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premiership-lads-79

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 79: An Occupational Hazard Part seventy-nine: An Occupational Hazard When Eden awoke, it felt as though his whole body was stuck to the clammy white leather of the sofa. He grimaced, squeaked his bare flesh against the expensive material, and rolled over on the inadequate bed. It was a comfy sofa, but he seemed to have drunkenly curled up in the most awkward position and now his whole left arm and shoulder felt numb and weird. He stretched and yawned against the soft fabric of the woollen blanket thrown over him by his host or his wife, and took stock of his situation. Hopefully by his host, he thought, realising that he was fully naked underneath the pale blue angora wool. He rested on his back, twitched his big buttocks against the leather, and stared up at the ceiling for a moment whilst his senses cleared. What would the gorgeous Mrs Ramos have thought if she’d found him nude on the rug? He hoped, with a dim inability to quite piece it together, that he had been tucked up beneath his blanket here before she returned, but it was hard to say and, if he was honest, he was not overly troubled. Boys will be boys, as they say. Hazard lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and eased himself through the vague headache. It was a cause of much annoyance to his friends and family that he could drink silly amounts and suffer minimal hangovers, and today was similar. As was typical for the Belgian, he felt tired and a little sore but not sick or dizzy. He smirked at his own biological fortune, and sat up on his makeshift bed. It was intensely summer, but it was April in Spain, this was no marker of time; he found his watch somewhere in the shaggy material of the rug and confirmed it was still very early, before 7am. Excellent. He rolled off the couch and let out a dry little laugh as his cock and balls swung freely, remembering quite how naked he was. His underpants were bunched about his ankles where he’d left them, and he slowly stretched down and pulled them up his finely haired legs and about his chunky backside, letting the waistband twang into place. The 29-year old found the rest of his clothes, shoved his sore feet into unlaced espadrilles, made his way back through into Sergio’s kitchen. He poured and downed three glasses of water in a row, noting the sickly taste in his mouth. He knew it was more beer and whiskey and tequila than the dribbling cum of those two tall muscular footballers, but it was amusing to pretend otherwise, to act as if he was swilling and washing away the seed of two hypermasculine colleagues. As he left the villa and shielded his sun-blinded eyes with one hand as makeshift visor, he marvelled at what he remembered about the end of the night. Eden Hazard had been here around 9 months now, almost completing his first full season in La Liga, and so far he had more or less behaved. He was a joker, a lively teammate, but he’d kept things rather… vanilla. Happily married, which was true, loyal father, still true, no… funny business. And then last night. A snigger of surprise and enjoyment escaped his lips as he followed a winding path beneath some heavy palm trees and opened the back gate into his own gardens, approaching the attractive villa of pink stone that he had been guided into buying at the end of last summer, thrusting his way into the little community of Real Madrid big hitters. Gareth Bale! THAT was the bit that tickled him as he let himself in through unlocked French windows and sloshed a half pint of orange juice into a glass, then slumped into a comfortable chair overlooking his grounds. Gareth fucking Bale — he had developed a gradual opinion of the Welshman over this interrupted season, and kinda dismissed him as dull and sensible. Eden LIKED Gareth, he enjoyed his Britishness after so many years in the Premier League, but he had seemed so conventional and predictable; the powerful man stripped before him last night had been a flash of a very different creature, even taking into account his melodrama and hurrying away after he’d spilled his delicious cum. Eden subconsciously licked his plump lips and sipped his orange juice with a smirk. Sergio… Well, that was LESS surprising, perhaps. He had been eyeing Ramos all season, if he was honest, weighing him up as a potential… distraction. Hazard had not landed in Spain desperately scouting for cock, of course, but he had certainly kept his ear to the ground and wondered what `opportunities’ Madrid might hold. And if he’d had to put a bet on, a fistful of Euros like he carried to these poker nights, his money would have been on the surly, tattooed defender and captain, the long-established braggart who’d been here 15 years or something ridiculous like that. Again, Eden let his tongue roll out across his lips, expecting to taste