Part 326: Hey, Jude
Though he projected an air of cool self-confidence, Jude Bellingham was in a waking dream: a debut England goal at the outset of a World Cup campaign, kick-starting a 6-2 win to set their group on fire. Of all the early successes that had fallen at the Birmingham teen's feet, nothing could compare to this, and the 19-year-old was intensely excited about the games to come; it was hard not to see himself in Southgate's starting line-up from now on, and in his mind's eye he was looking all the way to the finale, already.
He'd returned to the hotel with the first wave of players - the younger or just single lads, or the ones whose WAGs weren't on the docked cruiser and weren't part of the big family social that had met them at the Kalifah stadium. Some of Jude's family had been there, and he'd had a great brief reunion with them, but then he'd been fairly casual in sauntering away and being on the first bus back to the hotel base, rather than milking the guest time like the married guys or the dads.
The licensed bar of the hotel had been more than ready for their return, Bellingham and the handful of other guys who had been quicker to ditch their visitors, but it had been a fairly muted celebration of the opening win, until other squad members began drifting back in two or three groups. And even then it was all a pretty polite affair on the same courtyard terrace where they ate their breakfasts, a fiery sunset sky darkening over the relaxed drink and flurry of forced speeches - Jude himself was the first of them, pressured into it by captain and manager, but a young man of few words, making only a couple of quick jokes and then an earnest thank you to the gang before sloping away.
`Nice one, mate,' his new roommate told him afterwards, passing him a fresh ice-cold beer from their small bar, and patting him on the shoulder.
Jude gave a tight-lipped smile to his older friend. `Thanks, man. Just spoke from the heart.'
He'd been pulled aside during the morning routine and informed by one of the junior coaches that there was a slight rooming switch-up, and his current roommate, Bukayo Saka, would be joining Jordan Henderson for the time being - the 19-year-old had been naturally curious about the sudden change, but he'd been far from unhappy to find himself roomed with Trent Alexander-Arnold, one of a few lads who he had really bonded with in the week so far.
`Always best,' Trent said in a fairly light tone, but the right-back substitute had a heavy look to his face, as he had all day, and he'd been far from vocal when Jude questioned why he'd had to ditch his Liverpool roomie.
Jude's attempt to make light of it in their brief pre-match chat had gone badly. `I think I passed Adam fucking Lallana in reception yesterday before dinner, and I wondered if that bugger had been called up to replace me and if he was bunking up with his old captain like old times or something, haha!' It was not a joke that had cheered or amused the 24-year-old Scouser, though Bellingham had coolly shrugged off the awkward moment and just decided that he needed to enjoy the change of roomies; Saka was a cool kid, everybody loved him, but he felt slightly more at home around Trent's drier wit.
The two England players lingered at the edge of the party sipping their icy beers, until Trent seemed to become distracted again, and muttered his apologies before disappearing. Jude watched him go with only mild interest, a slight buzz-on from being here by the fountains and tropical plants, drinking slowly but steadily during the hours when many of his teammates were still hugging their spouses and broods of children. For a while, his only company had been Conor Gallagher, complaining about how hard it was to source sniff in an authoritarian state, and Phil Foden, who barely looked up from his mobile phone; he'd been glad when the likes of Callum Wilson and Aaron Ramsdale showed up, all jovial banter and hearty congratulations, and things had slowly picked up from then. There had been more than one surly comment passed around the party about how different the celebratory vibe would be if the Cup was hosted elsewhere, but Jude just smiled indifferently, on cloud 9 right now - he didn't need to go chasing drugs like Gallagher or whatever Foden was stressing about, because he felt like a fucking hero.
As a result, the 6ft1 midfielder wasn't even too put out when things began to wind down respectably before the clock had struck 10pm - the gaffer was calling out details about tomorrow's `lighter' schedule and a few guys were heading away to bed before the bosses could even specify a curfew time. Jude shrugged it off and headed back to his room at an idle trot, figuring that he might load up some video games and unwind that way, maybe play a bit with Trent if his new roomie was up for it - he'd probably be better competition on the console than gormless Bukayo.
