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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 203: Hey Jude Part 203: Hey Jude Another international break, another training camp, another newbie joining the Three Lions. That’s what they must be thinking, he reasoned nervously, stepping out of his big taxi car outside the entrance to the slick football centre he’d been summoned to at the last possible minute; this was a dazzling novelty to him, but he had to play it cool, because no doubt this was all just a bit mundane now to the various highly-rated pros he would be joining here under Southgate’s leadership. The teenager stood by the sliding side-door of the vehicle, wiping clammy palms down the front of his hooded top and staring politely at the masked driver who was opening up the boot to fetch his things. For a moment he went to thank him in his clumsy new German then corrected it to a gruff shy `Thanks pal’ when he remembered he was home in England after all, not still in his surreal new life at Borussia Dortmund, still spun out by his summer transfer to the European club. As agreed on the drive, he shyly signed a couple of pictures for the driver’s son then hoisted his designer backpack over one shoulder and took hold of the handles of his small suitcase, then proceeded up the entranceway to St George’s Park and the smiling eyes of several staff members waiting to greet him at the doors. He blinked bashfully at the photographer snapping his arrival like a celebrity on a red carpet and made his way indoors, bowled over by the way he was greeted and immediately shown to a variety of welcome packs he needed to grab and take with him, the various squad attendants chirping instructions and welcomes to him and one another in a way that left him feeling a bit confused and out of place, sure he was meant to know the procedure more than he did. The 17-year-old smiled dimly behind his Nike face-mask and waited for clearer direction that didn’t come, his thin arms loaded up with kit bags and a shoebox of new boots. Then he heard his name barked out in a the rough cheeky-chappy voice of someone more familiar. `Hey, Jude!’ hollered his recent teammate without a trace of irony, poking his head through some double-doors over to the right, then bursting through and clapping his palms together. `Bell-boy, you’re here… sweeeeeeeeet…!’ And then Jude Sancho was bustling over in his bouncy gait, grinning and clicking his tongue at the staff members as if he was a seasoned England star rather than just an up-and-coming youngster himself. The 20-year-old tapped elbows with him and removed two items from his strained arms to help him out, giving him a wink of greeting. Jude Bellingham was, as always, slightly in awe of Sancho’s unfaltering self-confidence, and he followed him on with a grateful nod to the England staff who’d welcomed him and signed him in, leaving them behind and moving through into the inner passages of the big training complex, towards what seemed to be its more plush and homely residential quarters. `Cheers, J,’ he said breathlessly, looking about himself and taking in every detail he could, following the other young England call-up through a warren of corridors largely decorated with filtered photography of old-time Three Lions heroes; immediately, in that fast-paced South London patter he possessed, Sancho was welcoming him and giving him the low-down on the rest of the day. `I mean, obvs, poor Trent,’ chimed Sancho, elbowing his arm out of the way to take presumptuous control of the weekend suitcase as if Bellingham was some dainty dear who needed a chivalrous hand, leading the way upstairs to the long corridor of suites now housing the senior national team for almost a week. `Everybody’s heart breaks for the lad, but — fuck, so good to see you bro, so fuckin’ sweet, YES…’ Sancho turned his charismatic grin on him, eyes aflame with camaraderie, and on they went. The room was a little less grand than Jude had expected, somehow, but it was a decent size and their windows looked out on the sweeping space of training pitches they had access to under their prestigious coach. Already, he noticed with a mix of envy and alarm, some of the newly arrived England players were out there having a casual kickabout — he couldn’t quite make out the individuals except maybe the most notably tall blokes like Maguire and Mings — to bond and unwind after their varied journeys here. Few had travelled as far as suddenly as Jude himself, mind. Jadon slapped a hand to his back, tugging the mask down his face a little bit to expose his grin. `So made up for ya, kiddo,’ the 20-year-old said in the tones of an older and wiser man. Jude smiled eagerly back, amused but glad of the familiarity and reassurance, the continuation of their almost brotherly link-up as token Englishmen in an elite German team. `I still can’t quite believe it,’ the Midlander murmured, still standing by the window and looking out into the late afternoon dusk of the pitch, his feet itching to be out their showing off his skills and making connections with the other senior players he would join this week for the first time. A few, like Sancho, had crossed paths briefly with him in the Under 21s, but most were just Premiership icons he had only admired from afar. `One minute I’m settling down for a week of double gym sessions, next I’m being rushed on a plane to Heathrow, y’know. Poor Trent,’ he added quickly, echoing Jadon’s empathy for the injured Liverpudlian who was suddenly missing out on the camp. `But yeh, what an opportunity for me…!’ He could still remember every moment of the call late yesterday, the personal contact from the England chief himself, Gareth Southgate: perhaps he’d recall every word of that brief formal exchange for the rest of his playing career and beyond. It had been a mad year for the young Stourbridge lad, exalted at his boyhood club Birmingham and now sold away to Dortmund and their Bundesliga battles. And now here on his first senior England call-up, fucking hell! `Mad opportunity, bro,’ confirmed Jadon, shoving him in the shoulder then moving away, flopping himself onto the bed he had claimed while Jude drifted back from the window and tried to organise his things, exploring the contents of his welcome bags and finding a variety of new branded training gear to wear for their sessions. `Gonna be wild,’ Sancho was trilling, sprawled on his back in skinny-fit tracky bottoms and a baggy white t-shirt, juggling some random item in his hands. `Wild,’ mumbled Bellingham, `not as wild as some nights…’ He looked sceptically at his rogueish new pal, conscious of the boozy nights he and Haland had instigated of late, pushing the limits of lockdown rules in Germany and ensuring there was always a bit of entertainment for the younger Borussia players to get stuck into. That recent night in a discreet local hotel rose up to haunt him, the risky business of it all, the probable scandal they’d flirted with just by booking a room, never mind the whores Haland had sourced for them or… he found his long thin cheeks blush pink over his rich brown skin, remembering the way Jadon had egged them on to try new things in the midst of their boozy debauchery. Jude had left Birmingham almost a virgin, losing his `cherry’ at last with his homely high school girlfriend after a year or so of foreplay and almost action. The distance had been quick to end that fragile relationship by mutual awkwardness, and Jadon had shoved him into getting his dick wet with a host of German glamour models and friends-of-friends at little social events on the fringe of their footballing life together. As with all of the boisterous mentoring Sancho had undertaken around him, he was deeply grateful, but also hesitant and shy, hardly brimming with the same London road-man confidence as the older sportsman. `Oh, we’ll see how wild we can make it!’ promised Sancho now with a cackle, tossing his toy noisily against the ceiling then catching it, playing with some toy or souvenir or something, kicking his bare heels off the bedding and relaxing more. `I bet they’re quite strict,’ the Midlander responded in his soft Birmingham tones, inspecting an England training shirt with boyish excitement and remembering how much he’d beg for this kinda merch as a kid, ashamed of the prices his working-class parents would pay to spoil him with it. And now it was just handed to him on his way in! `Boo, loser,’ teased Jadon with a wheezy laugh, bopping his toy off the plaster ceiling again then catching it, sitting up suddenly, `rules schmules, this is gonna be a fuckin’ sick week’s holiday from Dortmund, mate, just you watch…’ Jude gave him a quizzical look, raising on eyebrow; as much as he was the naïve youngster in their bromance, he’d gained enough assertiveness in his youthful success to challenge the cocky winger now and then. `Oh right, yeah, just I thought you got dropped for the last few games after going to that Chelsea dude’s birthday party, eh?’ He smirked at the little scowl of resistance from his friend and roommate, folding the England shirt fastidiously and planting it on top of his resting case. `Dickhead,’ jibed Jadon warmly, tossing his juggle-toy this way and making Jude reach instinctively for it, catching something rubbery and silly in his hands as he spluttered with laughter and enjoyed the successful sting to the other lad’s ego. Then, with a blink of slow confusion, he stared at the thing in hands, registered its shape and look against his pale palms, and dropped it to the neatly piled kit in front of him, yelping out his dismay. `Wha’ the fuck, J?!’ Sancho, sitting cross-legged on his bed, was just laughing loudly and stretching his arms, leaning his neck from side to side then gesturing for it to be passed back, clearly pleased to have shocked and annoyed Bellingham so much with the throw. `Oi, giz it. Haha, what, you never seen one before…?’ Jude, frowning prudishly, snatched the thing up, taking the soft plastic little thing, a sorta abstract phallus or something smaller and bud-like, ending in a finger-sized ring of rubber, and threw it hard into Jadon’s chest. `What you got that for?’ mersin escort he asked crossly, his face colouring, and he became very aware of his youthful ignorance and the smirking enjoyment of the other England player. `Bloody hell, mate…’ `Just a toy, innit,’ Jadon quipped, juggling it again from palm to palm then pocketing it as he slid up onto his feet and crossed the gap between their beds. `What you gonna do, demand a new roomie?’ Jude, trying to regain some face and return to the soft banter, clucked. `What? No, you’re the only dude I know, fuck that. Just calm yerself, bro! Honestly…’ Laughing, Sancho burst into him, rugby tackling him to the bed so their lithe young bodies flipped and rolled messily over the middle of Bellingham’s unpacking and then they were parting, the other guy leaping playfully away while Jude found his balance and staggered away, laughing breathlessy and shaking his head. Their heavy breathing and laddish chuckles were cut through by the old-fashioned chime of a wall-mounted phone and Jadon swung towards it, snatching it up and chatting down it with all of his South London cheek and charm. One hand remained in his pocket fiddling with that thing, and Jude watched him do so then snapped his eye away, looking back to the mess they’d made of his belongings. Dammit, he’d just folded all that kit! `Right,’ said Jadon after clicking the phone back into place, `move yerself, junior, we’ve got our first training session in twenty minutes…!’ After the early evening initiation of a gentle first training session, dinner was served, and Jadon was still riding a wave of perky enthusiasm to be back on British soil and to be among these Premiership icons. After the will-he-won’t-he tumult of the summer and his gradual acceptance of a longer stay at Dortmund, the young winger WAS enjoying his season, but he couldn’t repress the odd pang for the huge stadiums and media spotlight of his home league, and he was glad to be back on its fringes kicking a ball with some of its biggest names: Kane, Sterling, Henderson, Maguire, Grealish, the lot of `em… And him. He eyed the burly Manchester City defender a bit further down the table, very conscious of that hotel scene when Kyle Walker had… well… hah, introduced him to… He scratched his goatee self-consciously and fidgeted in his seat, returning to the low-fat cheesecake on his dessert plate and stifling a nervous little snigger of remembered excitement. Obviously Sancho hadn’t actually admitted to anyone what had happened in that sleazy room after a bit of swapping around, when he’d ended up sharing with Walker for one last night of that little tour; he could hardly go around telling his mates he got licked out by a fella, could he! And yet in Sancho’s fragile ego, the same one that had really struggled with being jerked off by his big Turkish teammate when he had awful cramp, had reframed and accepted the incident with Kyle as okay. It was Kyle, wasn’t it? Look at him! Proper bloke’s bloke, one of the toughest fellas here, surely? He was disturbed from his brief reverie by a sharp elbow in the arm, turning to find his neighbour and former academy pal Phil Foden demanding to know when he was quitting Germany and coming home for good; he cackled and bantered with the City prodigy who he’d shared a couple of youth squads with in their development, making his usual snide jokes about idiotic Pep Guardiola letting him go and watching the defensive little frowns on the Manc lad’s face, always entertained by his naïve loyalty to his Spanish manager, the twerp! It was all in jest for Sancho, who deeply respected Pep and would never forgive the great manager for snubbing him and allowing him to be cheaply sold to Dortmund; the brief nostalgic twinge of imagining himself making his Premiership debuts alongside nervous Foden made him irritable and he quickly wriggled out of the jokey chat to tidy his dishes and cutlery away like everyone else. Southgate would not have them waited on during training camps here, he had no interest in feeding their egos. What Southgate probably underestimated was that for a youngster like Sancho, every single detail of the international duty was ego-swelling enough, and the London lad bounced through the refectory of the training centre, whistling to himself and glancing this way and that to appreciate the prestigious company. He bounced idly between the friendships he’d started to establish, trying to join a deep-and-meaningful between two other youth graduates, Rice and Mount, but finding himself quickly excluded from the two giggling goofs and whatever private joke they were in on; he tried and failed to rile Maitland-Niles or Saka with some anti-Arsenal banter; hovered foolishly around the big guns of Kane, Maguire and Trippier, unable to contribute much to their shared stories of dad duty and nagging wives. What Jadon didn’t like to dwell on was the vaguely cliquey sense of the lads here, and the slight awkwardness of being a relative outsider — but Kieran Trippier, he reminded himself, was playing at Atletico Madrid, so clearly over time you could fully be `one of the guys’. Still, he wound his way back to his only real teammate here, Bellingham, who was chatting pleasantly with the catering staff who were mothering him as he handed over his plates and cutlery, swooning admiringly around the young beanpole and his effusive gratitude. `Let me steal this one,’ he said with a dimpled wink at the middle-aged women, only mildly smarting at no longer being the loveable youngest lad here who they all wanted to feed up and look after, and seizing on his Dortmund pal to steer him away from the serving counters again. `Stop flirting, you dirty dog,’ he teased. `Huh, right, yeah,’ laughed Bellingham awkwardly. `Which one are you gonna poke tonight?’ he demanded in a hot whisper. `Ugh, you know I got more standards than you, J…!’ `Tsk, standards is just another word for having a teeny chipolata and no balls,’ Jadon informed him authoritatively, trying to throw his arm about his shoulders and then giving up since the teen was a couple of inches taller than him and it made him look foolish. `But nah, for reals-` Glancing over his shoulder and sniggering. `I think I’d smash the blond if I had to, especially if she were gonna cook me breakfast after. Eh eh!’ He tickled at his tall roomie and pulled away, laughing heavily. `I bet you would!’ Jude chided him with a tinkling laugh of his own. `Might get myself up to the room,’ he admitted, patting his flat tummy through his polo shirt and rocking on his heels. `Long day innit and early start.’ `Same,’ the younger footballer agreed distantly. `I’ll come up with you.’ `What, not sneaking back into the kitchens for your bird?’ He teased him like that all through the short journey, the two young players grabbing their things from their seated places and ducking out of the late evening mingling of the men. Jude seemed to lighten up and laugh more fully as he played through a grotesque fantasy of how Bellingham would sneak down after curfew and plunder his way through the catering team like the teenage horndog he was. Jadon dismissed the little semi in his CKs as he joked around, reminding himself that he hadn’t been laid in a few days and obviously even jokey dirty talk was gonna get him in the mood in those circumstances. Up in their suite, he was disappointed when Bellingham insisted on doing a call with his family — he jeered at him and mocked his youth, then felt guilty and gave him some space to, whacking on some headphones and playing games on his phone in the wicker chair by the windows overlooking the pitches. He pushed and pulled lazily at the bulge in his pale grey sweatpants, unable to quite dismiss the frisky mood that had started this morning when he had to leave his overnight stay with family back in Camberwell and had just rocketed up as he got kitted out and fought to prove himself in the training session here. He was randy and restless now where he sat, his socked feet up on the windowsill and his balls sweating in his undies. It didn’t take him long to become bored on his own, resentful of Jude for being caught up in a Zoom catch-up with his parents and siblings. He slid off his Beats headphones, abandoned his phone, and skipped about the room as if he was dribbling a ball. His hyperactive wandering took him straight to the discarded clothes from this afternoon and as he picked them up to begrudgingly tidy into his case, his fingers found the firm outline of the little toy, and he pulled it out with a smirk. To be honest, it was kinda random that he had it with him. It was summat a casual girlfriend had left in his room, really, sometime around Christmas; it had just turned up in a bit of a tidy and made him laugh. Laugh, then pause, curious. Either subconscious interest or a clumsy accident had let it get into his hastily packed things and turn up in his hand when he was settling into the shared room waiting to hear that Bellingham was arriving from the airport. Now, gripped with his whimsical naughtiness, he slipped a finger through the ring at the end and twirled the small sex toy, flopping his whole body like a fish onto the foot of Jude’s bed and distracting him from whatever he was blathering on about to his mum. Jude’s eyes flicked up, a little scowl, back to the screen. Jadon grinned and teased the pointed tip of the toy over his lightly furred chin, trying to lock eyes with his pal and giggling when he resisted. Crawling forward on the bed and getting up on his knees, he pushed the thing onto his thick lips and nuzzled that end slowly, pausing only to snigger and catch his balance. He pulled it away from his lips then slapped it noisily against a cheek and, at last, parted his lips and sucked on a couple of inches of the rubbery little phallus, stuffing the other hand casually down the front of his sweatpants: victory! `Right, gotta go, love you though, love you yeah, thank you, yeah yeah, call you tomorrow, sure, erm…’ Bellingham’s laptop closed with a click and the teen launched forward with an impatient escort mersin laugh, trying to rugby tackle him in the same way as he’d caught him earlier. Jadon laughed and wriggled, rolling onto his back as the tall thin midfielder grappled with him — fixated on the joke now, Sancho shoved the damp tip of the toy into his mouth, making him cough and wriggle and, quite suddenly, thump him in the mouth. `Ow!’ It was a glancing blow and it didn’t actually hurt much, but the shock of it made Jadon clasp a hand over his face and roll to the side, stunned; Jude was apologising before the pain had even registered, holding up his hands like a caught criminal and staring concernedly across the bed at him. `Mate!’ Jadon laughed through a throbbing lip, coming up on his knees and facing the younger Dortmund star. `Didn’t mean to do that,’ muttered the 17-year-old. `Sorry mate, sorry…’ `Heh, jeez pal…’ `You shouldn’t wind me up like that!’ the teen said defensively. `Just messin’,’ Jadon grunted. He snatched the dropped toy up off the sheets where it had fallen then leapt off the bed sulkily, gripping it in one fist and rubbing his smarting mouth. `Not like I was gonna make you use it, you dumb gimp. Ow. Prude!’ He forced a laugh, still a bit overexcited, and adjusted his growing bulge. `I brought it for me to try, not YOU.’ A nervous uncertainty in his voice, Bellingham got off the bed too and adjusted his matching red polo shirt, embarrassed by his own ire. `You’re kidding,’ he said quietly. `You aren’t really gonna…?’ `Why not?’ Jadon demanded. `It’s just a little thing, ain’t it. And, fuck’s sake, not like either of us is REALLY gonna go down and pork a caterer, is it? I need some fun, bro, that’s for sure.’ Sancho hadn’t really known until he said it aloud that he wanted to definitely try the thing tonight but now it was out there, he was feverish. `We can’t all be boring like you, mate.’ Jude just sighed at that empty insult, standing awkwardly about as Jadon muscled over and fiddled again with his own package. Jadon was partly driven by some resentment of Jude’s overreaction and lashing out, but also just a streak of exhibitionism. He peeled his shirt up and off, baring the pale caramel of his lean torso and very gently haired chest and pits. He saw the bulge and flash of the other lad’s eyes at this gesture, but ignored him and lifted one foot after the other to yank off his grimy socks and then shove down at his sweatpants. Just in white CK trunks, he threw himself on his bed and held the toy between his fingers, wobbling and stroking it and smirking meaningfully at his roommate until he flushed red. `Nah,’ Jude said simply, `you’re not…’ `Mate, I’m HORNY,’ Jadon insisted in a moody tone, gripping and shifting the meaty package in the fresh white of his undies, and rubbing the toy dumbly against the skin below his belly button. He didn’t quite know where he was going with this but he really was turned on, as much by the notion of himself as a hot-blooded international footballer than by anyone else. When he pulled his nob out, he half-expected the other youth to storm out of the room or throw a glass of cold water over him, but Bellingham just tutted and rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of his own bed, seeming to watch on for a few moments as Sancho pulled on and played with his chubby prick. `I’m only experimenting a bit,’ he thought aloud, sliding the underpants further down and away from his skin, letting out his creased bollocks and parting his fuzzy thighs. He wriggled the undies over his knees and down his shins until they tangled about his ankles and then he grinned smugly over at Jude, who gawped at him in a kind of moral outrage. He cupped his dick and balls in one hand, feeling it get more fully hard, and wiggled the toy in the other, stretching it down and tickling its rubbery tip against his privates. `People do shit like this all the time.’ `You’re filth, mate,’ Bellingham told him but, Jadon noticed, not looking away. Invited by those judgmental eyes, Jadon lifted his knees, lying there on his back like he had in the German hotel room in the middle bed, showing off to Jude and to the Norwegian. He slid the tip of the toy down and nuzzled it into the wiry dark hair of his gooch, laughing loudly at the tickling sensation; he let his hard cock flop back against the pool of his tummy and brought his spare arm up behind his head for support, keeping his mischievous eyes on his roomie as he played. He toyed with the fur of his crack, nudging the pointed little toy in there and enjoying its wandering feeling as much as he enjoyed the horror on Bellingham’s face. `That’s gay,’ the 17-year-old Stourbridge lad assessed simplistically. `Nah,’ Sancho assured him, thinking of Kyle Walker, `just a bit of a laugh, innit.’ His focus on the younger lad lessened as he tried to figure out what to actually do, lying there on his back with his legs up and spread, nudging the thing between his cheeks into the clammy warmth of his passage. A bit of him felt some nervousness and indecision but his cocky performance outweighed that doubt. He rubbed it over what he guessed was his hole and laughed again. He felt like he was waiting to see when the midfielder’s patience would snap, and he couldn’t resist pushing it further. `The angle is tough,’ he said. `I dunno about this, y’know.’ `Well put it down, you mad un!’ `Nah, I just mean — like, reaching down there, y’know? Bro?’ `Well don’t think I’m helping…!’ `Nah?’ `Bro!’ `You ain’t doing much else, for fuck’s sake. Come on.’ `Actually fuck off, Jadon, you’re mental. You’re taking the piss.’ He was, wasn’t he? He had been when he’d played along with it, teasing Jude’s outrage. But now he was frowning petulantly at the other lad and waving a hand invitingly at him. `Just a sec,’ he pleaded. `Like, seriously, come on mate, you got to. Then, buddy, I can tell you what it feels like, right? You need my advice, bro, you know you do, like when I told you where to find a fuckin’ clitoris, you dumbass virgin. Get over here.’ To his feverish disbelief, over he came. The 6ft1 youth unfolded from his seating position and leaned cautiously across onto this bed, a startled look on his face as Jadon stroked idly on his cock where it lay against his tummy, then tossed the toy at his hand. `Go on, plug me,’ he jeered. He watched Bellingham stare at the thing in his hand, hook a finger in, twirl it testingly. `What you thinking, Judo?’ `I’m thinking you’re fucking insane,’ the ex-Birmingham player murmured. `Maybe,’ Jadon reasoned, `but remember with those prozzers, bruv. Told you it’d feel good, didn’t I?’ He saw Jude squirm a bit at that. `You loved it, squealed like a piggy when she rimmed you, dirty fuckin’ lad like you.’ He rubbed his knee and shin against the lad’s arm. `This is jut like that, mate, just like that. Go on.’ A heavy sigh. Then Jude took it and leaned over and begin reaching down. `Nah,’ Jadon told him quietly but firmly. `Nah, spit on it first, bruv.’ `What?’ `Spit on it. Lube it.’ `But then you’ll have — like — my spit in your — erm — but…’ `Tsk, just DO IT, bro.’ Watching the tall slim athlete frown seriously and gob on the plasticky tip, Jadon felt his cock throb and twitch, his balls ache. God he needed to get laid! Maybe a rush down to the kitchens wasn’t such a bad idea after all. But he hooked his hands under his inner knees against his thighs and lifted his legs more, baring his arse-hole for the pushy hand of the shaky teenager. He felt the toy in his crack again, damp now with another lad’s spit. In an awkward manner, Bellingham rubbed the thing tentatively down there, staring at his own hand, then jerked away in a rush. `Nah bruv, I can’t-` `Fuck’s sake just DO IT.’ Jude huffed a sigh, gritted his teeth, and tried again. The opposite this time. He jabbed the blunted tip of the toy in between Jadon’s cheeks and he felt its damp end enter him with a little sting of pain that made him tense and let out a muffled yelp. For a few moments, Jude carried on: either he was taking out his judgmental outrage via the toy, or he was lost briefly in the thrill of the new. He pushed it a few inches inside Sancho and wiggled it, holding one of his knees in his other hand and sending quiet little thrills of contact down that leg. Sancho held his breath and watched him between and over his legs, trying to relax and open up, but struggling. Then Bellingham was looking sharply at him. `Does that hurt?’ he asked in a rough whisper. `A bit,’ Jadon admitted, bravado melted somewhat by the obliging teen. `What about if I…?’ And further in it went, pushed by shaky fingers. Jude stared intensely at him and Jadon parted his lips in a little gasp of stimulation. He reached, irresistibly, for his cock and sighed more audibly, squeezing the base of his prick and trying his best to relax the downstairs muscles now clamping on the toy as Jude pushed it in… `Nah man,’ the younger footballer suddenly grunted, pulling back away from him, `this is sick.’ He reeled back in disgust at what he was doing, almost falling off the bed with the force of his rejection. Jude felt his arse muscles tighten and the toy pop straight out, but his cock still throbbed in his hand as he rolled on his side a bit and stared hungrily at the other lad, annoyed for his burgeoning pleasure to be so stalled. `Bro it’s nothing,’ he lied excitedly, snatching at the toy with his fingers and pushing it back against his closed hole, jerking himself with the other hand, but the magic moment of Jude’s curiosity or obliging loyalty was broken and he looked troubled. He backed rapidly away from the bed, grabbed his laptop from the bed and rushed for the door, and Sancho found he couldn’t even stop wanking himself long enough to worry that someone passing by might look in. Jude rushed through the corridor with the laptop in both hands, half-expecting Jadon to come hopping after him with his Calvins around his stupid ankles. No, there was nobody else around, he could march furiously right down the hallway and into the rec room at its end, a big empty mersin escort bayan lounge space where he thought some of the others might be hanging out before bed. Its emptiness was a relief though and he thought maybe he could load up Zoom again and video-call his Brummie mates once he’d calmed down — and washed his fuckin’ fingers! He clung to the laptop and moved towards the kitchenette that occupied the corner of the room and- `FUCK.’ He almost dropped the laptop, or had a heart attack, or both, struggling to recover himself as the thickset masculine figure emerging from behind the fridge with an open milk bottle in his hand gawped guiltily this way. Kyle Walker belched loudly and rubbed smeared milk from his lips and stubble, twisting the lid onto the plastic bottle and shoving it back inside the fridge. `You did not see me drinking from the bottle in the age of COVID,’ the City defender announced loudly. `What the fuck’s up with you?’ The big-shouldered Yorkshireman stood squarely in front of him in matching leisurewear, chest bulging through his polo shirt. Jude took a few deep breaths, hugging the laptop to his chest, fuming at what he’d just been `tricked’ into doing with Jadon. He stilled himself, aware of his obvious distress in front of this England powerhouse who he barely knew. Before he could get his mind straight, he was mumbling in snatches: `Sancho, that prick… dirty freak… fuckin’ loser…’ And then clamming up, wishing he’d said nothing at all, knowing that some things should stay between teammates. Walker raised one of his arched brows, tilting his head. `Sorry?’ `Nowt,’ Jude grumbled, annoyed with himself. `I just need to — erm. Wifi is crap in our room, so…’ He hugged the device more tightly to his chest, bunching his shoulders, feeling incredibly young and silly in front of the 30-year-old right-back. `Sorry to disturb you, man.’ The older player laid one of his big firm hands up on Jude’s shoulder, a little shorter than him but so much more heavily built. A little half-smiled played on his lips and he moved to pass him by, exiting the kitchenette. `Well, knock yourself out,’ Walker told him. `Sorry to spook ya, kid.’ And he was gone, leaving Bellingham stood awkwardly on his own, letting his breathing and heartrate cool. Then down went the laptop, clattered to the worktop, and he rushed to the sink, blasting the hot tap and squirting washing-up fluid into his fist. He scrubbed at both hands and growled to himself, extremely annoyed. Jadon’s eyes flashed to the left as he heard then saw the twitch of the door handle. The mad stupidity of what he was doing came to him in a terrifying flash of `oh shit, here ends my career’, but then it was open, and in bustled Kyle, and his fear was transfigured. He paused in the vulnerable position of what he was doing, fingering awkwardly at the toy to push it further into his tightness, jerking furiously on his nob with the other hand. His legs and ankles dangled in the air. The young player watched as Kyle took three long strides from the door and stood by the bed, smirking at him. `Dirty little bugger,’ the senior City player — someone else he could have played side by side with if Pep hadn’t let him go! — tutted playfully, hands for a moment on the hips of his black Nike sweatpants. And then, almost instantly, the well-built defensive player was grabbing at himself a bit in the front of them, letting out a deep laugh, and reaching forward. In a smooth, muscular move, he snatched at Jadon’s ankle and tugged. His body slipped sideways over the clean sheets, revolving at an angle and his head slipping off the pillow that supported it. Now he was sideways over the bed, staring between his high open legs, and Kyle was reaching down for his hand. The toy, with unceremonious plop, was yanked from his tender entrance and discarded; the sound of Walker spitting into his fingers was so much louder and more assertive than Bellingham. `Dirty little fucker,’ breathed Walker. `Knew you had it in ya.’ `Yes,’ Sancho yelped eagerly, knowing instinctively what was coming. The finger pushed into the tight hole that had been gently parted by those first attempts with the toy. Walker pushed it in hard, up to the knuckle in him, and it throbbed and stung but his dick felt about a hundred times more sensitive. He jerked it again and clung to one thigh with the other hand. Walker stared down at him as he fingered him, muttering on. `Knew it, you filthy little lad, knew you were muck… fuckin’ tasted it on yer arse, you slut…’ `Yes,’ he found himself whimpering in spite of his ego and cockiness. `Here, I bet one finger ain’t even enough for ya…!’ `Fuck…’ `Try this, you little bitch…’ `Fuck, Kyle!’ `Mmm, try two of `em, you horny London scally, eh…’ `Ohhhh….’ Sancho felt stars explode in his eyes as he lay there with his arse just hanging off the side of the bed, legs held up as high and wide as he could, arse parted for two knuckle-deep fingers of the big defender. In, out; in, out; in, out. Oh fuck. His hole burned but his balls tingled and his cock twinged. The orgasm, when it quickly came, burned through him like fire. He found himself squealing with stupidly risky volume, felt the jet of his spunk spray up his inner leg and splash back over his taut tummy. He wanked on in rhythm with the rough shoves of Kyle’s two fingers, until his dick ached and his hearty gasps sounded more like pathetic painful sobs. He realised that Walker had already begun wanking, was finishing himself off where he stood, lifting and sniffing the two strong fingers that had entered him, smearing them beneath his nose and over his upper lip while jerking on his own fat hard-on. Sancho could only stare, legs still up and parted, as another load was shot over him, globs of the defender’s seed dropping down among his own juices on his inner thighs, his crotch, below his navel. For several long moments, the City man stood over him, chest heaving in red cotton, sweat shining on his neck and cheekbones. Jadon made some awkward attempts to speak but found his throat dry and tight. Kyle patted and stroked the same ankle he’d dragged him by, and laughed. `Cocky little slut, you,’ he said quietly. `But I know how to work ya.’ Then he was leaning over, and those same two dirty fingers were brought this way, nudged below Jadon’s nose and over his lips; he thought of his slutty joking before, pretending to suck on the toy to distract and annoy Jude, and he tried to resist the inevitable now, but couldn’t. His lips parted and he tasted Kyle’s fingers, tasted his own hole. Then Kyle was landing a soft pat on his cheek, smearing the fingers over his skin, and backing off. A glimpse of his dripping tool before it went inside his pants. `See you on the training pitch tomorrow, lad,’ grunted the Sheffield-born footballer, and out he went. Jude returned to the room after almost two hours on his own in the rec room, failing to manage a video-call but wasting time on social media and getting lost in a wormhole of YouTube videos. The room was dark when he returned and he was glad to think that Jadon must actually be asleep. He put his things down and undressed without turning a light on, slipping the clothes off his long strong legs and slim torso, getting down to his baggy black boxers and huffing wearily to himself, irritated that his first night here had become so oddly fraught. He kept replaying his awkward little encounter with Walker in the kitchen and thinking what a tool he must have sounded. He went into the bathroom. Pissed, brushed, gargled. Sulked. Then, back in the bedroom, he sensed a difference in the dark outlines of the room. His eyes adjusted as he moved and he realised Sancho was up, sat on the bed rather than lying down now, not saying anything but hunched there, a heavy presence. He pretended not notice, pulling back the covers of his bed and lounging in it, on his back and staring up at the ceiling; uncomfortably aware of Jadon close by, his breaths long and harsh. `I’m sorry,’ Sancho said to him, in the dark. He ignored it. `I said I’m sorry,’ the 20-year-old winger repeated heavily. Jude lay there, staring fixedly at the ceiling of the room. `Hey, Jude,’ barked Jadon’s voice a third time. `I’m sorry mate, okay?’ Bellingham sighed at last. `It don’t matter. Forget it.’ Pause. `I’ve already put it out my head.’ Then, after another pause, from Sancho: `Let me make it up to ya, mate.’ He lay still, unsure what that meant, then felt it. The little rustling movement of a hand, brushing his upper thigh. As soon as the hand made contact with his crotch, he closed his arms in and slid both hands down his smooth toned front towards the waist; something, impossible to say what, made him stop, his fingertips an inch above the waistband of his boxers, as that hand squeezed and fondled him beneath the duvet and above the cotton. He could feel Sancho’s hunched presence beside the bed as he did it, maybe kneeling there in the space between the beds, still breathing with an odd heaviness. Jude just lay still and accepted it in confusion. His dormant cock was rubbed and nudged and brought into some life in spite of his nervous rejection of the touch. His tension and irritation found a new home in arousal. He felt his dick go stiff and angular down there where it was trapped, felt quite glad when the boxers were pulled to and he felt clammy hand and fingers about his prick. He began to speak, to form the letter `J’ with his lips. But just a harsh shushing sound from the other Dortmund player nearby, and a tighter grip of his hardened member. He lay there in stunned silence, trying and failing to imagine it was someone else, but very acutely aware that he was being given an apologetic jerkoff by the randy and arrogant Londoner. The only sounds were his own and Jadon’s heavy breathing and the rustles of the bedsheets. It was over with shameful speed. He was, after all, 17. His cum stained the sheets and his own well-developed lower six-pack and, he guessed, Jadon’s fist. Another rustle as the hand was pulled away, a shift in pressure as the nearby figure retreated, climbed into the other bed. Sighed. Jude lay awake for a while, startled, absorbing the physical apology of the gesture, but then he sank into nervous sleep, on edge but switching off, aware of the demands that tomorrow would bring.

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