premiership-lads-59

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 59: League Cup Legends Part fifty-nine: League Cup Legends When the final whistle blew, John Stones felt his chest almost implode with excitement and relief: that was it, the League Cup was theirs. He slowed mid-run, turned wildly to the nearest players, and shook both arms victoriously to the sky as the reality struck. A third consecutive win of this tournament for Manchester City, fucking incredible. The tall northerner slowed, kissed his praying hands and shook a fist up at the roaring fans in their stands, their journey down to Wembley made worthwhile after all. As one mass, the City players were piling towards the halfway line and their dugout, where Pep Guardiola was striding out to meet them, utterly jubilant. Stones, who hadn't made it onto the pitch for a few games now, hurried to catch up with the celebrating mob, whilst the stadium roared about them, and the reverberating loudspeaker voice overhead proclaimed their win and their title. To be part of this again, well it just felt... Fuck yes! Suddenly, he felt an arm grabbing at him from the side and a yell of triumph, as midfielder Kevin De Bruyne grasped him in a cuddle and yelled into his ear: `Oh yes, oh yes! Fucking champions, haha...' And then the Belgian slipped into Flemish and cried out some vague roar to the supporters, brushing John aside and dashing forward, red-faced and his gingery-blond hair spiked with sweat. John felt the childish big grin spread across his own big mouth and he congratulated himself silent on a strong 90 minutes of defence. Around him, he could see the defeat on the faces of the Villa players: their captain, Jack Grealish, was stood not far to his left, hands on his hips, his young face a picture of pure misery right there, his floppy hair ruffled and mud streaked up his strong legs. John was about to veer his way to offer a consoling handshake to the young lad, who he had a tremendous amount of respect for, but he decided the moment was wrong: poor skipper looked about to burst into tears. Onwards he went, and ahead of him, some flares and sparklers were being set up in victory for them all. And then he was falling into stride with the man he had spent most of the match alongside, his fellow warrior in the line-up's right-back defence, his closest pal on the City squad, until this recent... wobble. Panting and heaving, the big defender turned and looked his way as they neared each other at the back of the triumphant bunch of lads, all yelling and clambering on top of each other, Pep at the centre of the huddle... `Well done, lad,' huffed Kyle Walker at him, and a big grin lit the Sheffield bloke's face then. John reached over, grabbed his shoulder, and beamed back at him. `And to you, pal,' he panted, `we were strong out there, weren't we? Nowt gets past us, hah...' He squeezed the firm muscle of the other guy's shoulder, their eyes meeting for a second, and he laughed happily to be so relaxed and confident together, side by side. A couple of the others, young Zinchenko and their goalkeeper, Bravo, bustled past them and pushed them apart for a moment, and then they laughed and pulled closer, John throwing a long arm about Kyle's shoulders. More flares and streamers went off ahead and pale blue smoke streamed past them on the scene of victory. `Nobody I'd rather be fucking winning with,' John grunted. `Aye,' Kyle agreed, giving him an intense look, `fucking winners mate, ain't we? Yes!' With that, Walker pushed ahead, throwing himself in the thick of it, and Stones followed, laughing. Only twenty-four hours ago, he would have struggled to imagine any closeness back between them, or such good teamwork to be possible once more in their corner of the pitch... In fact, he wouldn't even have expected to be back ON the pitch, increasingly convinced that Guardiola had given up on him completely. And here he was, right in the midst of the win, being grabbed left, right and centre by the lads... Fucking yes, what a legendary Sunday evening this was! He had woken that day from a fretful sleep, unsure why he had even been brought along on the Wembley visit, since all he'd heard in training all week had been harsh criticism, and accusations he was getting lazy. Even a seat on the bench at today's final was a vague surprise to him after that, and after several recent snubs: he'd been worried about his status at City even before a warning and a fine for fucking a prostitute the night before a game, and now he was pretty sure Pep would be rushing to sell him in the summer window. And what made this recent stress worse, of course, was the fact his best mate didn't seem to want to say a fucking word to him... This sad fact was the third or fourth thought in his head as he woke up in the comfortable hotel bed, the music from his roommate's phone buzzing away in the background as he slowly adjusted to consciousness and processed the potentially challenging day ahead. The 25-year-old rolled over in bed, pulling the covers down a little bit over his smooth chest to cool down, and glanced towards where Phil Foden was sat cross-legged on his bed, sleepily scrolling through some social media on his phone. He'd been a bit surprised when he'd been roomed