premiership-lads-215

Celebrity Fakes

Subject: Premiership Lads Part 215 Part 215: From Ancient Grudge He hit skip on his usual early alarm and rolled over, indulging in an hour or two more of comfort in the lonely warmth of the kingsize bed, sighing sleepily into soft pillows and letting the memories of last night drift back into the forefront of his mind. Another big win, he thought blearily, bringing the folds of sheets up against his smooth chest beneath his bunched arms, picturing the scenes in the Anfield changing rooms after a big home win. 2-1 over Tottenham, one of their strongest title challengers, and the slapped-arse expression on Mourinho and all his players, hehe. For a local lad like Trent Alexander-Arnold, whipping the arse of a London team like that never lost its extra spice. The young Liverpudlian footballer pressed forward into the bed and stretched his body out comfortably, enjoying the cocoon of heat his body had created overnight, relishing the slow start to today. The gaffer had minimised training as a treat for last night’s performance and the lads now only had a very light session in the late afternoon, the rest of the day theirs to recover and relax. Trent was as delighted as anyone by this move, though it was a different prospect in his lazy bachelor pad when he knew some of the other guys would be savouring the pre-Christmas family time. It crossed his mind, cuddling against the bedding and stretching his thick bare legs down to the cooler sheets beyond where he’d lain, that he could make a trip to visit local family of his own, perhaps have lunch with his parents or something. The earliness of the morning came and went as the 22-year-old right-back allowed the lie-in to continue and the day’s endless possibilities to waver in front of him. He slipped in and out of sleep a few times, at least a little, and scratched idly at his bare smooth body and the heavy sag of his dark grey boxer shorts. For a moment, enjoying the memories of adrenaline and testosterone at the stadium last night for that big win, the young athlete began to pull and rub at the front of those boxer shorts, adjusting himself there and feeling the slow burn of morning wood. But a second alarm jangled noisily from the beside table, shocking him that already two hours of luxurious lie-in had dwindled by, and the day was really started outside. Muffled traffic and street noises leaked through double-glazing and heavy curtains and made him huff sulkily at the obligation to get up and do something productive. His fingers pulled reluctantly away from the package in the front of his undies and he yawned into the side of one hot arm, onto his back and stretching out once more. A morning off from training, time to recover, but he was a young man not yet in his footballing prime — his muscles twitched for action, not just his cock, and he decided that a morning run was a good idea. It would wake him up and kickstart a relaxing Thursday off — and keep him from just wasting the whole morning tossing off in bed, which the hot-blooded young Scouser mersin escort could picture all to easily of himself. On days to himself, the talented young bachelor could easily knock out too many wanks and make his cock and wrist sore, flipping idly from straight to gay porn now and feeling the weird liberation of it since being introduced to new pleasures by his older teammates, whose secret clinches he felt more and more excluded from. Trent lunged out of bed in a concerted effort, knowing that a minute more of cosiness would keep him trapped there for hours, shoving a hand down the front of his undies, and taking the problem in hand; instead, he ignored the vague hormonal throb of his sweaty privates and fussed about the spacious master bedroom of his city apartment, finding mismatched gym clean gym gear and readying for a quick winter jog that would snap him into productivity. The handsome youth grinned at himself in a big wall-mounted mirror, laughing at the memory of the pic of him at the end of yesterday’s game, shorts pulled up about his boyishly smooth thighs, assertive that the `best team won’; he knew he was really coming into his own now, as a man and a player, and his recent outing with the captain’s armband had been next-level enjoyment. He dropped the slept-in undies down over his thighs and knees, bouncing along naked for a moment before stuffing his tight balls and curving semi cock into the clean mesh of some running shorts, then wriggling into a vest and hooded top. Socks were yanked on and feet stuffed into fresh trainers, then earbuds and keys snatched, and off out of the musty man-smell of his big bedroom and down through the building, out into the damp chill of the December morning, hitting the pavement at a run. And he also hit skip on his usual early alarm and rolled lazily over, indulging in the same hour or two more of comfort in another warm lonely bed, sighing sleepily into soft pillows and letting the memories of last night drift back into the forefront of his mind. A solid win for them, he thought blearily, wrestling at the folds of sheets over his fluffed chest, picturing the scenes in the King Power Stadium after an away victory against the Foxes. 