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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 192: The Return of the Three Harrys Part 192: The Return of the Three Harrys The lads had been gifted a pretty unstructured afternoon after the final intense session this morning, told only to rest and exercise in moderation by the England manager; it had seemed the perfect opportunity for a strength session on the arms to Harry Maguire, though now he was actually midway through his routine, he was a bit bored of watching his own biceps bulge and swell and the repetitive motions of reps and extensions. Sometimes he could quite enjoy the sight of his own body at work like this, the way all of those big muscles pulsed and stretched, but this afternoon was thick with the anticipation of tomorrow’s third home game in a row, and worse… he was just so fucking horny. It didn’t help that he was pumping iron in the gym alongside his slickly attractive younger pal, Chelsea new boy Ben Chilwell; he felt his eyes stray repeatedly from his own measured reflection in the mirrored gym wall to the parallel efforts of the other ex-Leicester defender, who puffed crossly into his own image and hoisted weights that looked too much for his slighter build. They did the trick though, Maguire observed, noting the way his chest puffed through his slim-fit vest and his arms twitched impressively with each rep, his parted hair slicked into perfect form and his handsome features barely disturbed with sweat or flush, nothing like Harry’s own unkempt and worn-out reflection after the way he had been pushing himself for the last hour. The tall Manchester United player made a bear-like grunt at the final thrusting shoulder lift of his selected heavyweights and then crashed them noisily to the mat either side of his feet, loosening his big shoulders and returning to an upright position with a long groaning sound and a roll of his strong neck. `Fuck!’ he exclaimed, lifting his arms weakly and trying to tense them, then just flopping them playfully at his sides and laughing at his own exhaustion. The slightest smile of enjoyment registered on his gym buddy’s expression now, as he ran the back of one arm over his face and then reached for a water bottle on some nearby kit, fixing his eyes on Ben in the reflection and enjoying the way his body clenched and tightened as he went into his own last set of lifts. `Phwooar, go get it son,’ the Yorkshireman chuckled at his southern mate, enjoying the flickers of struggle on Ben’s Hollywood looks and the tiniest wobble of his shorter sturdy legs before recovering and completing the final few reps. `Quality,’ Harry evaluated, slugging lukewarm water and grinning at the shaky recovery of his fellow England player. `Shit,’ gasped Chilly, dropping his weights more carefully and shaking his arms out, turning to give him an exasperated look and then wincing a bit as he flexed and moved his shoulders and elbows. `I should know better than to try and keep up with you, Slab-head.’ Harry raised one thick dark brow and smirked at him. `Aye, you know you’re no match for me,’ he sneered quietly, rising up to his full height and adjusting the fit of his Nike training top and the fairly skimpy shorts that rode right up his dark-haired thighs, `although, we did have that measuring contest that time, and you did pretty well…’ He grinned nostalgically to think of that experimental afternoon in his own garage, but saw only the slightest little recognition in Ben’s troubled face. `Hey,’ he growled, patting him on the aching arm, `you remember that, don’t ya, how fun it was to…?’ `Mmm,’ Chilly murmured, non-committal. Maguire flared his nostrils and stepped closer to him in the quiet hotel gym, one of several fitness suites in this separate building, and pushed his knuckles in gently against the swell of the shorter lad’s chest, clasped about his water bottle but pressing very soflty into the firm muscle of the younger man. `It’s that kinda afternoon now,’ the United captain purred suggestively. `Y’know, bit bored and frustrated, just you an’ I, and…’ He grinned widely, stooping a little to meet Ben’s eyes — but his close friend just stared back in a distant and disinterested way. `What?’ Chilly asked, confusedly rather than rudely. `Just sayin’,’ Harry puffed, but without the same hopeful leer, `it’s just us up here, mate, an’…’ `I’m going for a swim,’ Chilwell told him quietly, glancing away. The dismissal might have stung at another time but he’d seen how low the injured Chelsea player was today, sad enough to be missing out on the football action with a recurring ankle injury, but clearly suffering from a more domestic issue that he seemed reluctant to discuss. Maguire wasn’t the most emotionally sensitive man in the Premier League, but he’d seen the way Ben and Jack tensed and struggled whenever they came close, noticed the agitation when one’s name was mentioned to the other. But things were `fine’ according to Chilwell, who he’d never seen so dour and mopey in their several years of friendship. Where