Jude slipped away from the weary goodnights and moved through the grandly decorated hotel corridors on his own, still half-smiling to himself and replaying how great it had felt to pick up on Shaw's assist and smash in that opening goal. He couldn't help but feel somehow responsible for the five more that had ensued from his teammates, and the cheeky idea put a fresh swagger in his step.
At the door of his room, he paused. It was slightly ajar, and raised voices emerged from within. He was not a nosy or interfering person, but a mixture of awkwardness and surprise froze him at the door with his hand an inch from the handle, his ears pricking:
`And so you have to go, do you?' snarled the unmistakable rasp of his new Scouse roomie.
Trent,' thudded the low masculine voice of Henderson, his North East accent so distinctive on the squad. He's...'
Right, no, I get it,' snapped back the other Liverpool player. First Ads, and now-'
Trent,' repeated what must be Hendo's voice. He's really upset, he's just lost a family member, so...'
I said I get it,' repeated the strained voice of Alexander-Arnold, and Belliongham found himself unfreezing and shaking himself. He clearly his throat loudly before reaching for the handle and pushing the door inwards. I get it,' Trent was saying in an arch voice, `and I get that you have to go running to him, I get it...' But instantly he was looking sharply this way, and so was the rugged bearded profile of the other Anfield player. Both of them stared almost accusingly at young Jude, who just smiled weakly at them and lifted a hand in a limp wave.
All good, guys?' the teen asked, aware that things clearly weren't good', but unsure what else he was meant to say. He looked from one fiery expression to the other, feeling the tension in the air, and then stepping more fully into the room.
I've got to go,' Henderson said in a low voice, addressing Trent only and ignoring him for now. I'm sorry, Trent, but he needs someone there, he's hurting. We'll talk properly later, or tomorrow?' He spoke in a low hot rush, clearly uncomfortable with an audience, but it was Trent who looked sour and distressed, and Jude just glanced thoughtfully from one bloke to the other, then shrugged his shoulders lightly. Hendo moved this way, and grabbed his hand in a quick tight shake. Well done again, kid,' the Sunderland-born Liverpool captain told him quite sternly. You've really kicked things off, you should be so proud.' With that, he just gave one look at Trent, and exited the room. Trent stared after him with a strange expression on his face, one that sagged and wilted as soon as the door closed, and then he turned away and marched out onto their balcony area.
Jude paused and approached the matter in the most chilled way he could. `What was all that about?' he asked the defensive player in what he hoped sounded like a light and almost disinterested tone, taking a few slow steps about the room and picking up stray items of his own to tidy up for the room's new occupant.
Trent stood in the balcony doors, staring out into the pale night, arms folded about his chest. `Erm...'
Who's he visiting?' Jude insisted gently, when no real answer came. Who needs him?'
He moved closer to the other, shorter man, leaning on the other side of the open French windows, and giving him a pleasant curious smile, not trying to imply there was anything weird or suspicious about the little drama or the fact that the two Liverpool cronies were suddenly swapping rooms a few nights into the camp. Trent glowered away, but then gave him a softer and more apologetic look. `Er... it's Neco, you know, used to play with us? He's got some personal stuff and Jord's going to visit him at the Wales hotel.'
`Oh. Right.'
Trent looked anxious. `It's... a captain thing. He tries to look out for us all. It's... I mean. I dunno if they do things like that in Germany, so...'
Bellingham gave the other footballer a look that he hoped didn't reveal his full scepticism, but he just nodded his head slowly. Right, yeah,' he said thoughtfully. Even for players who've transferred to shite Forest...?' He smirked a little, unable to hold in his contempt for rival Midlands teams to his own glorious Birmingham City.
Trent flinched a little, slipping past him back into the room. `Yeah, you know Hendo, he thinks he's everyone's big brother...'
