| TITLE : O Captain, My Captain
Wayne Rooney couldn't keep up. Every macho bone in his body wanted to keep drinking with the others, but he was going to make himself sick, and suddenly he didn't feel as grown-up as he had when he'd arrived. The others all knew each other so well, all had stories to share about players Wayne had never met, and he began to feel excluded, the isolation intensified by the way their faces began to swim in and out of focus, and their voices and the sounds in the bar fade in and out in a kaleidoscope of confusion.
* * *
When he'd arrived at the training camp that morning, he'd hardly been able to contain the astonishing combination of excitement and apprehension that infused every atom of his seventeen-year-old being. He'd been greeted by the coach, Mr Ericsson, and his national team captain, Alan Shearer. Shearer had been an idol of his when he was growing up, and when he found out that he was to share a room with his hero, he was overwhelmed. ‘It's a tradition,' the big Geordie told him. ‘First training camp, you room with the skipper. I'll take you up there now.'
In an unexpected gesture, Shearer took Wayne 's bag and led him through the door of the hotel and called the lift. Wayne was tongue-tied, but was too preoccupied to see that the senior man realised it. When the lift arrived, Shearer signalled for him to proceed him, followed him in and pressed the button for the top floor. Wayne was amazed that the captain should treat him with such kindness, even deference. He looked up at the skipper's handsome face, and tried to find the words to thank him. None came, but again the older man showed his generosity. He slipped an arm around Wayne 's shoulders.
‘You okay, mate?'
‘Yeah,' squeaked Wayne . ‘Just a bit nervous.'
‘When I came on my first camp I was as nervous as you, but it'll be fine. Everyone knows what a good player you are, and you don't have anything to prove. If you make a tit of yourself on the pitch because you're nervous and the lads rib you a bit, don't worry, it's just a bit of banter and they don't mean anything by it. Everyone has their first time, and I'm here to make it a easy as possible for you.'
‘Thanks,' Wayne croaked. The big man smiled and it seemed as if everything would be alright. When Wayne walked out of the lift, Shearer patted his bum reassuringly.
The room was not a room, but a suite, taking up the whole of the top floor. ‘Perks of the job,' Shearer explained as Wayne 's eyes popped out of their sockets. Past the sofas and chairs and round the corner there was a king-size bed, dressed in gold satin sheets. Shearer smiled at the overawed youngster next to him.
‘That's mine,' he confided. ‘You'll be in here.'
There was a pair of doors leading from the main bedroom. Behind one was another bedroom, and inside a double bed, less sumptuously arrayed with clean, crisp white cotton sheets. Hanging on the wardrobe was an England training kit.
‘That's yours,' said Shearer. ‘Time to get changed, we're on in quarter of an hour. Welcome to the team, Wayne.'
A big hand ruffled Wayne 's cropped hair, then the captain retreated to his own room. ‘The bathroom's in there,' he said, indicating the other door. Wayne needed to pee out some of his nerves, and went through.
As he stood in front of the stall, a strong stream plunging into the water, he tried to get his head round what was happening. So much to take in at once, it didn't seem real yet. He zipped up and went back through the door. He was shocked at the sight which greeted him: Alan Shearer dressed only in a jock-strap standing opposite the door. Wayne was quite proud of his hairy chest, but this put him to shame. The dark golden hairs covered every inch of his hero's body, cut off only by the white waistband of the strap. Almost despite himself, he found he was checking out the contents of the strap. He switched his eyes away as soon as he realised that the other man had noticed what he was doing, but he was secretly impressed, and pleased that his idol packed it in in his pants. He expected Shearer at best to tease him for looking, at worst to lose his temper, and wondered if he had blown it, lost his captain's respect already, and after he had shown him such kindness. Instead, the older man smiled in a way that Wayne didn't quite understand and turned round, slowly and deliberately. Wayne couldn't help but admire the firm, muscled arse that came into view, framed by the elasticated straps. Shearer stretched, touched his toes; his buttocks were dusted with the same hair which covered his torso and legs, only finer. Wayne stared, transfixed. Shearer turned again. Was the pouch of the jock fuller? Aware suddenly that his jaw was hanging open, Wayne shook himself. Again that indefinable smile.
Shearer looked him straight in the eye. ‘Time to get changed.' Wayne returned to his own room.