some trace, to get a clearer flashback. He pictured the insanely ripped muscle framework of that body and sniggered again at his own filthy appetites. A cold shower was needed now, to clear his head and wash away the clammy tequila-scented sweat; then into bed, cuddling up to his oblivious wife, who he DID love and treasure, she just didn’t have quite the equipment to satisfy his EVERY whim. Once, he thought as he scrubbed at his bare body in the shower, a woman would have been enough, completely enough. Once upon a time. He grinned lazily at his reflection as he dried off, noting the bloodshot weariness in his eyes. Once, but now. He slid into bed with her, wrapped a thigh about hers, nuzzled the nape of her neck and breathed in her fragrant shampoo from the nest of her hair… but his mind was elsewhere, on the rug in Sergio’s lounge, looking at the bodies and equipment of his Madrid teammates, and wondering if that was going to be a fuzzy one-off, or the beginning of something more magical. It had started in London. Eden Hazard had arrived at Chelsea from Lille as a perky 21-year-old, buzzing with potential. Arriving in the Premiership had been the most exciting of career junctures. The speedy little midfielder had erupted into an already overloaded and talented Chelsea squad and, to begin with, he had needed to fight his way into the starting line-up and prove his worth — a couple of seasons later, he would be recognised as indispensable. Even at 21, freshly signed for Chelsea and knocking in his first few Premiership goals, he had been with beautiful Natasha, with a son, but he had not been faithful. The culture amongst the lads in blue was very much don’t ask don’t tell: that first season, 2012-13, had been a sexual awakening for Eden, banging beautiful English girls left, right and centre, on nights out in London or at teammate’s parties, and on a couple of occasions, with their wives behind their backs. And as the season progressed, it had become an entirely different kind of awakening too. There had been a particularly wet December on the day that stood out in Eden’s memory, and so the lads were damp and mucky as they trudged off the pitch, victorious. The visiting team had been destroyed and though Eden hadn’t started, he’d come on for much of the second half, assisted in a goal, and almost followed through on some other promising opportunities. A good day for the 21-year-old newcomer, all in all, and he was as high as a kite as he entered the tunnel among the cheers and yells of mersin escort the squad. Just then, the hand of the captain had slapped against the back of his neck with a rough squeeze, and John Terry had leaned over beside him to offer some rough, pally congratulations on his contributions. `Solid showing there, new kid,’ the Chelsea captain growled encouragingly in his East London rasp. `Good fuckin’ work — the goals will come soon enough.’ Hazard, unfazed by the praise of his superior, patted a hand to the damp back of Terry’s blue shirt, and grinned eagerly at him. `Yes,’ he agreed, his English less confident in those days, `goals will come. Agree.’ He’d beamed confidently and ignored the almost chiding laughter of Terry and the nearest blokes. It wasn’t that the other lads disbelieved his confidence, they just enjoyed its novelty and deeply un-English self-congratulation. Into the home changing rooms, shirts whipped off. Eden was mildly conscious of how slim he was at that age, though not overly (again with the confidence) and he knew his built was perfect for the speed at which he could dribble and make movements. It did make his rounded bum more prominent and there could be some playful teasing about that from the lads, but he’d had that since high school. Looking back, it was hard for Hazard to say when he’d begun to notice other guys’ bodies in a different way, but it was definitely in these first months of his English career. An occupational hazard, perhaps, of being in a team of very fit and attractive young men, a tactile environment of banter and horseplay. In France and Belgium, he supposed, men were a little more aloof in their behaviour in such environments, but in the cultural mix of London… That day, as he stuffed his used footy shirt onto the shelf and began to kick off his muddy boots, there were hugs and back-slaps from at least half a dozen blokes, and his dark beady eyes roved the room as he sat down to attend to his socks. As often, his eyes fell to dashing Frank Lampard, something of an epicentre to the laddish culture of the team — Lamps was already in his early 30s then but Hazard enjoyed his chiselled looks, his leaps from boyish grin to intense frown, and the smooth toned body he comfortably showed off as he hopped about the centre of the training ground in just white briefs that day. Eden watched the older player’s bulge bounce a little as he did, idly imagining its sweaty contents. There were