Or daddy,' Jude chuckled, and he thought he saw another flinch and awkward frown from his roommate, before Trent moved away and went to throw himself down on Saka's bed. Jude stayed by the door, feeling the hint of a cool night breeze drifting into the hotel's courtyard spaces, and the soft sound a few remaining voices downstairs, pushing the limits of Southgate's stupidly early curfew. He looked from that limited view back to Trent, deciding that it wasn't worth overthinking the club politics of Liverpool FC, or digging about in his reserved pal's private business; instead, he picked up a PlayStation remote from the table by his bed and waved it in the air. Bit of gaming?' he asked.
Trent was slow to answer, but he'd fished a heavy novel out of a bag by his bed, and he shook his head apologetically. `I don't think I'm in the mood, soz. I'm just gonna have a read and get some shut-eye, I think...'
Jude nodded slowly again. Downstairs, Trent had been terse but game, pushing back a few beers and making subdued conversation; up here, after that little chat with his club captain, he looked outright moody and detached. Right. Great company. Bring back Saka, he groaned inwardly, thinking that he might miss the Arsenal youth's chatter and jokes after all, and find room-sharing a strain on his training ground closeness with Alexander-Arnold - who knew that the smiling Scouser was actually such a moody git...?
For a minute or two, Bellingham was about to set up the video games and play for a bit on his own, even thinking that the background noise of it might lure in Trent as a playmate after all; but there was something oppressively anxious about Trent's presence right now, lying there on his bed and holding his book whilst staring mindlessly into a corner of the room. Jude, in another little moment of uncharacteristic curiosity, pushed his buttons experimentally like he was a PS5 remote: So why was Lallana here yesterday, did you say? Just another friendly Liverpool visit, was it?' He saw Trent tense up at this question, staring heavily back down into the pages of the Marlon James novel he was reading. I mean, maybe I shouldn't be rejecting these agent talks about Anfield, if there's such a close culture up your way on the Mersey... hah.' His soft attempt to diffuse tension went ignored, sadly, but Trent gave him an answer in a clipped and final way.
`In Qatar for some football reporting work he's doing, that's all. Think he's back to UK before we play next. It was just a passing visit.' His eyes didn't leave the page as he spoke, but his knuckles whitened where he held the hardback novel.
Jude, both amused and concerned, nodded and shrugged. There was to be no conversation with this one tonight. He looked at the video game controller in his hand and then dropped it limply to his bed and swung his long lean arms at his sides, before heading for the door. `I might go see if I can grab a nightcap before the bar shuts,' he said quietly, getting no answer, and then just leaving the moody Scouser to it.
The 19-year-old stretched out his recovering muscles on the way back through the hotel, which had already taken on the airy quiet of night; shutting or locking doors clicked faintly in the night quiet and little snippets of raised voices came in and out of hearing, and it all combined to give the Birmingham lad a faint sense of loneliness. It was not a new feeling for a youth who'd moved to Germany to make it big, one he should be used to and relaxed about... but having a quiet moody roommate and such a downbeat end to a momentous day was hitting a nerve, and it turned out that he'd been holding onto a slight pang of homesickness all through the evening. After all, he'd left the stadium surrounded by people being reunited with their wives and girlfriends or kids, and he'd just been casually kissed off by his supportive family, but didn't have the kind of grown-up connections or intimacies that propped up the other England stars.
God, he was getting morbid - had he just had a few too many of those stupid low-alcohol beers tonight...?
The teenager shook himself before descending the broad steps back down into the ground floor, and then he picked his way through the quiet reception rooms back towards the courtyard where they had socialised - but already, the lights were off at the small bar area, and the only people here, the voices he'd heard from balconies above, were actually a cluster of hotel staff who were tidying up after the tame Three Lions gathering. They stopped and stared when Jude hovered in the archway exit, and then he just waved apologetically and left them to their work, actually a bit shocked that there weren't a few players left down here toasting to the Iran victory... not even his fellow goal-scorers. What were all the blokes up to in their shared rooms that had put a stop to the casual drinks so easily? Curfews, the 19-year-old thought, were just there for the breaking.