was the cheerful playboy of their shared couple of years at Leicester, boyish and enthusiastic and smug in his own attractiveness to the ladies…? Selfishly, Maguire longed for THAT version of Bulging Ben, rather than the serious-faced young man opposite him now, rubbing some of his vest over his sweaty face and briefly exposing his taut six-pack; but the 27-year-old defender must be softening as he approached 30, because his own sweaty privates seemed to matter less than his brotherly concern for the bloke. `Well, you know where to find me if you need to talk,’ he grunted. He knew `talk’ might sound like a euphemism after his clumsy suggestion a moment ago, but the offer had been made, and he suspected sullen Chilwell would not be rushing to take him up on it. Maybe I talk to Grealish instead, he wondered to himself, half-heartedly. A lot of the less experienced England players just seemed faintly wary and intimidated by him; maybe it was the Mykonos police affair. Ben muttered something vague to him and moved away, grabbing at his things and exiting the small mirrored fitness suite so that Harry was left on his own, arms and shoulders aching and sweat trickling down his 6ft4 physique, particularly around the heavy neglected weight of his crotch. Oh how he wished Lukey had gotten the England call-up… 30% to restore his cute lover’s self-esteem, and 70% because he wanted to bend him over that weights machine right now and eat him out. Quietly accepting the sexless heat of the afternoon, Maguire fidgeted with his close-fitting workout gear and gathered up his belongings, switching off the quiet indie music that had been pulsing in the background, then made his way out onto the broad panelled corridors of this old-fashioned gym building, swaggering down it and feeling cooler air against his bared arms, legs, neck. He reached the landing and rested one large hand on the wooden bannister, pausing at the sight of the other teammate who was lingering hesitantly in the same spot a floor below, seeming torn on whether to mount or descend the stairs beside him. Harry grinned down at the shifty dark-haired footballer on the floor below, a new idea for afternoon delight consuming his interests. He had been trying to say what he wanted to say for a while now. Specifically, the last thirty minutes, but in another sense, the last three or four months. He sat up on his weights bench, lowering the mid-range dumbbells at his side and watching the final few bench-presses of his gym partner for the afternoon, grunting rhythmically as he hoisted his own heavier set of weights up and down in almost mechanical regularity and firmness. `Hey Eric,’ he eventually said with an unconvincing air of casual randomness, `it’s so funny, y’know, I was just thinking back to that time when-` On the bench beside him, his fellow Spurs and England player exploded with a grunt of relief at reaching the end of his set and lowered the heavy props to the sides, dropping them the last few inches with a dull thud, his chest and six-pack heaving against the damp nylon of his white gym top, veins bulging in his neck and forehead. He clearly hadn’t heard his neighbour’s awkward conversational gambit. Harry Winks tried again in a hesitant, nudging tone: `I was just thinking back, y’know, to at the start of summer ,when-` `Fuck, I overdid it there,’ Dier muttered, pulling his bigger body upright into the same sitting position as him, not looking his way, just panting, red-faced and shiny with sweat, a bit deaf to Winks’ uncomfortable mumbling as he recovered from the long upper body session they’d paced each other through to while away the afternoon. `I’ll be lucky if I can pick my cutlery at dinnertime…’ The 24-year-old midfielder made a quiet chuckle at the idea, not quite sharing Eric’s distress as he’d been a little too distracted to really push himself or challenge his body with his weight choices or planned exercises. He let his breathing adjust, draping his arms against the insides of his thighs, hunched a little, watching Eric’s slow recovery and distracted reaching for his phone where it sat on the spare bench; the muscular defensive player thumbed idly at it without really looking this way, suddenly chuckling a bit to himself as if reading some private joke. `Eric, mate,’ he tried again, `do you ever think about when-` `Wait, one min,’ barked Dier disinterestedly, pressing forward at the phone in his hands, squatting across his bench with his chunky legs stretched out and one sweaty knee briefly brushing Harry’s own leg, a little electric squirm of manly touch in his current mood of distant curiosity. Suddenly, there was a low thrum of vibration from the smartphone in the other player’s hands and Eric was rising up off his bench, leaving a sweaty half moon patch on its leather surface where his glutes had rested. `Just gonna take this,’ he said distractedly, pacing away from the weights benches and pressing his phone to his ear; Harry watched him for a moment, seeing the way his white gym top clung to his heavy back muscles, then