Subject: Premiership Lads part 26: 4 Strikers his life in the Premier League was still novel enough for such moments of starstruck awkwardness. Shane was sliding into the booth next to Ings, and Troy reached over to shake the other proffered hand, and slip into the space next to the fourth drinker. He knew a lot less about Charlie Austin, but he quickly made the connection: the bearded beast of a man had been down at Southampton too last season with this pair, but was somewhere in the Championship nowadays. West Brom, was it? Like Ings, he clutched Troy’s mitt tightly in an excess of machismo, but slapped his shoulder in welcome and clinked their pint glasses. `Shane here was just telling us about your fucking flight,’ Ings said in a loud whisper over the table between them, and all three of the older men burst into sleazy chuckles. Troy looked at their amused faces in surprise: yeah, he’d told that randy fucker Eric Dier all about it, but nobody else! He’d assumed that was for the best… But he certainly wasn’t going to be the embarrassing prude amongst these four blokes. `Yeah, just a shame we didn’t get further,’ he put back in what he hoped was a manly drawl. `Further?’ Ings called mockingly. `What did you wanna do to our Shane here?’ Troy wilted at the comeback but he got a rough elbow to the side from Charlie Austin, and the stocky striker leaned over to clip Danny lightly. `Oi, leave the kid alone, you cunt,’ the Albion forward said with mock severity. `He obviously meant with the sexy stewardess.’ He nudged Troy again and gave him a leer. `Shane says she was summat special, is he right?’ `Oh, you know,’ Troy murmured, `she was… okay…’ It was a bit embarrassing that his memory of tugging off with Long was a lot clearer, but that had been the novel bit! And in all honesty, he still felt kinda bad he’d touched the woman: he’d only just popped his cherry with his sweetheart the night before, after all! Still, he appreciated Austin’s defence of him, and the interruption seemed enough to initiate him into the Southampton pals’ banter. He found he didn’t have a lot to chip into their conversation though: these three had only played together for a short while but clearly had a lot of shared jokes and exploits. And it was becoming obvious to Troy that a flirtation with an air hostess was not out of character for his Ireland co-star: Shane was clearly quite adventurous in that respect, and so was Charlie, by the sound of it. A na�ve corner of Troy’s brain questioned what the hell the point was in guys like this actually getting married if they just wanted to shag everything that walked, but he decided not to judge: was he much better? A guilty voice in his head reminded him that he’d happily taken a blowie off Dier in his virginal desperation, even with a girlfriend waiting for him. Since he could only really contribute his mild agreement or exaggerated surprise at the ins and outs of the other guys’ jokes, he drank faster than intended. With a surge of gratitude to be included with these senior players, he tried to buy the next round in, but Charlie Austin clapped hands to his broad young shoulders and refused him. `We can’t risk you getting asked for ID, Budgie,’ Austin quipped, smirking at him through his dark shaggy beard, which was slightly exaggerated by its contrast to what was left of his bleached hair and roughly returning roots, a look that made him look like some passing Viking invader. He squeezed out past Troy with a bit of friction between their jeans, and brought back a tray of pints and some tequila shooters. It crossed Troy’s mind, somewhere towards the end of his second Guiness, that he had an early-ish start for training in the morning. But midway through pint no.3, bought by Ings, that thought was long gone: it was only a few harmless drinks, and he was enjoying getting to know these guys. They were a lot more rough and ready than anyone at Tottenham Hotspurs, for some reason, where everyone always seemed so sober and focused. If he was honest with himself, Troy only got half of their jokes and references, but his teenage life out here could be lonely compared to being with his pals in the Dublin suburbs, so he was glad of the banter and company. Again, he tried to return the favour and buy in drinks, but Shane took his arm and leaned in to speak quietly. `Mate, you know the stupid salaries we end up on, just forget it,’ he said in a kindly and tipsy slur, `it’s how this shit works. When you’re a 30-year-old has been, you’ll be treating the whippersnappers to their pints too. Drink up and enjoy yourself, Budgie.’ The nickname was clearly an insult to his youth and status next to these seasoned players, but Parrott kinda liked it. It made him feel one of the lads here. Was it during this fourth round, or was there a fifth, when Austin leaned in with conspiratorial glee and suggested the words `strip club’. Now THIS was new to Troy. He’d never been anywhere near such a place. At first, he thought it was just a daft joke, but then he saw Danny Ings look redfaced with excitement, and heard Shane’s whoops of agreements: the Irish striker high-fived Austin, and then the other three men seemed to look uncertainly at him, as if he wouldn’t be up for it. `Count me in,’ Troy slurred. `Sounds fucking funny.’ `We’ll go to that same one as last time?’ Shane said questioningly, with a meaningful look at Charlie, then a smirking glance to Ings. `The er, special one, aye?’ `Oh yeah, the one you mentioned?’ Danny laughed with an eager look in his wide eyes. `Yeh, I’ll call ahead from the Uber,’ Charlie barked authoritatively. `Sort us a table.’ The Uber journey felt squashed and dizzying. At some point between the pub door and being crammed between Danny and Charlie on the back seat of a speeding taxi cab, it had dawned on Troy that he probably hadn’t been this drunk before. But ducking out now seemed mad and, possibly, dangerously insulting to these guys. He looked down as Danny Ings slapped a hand (a bit too roughly) on one of his thighs. `First time in a strip club for you then, kid,’ the mersin escort 27-year-old forward stated almost accusingly. `Fucking exciting. We gotta club together to get you the BEST dance…’ `For sure,’ rumbled Austin to his other side, and Troy realised the big bloke’s arm was still about his shoulders, making him feel really pinned between them. He could feel his legs pressed into the denim of their thighs. `I think I know just the girl,’ Charlie said mysteriously. `Hey, you’ll have to whip yer big Budgie stick out for her,’ cackled Ings. Troy forced a laugh but he felt really embarrassed by this comment, and again felt a bit unsettled by the idea that Shane had shared their adventure so openly � but not just unsettled, also a bit… What, excited? It was kinda weird and interesting of Shane to really notice, to remember, to tell anyone. Troy remembered, dimly amongst the alcohol on his brain, how much his tool had seemed to impressed Eric in the sauna that time. Every time he spoke to the muscular bloke at training, he wondered if Dier was craving a second taste: but there was never any hint that this was going to happen. Troy had spent many hours convincing himself this was not a disappointment. `If it’s as big as that lying leprechaun claims,’ Charlie butted in. `It fucking is,’ Shane shouted over his shoulder � their taxi driver was either politely ignoring them, or hadn’t enough English language to follow � `a right whopper for his age, lucky little bastard…’ `As if a contract at Spurs wasn’t lucky enough,’ grunted Ings with open resentment, but it was followed by a friendly laugh, and he slapped Troy on the leg again, then briefly, playfully fondled his package. `You smug little wanker.’ `Less of the little,’ was all Parrott could return by way of banter, elbowing a bit at the stocky blokes on either side of him.’ You heard Shane, hah…’ `Yeah, don’t give him so much shit, you wanker,’ Charlie teased supportively, and he leant violently across, squashing Troy as a bit as he reached and tightly, aggressively grabbed Ings’ own bulge punishingly. `Don’t think the lad wants his bits manhandled by a chav like you, does he? Haha.’ `Nah, he wants pretty boy Shane, I reckon,’ teased Ings, fighting off Charlie’s attack. The driver finally seemed to get sick of their boisterous behaviour, and started ranting at Long in another language until the men pulled apart and all four footballers protested with desperate politeness to stop them being ejected from the ride. The Uber driver was placated, and the taxi sped on through the narrow rainy streets of Soho. Troy stared wide-eyed as the woman, as thin and bony as a Victorian waif, contorted about the pole directly in front of him in the flimsiest panties and bra imaginable. He had shrugged off his waterproof and was sat in his skinny jeans and long-sleeved adidas tee, an unnecessary whiskey and coke in one hand, and the other resting frustratedly on an inner thigh, feeling a growing stimulation at the sleazy sexuality of the place. He glanced to his left, where Shane was supping from a bottle of lager and glaring intently at the same dancer. Beyond him, he could make out the outline of Ings and Austin at the bar chatting up the young server. The place felt busy and empty at the same time, so dark and clouded by fake smoke that it was hard to really make out most of the clientele beyond a few foot away: a deliberately anonymous strategy, Troy’s fuggy brain concluded. It was kinda horrible, but also very exciting. In a moment, the other two were back with them with fresh drinks. Troy stared down at the table next to him with faint apprehension as another JD & Coke appeared. He could barely get much of this one down. He felt saturated with alcohol, and sluggish with impotent desire: these places were look but don’t touch, right? `Right,’ he heard Charlie saying, leaning in over Shane’s shoulder, `I’ll go get him booked in. You gonna chip in for the youngster?’ `Aye, here ya go… that should cover it…’ `Hah, good lad…’ Troy looked at them in faint confusion, only half-aware that HE was the youngster, then turned to Danny, who was leaning forward in the seat next to him, now, slipping out a few �20 notes and reaching over to slide them into the flimsy undies of their nearest dancer. Troy watched the man’s fingers stray, and felt a pang of excitement that touching was clearly not QUITE off the table in this establishment after all… `What do you make of her?’ Ings grunted, leaning his way. `She deserving off a good go from your “massive” tool, kid…?’ Troy could see the vague envy and resentment on this tattooed goalscorer’s face, which seemed weird to him: he hadn’t even made the pitch in a few weeks now, what was the Southampton bloke so wound up about? But then the other two were interrupting and ushering him up with eager horny grins on their faces. Troy had one of his drinks, perhaps the new one, his other untouched, shoved into his hand, and then felt Shane and Charlie’s hands steering him away. Then his hand was taken by another of the waif-like, ageless harpies of this sleazy den. She could have been his age, or three times it, he couldn’t really tell. She gave him a surprisingly tender kiss, and then he was being dragged off through a doorway. It felt as though the other two blokes were following, but it was hard to tell. He was yanked by the wrist through a second door, and then there was a sort of patterned hippie curtain, and beyond it a narrow bed. Wow, so this place wasn’t just a strip club, it was a… Troy felt a bit numbed by booze, but her rough groping against his skinny jeans still felt good, and her experienced lips on the short stubble of his long neck. He sighed out his pleasure, and lifted his arms as his top was tugged up and off. Her acrylic nails found their way down the lightly defined pecs and abs, and then his belt was coming off. Fucking hell, this was incredible. He was too wasted to picture his girlfriend, or Catholic guilt might have sent him sprinting out into the dark wet streets: as it was, all escort mersin he could think about was the growing stiffy in his undies. Its big outline sprung into sight as his jeans were pulled and pushed down, both of them yanking down at the tight Levis where they clung to his footballer’s thighs. Troy let her pull him down onto the bed, which was thin and rickety, and they snogged more passionately. Between these bursts of locked lips and grunting breaths, she quizzed him. `So you’re all footballers? That’s so sexy… Who do you play for? Would I know your name? Oh god you’re so big down there… Mmmm, I am so turned on… What position do you play…? Oh god, you’re ALL stikers…?’ `I’m the youngest player to make a Premier League debut at my side,’ Troy slurred boastfully, two fingers inside her and his lips dancing about one of her plastic tits. `All my schoolmates were so fuckin’ jealous, they just-` And then a sudden change in atmosphere that even his Guiness-addled brain could pick up on. She was pulling on his strong wrist until his long fingers were out of her, and she rolled about so he was no longer on top of her. She glared at him between a curtain of frizzy bleached hair. `How old ARE you exactly?’ she demanded, and Troy’s stomach lurched. `Er… 19…’ He wasn’t focused or sober enough to make the lie sound convincing. Her gentle weight was off him a minute and sweeping away with a flash of plump backside and black stilettos, and Troy was left sprawled on the squeaking bed, his jeans about his ankles, his erection tenting his grey boxer shorts, and his head throbbing with early onset hangover. The whole room seemed to be vibrating with the heavy dance music throbbing through the walls and ceiling. A hubbub of noises washed over him as he lay there, piecing together his remaining sobriety enough to pick himself up off the bed, but without the steadiness to find his tshirt, or yank up his jeans from his bruised shins. Picking up his drink and taking a swig, he hobbled forward, and tugged open the curtain beside him: if he’d briefly thought the stripper-prostitute had pulled him away to any hint of privacy, he had been fucking mistaken. He goggled at the shocking sight ahead of him. There was no similar rickety camp bed in here, but another of these paid women was hunched over a scruffy armchair with her tits bouncing, taking it from behind. Beyond her quivering perm was the thrusting tattooed chest of Southampton’s star striker as Danny Ings pounded her, red-faced and eyes squeezed shut, arm muscles bulging as he held her in place to fuck like an animal. Troy staggered past in a daze, almost