other bodies on show, though: by Eden’s side, Spanish Juan Mata was already naked. Even then, at 23, the scruffy midfielder had looked years older than he was, something rugged and hairy in him that was exciting to see: Eden’s eyes rested on the dark bush of pubes above his gently swinging prick and wondered what it would be like to reach out and grab it. It was a thought that had pushed its way in over the season. It was as if the more he cheated on his woman and opened his sexual horizons, the less satisfying pussy became. At what point did it stop being an idle fascination, and become active curiosity? That day was a turning point partly because of the effect this curiosity was beginning to have. He deliberately put off making a move for the showers, hanging on in his bright blue shorts, delaying entry to the busy communal shower where he knew his eyes would wander a little TOO much. He’d noticed himself last week, unable to stop, and feared being caught out. But how could you not stare if you ended up showering next to somebody like Ashley Cole, looking at the long snaking thing between his legs? Or positioned between Daniel Sturridge and Gary Cahill, eyes flicking from one pale six-pack to its dark brown parallel? On certain days, if he hadn’t fucked anyone the night before, it could feel just a bit too much for Hazard. Fascination had become curiosity, but curiosity was rapidly becoming frustration. Today, he tried new delaying tactics. He feigned the need to make a call and, just in his footy shorts, slipped away from the main changing area and down a passage to the side, as if urgent family business needed to be discussed. And then he hung in a quiet spot, unnoticed, and played a game on his phone for ten minutes or so. Now he could join the showers as most people were finishing, and the visual sausage buffet would be removed, with all its tantalising danger. It worked, seemingly: the home changing rooms had thinned out, cleaned up Chelsea players exiting through the tunnel. There was a small drinks reception taking place for some of the club’s investors, and most of the lads had heeded their summons to show up and grin in club-branded suits; others were slinking off to partners or families before this duty was unavoidable. Between the two options, Eden was left with a quiet space as he returned to his peg and slipped off his shorts, left in just a pair of close-fitting grey sports briefs, well-packed at the front by the inevitable semi that recent Chelsea games seemed to leave him with. He looked around and saw only a couple more lads left dressing. He exchanged a polite smile with the nearest of them, his fellow Belgian newcomer, Kevin De Bruyne. It was funny to imagine KDB now as the shy, almost albino-looking strawberry blond who had nervously avoided his gaze there in the middle of buttoning a shirt up over his pale six-pack. They were fellow countrymen, but Eden knew his humour and energy intimidated the then 20-year-old who rarely got off the bench. Just beyond Kevin, Cahill was pulling a sweater over his shirt and tie and priming himself to go upstairs and show off, ever the well-behaved club representative. Hazard hovered in his briefs and made polite exchanges with the pair as they went. That left him alone, he decided, seeing the double-doors fall shut, and reaching his thumbs for the branded waistband of his briefs; pausing, though, as the doors almost immediately reopened and in swaggered a returning figure. `Haz,’ came that harsh Cockney voice once more, `thought you’d long gone, lad.’ John Terry swept across the abandoned room in just the tight black boxer briefs he’d worn beneath his kit, and the long blue Chelsea socks up his tight calves. Eden hadn’t noticed him leave the others, though it was not unlike him to be fucking about the corridor in his under-clothes, blessing handshakes on the defeated opposition with a mixture of benevolence and sneering victory. `Ah no,’ Eden said quickly, `I had a call. I shower now.’ `Me too,’ grunted his captain, squaring up to him and wiping the back of an arm across his runny nose. He looked worn out and battered from the aggressive game they had just won, grazes and bruises forming around his knees and elbows, mud-stains streaking much of his legs. He was an odd figure, not conventionally handsome, but definitely striking. Hazard nodded. He wasn’t worried. This was a surprise, but it had been the busy over-stimulation he had been avoiding, he wasn’t suddenly terrified to shower with other guys. Though there was something almost… threatening in Terry’s manner at times, something that equally thrilled and warned him when left alone. And why was he now standing a metre away in front of him, one hand on his hip and the other coming up to scratch his neck and chin. The 31-year-old centre-back, experienced linchpin of the London team, was eyeing escort mersin him up in an oddly thoughtful way. Eden returned the look with a tight-lipped grin, more conscious of his lesser height and weight next to the tall, aggressive defender: 6ft2 of lean English muscle swaying towards him, that slightly haggard look of battle-readiness on his face as always. `What is it?’ the young Belgian had asked, the usual irony dying in his nervous voice. `You weren’t just avoiding a shower with the lads, were ya?’ demanded Terry. `Huh?’ `Avoiding,’ repeated the captain, as if this was a language barrier rather than just an awkward conversation. Again, John rubbed at his face, sniffed, scratched his dark hair, then with the other hand, scratched the bouncing front of his black underpants. Eden realised then that he could smell him a metre away, the rich sweaty odour of his 90 minute performance. Eden shrugged his shoulders, laughed playfully, threw up both hands. `No avoiding,’ he said simply, dismissing the ambiguous accusation with his cheery smile. `I saw you last Saturday,’ barked Terry, and there was something hostile in his voice. `You saw me?’ `I saw you looking around like a kid in a fuckin’ candy-store, mate.’ Hazard stopped then, his smile slackened; there was no mistaking where this was going. Fuck. At least he’d been right to worry, he told himself. He’d been right to avoid more public staring today! But now this… `Haha, great fun, good joke,’ he muttered, and began to turn away, but Terry lunged forward. Suddenly one of his hands was pushing back on Eden’s shoulder, bringing it to the tiled wall, and the tall centre-back was standing close, pinning him back and towering over him. Hazard gulped, tried to force a smile, pretending he was enjoying this latest strain of banter. `You were havin’ a great fuckin’ gander at all the cocks,’ said John, and his voice had lowered. It was tense and aggressive but it was also… there was something purring and sensual in the slow and graphic way he’d said that. Enough hint there to cause a twitching in Eden’s briefs, and a questioning smirk to creep onto his lips. `Captain?’ he mumbled at him. `Well ain’t you gonna deny it?’ spat the East London bad boy. `You talk shit,’ Hazard chanced carefully. `I just shower when I shower. I do as please.’ `You stare a lot,’ snapped John, and he dug his hand a bit more painfully into Eden’s shoulder, then relaxed this again and scowled. `You’re a fuckin’ perv, ain’t you? I’ve seen your type before.’ The tough experienced Premiership footballer stepped back an inch, both arms lolling at his side, both hands curling into fists. Eden feared the worst then, his heart thundering in his lean chest, his body pressed back against cool slippery wall tiles. His eyes darted between Terry’s blanched face and the double-doors, half-hoping for interruption, half-fearing it. `No perv,’ the Belgian grumbled. `No?’ An intense, icy stare from captain to new lad. `You don’t wanna stare at my package now, then? Don’t ya?’ And instinctively, Eden looked down. He looked at the hanging outline in the front of the black boxer briefs. Of course he’d seen Terry’s big bulge before, you had to be fucking blind not to! He’d seen the way it bounced in any undies and any shorts or trackies, he’d seen it flopping about loose as the captain rallied the lads in the middle of getting changed or showered. But now he was REALLY looking at it, seeing the clear shape of it in the cheap black cotton, and then looking back up into the rough snarl on the older man’s face. `It look ok,’ Hazard said vaguely. He wasn’t sure what he was trying to prod or provoke with his ambivalent answer, but he saw the aggressive red flush it sparked on Terry’s cheeks and about his upper chest, felt the tension heighten. Well, he was stuck here in this confrontation with the bullish Englishman, if he was going to be beaten, he might as well play with it. `It look good,’ he added after these tense moments passed. `That what you want to hear, Englishman?’ Terry’s breathing was loud and deliberate. He was still stood very close. He stunk of manly sweat. `Suppose you wanna touch it next,’ the Chelsea captain snarled now, his voice even lower. `Do I?’ asked Hazard, and he found he was asking himself as much as his aggressor. `You fuckin’ perv,’ added Terry. `I do,’ Hazard sighed. Clarity. `Fuckin’ touch it then, mate. Go on. Fuckin’ Euro perv. Have a feel.’ It felt good. It was the first time Eden had put his hand anywhere on a man’s privates, so he treasured it and took it slow. It felt even bigger than it looked. It was warm and soft. He could feel the length of the dick and floppy sag of balls beneath. There was no noise or reaction form JT as he fumbled with his package, but nor was there a slap or punch or elbow to the nose. Just that ragged, deliberate breathing. And that overwhelming scent. `Feel good,’ Hazard said. Terry misheard statement as question. `Feel good?’ he echoed irritably. `Havin’ some Belgian pouf touch up my cock? Why would that feel good? Fuckin’ hell kid.’ `Hmm. Do not know, captain. But… it get bigger.’ They both looked down now. Eden’s tentative fingering was tracing the growing diagonal shape in the front of those undies. He rubbed his thumb around the tip, feeling the extra dampness of its leaking pre-cum. Then he ran two fingers back up the thick length, testing its dimensions, and then daring lifted his eyes to meet John’s. There was a weighty silence between them that could have gone any which way. Eden acted next: he pulled on the slack elastic of the waist and reached in properly. Aha, this was even stranger and more exciting. The sweaty skin and veiny thickness. The stretch of those big full bollocks. He really got his hand in, cupped it around his teammate’s sack, and then edged his grip along the shaft, base to tip. Finally, Terry’s steely expression cracked: his eyelids flickered, his bottom lip trembled, he let out a gentle groan. `Feel good?’ This time it was definitely a question. `Fuck you,’ was JT’s quiet, rasping answer. No more talk from that point. The kiss took Eden by surprise and shoved him firmly back into the wall. It didn’t last long, but it electrified his energetic young body, and fully hardened his prick in his own straining briefs. John’s hands on his sides and his arms were rough and bruising, but so arousing. He gasped more openly than his aggressive partner here, it was like a building pressure had been released: THIS was what he had frustratedly wondered about week after week, even in the middle of fucking some new English `fanny’ in a stranger’s bed. Oh yes. The kiss was over as quickly as it begun and he was being manhandled around, turned and pushed even more roughly. He brought up his hands to the tiles and twisted his neck so his face wasn’t squashed quite so distressingly into the grouting. He didn’t make any muttered gasp of protest or disagreement though, this felt entirely right. One of Terry’s forceful hands was still on his shoulders, but the other was yanking down his briefs. A tiny slap of one buttock and then a series of needy grabs, all of which made the Belgian shudder and writhe in utter surprise. JT’s breaths became more ragged and hoarse over his shoulder as he pushed the smooth globes apart and mersin escort bayan found the dark hairy line of Eden’s crack. Oh… mon dieu… The dirty wet sound of spitting, and then slick wet fingers in sweaty crack, finding hole. It hurt, because Hazard had never even idly touched himself there, but it also felt utterly exhilarating. Completely new. He pushed back with his big bottom and found a more comfortable position between the force of his captain’s grip, trying not to grunt too loudly as a single finger entered him with real force. In it went, then out, then in, then out — it was the strangest sensation he’d ever experienced, totally unlike fucking a girl. His cock ached and leaked. He had to reach down with his right hand and release his hard-on from the dragged fabric of the briefs, which was all bunched up beneath the curve of his arse cheeks. They were being spread more; again, spitting. Two fingers now, wow. He almost screamed that time, but instead he bits on part of his left arm, covering his mouth with hairy skin, and pushing his arse back more firmly to help the curious, rough frigging of his master’s hand. Then Terry was finger-fucking him, really gunning those two fingers into his virgin hole. His legs trembled and his buttocks jiggled. At some point he found he wasn’t pressing his mouth to his own arm but to John’s, which had wrapped about his shoulder and neck to hold him in place; he bit into the flesh of John’s strong forearm but got no reaction from the masterful defender behind him, other than quickening pace to the invasive fingers. A slight change of position then: he felt his back pressed down more, and his hips and buttocks dragged back a bit. Eden stretched into it. He rested his elbows on the wooden bench at the wall and pressed his face into the fold of them, then lifted his arse as high as he could behind him, anticipating the inevitable, shocked and amused at his sudden hunger for it. The fingers worked some more, but not for long. Terry was hurried, and he later realised this was fear more than aggression: JT had no more idea what to do here than him, but he wanted to do it before he could back out. The head of a cock felt huge but exciting, and his hole was twitching from two fingers; ohhhh, that intense burning sensation of entry. He squealed and groaned then but his noises were muffled by his arm. To help himself relax, he unfolded one arm, and reached down to stroke and pull on his own erection; it did the job, loosened his rear, allowed that big thick East London prick to start sliding in. It hurt like hell but he wasn’t gonna show it. Terry fucked him with the same speed as his fingering. Fearful, panicky, rushed. His rough hands