* * *
The training had gone well. Although he made a couple of control errors at first, and missed an absolute sitter, (to the derision of the others,) eventually he'd forgotten where he was and begun to play almost as well as he could. Then the showers. He'd had to concentrate really hard on not looking at Shearer for fear of giving away the new, unexpected feelings he was desperately trying not to think about. He just about managed to keep his young eager cock under control. A debriefing by the coach, dinner, and then the drinking had started. At first, his Scouse pride wouldn't allow him to let any of the others out-drink him, but while he was paying the price of his over-confidence, they apparently weren't feeling the pace at all, and now he felt very young, foolish and lonely.
He saw someone approach him, but recognised his captain only when he spoke.
‘You okay, mate?'
‘Yeah. Just a bit…tired.' Wayne knew his words were slurred, but didn't want to appear drunk in front of his captain and senior striker.
‘That's okay It can be hard on your first day,' said Shearer, smiling. ‘Nobody will mind if you want to go up to bed.'
‘No, I'm fine,' Wayne mumbled indistinctly. ‘Let me get you another beer.' He tried to get up, but fell over rather unceremoniously. He looked around to check that none of the others had noticed, but they were all busy shouting, singing and laughing.
Shearer reached out a paternal arm. ‘Let me give you a hand,' he said.
He helped Wayne to stand, and then had to support him as he was shaky on his feet.
‘I'll tell you what,' he suggested. ‘We'll go for a bit of a walk outside, clear our heads. Then you can buy me another drink.'
Wayne nodded, though even this movement made him feel a bit disorientated. He allowed himself to be lead quietly from the bar. The noise receded, and when they hit the cool air outside he felt a little better.
‘You did well this afternoon,' said the kind voice of the man who had taken pity on him.
‘I can do better,' replied Wayne . ‘I was nervous, and I should have got over it.'
‘Don't be hard on yourself. A couple of your passes were real quality. I could do with servicing like that week in week out. And you move really well too. I was keeping and eye on you special like.'
‘Thanks.' The warmth of the older man's body as he held him up reminded Wayne of how he had felt watching Shearer earlier.
‘I was…' He stopped before he revealed how he had felt when he saw his captain's body earlier in the day. How he still felt when he thought about it now.
‘What?'
‘Doesn't matter.'
They walked on in silence. Wayne began to feel better, that he could walk unaided, but the strength of the tall man next to him was reassuring, and he didn't let on. He wondered if his companion sensed his recovery, but there was no sign. The path carried them back to the door of the hotel.
They stopped. Wayne didn't know what to say. He knew what he wanted to say, but for every reason he could think of it was impossible.
‘I've had my fill for one night,' offered Shearer unexpectedly. ‘The others can carry on. Join them if you like, but I'm off up to bed. Be nice and fresh, on top of my game in the morning.'
He ruffled Wayne 's hair again, but Wayne still couldn't speak. Then the other man punched him playfully on the chest.
‘Go on, have another with the lads. But don't wake me when you come to bed!'
He began to move away. Wayne had to say something.
‘I -. I don't want another drink.'
Shearer turned slowly.
‘Better come up with me then.'
Wayne still didn't move.
Shearer smiled that inexplicable smile again, the one Wayne had seen twice in the morning. His eyes met those of his captain, and that strong arm that had helped him up in the bar reached out again. Something in his eyes told Wayne that it was alright, and suddenly he understood the meaning of that enigmatic smile. He held out his hand and Shearer pulled him gently towards him. He put his arm round Wayne 's waist. Kissed him gently on the forehead. Squeezed him as they walked towards the lift. When the bell pinged to signify its arrival, this time the older man led the way in, Wayne following in a daze. Was this what he thought it was? Or was the alcohol making him imagine the unimaginable? Maybe Shearer would just put him to bed and he'd sleep it off, nothing said in the morning. The lift door opened. Wayne hadn't noticed the ascent. They walked into the room, and Shearer led him to the sofa and sat him down.
‘Drink?'
Wayne still couldn't reply, but nodded mutely. Shearer went over to the mini bar, put ice cubes in two tumblers, poured whisky over them. Wayne hadn't tasted whisky before.
‘Soda?'
He didn't know. He nodded again.
He watched as Shearer squirted a little water into each glass, and returned to the sofa. He sat down next to Wayne . So close next to him that their arms and legs touched. He handed Wayne a glass and raised his own. Wayne took the cue and touched the glassed together.
‘To your first camp, and the many to follow.'
They both took a sip, the fiery drink finally unlocking Wayne 's larynx.
‘Thanks. For everything.' He felt Shearer's leg rub against his. ‘Earlier on, I-. Well, I didn't mean to be…you've just been so nice, and I wanted to say thanks. And it was great on the pitch, I knew you were trying to help me, and I should have said something but I…I couldn't…in the showers, because I-.' He sipped his whisky again. Could he say it? He looked up, and the big man's eyes were looking benevolently down into his own. The drink gave him the courage to say it, but he was interrupted.