blushing awkwardly as his eyes traced the outline mersin escort of a thick muscular rear and those shimmering sweaty calves. Fuck’s sake, he chided himself, take a hint bro… Winks’ curiosity had simmered slowly. That intense moment in the shower when Dier had first manhandled him, so clearly fixated on another, had knocked him a lot, and the more complex encounter that had followed a few weeks later had left him borderline traumatised by what he was capable of when led astray. Both times, he’d found himself fixating more on the shock and disbelief at what big masculine sportsmen might be into, slow to really digest that he too might have such adventurous tastes — as a young man who had been criticised by several exes for being a bit conservative and dull in the bedroom, not quite fulfilling their kinky Premiership fantasies, it was a strange secret for him to carry around in the summer break. Still single and, if he was honest, quite lonely, Harry Winks had gradually begun to question whether those two incidents were mad excesses of a strange time, or hints of stuff he wanted to explore further. He’d been working up the courage to discuss it properly with Eric for a while now; god knows, the gruff friendly Spurs hero had tried several times to bring it up in the past, half-apologetic and affably self-deprecating about it… but Winks had avoided it then, when the dialogue was on the table. Now that he wanted to address (and repeat?) it, Eric just seemed lost in his thoughts and distracted — not aggressive and moody as he’d been in those summer weeks, but his thoughts fixed somewhere far away from Harry’s prudish uncertainties. The young England midfielder sighed wearily, blaming himself for avoiding what might have happened if he’d been more relaxed and opened when Eric had seemed to `need’ it. He got up form the weights bench, tugging at the chest of his own matching fitness shirt, and adjusting the long baggy shorts that drooped about his thighs. He glanced over at Eric, seeing the taller lad leaning on a windowsill and chuckling quietly into his phone as he stared out over the grounds; Winks got the strong sense that his teammate was talking to a girl he liked, there was something flirty about the way the rugged lad posed and faffed and scratched at his chin and neck and chest. Well, good for him, Harry thought, the tiniest seed of wistful envy harboured somewhere in his bollocks. Out in the corridor, bag slung over one shoulder, he paused and rested a sweaty hand on the bannister, thinking that maybe he should take a hint — not just from lovely Eric, but from the world. If this shit was meant to happen, then the opportunity would have presented itself, in the same weird and unexpected way it had in the summer humidity. He ought to just bury those memories and carry on swiping optimistically on Tinder, waiting for the right good girl to wander into his path and make him an honest man, and- Heavy footsteps padded quietly but clearly down the wooden steps and he glanced up at the even more sweaty and gym-weary figure slouching down towards this landing of the hotel’s fitness and wellbeing wing. Another dark-haired sportsman was smirking at him from a face flushed with exercise and effort, hair mussed up a little and crooked chin tilted to one side. Winks looked at the way his long strong arm gripped the rail as he came down the last few steps and met him, dark eyes fixed on his own. Well, he realised silently, maybe Eric Dier wasn’t the only lad he could try asking about what had happened that night in his front room, when he’d been rained on with the semen of two England defenders in one go… The England striker grimaced and followed the other man’s stormy exit from the room with a crestfallen expression on his face, doubly embarrassed by the rejection and by the seedy hunger that had driven him to put himself out there this afternoon. Conor Cody, towel pulled tightly about his waist and water still dripping down the tanned muscle of his back, vanished through the frosted glass doorways of the warm recovery pool rooms, his slapping wet footsteps slowly fading away through the basement floor of the building until he was disappeared. It had been a cautious and optimistic move on Harry Kane’s part; malingering in here in one of the three round hot tubs of different sizes, letting heated bubbles punch his tall body and his fingers and thumbs wrinkle like ball-bags, waiting in here too long because he’d overheard the rugged Scouser mention a wish to bathe here to one of the other lads during lunch. Harry should be upstairs or outside getting a last little workout in, anticipating a fuller performance in tomorrow evening’s game — but instead he was down here in the humid basement of the posh hotel’s fitness suite, creeping on disinterested teammates and almost getting punched in the face. He’d actually flushed with fear for a moment when the Wolverhampton Wanderers player reacted to his gentle stroke of the back and whispered `Hello’ in the steamy anteroom where he was undressing. He’d hoped for