Well, he certainly wasn't rushing back upstairs to listen to the silence of Trent Alexander-Arnold's bad mood; he'd just chill out down here on his own. He turned back and stepped out into the dimly lit courtyard and signalled casually at the nearest of the uniformed hotel staff. `Can I have a last drink?' he asked. He got a bit of a funny look for this request, but he waited and the stare turned into silent compliance; he was fetched an open beer bottle and he raised it in an almost sardonic cheers to the hotel workers before going back into the echoey reception rooms of the quiet hotel.
A swim seemed the best he could manage for entertainment down here. His beer warmed gently in the heated air of the fitness suite as he did lazy lengths of the pool and then took rests against the edge, slurping low-alcohol beer that didn't taste great, and thinking how accurate blokes like Walker and Trippier had been to mutter critically about Doha as a party-pooper city. He thought of some of the fun nights he'd enjoyed with Sancho and Haaland before his two mates fucked off to the Premiership, some of them when he was still only seventeen!
On his next languid course of the pool, he thought about one particular night a couple of years ago, where the three of them had hired and shared prostitutes, and he'd begun to realise what a kinky fucker his mate Jadon was, though big Erling was a lot more prudish; and then, inevitably, his thoughts turned to the time he'd ended up helping Jadon Sancho out with a dumb little sex toy on his first England camp. Jude had freaked out and left him to it, disgusted, and really he'd never quite recovered his closeness with the former teammate and now Man Utd player... He kinda wished Jadon was out here with them, after all, instead of ditched last-minute, so that he could do something to start restoring that friendship, since the confident lad had been a good mentor and friend to him as the token English youths in their Bundesliga initiation.
And really... well, he was no longer sure he could look back so judgmentally on what Jadon had seemingly been into, given what he'd indulged in that night in the hotel, getting sucked off by Jordan Pickford alongside Maguire, Kane, Smith-Rowe... and then there was his confrontation with the captain just a couple of months ago, in the last international break. Overhearing Kane in that toilet stall with Jarred fucking Bowen, he'd got ideas into his head about how to secure his World Cup spot, and... Stopping again at the side of the pool and guzzling the lukewarm beer, he thought grimly of the way he'd stepped up to the legendary striker and first demanded a blowie, then gone mad and OFFERED ONE, so desperate to ensure he'd make it here to Qatar...!
Ugh. He was so embarrassed and annoyed. He rubbed wet palms over his long lean face and drank the last of the bottle before pushing away from the edge and splashing through the pool water alone, blue-tinged nightlights glowing against the rippling surface and the shiny smooth muscle of his own 6ft1 physique.
He'd made it here on his own talents and potential, he thought, and now he'd fucking proven himself, hadn't he? Not just earning Southgate's trust and starting in the first game, but bagging that goal and staking his claim to more minutes. He needn't have humiliated himself in that early-morning misunderstanding with the skipper. It all made him cringe, the memories of that drunken hotel room where they'd all shoved their dicks in the goalie's mouth - how was he really meant to make eye contact with Pickford at team dinners?! But worse, the image of himself dropping to his knees in a hotel bathroom and BEGGING Harry Kane to make sure he got selected. It was then, diving briefly beneath the surface and snaking through the chlorinated water, that the question hit him, and Jude Bellingham came crashing up above the surface again with a slapped look on his handsome face.
HAD he earned his place here, really...? Had he been picked properly? Had Southgate really sensed just how ready and assured he was, or... He could hardly say it to himself. Had Kane pulled strings after all, following that weird confrontation in late September, and got him here in Doha because of- Fuck, why are you being so maudlin tonight? Why are you even asking these questions? Treading water in the centre of the pool, the tipsy teen cursed himself and then aimlessly blamed Trent for bringing his mood down.
