Part 155: Season Finale
On a football pitch in East London, Aston Villa tumbled away from the action with hugs of delight and relief, crowding around their beloved captain. Jack Grealish's plucky late equaliser had secured their Premiership safety, and the local lad who'd been training under the Birmingham club since he was only six years old. He beamed at each of his teammates and at the nearby cameras, hoping that a certain crucial somebody was out there catching sight of his grin; this win was for them. Twinkling with Premiership safety happiness, the 24-year-old turned back to his teammates and hugged at McGinn and Mings and others, failing to pick up on the distracted scowl of John Terry was he prowled through their midst.
On another pitch at the other end of the English capital, Chelsea were celebrating with almost as much gusto, their 2-0 win over the visitors nudging them into fourth place and guaranteeing a spot in the UEFA Champions League next season again. The players swarmed towards their young inexperienced manager, and Frank Lampard met their excitement with wide hugs and a beaming grin of approval; the Chelsea boss looked tired and a little puffy in the face, but he glowed with relief at this vindication of his first season in charge. Swept up in the middle of the celebrations, Mason Mount eyed him with cautious respect, always excited by memory of what he had experienced with the boss, but nervous of their quietly distant relationship since. Mason was high on the goal he'd scored to nudge Chelsea into the lead, and he was thinking giddily of a certain someone's confidence in him, and how inspiring it had been.
And on another pitch in the centre of the country, another decisive result had contributed to the final picture of the Premiership league table in its own way. It had not, however, gone Leicester City's way, and Jamie Vardy stalked away from the dispersing men with an overwhelming sense of disappointment and grim resignation. He grinned sourly at the irony of the moment, stomping his boots against the grass as he exited the field, making his way down the side-lines as directed by a gaggle of smiling Sky media types.
Most of the Leicester squad were already moping indoors, trudging past a bitter-faced Brendan Rogers and being clapped consolingly on the back; Vardy had to attend to his own `victory' before he could join the other players, and the irony was not lost on him. Here he was, about to be handed the Golden Boot for his solid goal record over the campaign, moments after failing to best Manchester United -- what an irritating honour right now! He was proud of his record this season, and he knew that at 33 he was about to become the oldest recipient of the prize in its history, so there was plenty to enjoy... but to walk away from a goalless match to be handed the gaudy trophy was strangely galling, some trace of mockery beneath the grandeur. He bit by his reluctance and walked on, ready to be greeted by whichever smug-faced Sky reporter was on duty, and...
His eyes settled on a figure to his left, moving across the pitch past him at a deliberately slow swagger, red footy shirt plastered to his long powerful torso. They met eyes across the grass, and Jamie's tight-lipped smile strained and cracked, knowing what today's loss meant, much more personal and specific than the fact Leicester were languishing in fifth place and wouldn't join the big boys in the Champs League again. He grimaced knowingly across at United's tall captain as he stomped on by, holding each other's gaze, sharing knowledge of the sour headaches that lingered for each of them after last night -- and then Maguire veered towards him, cutting off his walk towards the media corner where he would be presented with his Golden Boot.
Harry Maguire had woken in the morning with a head full of thunderstorm and a stomach as delicate as a butterfly. His saving grace was it being a 4pm match that they had travelled to the evening before, meaning it was a fairly slow morning schedule to follow, and he was free to cling to his bed for almost two hours longer than he might have had in other circumstances. Still, even as his roommate Victor Lindelof got up and fussed around the room with bright enthusiasm for the day, Harry had to skulk longer under the sheets, unable to face the room's harsh electric lights or the rapid Swedish of Victor's phone call to family.
On the plus side, he'd been lucky to room with someone as chilled and aloof as his fellow defender, since it had allowed him to sneak out for his cheeky bevvies... Actually, was that a plus side? Fragmented memories of his discreet pints (how many?!) with Vardy circled back to him and he groaned loudly to himself. Somewhere nearby, Lindelof laughed amiably at his suffering and disappeared into the bathroom to shower, leaving Maguire to suffer in peace. He fumbled his phone from the bedside table and rang the most comforting voice he could think of.
Sore head this morning, then?' Luke Shaw's voice teased him down the line instantly. You mad bastard. Cannot believe you were out that late...! Imagine Ole's face if...'
Nobody heard me come back,' Harry grumbled at him, holding the device loosely to his face and pressing his forehead painfully into the cooler side of his pillow. His whole big body seemed to be afire with hungover sweat as he stretched and shuddered on the bed. Don't go on about it.'
I won't,' his secret boyfriend assured him gently, still chuckling a bit. You've got hours to recover, nobody will know. You mad bugger. Just drink LOADS of fluids and... Oh man, the things you were saying on the phone while you marched home from the pub last night...!'
Huh,' grimaced Harry weakly. Like...?'
Oh, the things you were saying about Jamie fucking Vardy and how you were gonna sort him out good and proper when we win,' Shaw laughed lightly, some bet or summat, I dunno, you weren't entirely making sense... I mean, yeah, I can really see Jamie Vardy bending over for that, can you? Bloody hell, Harry... Uh, god, wish I was down there. This fucking ankle!'