with the youngster, after Pep's rant at he and Kyle for leading him astray that night, but here they were. Phil was a canny lad, really, and he felt guilty at having ever gotten him into trouble: there was a rumour amongst the lads that Foden had been roomed with one of the senior coaches the past couple of away trips, because Guardiola didn't trust him with bad influences on the squad. John hadn't dared to actually ask the 19-year-old about this last night, and he certainly wouldn't be this morning. `Mornin',' Stones yawned from his comfy position. Phil looked up and gave him a weak smile. There was something very anxious about the Stockport kid, John thought, and he tried to figure out if that was just normal for the wiry youth, or if he'd been different since their scandalous night with the expensive hooker. `You reckon either of us will kick a ball at Wembley today, lad?' John asked with a tone of forced cheer. `You've been killing it in training this week, mate,' he added encouragingly. Phil looked his way again, pensive. `Have I?' he asked vaguely. `I've been trying real hard. Feels ages since I got out there in a proper game.' `Well, you're still Golden Boy,' Stones sighed. `I'm sure Pep will be bringing his fave secret weapon out to help smash Villa, don't you worry. Not a middle-aged has been like me yet... haha...' `God, you're twenty five!' protested Phil, and they both laughed. `You think you're still in trouble about... well, you know... That night?' Neither of them had brought it up last night coming up to bed, and John was a bit surprised that the topic was here now. He could see a guilty, shifty look on Phil's smooth young face, and so he smiled reassuringly as he sat up in bed. `Old news, kid,' he said, half-lying. `Things move fast about here. I'm sorry we... well. I'm sorry we ruined your rep for a bit. But like I said... Golden Boy. Guardi's hardly gonna hold it against ya, Phil. He loves ya.' Foden just screwed up his face at that comment and wriggled off the bed, seeming irritated. `I'm pretty sure I'm not top of anyone's list at the minute,' he muttered darkly. `I think he is pretty pissed off with me to be honest.' There was a really thoughtful, faraway look on the teen's face, but John forced a laugh and climbed out of bed in just his baggy boxer shorts, stepping over to give the lad a rub on the shoulder. `Hey,' he said, looming over his much shorter young roommate, `don't be worrying, lad. I'm sure you're exaggerating that. It were Kyle and me he was really fuming at, that was obvious. And Walker still gets out there on the pitch every fucking game, so...! Don't worry, yeh?' `Yeh,' Phil said uncertainly. `I'm gonna shower, okay.' He brushed John's hand away a little uncomfortably, just in his vest and shorts, and disappeared off into the bathroom. Stones stretched and flexed his bare body and wandered to the window to take in the view of the city, not giving much thought to the youngster's worries and unease: everyone knew how highly Pep rated little Foden, it was hardly a secret. Foden was the club's fucking future, a total prodigy. Not like me, Stones thought sadly, wondering if this really would be his last season in Manchester. Breakfast had been delayed by a team talk and the reveal of the starting line-up for the day. John had sat down the side of the meeting table nursing a cappuccino, squashed in between Aguero and Fernandinho, completely flabbergasted when he saw his own name in the right-back quadrant, not on the bench or missed off completely. He almost spluttered milky foam from the top of his morning coffee, prompting laughter from the blokes either side of him, he grabbed and patted affectionately at him and muttered their congratulations at his little comeback, in such a big game. He tried to look less gormless and shocked and sat up attentively as the Spanish manager continued with his lengthy exposition of tactics and strategy for the game, brimming with ferocious confidence. But he found Pep's energetic speeches difficult to follow, totally thrown that he had a starting position in this cup final after weeks in the side-lines. Perhaps, as he'd try to tell Foden this morning in their shared room, that stupid scandal with the prostitute really was `old news'? There was only one problem, and this too kept flashing across his mind as he sat there, trying to listen to descriptions of set-pieces and priorities, and some analysis their assistant manager was presenting to them about Villa's current weaknesses (of which there was quite a list, gladly): the other right-back was Kyle Walker's position as always, and once more the two mates would be side by side for as long as they got to play. Still, they barely needed to speak to play well together, so longstanding was their relationship on the field, but... He found himself glancing across the table to where Walker was sitting, arms folded and a rugged look of determination on his face, nodding along with everything the assistant manager said. It occurred to Stones that he should try and speak to Walker, clear the air, make sure things were good for the game, but... He'd tried, he really had. But since that stormy afternoon, there had been a distance between them that was new and uncomfortable. It bothered John