Sulky about the lack of a fresh beer, Bellingham did a couple more lengths, and then climbed out of the pool, water coursing down his long muscular legs and ripped torso, and went to the neatly folded pile of his sweatpants and t-shirt and things. He seized his phone and sent the text message before he could stop himself.
`can we talk, skip?'
Once it was sent, he felt immediately foolish, and he tried to delete it; but the reply hit his inbox in a matter of seconds, telling him that Harry Kane was lying awake and on his phone... and concerned about him. `Hey Jude. What's up kid? Is everything ok? Where are you?' The kindly tone of the messages stung him and made him feel sillier, but this question was going to plague him.
`it's about me being on team. can we talk? Plz'
`Jude, where are you? What's wrong? I'll come to you.'
A paused to wipe pool water out of his blinking eyes.
`at pool in gym. Thx'
He picked up the corner of his t-shirt to wipe dry the touchscreen and then laid it down nestled among his things and paced away from them, along the edge of the pool. The water-shrunk cotton of his dark blue boxer briefs clung in against the upper reaches of his long strong thighs and about the tight muscles of his glutes, and he felt the heated air press against his watery skin. Jude looked accusingly at the empty beer bottle by the pool's edge, and resisted the temptation to stupidly kick it across the fitness suite. What was he playing at...?
It didn't Kane long to arrive, and that made him feel all the more self-conscious. He'd really panicked the England captain, even if the big shuffling striker clearly didn't have a clue what was eating at him. In he stomped, a black hoodie pulled on and a pair of baggy faded shorts rippling about his upper legs. His hurried pace stalled as he neared the pool and he looked quite shocked to find Jude in just his wet underpants here, which was a fair reaction, and served to make Bellingham feel even more daft and impulsive.
Hey, Jude,' muttered the striker. You needed to talk? What's up? You okay?' And with that, his frowning face cast about, looking around the blue-lit pool area and the other corners of the hotel's bijou fitness room, a far cry from the professional gyms they were using at their training base nearby. When he looked seriously back this way, Jude felt like a petulant kid, but he went for it anyway.
Did you get me put on the squad?' the 19-year-old demanded. Am I here cos of you?'
It was really as if Kane had almost no memory of that conversation. He blinked and gawped and scratched at one of his stubbled cheeks. What? Jude - what?' And then, in a fairly angry tone, I thought you were in trouble. I thought there'd been an emergency.' He huffed loudly and stretched out his shoulders. `What are you on about...?'
Jude felt increasingly conscious of his bare lean body, but he walked up to the slightly taller guy anyway, the 29-year-old Tottenham hero. It's just... erm... I mean-' He could hear his voice faltering, his usual calm maturity crumbling a bit in this setting and mood, and hearing the ridiculous of the question he spat out: Did you put a word in for me and get me here for the World Cup? After I... made a twat of myself last time, and said... those things. I mean...' He broke off, and grimaced at himself - he was being so stupid. If anything, it would have made more sense for old Kane to put a word in AGAINST him, insulted and disrespected, and insist that Southgate left him behind.
Harry was just staring at him, his face unclear, and then his head shaking. `You dragged me down here to ask me that?' he asked, but... he didn't sound angry or offended, there was an edge of laughter to his voice, one that immediately relaxed the teen.
`I just...' Jude faltered again and found he wasn't sure what he needed to stay.
You score a goal like that today, and you worry about this?' the Spurs player demanded hotly. Jude, kid... I think everybody knows why you're here, after the Iran game. I can't believe you're worried about that! Mate...'
Jude laughed awkwardly and stretched one arm then the other distractedly, pulling them against his strengthening chest, and then shaking his head in embarrassment. Sorry, skip,' he sighed. I'm sorry. I was a dick. I was just...'
You just wanted to be here,' Kane cut him off, his voice quite gentle. Don't sweat it.'