Harry took a while to answer, focusing his aching head. `Yeah, wish you were here too, babe. Ugh. Was I really goin' on about that? Sorry... Daft bet he was trying to push last night, he'll have forgotten this morning, load of fuckin' nonsense...' He scowled and shuddered to think of his own drunken competitiveness and his furious agreement with Vardy's proposal. He rubbed at his face and listened to Luke a little longer, struggling to follow his speech but enjoying the soft masculine tone of his voice, genuinely wishing he was here to just to cuddle at and kiss -- and maybe have wait on him hand and foot while he tried to pull himself together.
The match will be fine,' Luke reassured him after a few minutes' one-sided chat. Just hold it all in -- remember, if you make it through the full thing, you're the first United fella in like 25 years or summat to hit it... every minute of every game of the whole season. Good stat.' Maguire just made a vague grunt of agreement, as much chat as he'd mustered to most things Luke had to say to him this morning. `I'll leave you to your misery,' Luke said after a slow pause.
Sorry,' Harry said with pained sincerity. I feel like death. You'll be watching us on your massive telly with the whole family over, right?' He let out a dirty little laugh. `Try not to spring a boner when you watch me ruin every attack Leicester make, okay...?' They both laughed warmly.
Yeah, then ruin their attacker afterwards, apparently,' Shaw teased him, no real hint of the old jealousy in his voice, just a playful enjoyment of the idea. Maguire laughed back at him. If I do,' he promised through a groan, `I'll send you a picture, haha... love ya. Love ya, bye, bye...' He hung up with a few flustered thumb pushes at the screen, just as the bathroom door burst open and his roomie emerged in a swirl of steam, still headache-inducingly cheerful and ready for the day.
Despite joking with Luke, Harry had quickly resolved that all that had been said between he and Jamie the night before was nonsense. He sorely regretted how open he'd been with the Leicester bloke about some (not all) of his own conquests, and he worried about gaps in memory about the conversation. There were certainly incidents in his season of experimenting that he could not afford to share with a fella as shifty and mercurial as Jamie Vardy, that's for sure -- his own younger sibling came briefly to mind, and he frowned guiltily at the thought.
They were arriving at the Walkers Stadium now and his recovery was going fairly well. He'd been sipping on water almost constantly, necked some rehydration salts, and been very carefully selective about his hotel brunch with the other lads. And precious Luke was right, really: he knew his first season at his new club was a mixed bag, early wobbles and recent comebacks, and the stat of playing every minute of it was something to cling to, something to mark his success here, captain already. He was starting the game and he needed to keep up his record of not being injured or substituted away from the action; today, he needed to avoid a hungover vomit in the middle of the first half!
Ugh, what HAD he shared with Jamie last night, then...? He'd been riled by Vardy's boastful and proprietary discussion of Chilwell; Harry didn't feel the kind of mad possessiveness towards his buddy Ben as he often did about Luke, but still, he saw something special in his shared fun and discovery with Chilly, and resented the idea that he had been (temporarily?) Vardy's bitch. Maddison, too -- he'd fucked him good and proper as part of Luke's rural birthday party, but clearly handsome little James had been Jamie's first. And then when he started alluding to his England exploits...! Did Maguire even believe that he'd fucked Raheem Sterling the night before an England friendly two years ago? He couldn't picture it.
Really focusing on his swirling drink-addled memories of last night, Harry couldn't decide what he had or hadn't confessed (boasted, more like) to his old teammate and ally. Today, he was nothing but rueful. These things needed to stay carefully private, he needed to protect his reputation -- and it wasn't just his, was it? He wondered what he might have said about Dier and Winks at Spurs, or about Luke's Dutch buddy... well, on the other hand, he would feel less guilty at `outing' Memphis Depay! The thought of the handsome sculpted Dutch footballer still made him tense and angsty, knowing how special he was to Shaw.
When he decided to seek Vardy out before the late afternoon match, it was this on his mind: the dangers of his loos lips and stoked ego, not the daft bet that had ended their night out. After laughing it out with Luke, he'd more or less forgotten that silly dare.
Away from the company of the other Red Devils, the 26-year-old defender felt more able to express his hangover suffering in hot gasping sighs, plodding down the back corridors of the Leicester stadium and pawing at the tracksuit top he wore, palms still clammy. He still needed a couple of pints of water and a long cooling sit down before he could really face the warm-up and the game. As long as Lindelof kept his mouth shut, he was fairly sure he would get away without anyone being suspicious, but now nobody from the United camp was looking, he could frown and groan and let it out.
He caught Vardy on his way down from some sort of interview, cutting him off in a quiet stairwell on a sliver of luck, avoiding the publicness of mingling too much with the blue team and dwelling on his old connections here. Looking across the passage at the other footballer, he could instantly see that he was not alone in his discomfort and mood. Beneath a twisted smirk, Vardy looked as washed-out and irritable as he did, strutting this way on his route downstairs to join his teammates and start preparing for the coming game.
Well, well,' Jamie cooed in a voice erratic with their hangovers, look who it is...'
Alright,' Harry grunted at him, flinching a little at pangs of pain in his temples. I can see I'm not the only one feeling like microwaved shite.'
Such a poet,' jibed Vardy quietly. Come to beg me to call off the dare, have ya?'
`Huh?'
