premiership-lads-106

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 106: Phone Fun Part 106: Phone Fun The sky was endless blue and the sun was a fat circle of white flame. It was looking to be a hot summer by low local standards, the recent weather always a surreal backdrop to the slow, quiet life that had taken over. It reminded him of long slow summers of his earlier youth, a mixture of relentless boredom and nostalgic highlights; being back here, in comparison to London, made the pandemic lockdown feel more like a step back in time to the frustrations of a provincial childhood. And tomorrow it would end; tomorrow he would step foot on a plane back to the UK and his `real’ life, though working as a young professional footballer in London felt a bit like a strange dream he’d slipped into in his mid-teens, not something he could just return to via a one-way flight. Troy Parrott strolled through the leafy edges of his Dublin suburb, a mere village on the verge of urban takeover, and looked around him with renewed fondness. Scenery that had begun to look incredibly dull to him after repetitive weeks of lockdown out here took on its more typical rosy glow of familiarity and comfort, flavoured by his imminent departure. Tomorrow was the day he had been anxiously craving for weeks, counting down to since it was confirmed, and yet… Ireland was home, he reminded himself, and London was… well, London. The 6ft1 striker took long strides down the wooded path back into the village, ending the much-trod lap of his solo walks these past three months or whatever it was; it felt longer. He knew he’d been lucky to be allowed to fly home to family in Ireland, other youth players across the league had been kept locked down with host families and such. As bored as he’d started to become of provincial life on the outskirts of Dublin, Troy was deeply glad to escape his poky room in another lad’s family in Enfield. Sorting out new grown-up accommodation now he was 18 and on a proper adult contract, that was among his priorities when he was back in a routine from the day after tomorrow. For now, though, he was just the complacent suburban teenager again, strolling along with a puffy half-deflated football tapping off the toes of his hand-me-down trainers and long rustling grass and weeds brushing his thickly haired shins beneath scruffy Adidas shorts and an old Ireland international jersey that had once belonged to his dad. It still had `Parrott’ printed on the back. He blinked pollen from his eyes and smiled at the trees and bushes he couldn’t identify, the glimpses of birds and rodents in the undergrowth, the long bored faces of livestock in neighbouring fields. He kicked the low-quality ball with little grins of relish, reminding himself that this Irish backwater was the world that had made him, not the streets of North London. Troy’s slow, meandering walk back to his parents’ little terrace ran him through an empty playground on the edge of town, creepily abandoned in these times of social distancing. Troy lobbed the sagging ball into the centre of it, then heaved himself onto an empty iron picnic table in one motion, pulling a phone from his pocket to tap idly at the screen whilst surveying the suburban gloom around him. The sun scorched at the back of his neck, burning between the thick hair of his overgrown mop and youthful beard, and the back of his long arms. On the phone, the Spurs youth and senior group chats he was in, not to mention the Ireland youth squad one, were blowing up with the excitement of players anticipating returns to training over the course of the next few days. By next week, footballing life might begin to feel almost normal and dates for the first few matches of the resumed season might even be scheduled. Again, he blinked at the weirdness of it; had those fleeting appearances for Spurs’ senior side in London even really happened? Was he actually playing at that level, at only 18? Bloody hell. Troy didn’t contribute much to the group chats: he didn’t see enough of the Ireland lads any more, though he looked forward to bonding with them more if he got a call-up whenever international football was a realistic prospect; he didn’t feel quite confident chipping in to the banter of the Tottenham senior chat, yet was conscious he’d left the youth lads behind and was embarrassed trying to chirp up in their chat now he didn’t train with them anymore. Basically, he felt very lost between groups and cliques. The new messages weren’t just from them, though. As well as being the last person to post in the `Ireland Squad 4 Life’ group, he had a separate message in from Shane Long, mostly comprised of playful emojis depicting football excitement, then: `cannot wait to kick some balls at training soon haha, yessss’. He grinned at it, glad to hear from his childhood idol again. He’d enjoyed a sporadic