And then they were just standing there beside the pool, two attacking footballers a decade apart in age, letting out low manly laughs, and both assessing the predicament of the other; the panicked team captain, rushing about the hotel at night to attend to imaginary emergencies, and the teenage newcomer, ostentatiously bare in his soaked underpants. Harry shook his head and stifled a yawn and ran his fingers through his slightly receding hair, and Jude hung his head and folded his arms and rubbed one heel against a calf muscle.
`I just needed to know I got here by my own merit,' he said in a small voice.
You did,' Kane confirmed. You didn't need to do anything undignified to get your cap.'
`Right. Yeah. Huh.'
You just got a bit over-excited that morning,' Kane told him now. I mean, you misunderstood, and got carried away, and...' Jude looked at his tilted smile and folded his arms more tightly against his pecs as the captain continued. I'm sure you didn't really mean to send me that dirty and demanding text...! Young lad like you doesn't need to be propositioning married men, haha.' A pregnant pause. I'm sure you really don't want any help in that department from an old fella like me, Jude.'
Jude blinked slowly. He thought about that confusing drunk night in London. They'd all been so wasted. Pickford had been bizarre and wild. Maguire had seemed so sure of it all, and Emile Smith-Rowe had been proper chill. He'd just gone with it. He thought about the noises through the toilet stall in the England hotel in September, and the satisfied grunts before he saw both Kane and Bowen leave the bathroom. If everyone else did it, it must be... okay?
Neither of the two England attackers had said anything for a long minute. Harry just smiled a little his way, and Jude returned it with a tight-lipped grimace of a grin. Here he was in just his pants, with the England legend in front of him. Was he really gonna push for this to happen...?
`It really was a fucking great goal,' Kane told him, his voice a very quiet growl.
Thanks,' Jude said. Thanks, chief.'
`You proved yourself good and proper. You're one of the men now, Bell.'
He nodded. `Felt like it. Felt so great. I guess you'd know.'
Another long quiet, loaded with things unsaid. Jude let his arms hang at his side and he flexed his fingers and knuckles. His body was drying in the strong heated air conditioning, just a few trickles of pool water shifting between the subtle ripped muscles of his 6ft1 body. His pants were still soaked and tight against his body. He wondered if it was very obvious that his bulge was getting a little larger and heavier.
You're going to need to say it,' the Spurs striker said eventually, and the comment was so ambiguous that Bellingham just frowned uncomprehendingly at him for a moment. I'm your captain,' Kane whispered. `I'm not going to push this. It has to be up to you, kid.'
Jude nodded very slowly, and the dragged-out decision clicked into place in his head. He was a true Lion now, a World Cup goal-scorer, the first of the campaign; he deserved this. No tame parties for him tonight. He needed something a little more. He nodded again, a bit more decisively, and he tensed self-consciously, exaggerating the flat solidness of his six-pack and the developing muscles of his slim upper arms and thick upper legs. Facing him, Harry Kane just grinned and nodded his head too.
Jude nodded to the side, away from the big windows and the soft blue glow of the night-lights. There were a few shallow booths at the wall, changing spaces without real screens or doors, but more private than the rest of the ghostly gym scene. Harry Kane took the instruction and walked slowly into one of them, then immediately pulled the black hoody off and dropped it to the ground; he folded it with jarring neatness and then lowered his bare knees on top of it, getting into position. The sight of it, this majestic national hero kneeling down for him, made the bulge in Jude's wet trunks get even fuller. Yes, he thought, he deserved this - and from the captain too, that felt right.
As he entered the shallow booth and stood in front of the kneeling 6ft2 striker, he thought back to that September night and morning with a bit more clarity. It had been a lot more than career ambition or desperate patriotism. He hadn't just wanted to exploit Kane's position and secure his place in Qatar. He'd been jealous and greedy. He'd wanted a return to the mad taboo of that London hotel room and the drunken bukkake on their No.1 goalkeeper; the reason that Jude couldn't look Jordan Pickford in the eyes any more was because he had no idea how he'd ever suggest a repeat incident to the arrogant Mackem.