Knew it,' the striker remarked brashly. Knew you'd have lost sleep over it, haha. Big twat like you, no way you can face bending over and-`
You're assuming you'll win,' the tall defender barked at his ex-teammate and current opposition, surprised by Jamie's immediate tack and provoked by his surly smirk. He threw aside his vague notions of hinting at their shared secrets and trying to establish exactly what Vardy knew about him, reminded of their drunken handshake instead. Bold of ya, really.'
Jamie scoffed lightly. I've just been doing an interview for our website about the Golden Boot,' he boasted in his nasal snarl. I'm not worried about what Manchester's second-best have to offer, am I...?' Though a little dizzy and tired-looking, he grinned confidently this way and rocked on his heels, the sort of playful arsehole antics that Maguire had found endearing and fun when he was on the same side as them.
Bit presumptuous,' he pointed out. Someone could overtake you in the next couple of hours, you smug prick. Golden Boot! At 33... wow, the lads at the care home will be well chuffed for ya, grandpa.' He smirked arrogantly back, not about to settle down and take Vardy's jibes, even in his hungover state. `I was not on my way to call of the bet, but I can tell you're regretting it full-on, mate, so...'
Nah,' Jamie snapped. No way. I'm confident.' He dropped his voice to a mockingly seductive whisper. `I can't wait to get my prize, you smug arse-wipe. Fuck, the amount of times I looked at your big backside in training sessions and thought about it, ye dirty bastard...'
You were checking me out, and I'm the dirty bastard?' Harry returned, planting his hands firmly at his waist and squaring up to him, dominating him in height and stature and glowering patiently down at the ageing superstar. Bet is defo still on, Vards. All I was gonna say is... ah, such a shame two of your best players are out injured, huh...'
I'd say the same,' Vardy quipped, but Luke Shaw ain't such a loss, especially not now fast food restaurants are open again...' Harry's immediate creasing frown provoked a broader happier smile on the bullying forward's face, and they stared silently at each other for a moment. Jamie chuckled a little, pleased at the nerve he'd hit. Oh, the things you were sayin' about him,' he murmured, all sorts of goss last night, you big drunken oaf, so...'
Harry took one step back, giving him a bold look of challenge and bringing his hands together in a single hard clap. `You won't look so pleased with yourself at the end of 90 minutes, Vardy. Oh no. Golden Boot is one thing, you'll have a Red Arsehole before you go home to the missus.'
Vardy squinted back at him and folded his arms. `Bring it on, Reds.'
And now, a couple of hours later, he was looking him in the eye again, both of them wiped out by the full 90 minutes' play on their dehydrated hungover bodies, impressively combating those symptoms to put in a full shift for their opposing sides, nobody watching any the wiser. The difference was, Vardy thought bitterly, Maguire's sluggish hangover play had not made a difference to his side's performance; for Leicester, it had cost them 3 points.
You could have let this go, he told himself angrily. You didn't have to goad him further, push his buttons like that! You could have left the silly dare in the beery puddles of last night's drinking, where it belonged, but no...
`Golden Boot,' Harry grunted at him, chest heaving and arms flexing sorely at his sides. He looked over past them both to the media set-up in the corner, sunshine glinting on the tangible prize in the hands of a suited reporter. Jamie stared at it too, the mocking irony of the prize seeming to increase under Maguire's teasing gaze.
`Yep,' he said coldly.
`Well done.'
`Thanks.'
`What a game.'
`Right.'
The monosyllables burst out in harsh grunts and the men held back a metre or so, eyes fixed on one another, the empty stadium around them becoming emptier; Jamie tried a sneering smile back at the lad that he still remembered mentoring as a young newcomer here at Leicester, now the smug and self-satisfied skipper at a team as big as United. Fuck's sake. Sometimes Vardy wondered why he hadn't spread his wings from the Foxes when he had the chance.
`So,' he said, unsure how to broach the inevitable.
Away showers,' Maguire bluntly. Hang back, take your time. Give it a while then come through. I'll be waiting. I'll be really fuckin' ready.' Jamie stared at him, taking in the arrogance of these instructions, their ostentatious risk and silly pomp. Of course, he thought, he wants to fuck me here in my own stadium, really piss on my parade. `Or are you wussing out?' Harry asked him in a lower, slightly warmer voice, moving to pass by him and towering over him more noticeably for a moment. Jamie held his ground, conscious they were probably being watched.
`I never back out of anything,' he claimed fiercely.
I thought as much. Good man.' And with that, the United player was striding on past him, marching after the tired dregs of his own winning team, into the tunnel and away from the spotlight. Vardy was the last footballer out here, sweat cooling on his limbs and a dozen little aches fighting for attention across his wiry body. He stopped scowling after Maguire's departing shirt and continued on to the little stand in the corner and the honour' he was about to receive. All those goals he'd scored and Leicester could only manage 5th place... and he couldn't boot in a few more today to change his fate!
Vardy knew with bitter certainty that he was about to give himself up as a result of his own reckless arrogance, his own love of mischief and drama, his need to compete and dominate other men. Even for him, the deal he'd slapped out in front of Maguire last night was foolish. Had he really expected Leicester to produce a solid win over the visitors...? Not really, he'd probably have put his money on a draw, more than anything. What had made him so rash and daring, other than too many pints...?
As he stood there, grinning icily into a camera and accepting the Golden Boot, he knew that it was a seed of something more than the hubristic chip on his shoulder; hadn't he been wondering for years what it was like to be on the receiving end of the wild fucks he dished out?