and friendly bit of contact with Shane in the last few months, which had come as a relief; earlier in the year, he’d feared that the events of his 18th birthday had cast a shadow on that little friendship. Admittedly, he hadn’t actually seen the Ireland legend since the day he’d gone down on him, another moment he couldn’t quite assess as real, but the casual banter and check-ins that had been messaged his way by Long made him feel like the fondness was still there. It was a comforting link, confusing elements aside; was there a player in the world he had more admiration and respect for than Shane? He sent off his reply quickly, blinking a bit in the bright sunshine lashing down on him. `Same buddy, same!’ he texted, then volleyed a series of silly emojis himself. Then, bored, he took a quick snap of his surroundings and sent it to Shane: overgrown grass, abandoned playground equipment, a horizon of small roofs and chimneys signalling the edge of village life. He looked at the next message in his inbox, from another fairly regular contact of these rather lonely weeks. `Feeling bit better today — thx for the chat the other night, m8, always appreciated x’. He smiled sadly to himself, looking at the thread of similar communications between he and Eric Dier of late. Poor bloke. Troy wasn’t sure he knew the full story, but a series of late-night phone calls from his teammate early in the lockdown had put the grim situation before him: Kane had finished with him by text and wasn’t engaging in any contact since. At first, he’d been cynical, aware of the secret lovers’ earlier spats and his own role in causing and fixing them. It had gradually become clear that this was a little more serious, and he’d seen so much online rumouring that the legendary goal-scorer was desperate to leave Tottenham Hotspurs. Those tabloid and fan-forum leaks had punched Troy in the gut, seeming to confirm Dier’s fears: was it really over for those two? Parrott hoped not, fond of both men but especially Eric, and charmed by what he knew of their discreet romance. Naturally, he had been as supportive as he could to Dier, picking up the calls, even when it was at stupid o’clock in the night and his pal had imbibed a few too many spirits on his own, rambling drunkenly down the phone about remembered encounters with Harry. Troy, usually a forgetful and sporadic texter, remembered to check in with Eric every other day and would send him a slew of daft memes when he thought to, anything to try and perk up the heartbroken midfielder. Week by week, he seemed to get better, but at the weekend he’d rung up in a real state, and Troy had taken over an hour to calm him down, partly through distracting him with boring village gossip and news of his aunt and uncle’s farm. Somehow, a phone call that had begun with choking manly sobs had ended with mutual laughter. If the footballing falls through, Parrott thought, I’d be a sick counsellor or summat. He sent a short but helpful response to Eric: `any time, big man. See u literally 2morrow!’ A single smiling emoji. Send. It would be great to see big Eric in the flesh at training. Were they going to be allowed to hug? He couldn’t remember the rules, but he felt a real urge to give a comforting cuddle to the bloke that had done so much to look after him this year. Troy blushed privately at the thought of some of the moments they’d shared, not quite proud of what he’d participated in, but unable to deny the secret pleasure he’d taken in them. Ping. A reply from Dier already? Nah… Aha, it was from Shane, actually. `why u sending me pics of fuckin playgrounds kid? Send pics of u lol’ He smirked at the message a bit, picking up on the satirical mersin escort flirtation of it, then laughing aloud as a second message pinged in with a little blushing kiss emoji to underline the joke. He grinned and rolled his eyes and tapped his feet a little against the bench at the side of the picnic table. He clicked on his camera and took a simple selfie of his sun-kissed features, freckled cheeks and more dark facial hair than he’d ever risked growing before. He’d need to shave it and look fresh for his Spurs return, but he’d been enjoying growing it while he played country boy again. Send. Shane’s reply was surprisingly (and excitingly) rapid. `lol I meant summat more private than that, trojan x’ He paused on his seat, chewing his lip slightly, and raising his thick shapely eyebrows. Was Shane joking there or actually suggesting something more? It was hard to tell. His messages were always a little bit cheeky, in their way, whether to Troy privately or within the Ireland group chat that he read but rarely responded to. He stared thoughtfully at the screen, at his own gurning selfie, at Shane’s dismissive little reply. Another ping, another message. `just kidding, buddy……… unless u want 2, lmao x’ `yep, gonna send