mersin escort (http://www.mersinescortgirls.com/) deeply, because he hardly felt like he'd done anything wrong. He couldn't get his head around what the fuck had gone, but he knew HE hadn't started it, so... His stomach turned at the thought of it: not what had happened, as such (he was totally suppressing THAT part of the memory), but the unfairness of it, and how genuinely shit his football life was without his mate's banter and support at the heart of it. Maybe being sold off in summer wouldn't be the worst thing, if this went on! After the team talk, he decided to be a little political, and made sure he caught Guardiola on the way into the breakfast buffet. `Gaffer,' he said quietly, jogging up beside him in the passage between the two spacious ground floor spaces, `can I just...?' Pep, who actually looked quite wearied and uncomfortable, now the big charismatic performance of his talks was over, turned and gave him a wary look. `John,' he said in his lisping accent, `what is it? Never come between a man and his breakfast, eh? You no have that expression in English?' John gave a socially awkward little chuckle and dug his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit, drooping his posture a little to feel less awkwardly tall beside the manager. `I just wanted to say thanks, boss,' he mumbled. `Great to see my name on there, especially today. I-` Pep just frowned his dark brows dismissively. `You make sense out there,' he snapped, `and you work very well with Signor Walker, when needed. It is a smart move for me.' He looked almost irritated to be thanked, and John was quickly regretting this sycophantic little move that had seemed such a good idea one minute ago. `Well, yes,' he said slowly, and watched Pep watch the others stream ahead and get started on breakfast. `I just thought...' A long pause, which seemed to irritate his superior more. `I'm glad I'm getting a chance, after that mess the other month, sir,' he said more hurriedly. `I'm glad you still have faith in me and my stupid antics haven't...' Pep groaned and waved a hand at him, even more frustrated and dismissive. `John,' he said with a strangely firm voice, `we all make mistakes in the heat of the night! Show me a man who has no done silly things on a night of pressure!' There was something fierce and regretful in the older man's voice that almost intrigued Stones, but he was too conscious of how much he seemed to be irking the legendary coach to give it much thought or ask any questions. He just gave him a grateful, respectful nod, and gestured ahead into the breakfast canteen, letting Guardiola get on with his morning. John sighed in relief, reminded himself not to be such a goofy dimwit next time, and made his way in to find a seat himself. Minutes later with a tray of cereal and toast, he found a space next to his roomie, Phil Foden, and gave the younger lad a heavy nudge in the arm. `Hey, as if we're both making a start,' he chuckled to him, thinking of their gloomy early morning chat and forced reassurances to one another. `Great stuff, eh? This is gonna be quite a game, pal.' Phil turned and gave him a strange look, something strained and uncertain in his body language still. `Yeh,' he agreed. He looked over the room, towards the central table, where Pep Guardiola was sitting down next to his coaching team to eat. `Just want to prove him right now,' Foden said quietly. `It's a lot of pressure.' John watched the thoughtful expression on the teen's face as he chewed his food. `You'll do great,' he told him. Phil gave him a more convincing grin, and opened up. `You know it wasn't long ago I was watching this team win its first title,' he said. `I was 11, a ball-boy, and Aguero was leading City to its first victory. 2012. Can you believe that?' John looked at him, grinned, and let out a laugh of fake annoyance. `Oh fuck off, stop making me feel old! You little bastard...' And he reached over and ruffled the kid's short hair, then turned back to his breakfast with enthusiasm. It had been shortly after that, when he was back upstairs in their room, though alone, that the knock had the door came and he opened it to find Kyle Walker there looking shifty and apprehensive. John stood there holding the door open, staring at the other lad in the same head-to-toe Man City merch as himself, taking a while to know what to say. Each of them shifted from one foot to the other and took their time easing into what might be a problematic conversation. `Er, come in.' `Sure. Phil about?' `Nah, nah... he wanted to try and catch Pep, I think.' `Oh, right.' `You know... fuckin' Golden Boy. Hah.' `Yeh.' `Sucking up as usual.' `Right.' `Mind... did the same myself, to be honest... Was such a shock to make the team. I-` `John,' Walker said in a gruff bark. `Shut up. Can we just talk?' Stones had fallen quiet at that point, backing through the room and sitting on the edge of his bed, and watching Kyle pace about a bit before sitting his arse against the dresser in the corner, and fiddling his big hands anxiously against the front zip of his black tracksuit top. He had been so adamant in his sad thoughts that he couldn't face trying to make up with Kyle again that it had never occurred to him that it might happen the other way... `John, mate,' Walker