He grinned and scoffed his way through the busy changing rooms of Leicester City, both glad and annoyed that the Boot in his hands gave him an easy excuse to go slow and end up left behind as the men showered and changed. Despite today's loss and the overall disappointment of missing the top four, there was a bit of a party being held upstairs for the Leicester squad, so many of the players were quick and keen to join that.
For a little while, he eyed some of his squad-mates with a wistful half-formed plan. Madders and
Chilwell were awol, probably already downing sugary alcopops upstairs and tweeting selfies like the trendy bell-ends they were, but he eyed up certain members of the team and wondered if he need face Harry Maguire alone. Nearby, Kasper Schmeichel was towelling down from his shower, his big pale Scandinavian body glistening wet in the lights; but no, the icily handsome Dane had taken him aside after the King orgy and made it crystal clear that he should never mention what had happened between them again. Vardy had agreed even as he smirked and chuckled; he'd loved teasing the big goalkeeper into a mutual wank one night last season, and he'd hardly been able to believe how far he'd watched the sexy 33-year-old go once fully unleashed in that hotel orgy. But no, he couldn't push things any further there, surely...
Then there were the two young guns -- Harvey Barnes and Justin James -- pulling on fresh pretentiously ripped skinny jeans and chatting happily over the other side of the room. But again, no. JJ had resisted his most recent advances, having once seemed secretly comfortable with occasionally dipping down and noshing Vardy off in the occasional post-training treat -- he had made a fuss to Vardy last time about how it was different now other people knew, he couldn't -- wouldn't -- take the risks. And that sexy young ginger, Barnes, well... Vardy felt like he'd ruined something there. He'd been slowly working the magic of his age and status on the twink of a player, but then exposing him to the rabid fun of that hotel room that night for King's goodbye... it had clearly been too much. When he'd jokily brought it up and tried to discuss it with him on a coach trip a couple of weeks back, Barnes had stared him dead in the eye and acted like he didn't even know what he was talking about it. Rumour had it young Harvey was hastily negotiating a transfer out of Leicester, and Vardy was fairly sure he was in the top three reasons why. Fuck's sake, lightweight. Cock-tease. Idiot.
Still in his sweaty blue Leicester kit, Vardy languished alone at the back of the changing rooms, putting down his trophy and staring resentfully at it. He thought about all the wild fun he'd had over the years, reminiscing about buggering his best man on the morning of his own wedding, and sighed in a strange acceptance of today's twist. He had always wondered. It had to feel good, he'd often hypothesised, or were all these submissive bitches he played with just so excited by HIM...? His arse ached just thinking about it.
Once those last few figures had disappeared (Yeah, yeah, see you upstairs mate, aye, will do...'), he crept quietly out of the Home changing rooms of the stadium, glancing anxiously up and down the tunnel and finding it conveniently deserted, then crossed over into the slightly lower-spec Away sector where their guests' had been placed. No noise emerged from the tiled entrance into United's temporary locker-room, signalling that the afternoon's winners had been as keen to go celebrate back at their hotel as the local team were to drown their sorrows upstairs. Still cautious, Vardy kept his socked feet quiet on the grubby floor and made his way in, expecting some stray coach or site staff to be around.
No, the changing rooms ahead of him were empty. A few discarded water bottles and similar, the odd bit of abandoned kit, the usual carelessness of the Premier League primadonna on tour, but nobody to be seen. He stood there, surveying it, and realised he'd been holding his breath since he left the parallel space of the Home rooms. Just as he begun to speculate that big Harry had been joking all along, that he'd fucked off with everyone else to party at the hotel or on the coach north, he heard a man clear his throat loudly, and looked to the corner. There he was: the 6ft4 brutish figure of the United captain, arms folded across his bare chest, stripped to the waist, lingering in a side-passage breaking away from the communal showers.
Harry gave him the silent nod, a crooked smirk on his big features. Jamie glared back petulantly but couldn't deny a little thrill in the midst of his defeat. There was something so imposing and powerful about Maguire standing there in his glory, and that imposition and power aggravated and tugged at Vardy's ego, but also entertained him. He hadn't been exaggerating in his reminiscent outburst earlier to Harry: when they were both Leicester players, when Harry had joined them from Hull at 23, he'd looked him up and down lustily and enjoyed an odd wank thinking of his ugly brutish features. The bugger had shown up just as he begun to calm his wilder habits, though, and he hadn't had the opportunities to lead him astray as he might have when he was in his own early 20s -- besides, he'd long assumed that someone of Maguire's character was so incontrovertibly heterosexual that he'd go insane at any adventurous touching. Something very special about the lad who'd lured Harry Maguire away from convention, Jamie concluded privately.
Harry disappeared from the doorway provocatively. Jamie picked his way across the sweaty-smelling space of the changing rooms, his heart racing. Following him around the corner, he got a proper look at the way his white shorts clung to his upper thighs, even in the baggy fit United seemed to opt for, and over the hefty plateau of his arse. His back muscles rippled as he walked, leading Vardy past the shower block and a couple of empty massage tables, to the dark frosted glass door of an inactive sauna space. As they neared it, Vardy paused, his eyes bulging.