round two, un-fucked since the ambitious straightforward bloke had consented to plough him in that foreign hotel and buy his questionable influence. But no, now that Cody had made his mark on the squad with a debut goal and proven himself to Southgate after all, well… Harry had been daft to expect otherwise, had known how transactional and shallow that harsh shag was in Iceland, nothing but a bid for his help. But Conor had cum, hadn’t he? He’d enjoyed it enough, physically if nothing else…? And so over the weeks in between, Kane had kidded himself that the rough and ready Wolves captain might be open to revisiting his tender bottom… Nope. The lad had looked like he was going to thump him the face or worse — Harry imagined the shame of a popped lip or blacked eye when he attended tonight’s closing meal for the squad, a sober celebration of a pretty successful international break together. He pictured himself slinking into the fairly formal dinner they would share under the manager’s watchful gaze, battered after an inappropriate altercation, or worse, Cody muttering truths about him to all and sundry! The 6ft2 striker shed the folded towel from about his smooth shoulders, hanging it on a low wall, and slid his long hairy legs into the shallow heat of the smaller pool, sitting his shorts-clad arse on the rim and patting his red knees. He stared down at the crotch of his pinstripe swim-shorts, the stiffening outline of his inevitable bone, stirred even by looking too long at Conor and the short-lived prospect of seeing his cock once more. He paused, resting on the heels of his hands, then dragged his legs out of the tub and sneaked back over the room into the covered changing area, the scene of his rejection… damn it, he was just so horny, weeks since his last shag and so much time spent watching Eric in action from a distance… Kane chewed his lip, losing himself in his private desire, and started pushing down his shorts onto his thighs and fumbling at his semi and heavy cum-filled balls, but the aching was as much in his backside, thinking about the fucking he’d longed for, the business-like pounding Cody had given him in exchange for a word in Southgate’s ear…! He pushed one hand into the tiled wall in front of him, tucked away in this little antechamber, and then reached around to grab at his own backside with the other, pulling one cheek to the side and sliding a dry finger down his own crack tantalisingly; he prodded himself in the hole, imagining it was the tip of some hot lad’s nob, a little fleck of drool forming in the corner of his mouth. He stuck the finger in his mouth and drooled on it and pushed it back in there between the warm pillows of his cheeks, relaxing the muscles, stroking his neglected hole and then fondling his balls with the other hand, standing tall and purring softly with some enjoyment — so much enjoyment, in fact, that he hadn’t heard the footsteps or the sliding of the frosted glass doors. When the other two Harrys burst around the corner and joined him there, he froze in a posture of self-pleasure, pushing a single finger inside himself and holding his hard-on in his palm. Maguire’s eyes bulged instantly at the sight before him, one steering hand still on the clammy shoulder of Winks’ shirt. He was excited enough by the needy curious look in the youngest Harry’s eyes as he spoke quietly with him in the stairwell, delirious with how easily the 24-year-old had been steered down here into the quiet corners of the basement — and now one of the most manly and highly-regarded men in this England squad was exposed in front of him with a finger up his jacksie and a vulnerable yelp emerging from his mouth. His dick was rock-hard, the dirty bugger, and Harry’s own tool was well on its way to the same level of excitement in his little dark shorts. He squeezed more tightly in his hold on Winks’ shoulder and leered fully at the third Harry in front of them, assessing the situation quickly and eagerly. `Kane,’ breathed Winks awkwardly; Harry could feel him pull back, alarmed and worried, but he prodded him gently forward and advanced on the striker, closing the gap between the three of them. Kane was tall and impressive but Maguire still loomed over him as he shoved Winks in his direction and grabbed the hardened bulge in the front of his skimpy shorts, letting out a dirty chuckle. `Mind if we join ya, mate?’ the United captain growled at his England skipper. `Lads,’ panted the Spurs hero fearfully. `You’re hard,’ Winks exclaimed stupidly. Maguire said no more, he just slapped a hand cheerfully at the younger guy’s back then grabbed with both paws at his own vest, dragging it up his torso and over his head, baring the long muscular slab of his body. `How’s that hole feeling, you dirty bastard?’ he demanded of his captain. `See yer as fuckin’ horny as this’n and myself… Don’t mind us lad, if yer havin’ fun here…’ He grinned and stuffed his right hand down the front of his shorts to feel himself and signal his interest to escort mersin the blanched face of the terrified forward. `But here, have a grab of a real man’s cock, Kane…’ And he tugged his massive member out into the humid air, aiming it at the striker like a captain. Maguire loved seeing the alarm and admiration on the unassuming married fella’s face, delighted to discover this side of his supposed superior and to see a chance of asserting his own power. `Fuck,’ he heard Winks exclaim, and realised that Harry had forgotten how well-hung he was. The tall powerful defender slumped sideways against the barrier wall, tugging slowly on his erection, then grabbed at Kane and pulled him forward. `Go on,’ he barked, and his fellow 27-year-old Premiership star did as instructed, taking a rapid grasp of his hard meat instead of his own. He groaned loudly, beckoning Winks into this manly closeness and squeezing his shoulder and neck again, pulling at the neckline of his shirt. `Fuck, guys,’ murmured the less confident midfielder, stumbling into them and touching his own package gingerly. `Kane, what were you…?’ Maguire ignored the wastefulness of dialogue. He grabbed at one bare shoulder of Kane’s body and pushed downwards, not putting into words what he obviously wanted. To his continued amazement and delight, one of the best strikers in Europe sank to his knees between the two of them and Harry could push his long fat cock against his beard, stroking the head over his cheeks and between his lips. The Spurs man opened his gob and sucked on him with well-practised keenness. On that fun night months ago when he’d first got a taste of a Tottenham player, he’d guessed at the identity of Eric Dier’s ex, but his close mate had never actually confided any details in him: now, pushing his girth into his mouth and reaching down to release Winks’ cock from his baggy shorts, he could tell just how intimate Eric and this Harry had been. This was a mouth that had sucked a lot of thick tool. Winks gasped and trembled, his well-proportioned boner dragged out of his shorts waistband by the rough handling of Maguire, and Kane adopting the sluttish position in front of them. He’d only been slurping on the massive erection of the Man Utd player for a minute, but the dominant Harry was pushing his face away and twisting it towards his own crotch. Now Winks could feel those wet lips on his prick, sliding happily down it, and he thought about what little he knew of his relationship with Dier, how much he’d begun to speculate on what the secretive pair actually got up to…! Excited at the unfolding three-way, the young footballer grabbed desperately at his top to get it off and join the bare-chested confidence of the two older Harrys, though he felt anything but sure of himself next to these more experienced blokes. The feeling of Kane’s tongue swirling about his head and pushing back the foreskin made him yelp and groan and have to reach out, steadying himself with one hand stroking the crown of Kane’s head and tugging the forearm of Maguire. Quickly, the cock-sucker was swapping positions again, bringing a hand up to his prick and planting his mouth over Maguire’s instead. The 24-year-old couldn’t believe what he’d stumbled into: one minute he was unenthusiastically pushing weights next to hunky Dier and trying to bring himself to ask more about what had happened between them. Now he had been ushered into a discreet corner by one of the most brutish lads he’d ever played with and witnessing their iconic striker slaver from cock to cock, Harry to Harry! THIS was what he needed; Kane rolled his tongue over the round pink head of the big Maguire weapon and then leaned over to kiss and lap at the shorter but still fat equipment of Winks, trying to lavish equal attention upon the erections of his teammates, his own dick throbbing against his thigh as he squatted on the cool tiled floor, the rejection by Cody utterly gone from his mind. He grabbed with his hands at their legs, feeling the firm sweaty muscle of a Maguire thigh and stroking down the tight strong calf of Winks’ left leg, stroking briefly across their feet then back up, taking a dick in each hand and staring up at them — at the mean confident sneer of the United man’s face and the wide-eyed innocence of his own Spurs colleague. `Lads,’ he moaned, lost between fearful discretion and rabid lust. His knees dragged and scratched against the flooring, but all he could think about was the two dicks available to him, he wanted both of them in his mouth at once. He tried for it, opening wide and pulling them in by their respective hips, but Maguire’s was just so thick that it wasn’t doable. But it felt great, both of them pushing and rubbing against his lips and the golden-brown hair of his chin, his tongue flicking against them in quick sharp movements. He wanted more than the dicks, he wanted to feel their beautifully muscular bodies too. He pulled himself up off the ground and grabbed at Maguire’s thick midriff, planting his lips to the loose definition of his six pack, kissing a thin streak of dark hair trailing up from his pubes past his navel. His kisses ran up to the curve of his