u all my nudes lol, just u wait bro’ He felt his heart flutter and his breathing quicken a little as he sent this sarcastic (was it sarcastic?) response to the older man, and thought about that intimate little moment in the café when Long had presented him with a birthday present then taken him awkwardly to his hotel room. He thought about what had gone on and the almost broken expression of the married Irishman afterwards. Troy suddenly felt overheated and stressed and it wasn’t just the stifling premature summer. `waiting’ was the response, then a winking emoji. Troy felt his thin cheeks blush more and he laughed, then glanced about to check he was actually alone out here. It seemed that way. The playground was truly empty and bordered by high fences and hedges, and proper woodland on one side; only a narrow alley led through into the main street he would follow to his family’s road at the other side of the village. `Fuck it,’ he said to himself. He grabbed at the front of his green jersey and lifted it up halfway up his body, then held the camera phone a little further from himself and took the second picture. When he examined it, you could see a flash of tanned abs and a tiny glimpse of hairy trail between the shirt and his shorts, and his expression was more playful than the friendly gurn of the first selfie. Send. He hopped off the picnic table, immediately embarrassed by his antics, mildly afraid that some nosy neighbour might have spotted him from a window and judged his brief posing. He sniggered at the daftness of it, digging his football out form beneath the bench and tapping it along the path towards the alley. Before sliding his phone into his pocket, he nervously glanced back at the conversation thread with Shane Long, and saw the response: `haha, nice one kid, more of that? Lol x’ At home, the little exchange of messages played on his mind. He’d smirked and dismissed Shane’s comeback and finished his leisurely walk home; lazed in the small square garden with his younger siblings and helped his mam tidy up indoors. Then he’d had the garden to himself for a pre-dinner workout, following the strict weekly regime he was being sent by the Spurs head coach. Before loading it up from an email on his phone, he saw the follow-up text from his Ireland senior teammate and found himself pausing with a blush. `wot, no more pics for me, buddy? Bored as hell here lol’ Troy was not naturally shy, not until faced with the odd humour and unpredictable chat of older players like Long, or his early engagements with playful Eric Dier. The tall teenager paused in the suntrap at the back of his parents’ small terraced house, and looked awkwardly about as if one of his family or the nosy Irish neighbours might have spotted this cheeky request. He dismissed the notification without opening the message, not wanting Shane to know he’d read it, then got on with his workout. By the time it was over, he was shimmering with sweat and the old Ireland jersey stuck to his lean torso. He looked about the little garden and up at the cramped house, a place without much room for him these days — he was determined he would soon have earned enough in the Premiership to buy a big new home for them out here, as well as a flat in London — and his eyes settled on the frosted window of the small bathroom. He gulped and resolved in his internal decision. Troy slipped back indoors and got a brief lecture about keeping his sweaty paws away from the prep for dinner, then a couple of squeaky demands to play Xbox from his younger brother. He shook off the interruptions and went upstairs, where he dumped his smelly trainers in his bedroom and then disappeared into the bathroom. `Don’t be long,’ came his mum’s voice up the stairs, `dinner will be ready in half an hour, Troy darlin’!’ In the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror, his sharp young features and the sheen of sun-kissed sweat. He let out a scoffing little laugh at himself but… well, he was up here now, and he had his phone in his hand, so… He peeled the Ireland jersey up and off, dropping it to his bare feet, and angled the camera at the scratched mirror for a quick shirtless shot. Send. He hovered there, phone in hand, and ran his other hand idly over his taut abdomen. The response wasn’t immediate, of course it wasn’t, and he felt silly, shaking his head and glancing judgmentally up at his foolish reception. The bugger was joking, obviously, he’s not ACTUALLY obsessed with you, Troy, you arrogant twerp… He caught his own eye. He did do what he did though, mate, he reminded himself with a low thrill of inner conflict. That HAD happened, it wasn’t just some weird half-memory. He’d lain down on that hotel bed and watched in trembling expectation as his hero reached for his apparently massive member. One of the most beautiful cocks in the world, he remembered