Harry had paused just in front of the doorway, one big hand resting on its handle, smirking over his bare shoulder, probably still steaming with his own hangover and dizzy with the 2-0 victory. But Jamie had quickly registered, he was not alone. Four other figures, all still in United shirts, waiting in various poses against the walls of this passage, were with him, all smiling oddly this way. He stood there, arms stiff at his sides, eyes roving from man to man, back to big shirtless Harry and his menacing smile.
What's wrong?' Harry asked. Aren't you up for it, Vardy?'
Fuck, he thought angrily but excitedly, no wonder this man gets everything he wants...
Inside the tight space of the gently warming sauna, Harry grabbed loosely at the front of his shorts, glad to touch himself at last, the hangover horn that had threatened him since the headache and nausea first began to subside. He watched Jamie move into the space with him, their eyes locked, and saw him begin to tug and paw at his blue Leicester shirt. No,' he said, shaking his head, why don't you leave it on, let us really enjoy who you are, eh?' He heard the clink of the door shutting behind the last of his own teammates. `But you can get the rest of your kit off, Jamie, and make it quick. We've got a win to celebrate.'
As Vardy pulled down at his own shorts and stripped them and his long blue socks from his lean sweaty legs, Harry saw him glance furiously at one of their companions in particular. This was just as Maguire had expected and, a little sadistically, hoped: the Leicester man could never have expected Maguire to involve his old acquaintance Jesse Lingard in their play today, not after all that had gone on. But Lingard, after a long season of being pretty dogshit, had rubbed salt into Leicester's wounds with his late goal, underlining the decisive win. And more than that, Harry didn't want any festering resentment between the two of them next season. So here he was.
`You're gonna suck him first,' Harry announced, keeping his voice low and private, but hard and commanding. He was enjoying himself already.
Lingard, seeming to enjoy Maguire's dirty idea, kept his own Manchester shirt on as he tugged off his white shorts and his black lycra beneath, flopping down into the wooden seat that ran along one edge of the cool sauna, cock in hand and already hard. Maguire knew their history well know, Vardy had relished telling him it: how the Foxes goal machine had toyed with Jesse as a much younger lad, then failed to dominate him during the blackmail malarkey. Knowing this back-story put a seedy grin on Maguire's face as he watched Vardy kneel in front of him and take hold of his nob, roles from some years-old dynamic swapped at his command.
Harry watched as Jamie hunkered down and placed his face between the hairy brown of Jesse's thighs, begrudgingly licking at his cock. It was a great sight, Lingard's smugly excited features grinning down at the reward for his goal, the back of Jamie's branded and numbered shirt so visible down the short swoop of his back, his pert and lightly haired buttocks exposed beneath its hem. He wanted nothing more than to get down there and rim it, but he felt that would be too much of a treat for the fucker, he didn't deserve that!
He grinned past him at the other three, who were pulling slowly at their shirts as the room began to heat properly. Towering about as tall as himself, Scott McTominay stood there with a look of awkward excitement on his face, staring in obvious surprise at how much Jesse was enjoying himself, groaning softly and writhing back against the wooden slats of the wall. And behind Scott, Mason Greenwood looked just as eager -- his eyes had lit up when Harry whispered the plan in his ear -- whilst Brandon Williams tugged a little at his sleeve and chewed shyly on his lip, one eye still bruised from a recent injury -- though Greenwood had lit up at Maguire's invite, he had nervously murmured that his participation came at one condition: Williams joining in.
Greedy, Harry stepped up behind Vardy and pulled one of gormless Scott's big hands into his crotch, then slapped encouragingly at his shoulders and back while the tall Scotland national fingered at the outline of his huge semi. Next to them, out of the corner of his eye, he could see Brandon do the same to Mason, shyly finding his bulge and tickling at it, lovesick grins on both teens' naughty faces. Beneath all the lust and domination, Harry felt a surge of second-hand affection for the couple, both of whom he'd had his own fun with months and months ago.
Vardy, breathing heavily, was still delivering his inexpert blowjob to Jesse's crotch. It didn't seem to matter how unskilled or reluctant the Leicester player was at this task, Lingard just looked so thrilled to be involved, to be getting one over on the man who had inducted him into bisexuality. He laughed between groans and stroked at the short mousy brown of Jamie's scruffy haircut. Harry moved closer and grabbed at Jamie's body commandingly; he pulled up on his hips and buttocks so he was more upright, stooping down to lick frustratedly at a man's balls. He squeezed one then the other of his arse cheeks then grabbed Scott's hand again and guided him in doing the same. `Start getting' the fucker ready,' he purred in his ear, fondling himself again and feeling the heat of the room begin to climb, fresh sweat pricking his toned skin.
From there, the action moved quickly, just like the heat. In moments, both Brandon and Mason were pulling off their footy shorts, their slim toned torsos glimmering with fresh sweat as they pawed at each other and shared one or two shy kisses. On the wooden bench, Jesse dragged his shirt up and off too, while Harry helped Scott with his, dragging it up over his lean muscular form and slapping him on the arse a bit before guiding him in some tentative fingering of Jamie's rear. He spat on both of their fingertips and showed McTominay what to do, running his digits down the crack then pushing Scotty's in to do the same, then taking over, finding the hole, showing the inexperienced Lancastrian how to nudge a tip inside and slowly loosen the 33-year-old virgin. Jamie made grunting noises, resting in Jesse's lap and giving up on sucking him, just wanking him off.