began then, but fell quiet again straight away, huffing out a sigh and bringing his hands up to rub against his stubbled jawline. `Fuck,' was all he could find to say next. `Are we okay, lad?' John asked quietly, eyeing the older footballer from where he sat. `I dunno. Are we?!' John paused, trying to put aside his annoyance and resentment at a fortnight or so of the cold shoulder from his usually close accomplice. `What happened...' He saw Kyle glance away and shift his posture. `It were just... some daft thing. It doesn't need to ruin a good friendship.' He realised how low and mumbling his voice, how difficult this much-rehearsed chat was to actually have. `I just wish you hadn't been so fucking off with me ever since,' he admitted, letting out his irritation. `I know,' Kyle sighed. `I'm fuckin' sorry, mate. I just...' He grunted and bit his nails for a moment. `I was embarrassed at what I did,' he confessed in a low voice, his eyes making shifty moves to the door, as if expecting Foden to interrupt them at any second. `I mean, I ain't ever...' There was something pleading and desperate in his voice and expression that almost pushed Stones to laugh: well, obviously! He was hardly expecting Kyle to say it was something he regularly got up to in his car on wet days, so... `And me neither,' he put in rapidly, before Walker assumed otherwise. `It were just...' `Daft messing,' Kyle finished in a strained voice. `Too much energy, and...' `We were confused and tense,' Stones added helpfully. `Aye.' They went quiet again, not quite looking at each other. `I can't play out there today thinking there's some awkwardness between us,' Kyle said eventually, getting up from where he leant and approaching the bed. He stuck out one big rough hand towards Stones. `Can we just... make up, buddy? I've missed ya.' John gladly grasped the hand and grinned at his absent friend. `Well, it's been nice having a break from your bullshit, but... ha ha.' He got up to his feet, squeezed Walker's hand, and shook it firmly. `Mate, forget all that shit. It were nothing. Let's just focus on sorting out Villa and getting this win in the bag. We'll have that right-back locked down, brother.' Kyle smiled confidently back at him. `We fucking will.' `And that shit,' John said, wanting to drop it, but needing to push the issue between them fully away, needing to know things were okay before they played together, `well just... let's never bring it up. It'll never fucking happen again, after all! Total ridiculous one-off...!' `Aye, aye,' Kyle readily agreed. `Never!' They both laughed, and hugged, and braced themselves for the day's League Cup battles. That was then, and this was now. On the way indoors from the trophy presentations, the mood amongst the City players was fucking ecstatic. The Villa manager and one or two players were stood at the entrance to the opposition's changing rooms, but not a single member of Guardiola's side felt an ounce of guilt or humility in their wild celebrations as they spilled down the tunnel and off to the right into their own dressing rooms and showers. Amongst the throng of Man City players, John strode along, side by side with Kyle. They both had City tracksuits pulled on over their taut dark shirts from the game, legs still bare beneath their black shorts, boots pulled off and long footy socks bunching up about their loosened shin-pads. For a moment, surrounded by songs and yells and frantic conversation, the two close mates looked at each other, their eyes meeting with a strange simpatico, and they walked quietly on, somehow unable to quite throw themselves into the communal clamour of their teammates. Ahead of them, Sergio Aguero was leaping and bounding in through the changing room doors like some sort of electrified imp, full of his own brilliance as usual after a goal. But he was celebrating Foden for the assist too, grabbing at the wiry little youngster as they dashed in, singing and yelling. Just ahead of them, the manager himself was greeting them and lofting the gleaming cup in both hands, ready to lead the celebrations. Walker stopped moving just short of the entrance, squaring his big shoulders and wearing an odd look on his face. The resolute frown on his rugged features was clearly at odd with the beaming smiles and excited expressions of almost everybody there, and John found himself looking intently across at it as he too slowed to a halt. The last few players and the assistant manager filed hurriedly past them without question, all keen to get into the changing rooms and really enjoy the moment. After a moment, this left the two right-backs out in the corridor alone. Across the way, the last of the Villa figures had disappeared into their quarters too, and out here, in the white-lit tunnel, it was deserted, and silent but for the vague echoes drifting in from the pitch: the distant sounds of departing crowds, and music blasting somewhere on speakers, easing the jubilant City supporters out into the night, the Villa ones having already hurried ahead to catch their trains. Kyle and John looked at one another, knowing they needed to follow their mates into the changing rooms. John lifted a hand escort mersin (http://www.mersinescortgirls.com/) to rub his chin, and then pull