with a burst of guilty pride, quoting Eric Dier, one afternoon giving him a lift home from training. `lol can’t believe u just took that’ came the reply on his phone, just as he was about to put it down and switch on the shower in the bath-tub. He grinned at the little response then read its rapid follow-up: `need to lose them shorts tho before u shower, m8′. A third message, just a little wink emoji and a couple of food-based ones that he understood with another little buzz of egotism, an eggplant and a peach. He laughed aloud and reached around the shower curtain to switch it on, knowing the crappy plumbing here took a while to reach any heat. Then, still blushing hotly and giggling at his own antics and the Southampton striker’s dirty blokey humour, he lowered the shorts, and his undies, down over his faintly hairy backside and positioned himself in the centre of the claustrophobic bathroom, back to the mirror. He lifted the phone at the angle, feeling weirdly emasculated as he did so, and snapped the reflection of his long toned back and curving, muscular bottom. For the first time in the playful exchange, he paused and considered deleting before, inevitably, hitting send. He didn’t wait for Shane’s reply then, though he did pause and look more closely at the picture, thinking how oddly attractive his own arse actually looked — or, you know, might look to a guy who was interested in that sorta thing, haha. A new idea occurred to him then, for a second: bloody hell, bet that’d cheer up Dier! But to stop himself waiting awkwardly for Long to text back, he dumped his phone atop the sink, alongside myriad toothbrushes and skin products, and stripped naked to climb into the lukewarm shower. He squeezed a wad of shower gel into his palms and massaged it down his chest and back up his neck, rinsing his face and hair beneath the weak spray. Downstairs, he heard vague shouts between siblings and parents, felt another stab of affection for the very things that had been winding him up only two days ago; everything suddenly felt very finite here, his departure for London imminent. The prospect of the airport tomorrow drew his thoughts back to Shane. That surprising encounter with his Ireland teammate in the busy terminal, the pleasure of First Class free drinks with him, their shared interest in an attractive stewardess, the rough intimacy of what they’d got up to in a tiny toilet escort mersin cubicle. He grinned at the memory, less guilty or awkward at that incident, since it had been less, well, potentially gay than the other things he’d let happen. The other things he’d… enjoyed. Out of the shower, he reached for his towel and dripped from his tall bare body on the scruffy mat, then couldn’t resist reaching a damp hand to check his phone. `bloody hell,’ read Shane’s reply, `u got a better arse than me wife lmao’ — there was a second message, though, just beneath it: `what bout the other side…?’ He laughed aloud at that, grunting indecisively. He took his arm and smeared the steamy cloud from the surface of the mirror so that it gave off an oily reflection again, then backed away a couple of steps. He lifted the phone in one hand and, with the other, dangled the threadbare blue towel from a point just above the waist, so it hung tantalising in front of his crotch whilst the tanline of his hips and upper thighs showed on either side. Snap. Send. `cheeky fucker,’ he typed, `wot am I getting in return?’ He sniggered at his own ballsy tease and response, not entirely sure what if anything he wanted in return! He dried himself in long tugs of the towel, rough against his mildly sunburnt limbs, and disappeared across the landing to his bedroom, reclaimed from his brother in his temporary occupancy, and pulled on some baggy Spurs tracksuit bottoms and a light shirt that he could leave half-undone. Irresistibly, he checked his messages, but nothing from Shane Long. Perhaps he’d killed the joke with his last racy image, or perhaps his demand had ruined the teasing fun for the arrogant superstar. Shane Long’s next message came just as he tucked into his dessert of ice cream, squashed around the dinner table with the family and so unable to do more than glance fleetingly at it at the edge of his pocket. He wolfed down his ice cream and then stepped outside, claiming he needed some air for a moment, back onto the rugged chipped patio that took up a third of the boxy garden. With his back to the kitchen door and a couple of anxious glances in case anyone joined him outside in the dying sunshine, he slid the phone from his pocket and swiped his code over the screen with a sense of pleasant dread, afraid and intrigued at what he might receive. He pictured the cheeky, good-looking older man echoing his bathroom poses. He knew as soon as he opened the chat that there was no picture attachment and he felt a mixture of