Harry moved things on -- he more or less elbowed Lingard aside, excited but dispassionate towards his involvement in the horny fun. He took his place, barging in, spreading his thick hairy legs and sitting on the thin bench, cock freed as his shorts found their place about his ankles. Kneeling in front of him while Scott slowly fingered him, Jamie stared at his big thick veiny monster, and Harry let out an immodest laugh. Why do you think they're all here?' he grunted at him, patting the side of his face. We need to ease you in before you take this... now, lick my balls, you Leicester slut...'
Maguire relaxed back, grinning, and held Vardy's face down there, knowing he wouldn't be very good at sucking such a long thick cock, but enjoying the lap of his tongue on his loaded bollocks. He looked over the blue covering of the defeated man's back and watched as McTominay moved aside, and Greenwood moved in. Manchester's prolific young goal-scorer grinned almost innocently as he moved in behind Vardy and began pushing his lubed cock in between the clenched hairy cheeks. Maguire speculated luxuriously that this would be all the more exciting for Mase given that he was fucking the Golden Boot winner, marking his future as one of the greatest strikers in the League -- perhaps not, perhaps nobody else was as obsessed with competition and status and domination as him, but who cared. It was fucking amazing to watch.
Knowing how tough this would be for him, he held Jamie almost comfortingly then, rubbing at one of his shoulders and resting his panting face into the weighty platform of his thigh. He studied the pained expressions on Jamie's face as his tender hole was nudged by its first cock, Mason's slim rigid brown bone. While Greenwood began to mount their shared toy, Scott stood wanking himself and stroking one of his arms, while at his other side, Williams had leaned in to lick and suck at one of his hard pink nipples and stroke up and down his six-pack. Maguire, tinged with silly envy, enjoyed seeing the tall youngster manhandled and worshipped in this way, while Vardy bucked uncomfortably between them and tried not to let out the groans of submission, gritting his teeth.
You can do it Vardy,' Maguire groaned teasingly, stroking on his own length, think of all the bitches you described to be last night, all the lads who've bent over for you, big man... ah yeh, that's it, let him in, you dirty old fucker... mmm...'
Maguire, at risk of being bored as just a voyeur here, beckoned McTominay over. As he sat there, legs spread further to let Vardy resume tonguing his sack, he got the tall young sub stood next to him and pulled on his cock generously, watching as Williams to continued to kiss and stroke at Greenwood, who was now moving tenderly inside the Leicester man, clearly excited by the tightness he found there. Around them, the air thickened with the dry heat of the sauna, and bared bodies gleamed. Harry listened to the sounds that filled this desert air: the appreciative whimpers of McTominay, surprised to find his dominant captain actually touching him for a change; the rapid gasps of nervy Greenwood as he found his way into his target and began to thrust back and forth; the breathy mutters of Williams, sucking at his teat then rising up to kiss him on the side of the neck; the tightly controlled grunts of Vardy's painful initiation between them all, the result of his own stupid dare.
Go on,' Harry groaned into the heating air, fuck him properly, Mase, I've seen you at it... fuck him... No, fuck it, you're going too soft... move over...' He slapped Scott's arse. McT, go on, show him how it's done, you've fucked enough girls' arses in yer day, right...?' He squeezed and prised at the tall bloke's behind and pushed him forward. Greenwood and Williams moved aside with glassy expressions while McTominay, excited and unsure, took up the challenge. Harry grinned down at Vardy's face, meeting his eyes with challenge and authority. How's this for you, mate?'
Jesus,' whispered the Golden Boot winner. It's... fuck, man... oh crap...'
Harry slapped his weighty shaft against his face and smeared its head along his cheek. `Just you wait, Vards. Just you fuckin' wait.'
He watched McTominay ease into the striker's behind, and shifted back in his seat. Wanking himself lazily, he parted and lifted his legs more, angling his arse up into Jamie's face, deciding to give him a taste of something he was more experienced in. Wow, he thought, being rimmed that first time with Vardy and Chilwell had been a revelation to say the least. The Leicester forward responded instantly, licking down from his balls into his dark hairy gooch and finding his match-sweaty arse-crack. Harry held his big hands over his bruised knees and rested in that tense position, letting Jamie lick his arse while his body arched and buckled at McTominay's slow nervous thrusts. Next to them, Brandon had gone down on Mason, sucking luxuriantly on him and making the young striker grin and giggle.
Clearly getting his dick into the entirely virginal Jamie Vardy had done wonders for Mason, because he didn't last long. Dripping with sauna sweat, he tensed up with obvious orgasm, earning hot curious glances from Scotty; at his crotch, Brandon buried his face there and eagerly took his load, clearly well-practised at the deed! Two such beautiful lads, Harry thought, eager to get more fun with them, but not really wanting to disturb whatever they had. No sooner had Greenwood climaxed than he was kneeling down and Williams was getting up, pushed into the wall so that his boyfriend could kneel and return the favour. Maguire swung his head and looked back at the big pale figure of Scotty, long arms reached down to grasp at the back of the Leicester shirt, crotch piling a bit more quickly and firmly now into Jamie's hairy cheeks. Elsewhere, Jamie's tongue seemed to find a magic spot and Harry yowled out delightedly into the thick hot air of the sauna, knowing he was in charge.