‘It's okay. However you feel, and whatever you say, it's okay.'
‘When we were here earlier and you were…in your…I'm not gay, I just wanted to - because you've been so kind.'
He took another sip of whisky. He opened his mouth to speak again. This time he would say it. Shearer's eyes were soft and understanding. There was no need to speak. His captain put down his glass on the table by the sofa, and indicated that Wayne should do the same. He did. Then their mouths met, and, incredibly, he was kissing the captain of the England football team, Alan Shearer, his boyhood hero, his idol, kissing him on the sofa, feeling his tongue part his lips and play gently with his own, his hands on his cheeks and in his hair and on the back of his neck and it felt so right. He gave up thinking about it, gave up control, and just enjoyed the impossible sensation. He felt experienced fingers begin to unbutton his shirt, run admiringly over his chest, linger on his nipples. All the time he was being expertly kissed into heaven. When his shirt was hanging loose from his shoulders, the kissing stopped, only to be replaced by the same oral attention removed to his chest. He felt maybe he should reciprocate, but didn't quite know what to do. He ran his fingers through the hair on Shearer's head as he was kissed from neck to navel, engendering sensations Wayne hadn't dreamed existed. When he reached the waistband of his trousers, Shearer stopped. Wayne didn't want him to stop, and looked at him questioningly. The other man just smiled.
‘Plenty of room in that bed over there,' he said. ‘Come and keep it warm with me?'
They stood up, and Wayne discarded his shirt. Following Shearer's lead, he kicked off his shoes and pulled off his socks. He was about to unbuckle his belt when a hand intervened.
‘Hang on a moment. Sit down on the bed.'
Wayne did as he was told. Alan stood in front of him and began to unbutton his own shirt, the hairy chest and belly that Wayne had so admired earlier again slowly coming into view. When the shirt was just a discarded pile on the floor, he languidly unbuckled his belt, all the time looking into the young man's eyes, enjoying the attention, watching them flick between following the movement of his hands as he undressed and looking into his own. He let his trousers fall to the floor, now standing only in a pair of red and white England pants he had had designed specially. The envy was clear on Wayne 's face.
‘Like them?' he asked unnecessarily.
‘Yeah,' breathed Wayne .
‘I bet you'll like this better.'
Alan reached inside his pants and pulled out nine inches of semi-erect cock. Underneath hung a pair of balls in a low, swinging sack. His thighs were strong. He pushed his patriotic underwear down, and Wayne could only stare as the increasingly engorged meat approached his face. Alan Shearer, in all his hairy, naked glory. He wanted to suck it, wanted to lick it, caress it, feel it against his face. But before he could reach out for it, Alan sank to his knees.
‘Let's see what you've got to offer,' he said with a smile.
He slipped his hands under Wayne 's arse and lifted him to his feet. Looking up at him with a cheeky grin, he undid Wayne 's belt, pushed the button through the hole and unzipped the fly. The trousers fell in puddles round his feet. Wayne knew that his designer briefs showed off his package well, and Alan nodded in appreciation. The front of the bulge was already damp with precome, and Alan licked at it. Even through the material, Wayne liked the feel of the man's tongue on his cock. By the time his pants had joined his trousers round his ankles, his thick, blunt, club-like cock was standing upright, brushing Alan's mouth and nose. He felt the swirl of his tongue on his cock-head, shuddered as it moved to lick the big balls of which he was justly proud, and then looked down as the warmth of his mouth enveloped him. Alan Shearer sucking cock. Better than that, sucking Wayne Rooney's cock. He had never dreamt such a thing possible, that the man he had admired all his life would be on his knees, naked, and his head buried between his seventeen-year-old thighs. The sight, sound and feelings were getting too much, and he began to twitch involuntarily. Alan sensed it and stopped, slowly withdrawing, leaving his tongue to slowly drag the rest of the way along Wayne 's hard cock. The pre-orgasmic feelings subsided.
‘I don't want to come yet,' Wayne offered.
‘Plenty of time. Your turn.'
He walked round the side of the bed and lay down on his back. Wayne turned around and looked towards the head of the bed. Alan had spread his legs, and the view was impressive. He had drawn his knees towards his chest, and revealed the dark, inviting cleft at the beginning of his arse crack, his meaty balls and his now fully erect cock, nine fat inches pointing towards his navel. Wayne crawled onto the bed, between the big man's tree-trunk thighs, and looked nervously at the beer-bottle of swollen meat. He wanted it, but he was scared of sucking cock, even having seen his hero going down between his legs. As always, Alan sensed his apprehension.