tripping over his jeans and stumbling into the shagging couple, but instead heading falteringly through the open doorway into a narrow passage where the music was louder � no sign of his own panicked hooker here, but opposite was another doorless frame, through which another X-rated view awaited him. A thick hairy arse bouncing up and down above two tensed legs, screams of exaggerated pleasure emanating from beneath the pale physique. The guy’s head pulled back in a roar of excitement, and Troy caught enough glimpse to identify Shane doing his own business in there, having his way with whichever Eastern European sex worker was pinned beneath his powerful weight. Jesus… `What happened to you, young un?’ grunted a familiar faux Cockney accent behind him, and he whirled clumsily about, almost fell, and was caught and steadied by a hand to each bare shoulderblade. Charlie Austin was shirtless too, his surprisingly smooth torso bared, his erect nipples inexplicably the first thing that caught Troy’s eyes. He backed off slightly, catching his balance and took in the sight of the other 6’1 forward, equal height but much broader and heavier set… his pale grey jeans were wide open at the front, showing the white CKs beneath, bulging roughly against the open flies as if he had been interrupted undressing. Troy met his intense grey-blue eyes then saw them flick downwards. `Well fuck me,’ Austin gruffly murmured, `Long was not lying then, was he?’ Troy laughed more freely than earlier. He was much too pissed for shyness now, and after all, he was stood in a weird shady corridor with his jeans around his ankles with a boner in his boxers, and the grunting pants of two Southampton players echoing behind him. This was hardly the place to be coy. `You could take someone’s eye out with that thing,’ Austin was saying in a slurred growl. `She realised I was a bit young,’ Troy burst out irrelevantly, his brain catching up with his whereabouts. `She fucked off and left me…’ `What? She cost a bomb,’ Charlie grunted irritably, stepping closer to him. `Mine got a fucking phone call from her babysitter, can you believe that?’ He was a strangely intimidating presence, smooth yet like some wild bear, with his dark beard and dark, deep-set eyes, and his hulking shoulders. Somewhere behind Troy, there was a groaning roar that might have been Danny Ings’ first orgasm of the night. Behind Charlie, the door back to the bar area was ajar. Some shit R&B music was pounding through it, the air seemed to vibrate with it. Troy felt queasy but excited. `She got me so horny,’ Troy thought aloud, in a bit of a hollow voice. `I just wanted to…’ `Yeah,’ Charlie returned in a harsh rasp, `me too, mate. Me too.’ A moment passed, and Troy seemed to understand what was coming before it happened, as if something passed between them in their gaze. Charlie’s hand was on the outline of his nob, giving it a testing pull through the thin fabric, and the bulky striker was letting out a low rasping chuckle before pulling gently towards him. There was a third door off this passage, where Austin must have emerged from after his own failed sex trade encounter of the night. The bleached-blond hunk retreated backwards through it, and Troy followed in a giddy daze. Once inside, Charlie grabbed his arms and pulled him forward quite roughly, then reached behind him. From the noise, he was tugging shut another flimsy curtain for the pathetic, mersin escort bayan transient privacy it bought them. Troy’s heart hammered in his chest as he was pulled closer to the sticky warm skin of the sweating Englishman. Again, a strong groping hand on his tented erection, and an approving laugh from Charlie’s bearded lips. `Big lad,’ was all he grunted, before he reached in and wanked it properly. Troy let out a tipsy whimper and leant into his bare torso. `Yeh… thanks…’ he whispered. Why did Charlie’s rough aggressive hand actually feel so much better than that half-hearted girl five minutes ago…? `Thanks?’ echoed Charlie with the same filthy laugh. `You crack me up lad, you really do.’ And then Troy felt one of the other man’s big hands shove him roughly just below the chest, so he was pressed back across the little room with his back to the wall. He banged his head lightly but the pain seemed irrelevant compared to the sensation of his eagerly yanked cock now. He reached with both hands to grasp at Charlie’s thick waist, stroking his hands up that toned stomach and across the curve of his pecs onto his big shoulder muscles. One hand explored up further, brushing through the hair of his beard until two of his fingers, the same ones he’d begun to finger his hooker with, were being lapped by Charlie’s smirking lips. Charlie squeezed a bit tighter on his nob. `You’re massive,’ he grunted begrudgingly, `but I ain’t small.’ Austin snatched Troy’s loosely hanging other hand from his shoulder, and thrust it down. Troy felt his own fingers close about the other man’s dick, and he was right. He looked down but it was dark in here and he was pissed: an accurate comparison of their throbbing, veiny cocks just wasn’t possible. He pulled vaguely on it, letting his fingers and thumbs trace its weighty form. He’d felt almost this dazed and absent when he briefly played with Eric’s: sauna dehydration and alcohol excess weren’t so far apart, mentally or physically. But neither could hide him from the reality: he was playing with another lad’s nob and it was fucking exciting. `Oh mate,’ he groaned, overwhelmed by Austin’s commanding touch on his meat. `Yeah?’ Charlie grunted back at him, whilst pressing him to the wall. `You like that, kid?’ `Yes,’ Troy whimpered faintly, `aww mate…’ `You gonna cum for me?’ Charlie pretty much spat at him. `Yes, yes,’ Troy whispered eagerly, `I’m close…’ He groaned in a frenzy, trapped between the rough plaster of the wall, the vibrating dance music pressing at his back muscles, and the sweaty, muscular weight of Charlie Austin holding him in place. As he reached his climax, he had to give up his weak tugging on Austin’s cock, and he grasped at the man’s biceps instead, resting his brow on one sweaty shoulder while his cock exploded. `Ohhh god,’ he cried, his voice muffled by the space between Charlie’s neck and shoulder. When Austin pulled away, he could see his own spunk in long streaks up that smooth tummy. Holy shit. `Good lad,’ crowed Austin as if this was some victory, and he began to wank furiously on his own member with the same powerful strokes � his other hand still pressing Troy into the wall as his own cum target. It didn’t take him long. Troy felt the hot wet juices spill up his torso, some hitting the centre of his chest where a few dark hairs were sprouting, the rest dribbling down the faint outlines of each ab. The two men pressed together in a cum sandwich, gasping, panting, chuckling, cackling. Charlie pulled him away from the wall and hugged him tightly. `You are a funny fucker, Budgie,’ the West Brom striker murmured into his hear, his beard tickling at Troy’s jawline. `A fucking cool lad. You hear me? A fucking cool lad.’ Troy just giggled light-headedly, and steadied himself as the hug ended. `That was… fun,’ he said, uncertain if he was understating something incredible, or over-stepping a line and making things awkward. Charlie just flashed him a toothy grin, stretched his chest muscles, and gave him a light pull on the forearm. `Let’s get the others,’ he said in a more measured voice. `You can tell them what fun you had with you overpriced whore, can’t you?’ His meaning was clear. What went on in this room was going to stay in this room. Well, Troy had learned a thing or two about discretion lately. In the passage, Danny Ings was wiping his slick cock on a rag whilst pulling on his black thirst. Shane was buttoning up his shirt and cricking his neck. A couple of giggling women of the same vague ageless glamour trotted by and out into the bar area with red hand marks where the footballers had manhandled them. The three older men let out victorious laughs, and Troy wandered back into his first room to dig out his discarded t-shirt. He pulled it on as he rejoined them, and Shane gave him a quizzical look. `You okay, youngster?’ the Irish national hero said hoarsely. `Aye, grand,’ Troy returned quickly. `You just look a bit fucked up,’ Shane giggled. `He’s just never had so much fun before, that’s all,’ called Charlie, on his way to lead them back through to the main stirp club. Over his shoulder, his beady eyes met Troy’s, and he smirked. `He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.’ Danny Ings, shaking himself off and doing up his belt, shoved Troy along after the other two and trailed behind as they abandoned the club’s sleazy back rooms and chipped plaster. `Yeah, stupid little prick,’ he grumbled, `that’s if his big monster even fit in the poor girl… Hah!’ Outside, Troy was helped into another Uber cab by the others, who had a hotel room booked nearby. Troy mumbled something about 9am training, and the older men laughed. Danny looked absolutely delighted with this, but Shane leaned in through the window and gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. `Drink plenty of water, Budgie,’ Long said. `You’ll be `reet.’ Then he was gone, but before the window could be rolled back up, Charlie leaned back through, and one strong paw-like hand cupped the side of Troy’s dazed head. `Yeah, you’ll be alright,’ he muttered. `Good lad.’ A soft pat to the cheek, then the arm pulled back, and the man had vanished with the others. The engine kicked in, and Troy let his head loll against the open window and the cool night air. Fucking hell… Tomorrow morning was going to be awful.

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