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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 281 Part 281: Dom-inant There was a birthday party in the relaxation lounge of the Premiership training campus, but a sensibly sober one: the Everton players were in tense anticipation of hosting Newcastle tomorrow night, all of them hoping for a significant win that could start to protect them from looming historic relegation. The lack of alcoholic drinks and the nervous professional mood made for muted celebrations as the Liverpudlian club toasted orange juice and healthy buffet food to their celebrated forward – and the birthday boy, 25-year-old Dominic Calvert-Lewin, was one of many young men in the hastily decorated R he wrapped one of his bare brown arms across his broad chest to hug himself, sipping lukewarm OJ and tuning into the bland conversation of his tense teammates. Tottenham import Dele Alle was leading the chat, arguing with Richarlison and Rondon about some inane dispute about a new sports car they were criticising. At Dominic’s slightly looming presence, the men shifted their attention to his birthday, jokily asking him what wild plans he had for the night after they soon clocked off. It had been a fairly intense Thursday of training for the day before a game, but their newish coach was taking no chances and wanted to end the Magpies’ run of good luck since January. DCL played along with the banter, shrugging his big shoulders and smirking mysteriously, teasing them pointlessly with the names of a few Liverpool nightclubs, then just bursting out laughing at his stupid chatter – the men all grinned and chuckled, equally aware that it would be a routine dull night in at each of their suburban mansions or city-centre apartments, awaiting tomorrow’s warm-ups and then the late evening clash itself. `Nah, I’m sure Calv here has some tricks up his sleeve,’ guessed Alle, waving his tumbler of juice this way as if it was loaded with the most expensive scotch, `look at that smirk, the big fucker is definitely having a secret party when he gets back to his place!’ The former Hotspur grinned this way and leaned back against the window-frame, giving him challenging eyes to continue the joking about. Mildly depressed by the sporting reality, Dom just rolled his eyes and made a face of mock outrage. `Oh, you got me there, buddy, it’s gonna be a crazy one Chez Calvert-Lewin, that’s for sure…!’ `Coke and strippers,’ quipped another of the Everton players wistfully, leaning in next to Dele, with a plateful of miniature sausage rolls clutched in his hands. `Summat like that,’ Dominic chuckled back. `Never mind coke,’ Ben Godfrey remarked, elbowing Jonjoe Kenny in the side as they all laughed at the image, `you’ll be in enough trouble with Big Frank if he catches you scoffing all that pastry, JJ!’ Someone else chimed in playfully: `Yeah, Kenny will be out another fuckin’ loan deal if he gets a wee pot belly going on, haha!’ The working-class local lad scowled but laughed, stuffing another mini snack in his mouth and then rubbing pastry flakes away from his patchy facial hair. `Right,’ Calvert-Lewin said, noticing that a couple more squad members had drifted over to join the informal clique, `if you MUST know…’ He swung out one of his long muscular arms and grabbed the nearest of the two footballers about the shoulder – `If you must know,’ he repeated, `it’s a night of online gaming with lover-boy here and a cheeky takeaway – and if anybody tells Fat Frank about THAT, I’ll break their legs in the morning, eh…!’ He laughed coarsely, shaking playfully at the shorter guy beside him, and turning to beam his handsome white-toothed smile at his closest friend at Everton. The other guys, the loose circle of tracksuited fellas, were all laughing happily at the joke at their grumpy new manager, happy to share some scorn at the strictness and ferocity that Lampard had brought into the Toffees’ lives – but also happy to throw banter and ridicule at the long-time bromance between these two young Everton stars… The subject of the casual joke, however, looked less impressed. Gripping his shoulder and turning to him, Dominic glanced briefly at Tom Davies’ face, and saw a tight little scowl on his thin features, making him start regretfully – but the unhappiness was momentary and then Davies was shrugging his hand away and throwing his own joke into the mix. `Didn’t I hear Kenny promising coke and strippers?’ the 23-year-old defender demanded impatiently. `I think I might have to stand this prick up and go to Jonjoe’s flat instead.’ Davies sniggered and crossed his arms with no sign of the momentary annoyance that had flashed in his blue eyes. And instantly the coarser banter was picked up by the others, Jonjoe guffawing through a mouthful of sausage roll, while Dele and Ben demanded to know how many grams of the white stuff he had on his person right now. Dominic, who’d been very briefly startled to see his bestie glare at him like that, stood for a moment with a strange awkwardness about him, and then relaxed back into the muted fun of the party, knocking back the last of his drink and sighing at the lack of alcoholic burn it left in his throat. Coke and strippers, he thought longingly – if only! Or champagne and couture, a part of him longed for. He was increasingly a man of expensive and bougie tastes and he was hoping to get a swanky night out for some of his pals as soon as an opportunity presented itself, some glamorous remedy for tonight’s professional duty and sensible decisions. He enjoyed the contradictions of his masculine appearance and profession with his open-minded appetite for fashion and photography, and had always taken the mild banter of his Everton and England allies with the broad-shouldered security of a 6ft2 stud and goal machine. He was far too secure in himself to ever worry about the jokes and whisperings that his modelling side-hustles and poseur online antics might attract – zero fucks given. It was one of the main things that made he and Davies such close mates, a pair of male fashionistas who were as happy in experimental designer looks as the classic trackies and shin pads of their day-jobs. Dom and Tom were pretty much best mates, and the jokes about their closeness were an absolute regular feature of laddish joking at Everton, always had been – DCL found himself enjoying them a little bit, because he was glad to be so relaxed and unbothered in the face of such humour, a badge of honour for the way he had always guarded his mate’s private truth. It was several years now since Davies had confided and come out to him, and he would always protect his brotherly teammate from the slightest scorn or suspicion on that matter, even if he often focused his efforts on convincing the other player that 2022 was the time when a gay footballer should at last be able to live authentically. Tom was a pretty shy guy by footballer standards, though, and that suggestion was ALWAYS met with derision. `You can’t possibly understand,’ the Scouser would tell him frustratedly each time he hinted at the matter, and then swiftly change the subject. He wasn’t exactly socially equipped to break such new ground and put himself in that vulnerable position, and so Dom was tasked with complicity in his secret, and he would never do anything to harm that – except occasionally playing up to the banter that surrounded their bromance at the football club. After all, he reasoned, it would be WEIRDER if he didn’t, and got all offended or touchy around the topic… Right? Playing up to it was the best way to protect Tom’s sexuality, surely! With that at the back of his mind, Dominic didn’t give another moment’s thought to his own little joke there, or the moment of disapproval it had earned from his bestie. Instead, he focused on enjoying what remained of the so-called party, making time to chat gratefully with support staff and be his charming self with the many background members of club life who had gathered here to help wish him happy 25th. Despite the lack of booze, the mood was a bit more relaxed and jovial when he was invited across to blow out some candles and cut a cake which had been decorated to look a bit like him and his flowing curls of dark afro hair. The footballer made a short speech in his soft Sheffield accent, bringing the little gathering to its natural climax and conclusion – he was then taken in for a hug and back-pat from the stern-faced gaffer. The lads here had all been excited by the advent of Frank Lampard, expecting the Chelsea legend to lead an immediate upturn in their League fortunes… Well, THAT had certainly not happened, and worse, Lamps had turned out to be a very severe chieftain for the failing team, and it was unusual for him to show any such affection or warmth towards a squad player like this. But here he was, patting him on the bicep and gripping one of his hands in an almost fatherly grip, meeting his eyes respectfully. `I’m hearing a lot of jokes,’ grunted the former Chelsea player and manager, `but I know you’re a sensible fella, Lewin – get an early tonight and stick to your meal plan, please. You can celebrate your birthday properly when we’re out of the fucking danger zone, okay?’ Dominic blinked and smiled at this rather blunt approach. `Yes boss,’ he said quickly and sincerely, returning the handshake and nodding for his manager. `You know me – football first, everything else second.’ Frank gave him a heavy look, holding his hand a few seconds longer than was necessary, one of his worn hands lingering against the smooth brown skin of his upper arm. `Yes,’ Lamps said slowly, `it sure seems that way.’ For a slow moment, it did seem like the new Everton chief was going to say more, something a bit more kind and friendly as it had initially seemed, but nope – he just nodded a few times and then backed away from him, turning to glare disapprovingly at the straggly queue of Everton footballers who were trying to nab a thick slice of the sugary birthday cake. The little tableau made Dominic smirk knowingly, but decided he would try and avoid having to eat any of the sweet treat himself. It was funny: when Lampard had been enthroned at Stamford Bridge to complete his legacy, the general impression amongst the Premiership fraternity had been that such an ambitious young manager would create a fun and refreshing dynamic for players. Yes, Frank’s fine list at Chelsea had been pretty infamous, but he seemed to have such strong relationships with his favoured players there, and the Everton guys had expected to build similar bonds. But nope… Lampard was quite distant and austere. Maybe that was just the relegation