‘It's okay, mate. Just try licking it. It's good when you get used to it, but take it slow like.'
Wayne extended his tongue hesitantly, not sure how it would taste. He licked the top of Alan's flared, purple cock-head. The sensation was good, and the expected fear of being a cocksucker didn't materialise, only the sense that this was a fine, manly thing to do, giving pleasure to a fellow sportsman. He took the whole head in his mouth, but overreached himself in his enthusiasm and gagged when it hit the back of his throat.
‘Slow down,' advised Alan. ‘Just take as much as you can.'
Wayne listened to his skipper and concentrated on sucking the head, occasionally taking a little more. Alan began to moan softly, though Wayne felt that he lacked his captain's expertise. His mouth getting a little tired, he switched to licking his balls instead, even trying taking one into his mouth to see how it felt. This drew a further gasp of pleasure. Then Alan manoeuvred the younger man around so that, without losing the touch of Wayne 's tongue between his legs, he now was poised between his junior strike partner's thighs. Wayne was expecting what he imagined was a classic sixty-nine position, sucking each other off, but took a sharp intake of breath when he felt the Geordie's hands part his arse cheeks and his hot breath on his arsehole. A greater surprise followed: that could only be Alan's tongue lashing his hole, licking, probing, circling the tight bundle of nerves that he'd never guessed could bring such intense pleasure. The sensation was unbelievable, and his mind was blown away by the twin awareness of the cock in his mouth and the tongue in his arse. He heard Alan spit, felt the dampness of his saliva on his twitching hole, then something else. Could that be a finger, pushing against him? Suddenly his cock was once more enveloped in a warm mouth, and in the distraction of the moment, he didn't feel his arse give way and accept Alan's thumb. Once there, pushing in and pulling out, twisting round in a whirling dance of pleasure, he began to pump his hips, pushing his cock in and out of his partner's mouth, riding the thumb in his arse. The thumb was momentarily withdrawn, only to be replaced by two fingers, again twisted round so the knuckles stretched his hole further; then three. Wayne accepted all with hedonistic pleasure, began losing control of his movements, aware again that he was approaching orgasm. He forced himself to slow down, but moments later found himself unexpectedly but expertly flipped over onto his back. Alan moved around till he was positioned between Wayne 's legs. He held his cock in his fist, and Wayne suddenly realised what he intended. Fear flashed in his eyes, but he looked up and found that after all the events of the day, he utterly trusted the big man rearing above him. There was unspoken agreement between them.
Alan took Wayne 's knees and raised them, exposing his arse again. After diving down for a final preparatory lick, Alan positioned his fat cock and began to push gently but firmly. As the head mashed through Wayne 's hole, the younger man screamed in an ecstasy of pain and pleasure. Alan took him slowly, inch by inch, letting him acclimatise steadily to the new experience, but inexorably pushing home till Wayne felt the coarse pubic hair scratching his arse cheeks. Then Alan withdrew, plunged in again, withdrew, stroke by stroke increasing the speed and power with which he fucked Wayne 's virgin hole. Wayne 's cries turned to moans and shouts of encouragement, not believing that he had a cock in his arse, let alone Alan Shearer's, let alone the monster he was packing in there. But none of that mattered, he was having the time of his life. He began to stroke his own cock once again, finding that being fucked heightened his own sensitivity. With Alan's hairy torso bucking between his legs, his arse plowed by his huge dick and his balls slapping his arse, Wayne was in fuck heaven. Alan pulled all the way out and thrust in again, the whole length sliding between the walls of Wayne 's arse. Then the tempo increased again, and Wayne began to lose all sense of himself: all his consciousness was focused on the huge cock banging his hole, and the intense pleasure of wanking whilst being fucked by the sexiest man on the planet. Still, he recognised the increasing jerkiness of Alan's movements which signalled the approaching orgasm in the man who was screwing him. He pulled his own dick harder, and he felt the muscles in his arse contract involuntarily around the cock which never-ceasingly drove in and out. This sent Alan mad, and the two men became one as they simultaneously came, Wayne spraying come all over their twin hairy chests, Alan pumping it deep into Wayne 's arse. It seemed to last for ever, but eventually Alan pulled his deflating cock out of Wayne's exhausted hole, and leant down to take his shirt and use it to gently wipe the come from their sweaty chests.
Wayne lay back on the bed and Alan joined him, tenderly kissing him on the forehead, eyes and lips, wrapping a protective arm round him, laying his teenage head on that magnificent hairy chest.
‘Welcome to the team,' he whispered.
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