The buzz of the beer, the goal, the attention... his chest swelled and he stood tall in the mouth of the booth, pushing out one hand against the divide to support himself, and then sliding the other down the front of his clammy damp six-pack until it was inside his soaked trunks. Harry's face was level with his waist, his small blue eyes directed upwards, and his mouth hanging gently open. If only the country could see their captain in this position, he thought, really flying the rainbow flag for the UK in a very different way...
Come on,' Kane growled. I need it.' His hands came up against the bulging front thigh muscles of Jude's powerful long legs. He bit his lip and stared down into those hungry eyes, and then pushed down the wet cotton. Out flopped his cock, thick and still quite limp, foreskin already peeling back about the heavy head. Kane's eyes lit up, and his tongue flicked out hungrily - and then made delicious contact with the sensitive tip, and Jude couldn't help but groan.
`Fuck,' the midfielder groaned. He closed his eyes for a moment and just felt it, the soft warmth of lips and tongue against his swelling prick, but then he decided to open them. He needed to see this. Needed to see the goateed face of the captain in between his thighs, pulling in closer to his crotch and swallowing in more of his big Brummie cock. Jude lifted his other hand so that both were pressed into the partitions that enclosed them, holding his strong bare body still and watching the striker get to work.
That's it,' he found himself saying, his voice quite stern and authoritative; he'd become quite commanding that last time, copying the bullish actions of Slabhead and... and this one. Kane had been there too, feeding his captain's cock to the goalkeeper, but now he was... down on his knees, a slut for Jude. The idea of it turned him on so much. It made him feel powerful and in charge, and he loved the way Harry's hands roved about his thighs and then onto his strong slim midriff. That's it, worship my body,' he growled, copying the stupid speech he knew from pornography, but meaning every word, and loving it.
Kane groaned through his mouthful and Jude felt a burst of that more dominant spirit: he pushed Harry's face away from his crotch to hear him moan properly - Yes, Jude' - and then slapped his wet cock against his cheeks, his lips, his nose. Fucking eat it,' he growled, and pushed his long girthy piece back into that wet mouth, hooking a hand about the back of Kane's head and really feeding it to him. He groaned loudly and rolled his sore hips a little to fuck the willing mouth. It was like being with one of those wild hookers that Sancho and Haaland had used and shared with him, because he'd always been more nervous and gentle with the girls he pulled in his dating life. He felt like he could be way rougher and give in to his desires here with Kane, though.
Kane sucked on him with vigour and he didn't need much rough pushing or pulling to keep those legs around the base of his mighty tool. Still, he liked thrusting forward and hearing the slight gag as the striker struggled to take it all, that also made him feel great. He flexed and tensed the lean muscles of his body and groaned self-indulgently. `That's it, captain, suck it good! Yesss... mm, work that pretty mouth, will ya... fuckkk...'
It was almost his own dirty talk that got Bellingham really going, the 6ft1 youngster just moaning and mumbling, and feeling Kane's fingers shift to tickle and stroke his low-hanging ball-sack too; and soon he was trembling at the knees and he knew he was going to cum. He pulled back and his cock-sucking captain initially resisted, apparently wanting a mouthful, but nope... Jude wanted to SEE it. He pushed back Harry's face and slapped his hard cock over his mouth and chin again, then held it away from him and wanked it hard, his hand slipping up and down the veiny shaft that was wet with Kane's saliva.
His load, when it came, painted the striker's face in long silvery streaks, beading against his eyebrows and fringe and facial hair, and Jude gritted his teeth as he stared intensely down to enjoy it, the paint job over Kane's famous features. Fuck yes,' he grunted, enjoy my spunk, you dirty BASTARD, yeah...'