roughly at the sweaty mess of his fringe, a nervous laugh escaping his lips before he leant over and gently punched his pal in the arm. `What's that look for, big man?' he asked, but he kinda knew. `Nowt,' Kyle said back, and they both laughed. Just through the open doorway, the City lads were bursting into a rendition of an Oasis song, and laughter peeled out around the corner to meet these two lingering players, separated from the main group and, perhaps, already forgotten by the others, caught up in their moments of self-absorbed glory. `I might go for a piss first,' Walker said, kicking his socked heels off the ground and pulling his hands out of the pockets of his tracky top, rolling his shoulders a little and glancing off up the corridor, where a variety of other doors broke off this iconic tunnel. There were toilets in the changing rooms, of course, as well as the showers too. John stared at his mate, the adrenaline and endorphin rush of the victory still burning through every cell of his body. `Yeh, you mind if I join you?' he asked, loading his question with hesitant meaning. Kyle jerked his head in a slight nod and backed off. John followed. They moved quickly away from the changing rooms entrance, and padded off down the corridor instead, leaving the roars of laughter and song behind and heading towards a door a little further down the right. Outside the door to these unisex separate loos, Kyle paused, his fingers on the handle, shooting an intense look back at John, who trembled. For a second, the 25-year-old lanky defender was back in his mate's swish car in the stormy car park: he could see the same restless look in Kyle's wide eyes, and feel the same responsive tension throughout his 6'2 frame. `We can celebrate with them in a bit,' Stones said aloud, his voice a little bit shaky with a mix of excitement and uncertainty. `Aye,' Kyle agreed, his voice husky and low. `I just need to... release, first...' He struggled out these words but his expression was more set and confident, the forceful man that he always was. He tightened his grip on the door handle and reached his other hand out to slip his fingers in with John's, pulling gently but firmly on him by the hand as he began pulling the door open. Moving through into the bathroom space, John's mouth fell open and he stared in surprise at what he saw against the far wall, between the sinks and the cubicles. He might have recognised both guys instantly anyway, but their names were plastered across the backs of their Villa shirts anyway: `MINGS', `GREALISH'. The taller black lad had his young captain pressed up to the wall, one hand on his neck, and the other pushed in against his bared bottom, a finger between those firm, plump cheeks; and both lads were craning their necks and looking towards the door with expressions of guilty alarm. Stones just stared, completely floored by the discovery. By his side, pulling their fingers discreetly apart, Walker seemed to recover himself and decide his response much more rapidly: `Well, well, well!' he cooed in a singsong voice. `What exactly do we have here?' And he let out a rough, mocking laugh before taking a couple of steps forward, just as Tyrone Mings and Jack Grealish sprang clumsily apart. John stared from his laughing, smug teammate to the panicked faces of the two Villa lads in front of them. `Fuck,' burst out Mings in a daze, `fuck, this isn't what it-` Kyle just kept laughing, and started towards them, crossing the narrow space of the bathroom. John followed. Tyrone was pushing back against the sinks, holding his hands up defensively as if about to be attacked; Jack was pulling up on his shorts and almost slipping over clumsily as he whirled about. But Kyle moved towards him, pushed a hand against his back, and shoved him to the wall ? then, turning to leer at first Mings and then Stones, he grabbed the lad's backside in one hand and gave it a good squeeze. `Well, it is a good arse,' he announced to the room, while Jack yelped in uncertain protest against him. John turned beady eyes and watched his rough mate properly grope that bare arse cheek and pin Grealish to the wall. John then looked to Tyrone, who was staring in horror at this, then looking his way. He tried to look broody and threatening like Walker, following his lead, but mostly just desperate to cover his awkward excitement at what he and his own teammate had been possibly sneaking in here for... `We were just...' Mings began to try and explain again, but he didn't seem to have anything to say. `What shall we do with these two, eh?' came Walker's voice, and then a fleshy thwack as he spanked Jack on the backside and released his body once more. `Two Villa losers caught getting dirty in the restrooms... god, imagine the headlines!' `Oi,' grumbled Grealish loudly, `don't fuckin' start, Walker, or...' `He wouldn't dare,' snapped Mings firmly. `We weren't even...' `We saw what we saw,' Stones put in grimly, tensing up for a fight. `Yeah, we did,' Walker agreed viciously. `Two dirty fuckers. Right, you can buy your silence by getting on your knees.' He cracked his knuckles. `Just so happens Stones and me are a bit fuckin' horny, you know? It's all the winning, y'see...' John tried to hide his own shock at this ambiguous threat, and