pecs, tasting the salt of his skin; he could feel Winks grabbing and fondling at his back and his shoulders, feel the urgency of the inexperienced one. Then his body was being grabbed roughly by Maguire and thrust against the wall, his back muscles and arse cheeks slapping firmly into it. His dick was grabbed by a hand and he wasn’t even sure who by — even more exciting was big strong Maguire stooping to kiss him on the chest and bite teasingly at his left nipple. Then Winks was down below, he could feel him kiss his tummy and the furry inside of his thigh then, tentatively, his hard dick. He wasn’t sure if this doll-faced midfield twink had sucked a dick before but he seemed eager to try! But more, so quick and forceful… Maguire yanking at his arms and turning him, pressing him into the wall with his face crumpled awkwardly into the tiles. Oh! Yes! Was it really coming, was he going to be fucked at last? His elbows rubbed against the wall and he felt them both grab at him, his legs and his back and his cheeks…! When he felt the rustling breath of a man on the smooth chubby skin of his butt cheeks, he tensed up in novelty, he’d never had THIS before… Maguire pushed apart the pale cheeks, the man’s tan-line very visible between his thighs and arse and lower back; and his crack surprisingly furry with mousy brown hair that tickled his tongue as he leaned in to rim him, the clean-tasting flesh trembling against his mouth. He growled breathily into this coveted arse, spreading the broad chubby cheeks and licking over his hole, knowing how well-used it must actually be. He pushed his tongue quite forcefully against it then shifted his face and bit at one cheek, rough enough to make the Spurs goal-scorer yelp. He pulled back, squeezing the cheeks and looking at Winks: six-pack tight and body a little hunched, the excited younger man was jerking off furiously, fresh sweat beading on his arms and face, stood very close to him with voyeuristic enjoyment of what Maguire was doing to Kane. He remembered that he’d briefly tried this too on Winks’ backside and he grinned at the memory, but he had no interest in fucking that boyish ingénue. The prospect of hammering HARRY KANE, England icon, was exhilarating in its own special way. And yet… maybe he ought to be loosened up first…? Maguire leaned in and gave his target’s ring a last randy lick then pulled back, getting up from his haunches. With his right hand he poked and tickled at the crack, damp with his own saliva, and with his left he yanked then at Winks’ dick, elbowing him a little in the tummy then dragging him closer and planting both hands commandingly to his shoulders. `You first, buddy,’ he grunted at him, `up against the wall, Kane, get ready for it…’ He muscled the youngest Harry into place, his own throbbing cock slapping and brushing at the bubble butt of the trembling newbie who had looked so desperately at him on the stairwell. He reached past him for Kane’s biceps, sandwiching the midfielder between their taller bodies, trying to calm and steady him… Harry took control, folding one strong arm over his chest and then reaching down for his meat, guiding it in between the cheeks and against the damp point he’d briefly rimmed. He growled commandingly into his ear. `Go easy, brace yourself for the tightness, you dirty boy… god you’re hard, you desperate prick… go on, push it in him…’ Oh, this was so exciting. He had to pull a hand down to wank himself, the wet tip of his cock brushing some downy hair on the bottom of Winks’ spine. His height made it easy to stare down over the lad’s shoulder and watch the muscular arching of Kane’s back, low panting words stringing from the striker’s mouth — he was pushing his arse back against the clumsy thrust of the twink and stretching his arms upright, fingers splayed against the wall. Maguire literally pushed Winks in, forcing him to bury his cock more deeply, laughing wolfishly as he did. Unused to the tight strength of a man’s arse, Winks felt his dick disappear inside Kane, oblivious to how relatively easy the entry was in a man who had been repeatedly pounded by Dier for eighteen months. He opened his mouth woud and screamed silently, his dick burning with pleasure and his whole body piling forward inside his senior teammate who he’d idolised and bonded with over several years of Tottenham life. The feel of Maguire behind him was brilliant too, those strong forceful hands on his shoulder, his neck, shoving him inside the man he fucked; reaching down and slapping his arse cheek once with such stinging force that he almost blew his load right inside the striker. Hardly a noise came out of his lips, he felt silenced by the immensity of the pleasure and experimentation. Being jerked off by a man had been eye-opening, and the experience of being shared and initiated by both Dier and Maguire last time, well that had been revelatory — but mersin escort bayan he’d only dabbled with mouths and cocks, he had never dared to picture fucking a guy in the way he fucked women. But actually this was nothing like how