Almost as soon as he'd shot his load, Bellingham felt exhausted and weak, and he found himself leaning in to Kane's support, the other man's hands clamping about his hips. The 29-year-old was slurping at his cock, which ached sensitively at this post-orgasm attention, being licked fully clean while much of his dirty mess trickled about that hairy jawline. The tonguing of his cock became too much for him and the 19-year-old backed off, pushing his privates back into the damp boxer briefs, the pool moisture on his bare body mingling with fresh beads of sweat.
Kane got up and retrieved his hoodie and wiped it over his spunky face before folding it in his large arms and letting out a few satisfied chuckles. His erection was visible in his faded shorts and Jude felt a little surge of panic that he would have to act on his rash offer at the end of September - had he really stood there and offered to suck off the captain in exchange for a place in this squad...?! Getting his dick sucked by a lad was one thing, but THAT...
Harry semed to read his mind and he just laughed, passing him by. One large hand, warm and strong, patted his cheek and then the back of his head. That tasted great,' his captain told him quietly. But I need to get to bed now, champion.'
Jude nodded in a daze. Right, thanks.' Thanks didn't seem enough for the pleasure he'd just received, he had to say something more. I loved that!' Okay, well that sounded stupid and pathetic and way too much.
I'm glad,' Kane told him, walking backwards away from him. Welcome to the squad, Bell. I don't think that goal will be your last, do you?' A big warm grin from the England leader, and then KAne was gone, wrangling with his hooded top on his way out through the door. This left Bellingham alone, cock relaxing in his pants, and balls tingling with their release; he let out several long sighing breaths, trembling in satisfaction and disbelief.
In reception, he crossed paths with a red-cheeked and worried-looking Jordan Henderson, and the two football players eyed each other awkwardly at the unmanned welcome desk, unsure what to say. Jude felt that his face and body must somehow scream out the transgression by the swimming pool, that Jordan would immediately know what had happened; but his mind was quickly racing in a different direction, wondering if the bearded Liverpool stud had ever been serviced by their captain in that way. Jude hoped not - he wanted to believe that he'd joined some elite crew of young studs who had deserved that kind of special touch from the skipper!
`How was Williams?' the 19-year-old asked, once he'd recovered his focus.
Hendo almost looked annoyed to be asked, as if his little trip out from the hotel had been top-secret. He glared at him for a moment before recovering. Stroking his beard, he made a vague Hmm' noise, then, He's doing okay, but he's taken a big hit. Poor lad. His family called me and wanted me to check in, that's why I-'
Yeah,' Jude said vaguely, disinterestedly, Trent said.' He stared at the other midfielder, still partly thinking about whether this rugged northerner might have ever taken advantage of Harry Kane's surprising kinky side. He found that Henderson was staring quite intently back at him, and felt a fresh flash of paranoia.
How is he?' the older man asked him firmly. How's Trent?'
Tipsy and cum-drained, Jude made a vague shrugging gesture and drifted away from him, towards the stairway. Moody,' he said, his dazed mood making him blunt. Needs to cheer himself up, that one, or he won't make the team on Friday!' He laughed weakly, but got no mutual response from the older midfielder, who was staring into the middle-distance with an angsty expression on his bearded face. Bellingham shrugged and left him, and climbed the stairs, pulling slightly at the awkward angle of his heavy cock in his sweatpants, which felt slightly damp from the underwear below.
In their room, Trent Alexander-Arnold was asleep with the book over his chest, snoring gently, and part of Jude Bellingham wanted to wake his mate up and shout at him: `I just got noshed off by the captain, haha!' But instead he stripped off and climbed into bed naked, then found his phone and put the exclamation into a text message instead. And before he could consider the wisdom of the decision, it was sent, pinging straight into the inbox of his absent friend and former Dortmund teammate, Jadon Sancho, who would probably wake to the bizarre and naughty revelation. Jude smiled drunkenly to himself and settled in against the pillows and duvet, his whole body achey and spent, and he vanished into boyish dreams, a childhood fantasy fulfilled in his World Cup goal for England; and a much more mature fantasy fulfilled as he watched his cum drizzle over a married man's face, a bitch to his young dominance.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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