he looked from Kyle's sleazy expression to Jack and Tyrone's puzzled expressions. `You're gonna suck us off, you fuckin' losers,' Kyle boomed, getting carried away. `Eh, John lad, which one do you want?' `Suck you off?' snapped Tyrone. `What the fuck? I ain't staying here to listen to this shit.' `Fine,' Kyle grunted at him. `Go. We'll just text the story to the Sun before you're even showered. Inside sources at Villa, haha. Just you wait.' `Ty,' muttered Grealish, `I don't think he's kidding...' `Of course I ain't kidding!' With a sneer, the City defender grabbed the front of his shorts aggressively, and puffed up his muscular chest. `We won the Cup, didn't we? You're the losers. And we caught you here. We own you, lads. Eh, Johnboy ? who you having?!' Stones blinked and flashed his eyes from man to man. He was excited and emboldened by Kyle's sexually aggressive body language, and thrilled by the sight of these two Villa players, sweaty and stressed and interrupted in the middle of god knows what, so... He tried not to overthink this and let his adrenalin-fuelled excitement lead him on. `Jack,' he said rapidly. `I'll take Jack.' He gestured at the nearest of the cubicles. `Get in there, Captain!' `What the fuck?' continued Mings defiantly. `We aren't just gonna... This is fucked up, Walker, this is bullshit...' `Mate,' urged Jack's tense voice. `Better this than... Fuck, what would people say?' His eyes were wild with panic. He was heading for the cubicle already, shooting a nervous glance John's way. `Just fucking do it,' he barked at his teammate, and John went to follow him. `Come on, lanky,' Kyle was barking at Tyrone then. John moved over in a dizzy spell, stumbling with Grealish into the first of the toilet cubicles and slamming the door shut after him; instantly, he heard heavy steps and the same metallic clatter as the next cubicle door slammed seconds after it. The cubicle was narrow and John Stones was a tall, well-built Burnley lad: he loomed over Grealish and filled the space, and he briefly studied the goateed face of the Villa hero in front of him, a year younger and a good four or five inches shorter. They stood there, bodies close in their cup final kits, chests rising and falling, breaths hot and rapid. `Come on,' came Kyle Walker's voice from the next cubicle, `if you can put yer finger up a lad's arse, you can grab my fucking cock, can't you...?' In front of John, Jack began to sink to his knees. John reached forward, pulled his firm fingers through the long flop of Jack's silly hairdo, tugging it out of his eyes and brow and gently holding that warm head as it settled at crotch height. With his other hand, he tugged his top up a bit, exposing the lower rungs of his six-pack, and holding his breath intensely. He watched as Jack's thumbs pulled down a bit on the front of his black shorts, baring the grey-white briefs beneath, and then tugged on them too, until a fat flaccid dick was flopping out into the Villa lad's face. John was silent, gripped with pure adrenalin, shocked at the calm resolution on Grealish's handsome face now, and... ohhhh, those lips brushing his bell-end, the faint tickle of that wispy beard on his shaft... ohhhh... `That's it,' Walker was telling Mings, `really pull on it, you twat...' `I've never sucked before,' the Villa defender was mumbling, `I don't even know how...' `You'll figure it out, big lad.' Stones pulled his fingers through that slick wet hair and gripped it a bit more firmly, guiding Jack's face right into the sweaty intimacy of his crotch now, feeling those lips part uncertainly to take in the end of his member. `Oh,' he breathed, `oh shit...' He pressed his upper back and shoulders back against the dividing wall, and the plyboard strained against his weight. He reached his other hand to the locked door to support himself properly, tingling with strange pleasure as Jack's nervous tongue brushed and stroked his slowly waking member. `Yeh, that's it,' Kyle was grunting, `now get on yer knees...' `But I'm not gay... I don't want to-` `You're a fucking loser, you owe us this!' `Fuck, fuck...' Suddenly, the clattering of a door, frantic footsteps. John tensed up, but Jack didn't stop licking his prick. He heard what sounded like Mings tumbling out of the other cubicle, the swing of a door, the angry sigh of Kyle. John reached for the lock, slid the bolt across, let the door swing open a few inches so he could see the other two. `I can't do it!' Mings shouted, and then seeing Jack on his knees through the crack in the door, he let out a dismayed groan. `Fucking wuss,' Kyle almost shouted. `Hey, Johnboy, you picked well, look at him go...' Stones gritted his teeth. `Kyle,' he barked, `you can't just MAKE him... fuck...' He stroked at Jack's hair and felt the tongue find its way around the tip of his semi. `Tyrone ? you just... mmm ? go watch ? the ? door! Kyle... get in here...' He barely knew what he was saying, but it made the most sense. `No... Jack...' Grealish pulled his head back and grimly licked his lips. `Go do it,' was all he said. `I'm... fine.' Mings mersin escort bayan (http://www.mersinescortgirls.com/) vanished from sight, and Kyle moved ? in seconds, he was bundling into the cubicle with them, the space that had felt restrictive