he’d fucked women — slow, sensitive, appreciative — because Maguire’s forcefulness was infectious and now he was holding Kane by the hips so he could buck more aggressively against his chunky bottom. Then he was being pulled back — Maguire dragged him out with the same dominance he’d initiated this second virginity loss for young Winks. He drooped backwards in against the big man’s chest and biceps, feeling his cock pull from Kane’s ring with a little fleshy pop, letting out a gibbering ramble of words that didn’t make sense. He staggered aside, allowing Maguire to push past him, and he watched intently as the masterful defender took his huge dick in hand and pressed it in there where he’d been fucking, sliding it inch after inch into their shared bitch. Winks pulled in close to them, running his hand down the long muscular journey of Maguire’s back, and fumbling at one of Kane’s arms and then down his flank. His own cock ached, deprived of the intense pleasure of his first man-on-man fuck, he wanted to be in there again! But watching was exciting too. He wondered if he looked half as majestic and thunderous as that, the pace and bluntness with which the Red Devil slammed into Kane, pushing him further and further into the wall. God! `Fuck him,’ he muttered, `fuck him harder…’ The tallest Harry pushed down on Kane’s back, finding a quicker but gentler rhythm, turning to smirk at him as he held his bitch in place and ploughed him — you could see the length of his fat dick emerging from the cheeks then digging back in each time — then reached and pulled him in closer, kissing him on the brow and scrunching his sweat-damp hair. Then he was pulling back and grappling at Winks again, giving him what he wanted; he was free to shove his dick back inside that tight hole (it already felt a little less tight for the girth of Maguire’s monster!) and hump his 6ft2 forward hero. While he fucked him, Maguire was repositioning them, pulling Kane away from the wall… and now they were both going at him, England’s great striker was spit-roasted between their crotches. Winks grew quicker and more desperate, bunny-humping the tall tanned bloke bent over in front of him, watching his face buried in the crotch of that mighty tall centre-back. He stared wildly at his fellow Harrys, thrusting in and out and feeling his dick nearing the climax. He wavered on the edge of completion for so long, his dick edging almost painfully towards blowing his load — there were a few seconds in which he hesitated and wondered if he was allowed to jizz inside Kane, if he should pull out like girls sometimes made you do, but it wasn’t as if he could get his England captain preggers, so… oh, here it was… He came inside him, amazed by his own daring and by the slut that Kane had become. And in the dizzying moments of his orgasm, he watched Maguire seem to finish too, eyes tight shut and mouth snarling open; he was holding Kane’s head so firmly in place, fucking it like a cunt, pretty much bellowing his satisfaction. Both of them cumming forcefully inside the married goody-goody. Harry Kane shook and shivered, so beyond his pleasure expectations for this afternoon. His arse hurt from the rough sharing of two dicks, one the biggest he’d taken, even compared to Dier, and he felt himself cough and gag with the alarm of how his mouth had been defiled. He opened his mouth as he flopped onto his side, feeling the mix of cum and saliva dribble over his lips and chin. More spots of it hit him in the face and shoulder as, stood over him, Maguire continued to jerk on the cock that had delved into his throat. He gawped and moaned and shuddered, propping himself up on long arms, the tiled anteroom swirling around him. His own cock was as hard as rock and felt like a single touch would set it off like a rocket! Somewhere inside his deep sexual pleasure, he was already anticipating the regret that might strike him later: he had to work daily alongside Winks, and with Dier too, knowing that another Spurs man had tupped him, and all of the potential awkwardness that might entail; and there was something so threatening and raw about Harry Maguire, was he wrong to offer this power over him to the disgraced United skipper…? But these thoughts were faint and distant because he could feel the cum in his hole and his mouth and all over his chin now. He tried to stretch out his limbs and get up, the layout of the room and the presence of the two men falling into clarity — but he found he couldn’t move easily, was being handled by the 6ft4 beast all over again. Dear god, he couldn’t still be hard, ready to fuck again, could he? The insane thought made him purr with submissive excitement and disbelief, struggling onto his knees and feeling his arms pulled behind his back — Harry Winks was stood facing him, dick dripping cum at the tip, a bemused expression on his Ken Doll features, hair all over the place… By the time Kane knew what was going on, he was unable to move his arms out of place. What was it, the tight rough texture now gripping his wrists and his ankles? When he tried to move, his lanky body topple sideways, hard against the floor, twisting his neck to look up in confusion at them — at white-faced confused Winks and smirking sniggering Maguire. He struggled, twitching and convulsing his strong striker’s legs and awkwardly pulled arms, cock standing away from his torso at 90 degrees. He twisted onto his back in some pain, the reality that his limbs were trussed behind him hitting him as hard as the floor each time his struggling form twisted one way or another. `Harry?’ he muttered through a mouth still full of cum. `Which one?’ came Maguire’s bitter laugh. `What are we doing?’ demanded Winks’ trembling tones. And then Maguire was stood over his body, thick hairy legs parted. His elephant-trunk dick dangled from his pubes and Kane looked beyond it up his chest to his face, saw the nasty sneer there, the darkness in his eyes. What kinky shit was this? Still, cowering beneath this defensive beast, he felt some remnant of thrill: what dirty stuff was Maguire actually into?! But no, he rapidly realised, this was no sex game, no S he was still shivering a little, from the cool shower and however long he’d lain shamed on the floor, recovering from the men who’d done this to him. `So,’ Eric pushed, `are you going to tell me who…? No, wait. I don’t really wanna know…’ `Eric…’ The man’s voice was soft and pleading and he moved closer, stepping over his neatly piled things and reaching for Dier’s wrist, finally looking up and meeting his gaze, abject self-loathing all over his facial features. `I knew you would come, you know, I knew you would help me… it’s always you, isn’t it, you’re always the one to…’ Eric freed his wrist. `Don’t,’ he warned. `I’ve come to help you, but that’s it, man…’ `Eric,’ insisted Kane, reaching for his arm again, brushing his fingers up the soft fine hair there, `let’s talk properly, we need to, there’s so much I need to say, and… they mean nothing to me, nobody else, I’m just being a desperate twat and… Eric, look at me, please…’ `Just stop. Just stop there.’ He pushed his hand away and stepped back. `I don’t wanna know, Harry, I really do NOT want to know. About what went on down here, about who did this to you, about what shit happened between you and Conor Cunt-face, okay…?’ He squared his shoulders and took another backwards step from him, closer to the frosted glass doors. `I’ve told you clear, mate, it’s over, there is no us. Don’t move a step closer. We’re finished, Kane.’ `But…’ `It isn’t about who you fuck,’ Eric insisted. `You know that? Yeah, it hurt, walking in on you and your Scouser, sure it did, but I know I wasn’t always the best at keeping it in my pants. It isn’t about that.’ `Eric,’ breathed the striker, `just stay here, sit with me, we can talk and-` `And it isn’t about your wife,’ he said, his voice growing in strength and certainty. `Because I always knew you loved her, I always knew she came first. You think I came to you in Russia and thought we’d run off in to the fucking sunset leaving your kids and missus behind? You think I’m that dumb? No, I always knew where I stood, number fucking two…’ `It isn’t like that, you’re missing the point — you were never number two to anybody, not once we found each other, you were all I ever-` `It’s not Cody, not your bird, none of that!’ Eric shouted plainly at him. `It’s the fact I had to hurt on my own, the fact you were so ready to cut me off like that. How much of this year have I had to spend waiting for you to pull your head out of your arse to talk to me…? And now, when I come to save you form yourself, you wanna talk. Well it’s too fucking late, Harry Kane. I’m moved on.’ `There’s someone else?’ `Maybe — I don’t know — does it matter? I’m over it, Harry. I’m over being used, being second-best. It was just too much for you to bother with me when I needed it, and that’s okay. You stick to your wife and your pretty little life and, apparently, getting tied up like a cum-slut by… who, a hotel groundsman? Don’t tell me! I don’t fucking care what you do with your body, Kane, you’re my teammate and my captain and NOTHING MORE.’ He was shocked at the force of his voice and the shaking of his muscular body, clothes sticking to him with dried sweat. He took two more steps away and grabbed the door handle, staring at the bare shivering form of the England striker and captain, clinging to his knotted towel. `You came, though,’ the 27-year-old told him quietly. `I needed you and I come.’ He nodded. `I did, and I always will. I love you, but I’ve moved on. See you at dinner. Don’t try to sit next to me, captain.’ He pulled the door shut behind him with a slam that he briefly worried would shatter the glass, abandoning the proud conflicted bloke alone in this quiet corner of the fitness building, heading away in a hurry to the privacy of his own room, hoping his roomie was busy elsewhere and he could lock himself in the bathroom to recover from the much-needed severance that he had just yelled at his first love.

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