pressed and held at Eden’s fleshy cheeks and lower back, leaving bruises that would sting. At points, Eden felt his head knock lightly against wood or tiles, and his legs ached from supporting his body in this position. But more than anything, there was the intense jabbing sensation of something inside him, new and long-desired. He wanted to scream, no longer from pain, but in the pure joy of DISCOVERY. Neither man said a thing as it went on, just laboured grunts and grabbing fingers. Hazard could hear as his top reached climax, and he thought he could feel it, the wetness inside him. Perhaps that was imagination. He heard the extra long groan and felt the tighter grip of his hips, then Terry’s body relaxed, the thrusts slowed. He leant weakly forward into the bench and wall and whined. `Oh,’ he said at last, `oh, captain.’ Eden remained indecisively in that position for a few long moments after the cock had been tugged from his aching behind. He wasn’t sure how to play this, wasn’t sure how to engage with his aggressive captain after what had just gone on. He feared his own rising doubts and more-so he feared Terry’s unpredictable temper. But when he straightened up his body, panting, he turned and saw the 6ft2 burly Londoner looking almost vulnerable in his afterglow. `Shower,’ was all he grunted, and he took John by the hand. They went in to the communal showers, and stopped at the middle of the wall. John’s eyes seemed glazed over and his cock hung awkwardly over his heavy balls. Eden stroked it softly, hit the switch, doused them both in hot water. Then rather than reach for the soap, he dared himself. He guided the rough, callused hands of his curious captain down, closed them about his own throbbing prick. `Yes,’ he murmured, `my turn.’ John barely twitched a muscle; the handjob was almost entirely second-hand, with Hazard clamping his fist around Terry’s and pulling it back and forward until he shot his messy load into the drain at their feet. But nevertheless, it was bonding and completing. Afterwards, one more kiss, as brief as the last. Then soap, slow breathing, a few gentle strokes of limbs and buttocks. The shower was over. Hazard and Terry dried themselves at opposite ends of the silent changing room, and dressed in their crisp white shirts and dark blue suit jackets, ready to swan fashionably late into the drinks reception upstairs. At the double-doors, just before leaving, Terry finally turned and stared intensely down at his new teammate. `Did I hurt you?’ he demanded. `Are you fuckin’ okay?’ Eden looked at his gaunt face, smirked. `More than okay,’ he said. `Much more. Come. Upstairs. Drinks.’ He pushed the door open for them and smiled up at the white-faced defender as he wandered by him, zombie-like in his shock. Eden smiled at the pang of nostalgia, and felt his wife’s hand close around his limp dick beneath the duvets. She pulled lazily on it and planted a single kiss on his chest, inches from a stiffening nipple. He giggled and rolled over into the hungover embrace, but he thought about John, and the years of on-off fucking that had overtaken them. That intense afternoon quickie with Terry had been the beginning, straight in at the deep end. There had been others: a handful of physio assistants, hotel bellboys, even rent-boys at one point; later, Eden had experimented with a few other footballers, though always one-off incidents never to be discussed or repeated. But with John, it had gone on for years. Five years, to be precise: from Hazard’s excitable arrival in London in 2012 until Terry’s uneasy semi-retirement and transfer to Aston Villa in 2017, the scene had recurred. Sweaty, intense, silent action, usually somewhere in the stadium or training ground, but occasionally at a hotel. Never conversation, never intimacy, just raw fucking of mouth or arse. Eden let out a thin sigh as his cock was taken in hand and guided towards his wife’s vagina. It wasn’t a sigh of gratitude or desire for her attention though… It was a satisfied sigh to consider those five years of sporadic, unexplained intensity. And also, if he was fully honest with himself in the golden glow of another Spanish day, a wistful sigh in memory of what had sharply ended. Terry had left Chelsea for a final year at another club, and now he worked there as assistant manager. The two of them had not met once since. There had been no goodbye, no acknowledgement of the dozens and dozens of powerful fuckings that had gone on between them. And that was fine. It had been its own special thing, and it didn’t need anything more said about it. But even still… as the sprightly, cheeky Belgian rolled over to plough his wife that sunny morning, he still felt the hungry throb of his arsehole, mourning for the very different sexual role his antics with John Terry had allowed. Was it time he allowed another dick in there?

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