Some point soon after that, Brandon must have climaxed too, because then the sauna door was being pushed partway open, and the teens were disappearing from the scene, knowing that all of their time was limited; they were due back at the hotel for dinner before the homebound coach journey, so this could not be the long and industrious session Maguire really craved. Still, he wouldn't be rushed. The door clinked back into place and he smirked at Lingard, who was pleasuring himself noisily on the bench beside him. `Your turn, blackmail,' he snarled, not YET willing to let that go, enjoying the tension that still simmered there, despite his intentions for team unity.
More movement. Harry sliding off the bench, slopping back onto his feet, feeling his skin slippery with sweat, the sauna reaching its peak. As Scotty staggered back, dick greasy with a mix of sweat, spit and lube, Harry planted a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down, needing his oral talents as he watched Jesse Lingard pull Vardy into place and mount him. While Mason and Scott had moved almost reverently in their handling of the Premiership's high scorer, Lingard was desperate and greedy, full of private memory and connection. Vardy too was different, less stiff and controlled. He howled more honestly and panted with clear enjoyment as he was taken up the arse by the third dick in a row.
Harry watched the rapid desperate madness of the fuck. Jamie up in a new position, one knee lifted onto the wooden bench, hands splayed up the wall, head tilted so he could still see every twitch and flinch of his sharp foxy face. Lingard, wiry and eager, pushed into him from behind and seemed to exaggerate and perform with his groans. Harry questioned if he'd ever topped a lad before, thinking of his supposed desire to fuck him; he and his dear brother had soon put a stop to that. He grinned wickedly at the memory of their three-way, and wondered how Loz was getting on.
Go on,' he encouraged noisily, seeing how quickly Lingard was moving, fill him up with spunk!' He pushed Scott's face away from his own crotch, where the submissive giant midfielder was tonguing desperately at the base of his shaft, and pushed him towards the other two. `Jamie, suck on Scotty now, let them spit-roast you, you dirty Fox. Gonna have to be more careful what you promise when you're drunk, Vards!'
As the three men followed his orders to the letter, Maguire stood there, sweat pouring down his neck and chest and pooling about the growth of his pubes. He thought longingly of the one lad he really wished was here, and remembered his earlier promise. In front of him, two more Manchester lads rapidly reached their finish. Scott first, clumsily spilling his gooey load over Jamie's sharp stubble, making his lips sticky and white, and then Lingard second, emptying his balls in the newly fucked paradise of his arse. Harry grinned at them both. `You can go,' he muttered, no longer interested in playmates or accomplices.
They pushed past him, Lingard sniggering and McTominay shooting him a worshipful glance, their cum-wet pricks swinging as they moved. This left the two of them, Jamie recovering against the wall, and Harry towering in the centre of the sauna.
Fuck,' the Leicester player moaned, fuck man! It hurts like... shittin' hell... but...'
`But?'
Jamie pulled himself up a bit more, shooting him a lusty look. I feel like I've been missing out for years,' he confessed in a sluttish whisper, seeming both embarrassed and thrilled to spit out this truth. Harry looked down the shimmering ripples of his six-pack to his rock-hard prick, evidence of the triple pounding he'd received. He met his eyes again, saw the furious need there. Your turn then, boss,' Vardy chuckled. `Your turn to fuck the Golden Arse.'
What if I didn't?' Maguire demanded teasily, playing with his nob and giving him a cheeky grin. What if I left you here to finish off on your own? I've plenty of arseholes to choose from, I don't need to dirty my dick with... what would it be, filthy fourths?' He cracked a big smile and tickled his own balls, watching the twitchy uncertainty on Jamie's face -- this experienced dominant lad who had looked so frightened and agonised bending over for his first fuck. He was moments away from begging. Harry grinned and waited, and then Vardy exploded with brash laughter.
We both know that ain't happening,' Jamie panted. Now come on and fuck me, Maguire.'
Harry, so hot he could pass out, reached back and shoved open the sauna door, making his plaything more confused and excited as he nodded out of it and watched Jamie waddle past him, his cheeks bright red. He pushed him in the small of the back and then grabbed at his blue Leicester shirt. In the small passage, he yanked it up off him and reached for the shelf to his left. Jamie turned and stared at him in horror as he realised what was happening. More shameful and degrading than being thrice pounded in the bottom, he grimaced as Harry's United shirt was wrenched over his head and shoulders, kitting him in red, and then Harry pushed him against the wall. The air out here felt fresh and cool against their tingling skin.
Harry reached for the shelf again to find his phone, then took his cock in hand, and marched up to Jamie's backside. He pushed the head of his dick between what must be the stinging flesh of Jamie's raw cheeks, and pushed in. The hole felt loose and slippy but his own girth still troubled it. Vardy's little cry of surprise at just what lay ahead echoed slightly. If the others were showering, they would surely hear him. Harry pushed forward, pressing one hand into the scruff of Jamie's neck, and angling his phone camera with the other, snap snap snap: securing Luke the most perfect selfie of himself, mounting Vardy, his own name and number on his back. Satisfied, he dumped his phone on the shelf and grabbed his ex-teammate with both hands, and got to work.