with two big strong men in it, now a sardines tun with three sweaty bodies pressing in. Kyle pulled the cubicle shut behind him while Mings groaned miserably again outside, and the three of them released their panting breaths in the shared space. Jack had stayed on his knees, his eyes flitting up between them, his tongue lolling and then returning experimentally to the thick, swelling length between Stones' legs. `God, look at the little slut,' hissed Walker. `He's good with his tongue,' murmured Stones. Jack said nothing, he just lapped his bottom lip around the tip and took John's meat into his wide little mouth, pressing his nose into the short bush of pubes and sucking on the growing semi in front of him. John pressed back against the plywood and let out a long shivering moan. Kyle, envious and aroused, started pushing his own briefs down and tugging his dick out, thick and veiny. He pulled on it a couple of times then pushed it against the sweat trickling down Jack's full cheek. `Jack,' called Tyrone's voice, `are you okay in there?!' `He's grand,' Kyle replied instantly, ferociously, `he's fucking loving it...' And by all appearances, John thought, this was true. The Villa captain was beginning to slowly bob his head back and forth, eyes closed, and his left hand was reaching up to take Kyle's meat in hand too, so that he was pleasing two men now, hunkered down in the tight cubicle space, ignoring Mings' panicked voice outside of this claustrophobic bubble. `Oh god,' Stones yelped, his dick nearing full erection, stretching out between Jack's lips, too big and long for the obvious blowjob virgin to take more. He reached down to pull on the base himself, guiding his big shaft into Jack's gob and watching him struggle with shocking eagerness to accommodate it... Next to this, Kyle was pumping his own rigid nob, and pressing its damp tip into Jack's cheek and lips, eager to get in on the sucking. John was reminded of their whore in the hotel room, their clumsy and brief attempt to push two cocks into her rouged lips... god, the filth and taboo of this was so wild, would he last much longer before blowing his load? To forestall that inevitability, he began pulling his big Burnley cock out, and he could see what looked like surprise and disappointment on Grealish's face, but he pulled him by the hair and guided his mouth towards the shorter but thicker tool of his teammate. In an instant, dirty captain Jack was licking at his second cock with equal gusto, and Kyle was brearthing heavy grunts of satisfaction. The two City players met gazes in the cubicle, over Jack's head, and smirked at each other in a kind of jubilant disbelief: two League Cup legends, getting what they deserved... `Jack?' It was Mings again. `I'll go get help if...' `He's fucking fine!' Walker insisted, and then ? `In fact, why don't you just... join us...' The brutish defender shoved at John then, thrusting him down the narrow space so he fell into sitting position on the closed toilet, creating space; Kyle slid down to the centre of the space with Jack still sucking on his thick meat, and he shoved the door back open again. In a second, Tyrone was in with them, and the space felt even more ridiculous, bursting with male muscle and football kit. Mings, the tallest of them, his head rising above the cubicle divides by an inch or so, stared down. It was obvious how shocked he was to see his captain on his knees like this, but more shocked that Jack was working with such relish, slurping his tongue about the veiny shaft of Kyle's cock now, and reaching his other hand to wank off John's own huge member, which was straining and pink at the tip. John looked from lad to lad to lad, sensing Mings' indecision to join in. But the outline of his cock was increasingly prominent in the white of his Villa shorts: whatever he'd been up to with Grealish in here before, fingering his arsehole, he was giving in to excitement. A sizeable tent was appearing in those white shorts as, on the cubicle floor, Grealish continued to suck and tug and gasp. `Go on then you little slut,' moaned Walker dirtily, `nosh on your fucking loser teammate too...' Out came the thin long brown shaft of Tyrone's proportionate cock, and over went Jack's head, sliding on his knees and using Kyle's thick thighs for support as he did so, putting lips to his teammate's bell-end and eliciting gasps and whimpers of surprised enjoyment from the Somerset giant. If anyone else entered the bathroom now, they were all screwed: the door and sides of the cubicle strained and creaked against the bodies of four grown men, and the noises they were all helplessly emitting would be audible from the door. And still, on they went. After a few more minutes on Tyrone, Jack turned again, and gave a couple of good licks at Kyle, but came back where he had begun, dropping his head onto the lap of John's black shorts and reaching tongue and lips for the biggest cock in the cubicle. John sat there on the toilet lid, reaching one hand into Jack's thick hair, and letting the other one slide out to stroke the back of Kyle's shorts, finding the curve of his strong buttock with his fingertips. Behind Jack's head, Kyle was pushing his cock into Tyrone's hand and returning the favour, so the two big