Jamie's knees, and his sweaty hard cock was out in his face, the tip already drooling.
Harvey had been so out of his own control when he gave his first noshing to Villa's Matty Cash, lost in the testosterone madness of their little fight. Here, he paused, staring up with wide eyes at the more experienced guy. A totally different Jamie was whispering to him, `Go on sexy, give it a lick for me?' And so he did, pushing out his tongue and running it against his member, then opening his lips and taking it in properly, but slowly, carefully. He kept expecting fierceness and aggression, but Jamie let him go slow, and stroked his reddish hair, gasping very quietly and telling him over and over that he was the sexiest ginger cub in the world.
Then Vardy began to wank himself, but keeping the engorged tip of his rod inside Harvey's slathered lips. Barnes sat there like a begging pup, rubbing at the tight calf and thigh muscles of his striker's legs, staring at the harder ripped physique of his tummy and chest and arms, the mad pleasure of his face. And then he brought one hand down to his own cock and finally touched it, knowing it would not take long. He wanked himself as, open-mouthed and patient, he awaited Vardy's load.
Good lad,' Jamie groaned. Good fucking lad. Mmmmmm.'
It came as a hot salty rush, spilling against his lips, too much. He gasped and pulled back, the first burst of Jamie's seed welling in his mouth and against his tongue, the rest splashing messily on his chin. He kept his eyes wide open, staring into Jamie's. Fuck yes,' hissed the older lad. Fuccccck.'
Harvey slumped back, gasping. He couldn't actually get himself up. His sore knee felt terrible. This position was not so good after all. He clutched at the porcelain of the toilet in one hand and at Jamie's calf with the other. Cum oozed stickily about his mouth like a messy dessert. Slowly, Leicester's unofficial leader knelt down beside him, and brought his face in close. The kiss took him by surprise, all the more for the spunky mess of his mouth, and he could do nothing but reciprocate, pulling sticky lips against Jamie's and letting that dominant tongue bully his own. It didn't last long, but it made him shudder and whimper when it broke. Then Vardy was helping him up, cuddling their bodies together, stroking his arse cheeks and -- in one of those weird moments of tenderness -- ripping off a snatch of toilet roll and using it to clean his lips and chin, laughing as he did. `Good lad,' he repeated affectionately.
Harvey just nodded dumbly, still feeling the dampness between his cheeks. `That was mad,' was the most he could muster as praise, gratitude or flirtation.
`It was great,' Jamie told him, and the words were embarrassingly reassuring. Jamie pulled his boxers and then his sweatpants up for him, giving both his bulge and his arse good squeezes as he did, then kissing him a second time, a little less fiercely. He yanked up his twanging briefs and baggy shorts, and held him around the waist loosely, letting both of their crazed breathing settle and stabilise.
`I gotta go shower, lad.'
`I know. That's okay.'
`And then I do gotta go home. Be Daddy.'
`I know. Yeah. Um.'
`You'll stop being a nervous little bitch around me now, will ya?'
`I... I... um. Sorry. I... this is just... Jamie, I...'
`Shush. You fucking stud. Just shut up and be pretty. Get that leg mended. I miss ya.' And the hug was over, the door unlatched. Jamie skittering away, his bare upper body gleaming with sweat. He looked over his shoulder before abandoning Harvey hear, almost sprinting back to join the others in the showers and wash himself down. Alone, Harvey lifted the mask over his mouth, kissed it, then tugged it back off and clutched it awkwardly in his hand, still labouring his breaths and feeling like he could pass out any minute.
He edged slowly back through to the main part of the changing rooms, invisible' once more on the edge of the action -- men were already spilling from the showers in their towels, but sweaty Vardy was bulldozing between them, dropping his shorts and then tossing his briefs aside, briefly baring his lean buttocks to the room before disappearing carelessly into the steam, shouting out 5 fucking nil!' over and over. And Barnes just picked his way around the edges of it, fetching his jacket and crutch, and slipping silently away, needing air and isolation, needing a taxi home and recovery.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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