2-0 over Vardy and company, former underdogs-turned-champions, the great work by all of his teammates and coaches that had been displayed last night down in Leicester. For a local lad like Jonjoe Kenny, it was a beautiful achievement for the resurgent Merseyside team, but the lifelong Everton fan could not help but wish he had played a slightly bigger role in it than coming on for the final two minutes of stoppage time… The young Liverpudlian footballer pressed sideways against the bed and stretched his wiry body out uncomfortably, frustrated by the cocoon of body heat and mildly resenting the slow start to today. The gaffer had minimised training as a treat for last night’s performance and the lads now only had a very light session in the late afternoon, the rest of the day theirs to recover and relax. escort mersin But Jonjoe was fresh and wired, having played so briefly, and he was just facing a dull day rattling about in his bachelor pad since quarantine prevented him visiting family indoors and he had already spent so much time here alone during his injury rehab. It crossed his mind, scratching angrily at his stubble and then his chest hair, that those few minutes last night might be the only play he got for his beloved Everton, since there was already rumour of another loan spell for him once the January transfer window began to open up. The earliness of the morning came and went as the 23-year-old right-back allowed the lie-in to continue and the sullen career reflections to continue in his head. He slipped in and out of fitful sleep, becoming more wound up and agitated, patting energetic hands down his lean tummy and into the front of his loose pyjama bottoms, toying with sweaty foreskin on his plump soft cock. For a moment, taking comfort in the weighty feel of his own privates, the young scally considered a little wank to soften his anxiety, then pictured himself wasting another morning just jerking stupidly off and wondering what he wanted in his bed with him. But a second alarm jangled noisily from the bedside table, shocking him that already two hours of luxurious lie-in had dwindled by, and the day was really started outside. Loud sirens and grinding engines leaked through double-glazing and heavy curtains and made him grunt belligerently at the need to get up and do something productive. Kenny stopped playing with his bits and adjusted the waistband of the novelty print PJs, knowing he should use the day to work on his fitness since his return from injury was going so fucking slowly. A morning off from training, for those who’d played a whole fucking 90 minutes, but he was a young man desperate to prove himself — his muscles twitched for action, not just his cock, and he decided that a morning run was a good idea. It would wake him up, he supposed grumpily, and maybe then he wouldn’t waste another Thursday off — jerking his dick in a fug of lust and self-loathing to porn that he would immediately wipe from his browsing history with a shame that had festered in him since his harsh induction by Gareth Barry back in his confused teens. The 23-year-old thought queasily about the way he’d given in to that curiosity at last and terrifying risks it had exposed him to in that enemy lad. Jonjoe slunk out of bed with a sniff and a yawn, knowing that he would get both angry and horny if he thought about that scummy Liverpool player for too long; instead, he ignored animal instincts and jolted about the long bedroom loft space with the PJs hanging loosely halfway down his muscular little arse. The rugged youth scowled at himself in a large industrial-effect mirror by the bed, casting a critical eye over his pigeon chest and skinny limbs, not quite seeing the benefits of the gym work he’d been committing to throughout mersin escort bayan 2020. No wonder the bosses hardly thought him worth bringing off the bench! Ugh. He slid off the bedclothes, scratching at his wiry red-brown pubes, then snapping tight lycra undershorts onto his bottom half and finding the rest of his running gear in a mess of disorganised laundry. Out he burst, blasting loud retro dance music in each ear, dashing out onto the damp streets and exploding into a frustrated run that would hopefully clear his head and make him more upbeat for the day. Trent regretted the run slightly once he was on it: for all his fresh youthful energy, he could still feel the burn of last night and the battle against Tottenham Hotspurs. He slowed his pace and adjusted his route, curving through one of the big city parks not far from his neighbourhood, and then feeling a silly jolt of recognition as he pounded a frosty path across its quieter stretches and let his eyes fall for a moment on a familiar concrete block by the edge of the trees. He hadn’t passed through this park since that night, he realised, slowing his pounding legs more and puffing out heavy breaths, the buds in his ears continuing to chime away with the old-school R Jonjoe shoved the door firmly shut after him with an unnecessary slam and remained there for several moments, pressing into it and feeling the shakes run through his lean body once more, trembling shivers of sensual wonder. It took him a couple of minutes to move away from the door, and even then he found himself pushing his face against it and peering through the peephole, as if the smug figure of Liverpool’s young star would still be out there in the corridor of the apartment block, staring at him with those big brown eyes and urging him to get on his knees again. In the wetroom, he dowsed himself in hot water and expensive shower gel and grimaced at the picture of himself being fed cum from Trent’s fingers and, worse, trembling against him for comfort in a little post-orgasmic breakdown. What the actual fuck?! Alexander-Arnold himself made the short chilly walk from building to building in a slow daze, his cock limp and sticky in the lining of his shorts, his chest heaving with deep thoughtful breaths, and his arms aching oddly at the memory of holding onto the other lad in bed. He looked frowningly back down the street after him as if he half expected Jonjoe Kenny to come following him, mouthing off more anti-Anfield insults and trying to pretend there was more than one real football club in Liverpool. Trent shook off these thoughts, agreeing internally with their bitter shouted assertions — never again, and no soul ever needed to know…! What a crock of shite. Ugh, that skanky little chav and his stupid big cock. His stupid blue eyes and crooked teeth, his ratty little beard and the tight alabaster of his six-pack under Trent’s lips… He shuddered and convinced himself it was just the cool December morning, mounting the steps at the foot of his own apartment building, fishing a key from his hoody pocket and glad that he hadn’t idiotically dropped it in the mess of laundry on Jonjoe’s dirty floor. He headed inside and upstairs and drew a hot bath, unable to stop picturing those bright blue eyes.

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