disappointment and relief. He also felt chastised, his silly demand exposed as petty and rash. But he opened the message from the other guy all the same, as pleased as ever to hear from him, and at the very notion of their distant friendship. There were still posters of Shane Long from years gone by on the walls of his reoccupied childhood bedroom! `2 old 2 take pics like that u daft mug lol — but tell u wot, guna ring u l8r 2nyt n u beta answer. Make sure u alone’ Troy blinked in the burnt gold of the sunset and stared at his phone screen for a long minute, turning over the clumsy text-speak of the message, gawping a bit at its blunt dismissal, its confusing promise, its ambiguous intimacy. He didn’t know what to think but he knew that when the call came, he would be quick to answer. Indoors, he hid his distraction with claims he was tired, the heat and his day’s exertions making him drowsy and anti-social. He grinned his charming apologies at his adoring parents and demurred from the planned movie night, agreeing only to a couple of episodes from a mutually loved comedy series. Eyes flickering to and from his expensive watch, the first purchase he’d made with professional wages, he soon made his excuses and headed upstairs. After all, it wasn’t a lie; he hadn’t finished packing his bags for tomorrow. He retired to his room, small and dark and an awkward mixture of the very familiar (old sports posters and a row of his own trophies, a guitar he’d never quite learned, some gouged graffiti in the chipped paint of the windowframe) and the jarringly new (his brother’s PC, a fresh lick of paint, a new wardrobe). There were no locks on any doors here, so he took the wooden chair from the desk and quietly jammed it at the handle, then stared at it in the same way as he had his own daft photography. What are you doin’, soft lad? Troy lay on the bed, with its embarrassing little creaks and yawns that made nightly wanks a cringey, cautious affair. The room was stuffy, and he undid the lingering buttons of his shirt to let it drape open to expose his chest and tummy, where he hung his hands and stared at the ceiling. It occurred to him then that this really was all a joke. He was going to lie here until he fell asleep and wake up in the morning to whatever the punchline was, some laughing message from Long, cackling at his confusion and gullibility. He gritted his teeth and suppressed a yelp of frustration. He could just about hear the rise and fall of a movie soundtrack in the living room below him. Huh. After a while, the room growing slowly darker, his thoughts turned from one of the provocative older men in his life to another: the same playful idea as earlier hit him again. Eric. He thought about that earnest thankyou message earlier on, the latest token of affection from the handsome England player he was vainly trying to cheer and counsel through his… well, was it really a break-up? He didn’t know what else to call it. To think that he’d been so close to that secret love affair and now it might be over and nobody else would ever fucking know about it, just him, his and their secret forever and ever… He thought about the painful sound of Eric’s sobs the other night, poor fucking lad, what a mug he’d been made by big old Kane. No harm in trying to bring some cheer to him, was there? He rolled over on the bed, ignoring its wiry creaks, and opened up his phone. He loaded up his chat with Dier and sent the pics one at a time: him on the picnic table, the glimpse of six-pack in the blazing sun; the shirtless, hesitant selfie in the bathroom; the `cheeky’ peek at his backside; the towel pose, the one he’d been so smug about, and then immediately terrified that he’d scared off Shane, and- The pics were sent, but his screen was suddenly flashing with an incoming call. For a second he assumed it was Eric, about to berate him for such risqué picture messages out of the blue, but no… Incoming call: Shane Long. Troy leaned over a bit more as he slid the bar to answer it, trying to reduce the gurgling creaks of the ancient single bed beneath him. He held the phone to his ear and murmured his `Hey…?’ uncertainly into it, but there was no answering voice. He lay there on his side, frowning at the walls of his room, straining to hear; he pulled the phone away, stared at it in confusion, nearly hung up. No voice was coming back to him, nothing. Well, no, not quite NOTHING, he could hear… the crackle of the mobile phone reception, that vague electronic hum, and… ever so faintly, voices. The voices got louder, fractionally. He closed his eyes to concentrate, and he could almost make out words. Slowly, the voices grew louder — closer? — and also familiar. He could recognise Shane’s Irish drawl, a richer and more countrified accent than his own; the other voice was female and less distinct, but he quickly surmised that it could only be Mrs Long, right? Now, the voices were getting clearer. `Come on baby,’ urged Shane’s voice, `s’all good, the kids are asleep…’ `I know, hun, but… we’ll have to be quiet…’ `These walls are thick, hehe, I don’t think you need to worry…’ `Oh Shaney…!’ `And you were never great at being quiet, were you…?’ Troy lay there, the hands on his forearms and the back of his neck standing on end. He gulped quietly and stared into the middle-distance of his bedroom wall, realising with a soft laugh that his eyes were focusing in on a poster from about 6 or 7 years ago, of a young Shane Long in an Ireland kit, triumphant at the end of a game. Parrott blushed and dropped his eyes from it and held the phone more tightly to his ear, listening to the soft patter of husband and wife, slowly understanding what was happening. He must have rang him, he thought, not by accident, but… he could almost picture it, the master bedroom (or was it some other room, downstairs?) of Long’s house, which he’d never seen but suddenly imagined in detail… he’d rang him, hadn’t he, and then just mersin escort bayan left the phone on a bedside table, or a dresser, or… fucking hell… `How’s that?’ he heard Long’s voice ask in a gruff stage whisper. `Oh babe…’ Her voice slipped to a giggle and then a groan. Troy bit his lip and pictured her. He’d seen pics of Long’s wife before, admired enviously the gorgeous woman he’d been married to for so long, what a total MILF. He shuddered with voyeuristic excitement and realised how tightly he was gripping the phone with his right hand. His left hand lingered below his nipples and stroked aimlessly up and down the central dip of his tight abs, nearing but not touching the waistband of his team trackies. `Want another finger?’ chuckled the man’s voice on the phone with an easy filthiness. `Oh hun… ohhhh…’ Groans burst into giggles again. `How’s THAT, now…?’ `Ohhh baaaaby…’ The dialogue became different noises, just wet kissing sounds and shifting moans, rustles of fabric. He slid his fingers down a couple more inches and pushed at the waist of his trackies, his body tensing up against the creaking bedpsrings. Troy listened intently to the sounds of foreplay on the other end of the phone, trembling. His eyes flicked back to that poster, to Shane’s stocky figure and dark features, his confident grin. He could just picture him at work, sprawled against his beautiful woman, and- `Let’s get your bra off…!’ Did people really say things like that? Was Shane saying these things just for HIS ears…? `Oh hun, you know I love it when you…’ `Mmm, tasty…’ `Fuckkk… baby… let me suck your… come on, get your big monster out, baby…’ `…mmm, you know it’s all yours, fucking hell, yes babe…’ Troy shoved his hand down the front of his pants, grabbing hold of his clammy genitals and feeling the swell and throb of his heavy cock. He pulled it gently between two fingers and then eyed the door and his hasty, childish `lock’. He slid off the bed with a self-conscious creak and shrugged his open shirt off his body, then shoved down his trackies. He climbed back onto the bed in only the pair of fresh white boxer briefs he’d slid into after his shower, right hand down the front, fondling his balls, left hand pressing the phone to his ear. He lay on his back, listening in and fumbling with himself, gripped by the naughtiness of Shane’s scheme. `Mmmm, luv, get it down yer throat…’ Just Shane’s voice now, gruff and commanding, and sorta wet slurping noises faintly audible. Troy let out gasping shaky breaths and felt how hard his dick was for her, for that beauty his mate was married to, for what she was now doing on her knees, mmm… `How’s that baby?’ gasped the woman sensuously. `How do you think? Your turn baby — spread ya legs, hun…’ Troy tugged his hard-on out of the pants and wanked it firmly, feeling the slide of his foreskin as his prick leaked pre-cum. The bed creaked a little and he had to be careful, keeping his long limbs still and his core taut. The phone screen stuck to his ear and cheek with fresh sweat. He stared at the cracks in the ceiling and then closed his eyes so he could picture the scene more fully. Long’s wife was gasping and crying and the only noises from the man himself were animalistic little growls of dirty appetite. Troy shuddered and jerked himself and strained to catch every little noise that crept down the line to his ear. Fucking hell, this was like the best porn ever, and he wasn’t even looking at a screen, Christ… `I’m gonna fuck you so hard,’ Shane promised his wife. `Do it,’ she begged. `Open yer legs, honey, let me in…’ `I’m dripping!’ `Suck my fingers you dirty bitch.’ `Mmm, babe…’ `Feel my big dick inside ya, eh babe… ohhhh…’ `YES, YES…’ Troy lay there almost paralysed by excitement and fear of making too much noise. Only his right arm moved in furtive strokes, hand gripped tightly to his big throbbing erection. His bollocks tingled and every hair on his body twitched with every shift of the warm air. He kept his eyes screwed shut and behind the lids a little porno played, picturing Shane Long mounting and ploughing his gorgeous missus, strong and commanding and clearly enjoying himself so much… every syllable of the couple’s dirty talk rang in Troy’s brain and he kept wondering if this filth was normal for the married pair or if it was being exaggerated and spurred on for him, all for him. Troy let out his own quiet gasps, almost in sync with Shane’s rough pants. The seasoned Irish pro must have pretty good stamina, he thought, feeling himself beginning to peak. He opened his eyes and stared intensely over at the wall to the dated poster of his hero, whilst his cock let loose a brief jet of wet spunk that flicked his hairy thighs and ran down his thumb and wrist. A drop of it landed on his upper chest, close to his chin. He gasped wordlessly into the air, his other hand still tight around the phone, the moans and cries and growls still playing into his ear. He lay still and listened, spunk oozing over his knuckles. `Yes baby, yes, oh Shane, keep fucking me…’ `Gonna cum, babe, gonna cum now…’ `Fill me up, honey, fill me up…’ In sudden baffled horror, he let the phone slide from his ear and his hand. Then he rolled over, wiping his cum-sticky hand over the sheets, and reached a cleaner finger to push at the screen and end the call. He shoved it away from him, knocking it off the bed so it softly thudded the carpet, probably heard and noted by the family below. Troy hugged at his pillow and pressed his clammy face into it, riding the wave of orgasm and vague self-loathing. How perverse, he thought, to listen in on a married couple and just… whoa… It took him a few minutes to recover. He felt hot and bewildered. He got out of bed in a moment and went to the window, the darkness outside full and blanketing. With a still sticky hand, he twisted the handle and opened the window a crack, letting in a rush of cooler night air. Troy rested his brow against the pane of glass and let his chest heave into rest. His cock swung loosely over the waistband of his white pants, smearing its seed on the cotton. Troy reached down with both hands to tuck it away, still panting. He bent down and picked up his phone, where the call app had faded away and returned to his home screen. He sucked in a long breath and tried to stop himself freaking out. He felt like he had that quiet afternoon when he’d allowed Eric to have a go at popping a finger inside him, excited but frightened and out of his depth. Oh… speaking of Eric… He saw the new message icon from the other Spurs player with a rush of relief, something safe and comforting there after the ominous thrill of Shane Long’s phone fun. Troy slumped back onto the bed as he chuckled at Eric’s reply to his picture show. `whoa — thx for that, Trojan Horse, wtf lol’ He smirked and punched in his answer. `ur welcome big lad, just wanted to bring sum cheer’ `jesus… nearly had a heart attack when I opened them lol — dirty boi!!!!1!’ `calm down lol, they aint that hot’ `yes troy — yes they are’ He smirked to himself, still flushed in the face from his heated orgasm. `lol shut up dier — but have a fun wank looking at my pics haha xx’ `you irish pricktease lmao’ `night bro’ `fuck off — Im not sleeping after those pics u sent, hahaha’ `whatever, uve probably already deleted them — night m8 x’ `yeh better delete them actually lol — before I send em to wrong guy like last time’ `lol what?’ He lay there, enjoying the slight breeze creeping into his room and playing over his undressed physique. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the back-and-forth of brief badly typed messages, puzzled by the last one. `last time’, he thought. `wrong guy’, he wondered. `better delete them’? He watched the little icon that told him `ERIC IS TYPING’ in an on-off kinda way, sporadic bursts of composition but no incoming message. His mouth hung open a little and he stared confusedly at the phone screen, waiting for explanation then becoming too impatient. `eric — wtf u on about…? wot last time?’ A minute passed. `eric m8??????’ Another rush of cool night air leaked into the bedroom and played down his thighs and shins, disturbing the thick dark hair on his leg muscles. He shivered a little, but not from pleasure or temperature now, from a horrible feeling of anticipation and inevitability. The much-needed reply from Dier landed in his inbox. `troy — dnt be 2 pissed off, ok — just sumthing i need to tell u — can i call now?’ Troy felt his stomach lurch. What picture? When? Who had he sent it to? Sickened and anxious, he lifted the phone slowly to his ear, and pressed `dial’. He needed to know what Eric Dier had done.

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