Jamie's body was bony and slim compared to the figure Maguire most enjoyed on his chunky left-back lover, and weirdly his newbie hole didn't even feel as tight or exciting. But holding him in place and ploughing him now, the prize of a hard-fought season to get into the top four, Maguire felt a weird sense of power and closure. He wasn't just fucking Vardy, he was fucking Leicester, fucking his past, fucking the battles that had got him here to be Captain at his dream team. He no longer cared what Vardy did and didn't know about his sex life, because he felt securely in command of him.
Pushed hard into the wall, Jamie was panting and gushing with snatches of dirty talk. `Yes, oh fuck yes, god you're huge, BLOODY HELL...' The fellow Sheffield bloke writhed and squealed and did his best to accommodate the firm ramming hugeness of Harry's cock. He was wanking himself too as it happened, which Harry considered stopping to tease him more, but time was running short. His own orgasm took him by surprise, quick and almost nauseating in force, the release of so much tension. He spunked inside him as Lingard had, enjoying the thought that the other man's cum had lubed his entry. He growled and grunted and shoved Vardy's body into the wall as his own shook with violent satisfaction, and then squeezed him tight in both arms and rested. Held in place and shaking with breaths, Vardy came too.
`Bloody fuckin' hell... oh shit... oh my god...'
Aye,' Harry yawned into his ear, that's it... you're a Manchester boy now, haha... you can keep this shirt...' He pulled back, enjoying the extra pained groan his pulling cock earned, and then he smeared its dirty tip against the red fabric of his own shirt, and backed off with a rough laugh. Naked, dripping, panting, Harry Maguire moved away and around the corner, tottering into the abandoned quiet of the changing rooms. Not even Lingard or McTominay was left, the other four players totally gone, maybe back in the hotel already. His fucking of Vardy's precious bum had lasted longer than it felt!
He stood commandingly in the Away changing rooms of his old stadium and watched Vardy come limping around the corner, his face a picture of sheer exhaustion. He had his kit bunched in each hands, grabbed up damp from the sauna floor. He looked at Maguire's face and for a few seconds his expression was one of impotent anger, tortured pain, abject defeat; then it cracked into the same filthy smile that was more him, and he let out a painful chuckle. Well,' he gasped, I guess I asked for that. Fuck me.'
`Already did.'
Prick.' Vardy staggered up to him, clearly no intention of removing the red shirt that symbolised his submission. You're a beast, Maguire.'
`And you loved it.'
Is that how you fuck Luke, then?' he asked, with the same needling tone as his earlier jibes. You get fat boy up against the wall for a session like that, do ya? Hehe... my my, you've come far, buddy, since the stiff silent weirdo who arrived here in 2017, oh my...'
Harry smiled at him, ignoring the dig at Shaw. You don't get to talk about my Luke,' he said powerfully. Go wash off and join your buddies for the end-of-season party. Just be careful about sitting down, eh? My cum will be leaking out of you all evening, Goldie.'
Filthy bastard,' wheezed Vardy, still fixing him with a knowing and cynical look. I can't talk about your Lukey, no, but... you had so much to say about him last night before we left the pub.' Despite the clear dynamic of power between them, he was mocking and playful, tripping on the novelty of what he'd just enjoyed. `Love is a pretty heavy word to use about a sex toy, ain't it? Do you remember telling me he has the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen...? Do you remember telling me about planning to take him away in summer...?' Vardy, weak and exhausted but ever the mischief, grinned provokingly at him and held his bundled Leicester kit to his body, unconcerned by his bare legs, crotch and arse as he stood in the Away changing room.
Maguire nodded slowly, not giving him the reaction he wanted. He was supposed to get angry or embarrassed now, he figured, allow Jamie to regain some invisible advantage after the repeated using he'd submitted to for the first time in his filthy experience. This, Harry supposed, was supposed to be a stalemate, a reminder that Vardy was the real alpha, the long-established dirty master of Premiership smut. Harry just grinned at him. Aye,' he told him simply, I love the lad, I fucking do. And you know what? It makes everything taste sweeter.' Gently, he slapped a hand loosely against one of Vardy's cheeks, then rested it on his shoulder and pushed him on his way. `You should try it sometime, Vards. It's like nothing else.' He watched the confused twisted frown on the striker's face as he staggered away and across the room, pausing to start pulling on some shorts, and Maguire just let out a booming laugh and staggered nakedly into the showers on his own, ready to wash away his early evening sins.
Minutes later, when his body was scrubbed clean and the Away changing rooms were empty but for him, he towelled lazily at his big body but took a break before dragging on a fresh tracksuit. Comfortably naked, the well-hung Yorkshireman moved back through the passage to find his phone, and loaded up the best of the photos of him fucking Jamie Vardy. He attached it to a message and sent it with his short message: `Wish you were here. Fuck you ASAP. Love you x'. Grinning to himself, he immediately deleted the pictures from his phone with learned caution, and then just paused in the photo album app of his device, looking at the selfie Shaw had sent him from his bed while he was laughing at Harry's hangover. He stared lovingly at the picture of his 25-year-old boyfriend, and thought how much he meant every word of his text message. He couldn't wait to get back to Manchester and surprise Luke with his summer plans.
HOPE THAT IS A FITTING SEND-OFF TO THE 2019-20 SEASON. LONG, WEIRD AND INTERRUPTED, BUT SO MUCH HOT TALENT AND OPPORTUNITY FOR STORYTELLING... ENJOY! 155 CHAPTERS DONE, LET ME KNOW YOUR FAVOURITE SO FAR :)