battle conditions here, Dom thought, or maybe mersin escort the ex-player had learned his lesson through some particular experiences at Chelsea? Weird. After securing himself an embarrassingly thick wedge of cake secreted in tupperware (he would try and palm it off on family tomorrow), Dominic fetched his tracksuit jacket from the back of a seat and did a quick round of goodbye hugs and effusive thanks, then looked for a sight of his pal Tom. He found Davis engaged in quiet conversation with another of the recent newbies, Man Utd signing Donny van de Beek – the two blondes were seated by the kitchenette area, and the Dutchman seemed to be showing the other lad family photos from the Nederlands on his smartphone. With his easy confidence, Dom cut into their conversation with a little wave and lean. `Heading off?’ he asked lightly, flashing an apologetic smile at the Old Trafford reject. `We were having a chat,’ came the slightly sour remark of Scouser Tom. Dom glanced surprisedly at him. `Oh yeah, sorry, just-‘ `It is okay,’ van de Beek was immediately insisting, putting away his phone with that mildly adorable apology that he always wore on his boyish face. `I was boring Thomas here with too many pictures of…’ `I didn’t mean to-‘ began Calvert-Lewin hesitantly. `Oh, DCL here is too big-time to wait for people to finish talking,’ Tom was saying dryly to their fellow player, rolling his eyes and slapping his hands on his knees. `But yeah, I guess it is time to head off, isn’t it?’ He got up from the seat, whilst Donny looked a bit bewildered, and Dominic straightened up awkwardly. `I’ll go get my things,’ the local midfielder announced in a strained voice, and marched away. This left Dom standing with a lost expression on his good-looking face, whilst Donny also got up and shrugged mildly at him. `Everyone is one edge,’ the January signing said sagaciously. `Tomorrow night means a lot.’ He smiled vaguely, looking as on edge as anyone else here – the Dutchman still had much to prove after his failed United seasons and his escape route here, after all. He left Dominic alone, and the striker pondered Tom’s funny mood quietly. In the car park, Dominic found himself asking an unexpected and embarrassing question. `You’re sure you wanna hang out tonight?’ the tall football stud asked over the roof of his mate’s car, not quite making eye contact with the player on the other side. Tom had not said a word to him since they left the dwindling soiree and made their way across the damp twilit training campus to the car. `That’s still the plan, isn’t it?’ Davies barked back, but weakly. `Well. Yeah. Just – you don’t seem… in the mood?’ `It’s your birthday,’ the 23-year-old said sullenly. `Yep,’ Dom agreed, `but if you’re a bit tired or stressed, then we don’t have to-‘ `Don’t you want to?’ the midfielder interrupted. Weirdly, he now sounded a bit nervous and needy, rather than the coldness he had exuded before. He flashed his bright blue eyes this way and ran fingers through the delicate blond curls of his shaggy hair. `Er…’ `Course I want to!’ chimed Calvert-Lewin with slightly forced enthusiasm, confused by this mood between them. `I was just saying… Forget it, I didn’t mean anything. Been looking forward to tonight, feel like we hardly ever hang out just us two these days. Come on.’ He cleared his throat and let himself into the car, happy to try and put aside the odd looks and little spat they’d run into just now next to Donny. The atmosphere between them in the car was immediately warmer and more normal: Tom swearing at Liverpool traffic and distractedly jabbing at buttons to skip through a well-worn Spotify playlist; Dom singing along badly and tunelessly drumming long thick fingers against the dashboard. And yet still… The image returned to him of Tom’s scowling face at his side, his body tensing against Dom’s arm, when he dared to joke about `lover boy’ and their evening plans in front of all those other lads. Huh. By the time they were parking up in the underground facilities beneath Tom’s elite apartment block overlooking the Mersey docks, DCL felt confident-yet-guilty enough to risk spoiling the mood. He was a big communicator and he valued his friendships dearly, he wasn’t somebody to let things slide and allow problems to go unchecked. So at the same time as unclipping his seatbelt and watching Tom turn off the music, he leaned that way a little and spoke up in a warm Yorkshire-accented voice. `Did I piss you off back there, matey?’ The Scouse lad didn’t respond immediately. Tom quietly switched off the bluetooth connection on his smartphone and slid it into a zip pocket of his tracksuit, then looked this way, shrugged. `Maybe,’ he said evasively, `but it hardly matters. We’re here now, and we’ve got battlefields to conquer and 13-year-old online gaming addicts to destroy…’ `Yeah but mate,’ Calvert-Lewin sighed, `I can’t be having you pissed off at me, not you. What’s up? Hold on a sec, will ya?’ He reached over to rest his hand a little on Tom’s forearm but the limb was tugged away from him, worrying him more. `Mate?’ He advanced cautiously onto the topic: `It were just a little joke, y’know, nothing new – everyone loves to poke fun of our being so close, so makes sense to just laugh with `em and…’ `Yeah yeah,’ Davies crackled dismissively. `Well, maybe I don’t find it so funny any more.’ `Okay,’ he said reasonably, `I’m sorry I-‘ `It’s just not as funny a joke to me as it is to you, yeah?’ the midfielder snapped, not looking at him. `Fuck’s sake.’ `Tom,’ he said gently. `I didn’t mean anything by it, you know I’m not homophobic-‘ `Oh I know THAT,’ grunted the other man. `Eh?’ Dom murmured at him, reaching for his sleeve again. `What the fuck, mate? What’s wrong?’ His hand was pushed away and then they were both emerging from the car, Tom slamming the door to the driver’s seat a bit unnecessarily. Their eyes met over the roof of the car, just as they had failed to in the Everton car park. Dominic looked beseechingly at his close pal, quite confused. `It’s easy to shrug off gay jokes when you aren’t gay, that’s all I’m saying,’ sighed Tom heavily with a bit more openness, but then glaring nervously about the empty underground car park as if a Daily Mail journalist could be hiding behind the nearest Porsche. He pushed the car keys into his other pocket and fiddled with his hair-band again, blushing. Domnic fell respectfully quiet and followed him into the elevator before saying any more. `You know I love and accept you,’ he said for the hundredth time to his bestie, `and that you being gay makes fuck all difference to me, right? I really didn’t mean to hurt you by playing along, I just thought it was a thing we did. I’m sorry. I won’t talk like that ever again, not if it’s offensive for you, okay? You’re my bro, Davies.’ He stared pleadingly at his mate in the cramped lift, half-consciously weaponising his large puppy dog eyes and charming features. `You know all that, right, Tommy? You know I’m not like those other yobs?’ Davies stared oddly at him and then took long thoughtful blinks, looking like he was feeling a lot of different emotions at once. `I know those things,’ he said eventually, the lift whoosihing up its shaft towards his penthouse, but then his tone shifted sharply – `But it’s not like you’re ALWAYS so fucking respectful, is it?’ he demanded with an acidic edge to his strong Liverpool accent. Dom paused and gawped. `What? When? You mean at the party just now?’ `Not that,’ Tom said with a grimace, `I mean that time when you-‘ But he trailed off, biting his lip, and the lift doors opened. One of the football star’s neighbours was waiting there on the landing with her child, and the Scouser boy switched immediately into friendly and upbeat, making brief small talk with her before parting ways and letting them into the half of the top floor that he owned. They were inside his flat now, and a penny had dropped for Dominic. `You mean that time we…’ he started in a slow awkward voice. `Don’t,’ Davies told him warningly. The 23-year-old lad was marching on through the open plan space, turning on lamps and yelping at a voice activated speaker to put the same playlist back on for them. As he fussed, dumping his phone and keys and firing up the giant TV screen on the wall, Dominic just stood in the entranceway, a fresh little pang of guilt overcoming him. `That was ages ago,’ the England striker said distantly. Tom froze where he was, in the centre of the living area, and shot him a filthy look at this. `Right,’ he said abruptly, `ages ago and so it doesn’t exist, yeah? I mean, you weren’t exactly the supportive and respectful ally that afternoon, were you mate?’ He paused, and his expression showed a little regret at what he was saying, but then he charged on, finished the thought: `I felt so fucking used and embarrassed that day, y’know. I still feel it a bit now, to be honest, and it’s just shit, Dom. So… yeah. That’s that.’ `Mate,’ sighed the older sportsman gently, taking a couple of slow steps into the main apartment, stuffing large hands into the pockets of his trackies. `I just never realised…’ Tom looked at him, but without the brief iciness. Worse – he just looked sad, deflated. It made Dom’s stomach lurch and he grimaced more at his own forgetful arrogance. `Look, it doesn’t matter,’ Davies hissed quietly, turning away and starting to dredge remote controllers from their box and activating the console. `It really doesn’t. It’s just one of those things. I should never have said owt, lad.’ `But…’ `Please, leave it.’ A long pause from Dominic. `I am sorry,’ he said, and left it verbally at that. He stared regretfully at the 5ft11 midfielder and his loose mop of pale blond hair. For a few painful moments, he was thinking of a day a year or two ago, and a coach ride to an away game on the other side of the city – he’d been all fired up, hadn’t he, for some reason, and stupidly horny before the game they were about to play. He pictured the way his friend’s arm had leaned over the coach seat and felt for him in his tight grey trackies. He could see himself, stiff in posture and phallus, and then the spreading wet stain in the nylon where he’d finished, the pair of them breathy and sweat-sheened on the busy team bus. And not once had the pair of close friends ever discussed that hand-job in the time since. Never. `We still doing takeaway food, then?’ cut in Tom with an artificial cheeriness to his voice. Dom drifted back to the present day, rocking a bit on the heels, and nodding his big head slowly to the question. `Sure,’ he said weakly. escort mersin `I could murder a Thai.’ The evening progressed as normal – repeated rounds of the online shoot-em-up, heavy bowls of ordered food from a favourite place nearby, background tunes – except for one thing: the usually rapid and free-ranging conversation of the two teammates was stilted and patchy, exposing long gaps where neither lad really looked at or communicated with the other. When they spoke, it was bright and cheery, but like a hollow impression of their usual repartee. Heavy rain was lashing the windows when Dominic took a tray of empty dishes and dirty cutlery through to the partitioned kitchen of his friend’s flat. His cheeks and brow felt hot and his skin felt itchy. For a second he thought he was unwell, but then he reminded himself that the discomfort was just guilt. He couldn’t stop thinking about this new arrogant and disrespectful version of himself from Tom’s perspective, and it made him sick. It had seemed such a minor thing, what had happened that time. Just a little bit of a laugh, a one-off acknowledgement of what one of them was into, and yet… Dominic pushed both large hands against a worktop and closed his hot eyes, stretching out his back and leg muscles, and letting out a long grunting breath. (It wasn’t as if that coach encounter with Tom was the only time stuff like that had happened for him, was it…? But those moments too had been pushed back in the corners of his psyche, dismissed as boisterous excesses, nothing meaningful or transgressive.) He opened the Smeg fridge and helped himself to a cold bottle of beer. He stood drinking it on his own for a moment then opened a second of them and walked back through. Tom, slouched at one end of the long sofa that had divided him, looked up in mild shock. `You’re drinking,’ he commented quietly, his pale hands still clutching the remote control. Dominic shrugged. `I needed one. That okay?’ `Mi casa su casa,’ muttered Davies, eyeing him uncertainly, `but… tomorrow?’ `Just needed one,’ Dom grunted back at him, holding out one long arm to offer the other. Tom seemed to stare at it and not really respond, but then he was putting down the remote and coming this way, scampering across the airy room in his loose grey joggers and white t-shirt that he’d swapped his official Everton kit for; Dominic remained in his, the dull colours clinging to the muscled reaches of his 6ft2 physique. `This is shit,’ Calvert-Lewin announced quietly. Tom started slightly, taking and sipping the beer. `Well, gee thanks. I’m sorry I’m not the best birthday company, matey, but-‘ `Not spending time with you,’ Dom snapped, his voice a bit gravelly. `You know I don’t mean that.’ He huffed out a sigh. `I feel shit about upsetting you like that. I mean, today, and y’know, back then when…’ `Forget it,’ Davies urged him in a quiet groan of dismay. He sipped more beer and then toyed with his hair, finding an elastic bobble in a pocket and tying it back in a knot over his thin elfin features. `Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have been so dramatic – all’s good. You’re my best mate. I know that. Everything you said earlier is true, and you know I value your friendship too, we’re like brothers, so…’ `But it really bothered you, me calling you lover boy?’ `Well… dunno if I’d say REALLY bothered…’ `You LOOKED bothered.’ `Okay, okay, I was a bit pissed off, yeah, but… Look, Dom… It’s just not the same, is it? I mean, I’m not upset when people joke it, cos I know it doesn’t bother you, and I know people don’t really know my secret, it’s just that…’ `So other people can make the joke but I can’t?’ Dom demanded, surprised at how angry his own question came out. He was only a little taller than Tom but significantly broader and he felt like his body language was stupidly threaterning, so he pulled back and tried to relax. `That seems fucked up,’ he added sourly, in spite of himself. `Well,’ grumbled his friend, `those other lads haven’t made me wank them off, for fuck’s sake!’ He’d gone bright red in his pert cheeks. His sapphire eyes were mortified. Dom cringed at the words and the memory of it. `God, I was just… er… I mean…’ `It doesn’t matter,’ Tom insisted unconvincingly. `Just summat that happened. I guess we were both a bit giddy that day. I can’t even remember what the fucking match was, none of it matters. And it’s not like you MADE me, I fucking did it, it’s just-‘ `We shouldn’t have messed around like that,’ Dom said dimly, cursing his own forceful mood then. `I shouldn’t have pressured you, taken advantage… totally uncool, right?’ `Oh god it’s not like I didn’t want to,’ the Scouse midfielder grunted dismissively. Dom stared at him with a sudden shift in his thoughts, though the new mood was one he couldn’t put a name to. He just wrapped his pink lips about the neck of the beer bottle and took a long swig. He backed off from his friend. Next to them, the TV screen still blared with filler music from an options menu of the video game. The room smelt of the lemongrass in their thai curries. The beer was going to his head already – another silly idea. Matchday tomorrow. Fuck. He went through to the kitchen, going to pour out the last of the small bottle into the sink. Tom followed him at a slight distance. `Let’s pretend it never happened,’ he heard his mate say quietly, drifting in after him, and Dom looked over his shoulder at him – the slight nervous figure of the blond-haired Liverpudlian lad. There was always something just a little androgynous about the elfin young man and his fine features, his mane of pale gold. `What, pretend you never made me cum?’ DCL demanded back in a brash voice that surprised him again. He was taken aback by his own bluntness and unfairness there, and he cringed again, and leaned back with his hands behind him on the worktop. Tom stared at him, still pink-cheeked, alarmed. Dominic groaned at his own choice of words and shifted his weight from foot to foot. `Sorry-‘ `Fuck’s sake,’ Tom muttered now, and some of the cold edge was returning to his voice and face, just as he’d grew annoyed earlier at the party. He almost looked like he was squaring up for a fight for a moment, but the obviously weaker lad made no move to start one; he just shook his fists at his side and then rubbed one palm over his pink face. `That was a real dick thing to say,’ he pointed out with controlled anger. `And I can’t make innocent jokes any more cos of it,’ Dominic jabbed at him, `just cos I let you touch my DICK!’ – grabbing himself firmly in the front of his close-fitting tracksuit bottoms as he said it, stepping forward from the kitchen counter. He loomed over his friend again, aware of his superior height and build, and their eyes met. He held onto his own crotch and glowered with mixed feelings at his best mate. `You just said it was what you wanted anyway…!’ Davies returned his stare, looking uncomfortable. `I didn’t mean it like that.’ Calvert-Lewin took a long deep breath. `Didn’t you?’ And now the two Everton players stood face to face in moody silence in the understated chic of Tom’s penthouse kitchen, and the music chimed weakly from the main room. Dom’s breaths were slow and heavy and Tom’s face was beetroot against the thin colour of his knotted back hair. Tom’s bright blue eyes then shifted, glancing downwards, and Dom looked down too – he saw his own strong hand gripping at the front of his tracky bottoms, holding himself pointlessly there, gripping his own manhood through the nylon. A few more moments, a few more heavy breaths. `Get on your knees,’ Dominic whispered. Pause. `W-what?’ `You heard me, mate.’ `Dom…’ `Come on,’ he growled. A long tense pause, and then – `What the fuck?’ And Tom was backing away from him, shaking his head, exiting the kitchen and swearing loudly some more. Dom lunged after him with a couple of long strides, suddenly panicked by the electric tension in the air and the swelling in his crotch. He grabbed Tom by the wrist on the way into the lounge. `Sorry, sorry – I went too far. That was-‘ `Geroff,’ grumbled Davies, shaking away from him and glaring at him now. `I won’t be fucking mocked like this! You’re such a stupid big prick-tease, Dom! You’ve been like this for MONTHS, ever since that day…! As if you don’t know how much I fucking fancy you?! As if it isn’t obvious every fucking day? Jesus! Get off me, lad, back off…’ `Fancy me?’ `Oh piss off, like it’s big news to you, you arrogant prick… you’re all talk! Fucking tease!’ Dominic grabbed at him properly, taking hold of both arms, moving towards him with such force that they both staggered a bit and almost ended up on the wooden floor. Between them, they caught balance, but still Dom was holding his forearms and staring into his face. He felt gripped by a new energy, and it was much more than the unfinished beer he’d drank minutes ago. Dom spoke again, and with the same forceful tone that he’d briefly found back there in the kitchen. `Get in your bedroom now,’ he ordered his friend, and he found he meant every word of it. `Get in there, mate.’ Tom stared at him, red cheeks and wide eyes and pursed lips, but… but… he didn’t swear back at him or rail against this, or shout more accusations or resentments. He just slid away from him, lip trembling, and then glanced beyond the sofas to the half-open doors that led through into the big master bedroom of this bachelor pad. Quivering, Davies stared that way and then back at him. His face was full of questions. `No more teasing,’ Dom heard himself growl. `No more fucking jokes and banter.’ `No,’ Tom murmured. `What instead?’ `Just action,’ Dom grunted, moving through the encounter as if following a script he didn’t know he’d learned. Without saying any more or really thinking about it, he grabbed at the bottom of his Everton training t-shirt and peeled it up and off, baring every toned caramel muscle of his long torso. He saw the shock and awe on his pal’s face. `Get in there,’ he commanded again, his voice deep and impressive. `Now.’ In Tom’s bedroom, they didn’t switch on a light, but some lamp glow leaked in through the open door that brought them into it. Neither lad said another word from `Now’ on, communication reduced to stares in the shadow and the power of touch. Tom seemed to struggle to get out of his white t-shirt for a moment but Dom grabbed it for him, dragging it off his body and then manhandling the pale white skin of his lean muscles. With shoving touches, Dom guided him back until he was falling onto the big low bed, and then he was sliding down on top of him, both shirtless. mersin escort bayan He didn’t quite know what he was doing, but he did it anyway – bringing their faces close and teasing his pal with near kisses, their mouths never quite meeting, but their chests and tummies rubbing, and then more, their crotches rustling together in the darkness. Aware of his own weight and strength, Dominic pinned the other lad down, finding and gripping his hands and just rubbing over him, pulling both of their bodies further onto the bed and letting out raspy deep breaths. He could feel Davies trembling, almost fearfully, so he slowed down, stopped moving, just pinned him there and held their bodies together. His own body felt so much more powerful and heated, Tom’s body feeling shaky and cold. But it would warm up, trapped beneath his own muscles. He breathed on the skin of his friend’s neck and held him still for several long moments, then shifted to look him in the eye. `I’m going to kiss you,’ he said, his voice barely audible. Tom nodded his head once, and then their lips were touching. He thought about how much the Scouser had perhaps wanted this for the years of their friendship. After all, it was easier to consider that proposition than to dare ask himself if he’d ever subconsciously wanted it too. But the kiss didn’t last long. Tom’s hand had wriggled out of his grip and was rubbing the front of his trackies. His Everton trackies. Just like that afternoon on the coach, jerking his weighty piece through the layers and wanking him off in the risky bus environment as he’d demanded. That had been before Dominic pushed his cock into Jordan Pickford’s mouth to shut the smug Mackem up in the showers. Fuck, had that even really happened?! On top of the other lad, Dominic began to grind his body onto him, propping himself up but still pinning Tom down. He trapped Tom’s hand between their bodies and rubbed his crotch over it, pressing his growing hardness into it. His breaths were needy gasps, and Tom’s were the faintest whispering noises. He stared into those beautiful blue eyes, wide and needy, and knew what had to come next. Up onto his knees. Bed creaking. Thumbs pushed into the elastic of his trackies and the undies below. Pushing down and forward. Thick brown cock and heavy full bollocks freed of their prison. Dom reached one hand for the headboard to balance his kneeling form, then used the other to angle Tom’s face, and pressed his big erection down until it was inside that hot wet mouth. Oh, yes. The Everton striker lifted and angled his own powerful body, then began. With downward strokes, he fucked the eager moist mouth, pushing more and more of his thick black cock into the white boy’s mouth, gagging and choking him with it, fucking his mouth and making the bed rock and rattle beneath them. He kept going for many minutes, pausing every now and then to let Tom catch his breath, but never fully, the cock still buried in his wet mouth, balls resting over his chin. And then Dom pulled back, rising up a bit more. He straddled the gasping blondie, whose mouth drooled saliva, and whose eyes searched needily for him in the gloom. Dom held his cock at the base, letting it dangle tantalisingly over that open mouth and flickering tongue, but not quite giving it to him. He just wanked himself slowly instead, breathing deeply, and smelling their shared excitement in the musty bedroom air. `You want this big black cock?’ Calvert-Lewin whispered into the intimacy. `Always have,’ whined Davies. `Oh, god.’ `Tell me how much you want it,’ Dom demanded, his hand gripping so tightly at the headboard that it hurt. `Tell me, fucker.’ `I’ve wanted it since the day we met,’ drooled the midfielder. `Oh shit, mate, I’m so sorry-‘ `Don’t be sorry, just SUCK IT…’ He pushed it down and in, re-entering that hungry gob. Dom squatted lower on him and pulled Tom’s head up a bit more so it was more comfortable for them both. He pushed deeper and made the lad gag, and then relaxed and let him really attend to it with his tongue and lips. It felt so fucking good. His hand grasped and stroked at Tom’s head and hair, loosening it from its knot and getting a good grip there so he could control and guide his face more in fellating him. The bed creaked. The bigger man groaned, the blonde sub choked. Dominic stared down at him thoughtfully, another semi-conscious imperative pushing him to take even more tonight. His breathing was more and more laboured with a mixture of dominant pleasure and wary anxiety. But he edged to the side, steadying himself, and took hold of his wet cock again. Below, Tom gasped and sighed and stared at him. `Keep going,’ the Scouser whispered in his rattling local accent. `I’m going to fuck you properly,’ Dominic announced, before he even knew that he needed to. Tom stared at him wonderingly. `Really?’ he pretty much squeaked. `Get up, bend over,’ the dominant striker snapped. Their bodies shifted rapidly in the darkness. Davies was clearly eager and obedient. As much as the striker needed to dominate, his friend seemed to crave the submission. Still, the movements were clumsy and rushed. Dom didn’t quite know what he was doing, had never gone THIS far. He grabbed and pushed at Tom’s body, dragging down his joggers and boxers but allowing Tom’s shaky hands to help him. At the same time, he spat repeatedly down onto his palm and onto his cock. Would this be lube enough? He had Davies bent over the bed at the side, positioned obediently for him with his lean white arse in the air. Dom spat again, right onto the top of that crack, and he massaged at the bony cheeks with each large hand, and prodded the damp tip of his monster cock between them. This was really happening, then. `Tell me how much you want it,’ the Everton forward growled into the moody darkness. Tom’s reply was so stammering and breathy that he couldn’t really make out any words but `please’ and `yes’. Rushing and impatient, Dominic tried to slide into him, used to cunt. But his thick cock just poked stupidly and bluntly between those smooth cheeks, making him frustrated and silly. Tom gasped and whimpered, then reached behind and began to finger himself a little. Dom took the helpful instruction quickly, pushing Tom’s shaky hands aside and moving one of his own thick brown fingers down to do the work. It was deeply satisfying, he realised, way more than he could have imagined, to insert one chunky digit inside his friend’s hole, to feel that intimate heat in there. He stood hesitantly beside the bed and fingered Tom Davies in the arse, pushing his digit in and out of that insane tightness, starting to think his cock might never go in there. Tom made wordless gasps and whimpers and pushed his arse back and higher. Dom’s own cock leaked a little pre-cum, and he used it to add more lube to his exploring finger, then tried a second. It was mad how quickly the ring loosened for him, how much this beautiful blond angel opened up to let him in. Tom groaned more loudly now, and his words were a bit clearer. `Please fuck me,’ he begged. `I’ve dreamed of it. For years. Oh please.’ Dom couldn’t find the words to respond, partly from lusty excitement, partly from hesitant fear of what any of this could mean. But he tried again with his cock, and found Tom’s wet hole more welcoming than before. Now he put one strong hand to the lad’s hip, and with the other he grabbed a big twist of blond hair, treating him like a slutty girl. And then the majestic 6ft2 Sheffield fashionista made the bed rock and groan, entering and humping his footballer mate. He fucked Tom rabidly into the bed, pounding at him from behind, getting all of his meat in there, making a wet cunt of him. Tom gasped and groaned, more begging and devotion. `YES, YES MATE, PLEASE FUCK ME, OHHHH’ – Dom loved to hear it, loved the rattling hiss of his accent, loved hearing his friend need him like that. He loved the power of it, just as he’d loved being wanked off on the bus, or pissing on Pickford’s dirty face. He fucked and fucked, letting go of the hair and holding both hands at Tom’s sides to steady his shaky arching body. The bed rocked and even shifted a few inches over the floorboards, unable to withstand the force of Dominic’s motion. It might have lasted a few minutes or two hours, he couldn’t be sure, but at some point the sensations got too much for him. That made him panic a bit, unsure if he could cum inside his friend or not. He wanted to, but it felt wrong, until- `SHOOT IN ME,’ whined Tom’s screeching desire, `FILL ME UP…!’ Oh, right. Yes. Dominic unloaded, creaming inside the wet tightness of his friend’s arse, holding him so tightly that his fingers and thumbs left bruises on the alabaster skin. Dominic had been lying awake for some time, staring at the ceiling and listening to the soft rise and fall of his friend’s breath. But Davies was waking now, and fluttering his eyes open with flickers of those white-blond lashes. Dom glanced at him but said nothing, just going back to staring at the ceiling. He was on his back in the big bed, nothing but his socks on, and a slight tangle of duvet covering parts of his lengthy brown body. Tom was in the same state of address, but more of his lean white body was exposed. Already, red marks and a little purpleish marbling showed where Dom had handled him too roughly. Glances brought this to Dominic’s attention and made him feel weird. Queasy, guilty. Excited. He eventually allowed his eyes to connect with his friend’s blue gaze. They stared at each other for a while, together but apart, both breathing shallowly. `You’re okay?’ the striker murmured in the bedroom gloom. Somewhere in the background, video game music could still be heard on a low volume. `Erm,’ was all Tom said awkwardly back to him. But he shifted a bit closer, pulling a little of the bedding to cover more of himself. Dom looked back at the ceiling, as if some clarity and answer could lie up there on the bland plaster. He felt Tom’s hand and then arm creep onto his tummy and then around to his other side, taking him in a nervous embrace from the side; the lad’s fine face rested in against his shoulder and pec, nestling on the sweat-pricked golden-brown skin. `Is this okay?’ Davies whispered warily. In answer, Dom lifted and curled in one of his loose muscular arms, closing it about Tom’s upper body and locking him there at his side. It was all the `yes’ he could offer. For a few moments, he thought idly about how the other lad was STILL trembling like a baby deer… and then it dawned on him that this wasn’t true. Tom was fatigued and still. The vibrating body shake was his own nervous tremor, soothed by the cuddle from his friend. Fuck. `Happy birthday, mate,’ Tom Davies whispered uncertainly from where his head rested on one pectoral muscle. `Thanks,’ Dominic Calvert-Lewin grunted awkwardly back, holding him tightly at his side.
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