darker lads were wanking each other furiously even as Grealish bobbed up and down on Burnley sausage. Stones began to push up with his crotch, pressing his back into the cistern and stretching his long legs out so his calves brushed those of Walker's legs. He pressed his hand firmly down on Jack's head and forced more of his lengthy prick into that hungry mouth, whilst his other hand squeezed and pressed at one meaty buttock in Kyle's shorts, feeling it tense as the big lad was tossed off by shaky, wild-eyed Tyrone. It quickly got too much for Stones: he forgot to give any real indication, no change in his pants or grunts, but in moments he was letting go of his load, spilling his seed into the Brummie slut's throat. `Oh fuckkk,' he let out, `oh god... yes...' Grealish seemed panicked by this new feeling and he jerked his head back, but the result was just that as well as a mouthful of thick northern spunk, he got the last splash of John's load on his pouting lips, making his mouth look a mess as he leant back. John sprawled there on the seat, body heaving, and watched through half-closed eyes as Kyle greedily pulled Jack back onto his dick, whilst continuing to jerk off Mings. John watched in a satisfied daze as his brutish mate followed what he had begun: Kyle's orgasm was noisy and violent, seeming to shake the plywood behind his frame and to really fuck that pouting face as he spilled his seed over Jack's tongue and lips. And then it was Tyrone's turn, and the big lanky defender was throwing his head back and holding Jack's face to his crotch, and letting out the longest and deepest moan of them all. Nobody spoke in the seedy afterglow, just loud gasps and grunts and a sort of wheezy gurgle from Jack, on his knees with his mouth covered in their juices, staring up from one bloke to another and then collapsing his weight against the other side of the cubicle, cum dribbling off his chin. Mings moved first. He unbolted the cubicle door and, before backing out into open space, reached down to take Jack's arms, pulling on the pale blue sleeves of his under-shirt, helping him up until both Villa men were staggering out. Kyle followed them, cock swinging as he walked and spilling flecks of cum to the toilet floor. Exhausted, John slowly clambered off the loo and onto his feet, and stood in the thin doorway, marvelling that four of them had even fitted in here. He watched Tyrone help Jack up to the sinks, seeing the genuine concern on the bigger guy's face ? certainly, Grealish looked dazed and overwhelmed, but his enthusiasm for the oral had been obvious to all. He leaned by the sinks and lifted one sleeve to rub over his dirtied mouth, then let out a wheezy little snigger of... of what? Shame? Amusement? Hysteria? `God, what a good little bitch you've got there, Mings,' Walker said bluntly, stuffing his cock away messily into his briefs. John emerged and leaned against him while catching his breath. He could see the defiant anger on Tyrone at this comment, and see the flush of submissive shame spreading over Jack's face now... Had he really been up for it, or had they cruelly taken advantage? Stones felt a surge of guilt and embarrassment, a questioning of what the fuck had gone on, one he hadn't seemed capable of whilst gripped by lust. `Jack, are you okay?' he asked. `Course he is, look at him. Drunk on our spunk.' `You two are sick,' Mings growled. `Us?' asked Walker. `We both watched you dump your cum in him too. Fucking cunt. Pair of losers, both of you. Come on, John. We've got a Cup to celebrate, for fuck's sake.' And the Yorkshireman was stomping for the door as if nothing had happened. John hesitated, staring open-mouthed at the two Villa lads, and trying to grasp the filthy excitement that had seized him during this intense episode. He looked from scowling Tyrone to dazed, embarrassed Jack, and reassured himself: they had both willingly joined in, he'd seen it. And they were clearly into something kinky even before being interrupted! He shot them a confused last look and dashed after his teammate, spilling out with him into the tunnel and following him several paces before they exchanged a bewildered, what-the-fuck look together. John wanted to express his doubts about what had gone on, say something about how mean and aggressive his mate had been, ask if Grealish was definitely okay... But he could see the wicked smirk on the shorter, stockier defender's face. He searched for the right words to say, his dick aching in his pants, but then suddenly Aguero was bursting at them from the front, grabbing each of their arms and shouting something at them. Behind him, the other City lads were bounding in and out of the changing rooms door, celebrations in full swing. Immediately, the secrecy between Walker and Stones was shattered and they were absorbed into the madness of the full team, lost in its celebrations. John gave one last look down the corridor, and in a fleeting glimpse, saw Mings and Grealish emerging from the bathroom, the tall guy with an arm draped about Jack's shoulders, deep in conversation. But then someone was grabbing Stones by the arm, and dragging him through, and thrusting a beer into his hand. They had a League Cup win to celebrate after all, for the third year in a row.