Subject: Premiership Lads part 34: Wild West Part thirty-four: Wild West The game was 70 minutes deep when the instruction came from Bilic on the sidelines, and Charlie Austin felt the rush of hot anger at his fun and games on the pitch being cut short. However, he had learnt the hard way not to show any of this or take it out on the gaffer (his patchwork club career thus far was open testament to that) or even at the media afterwards (the jibes about his `Park Life’ rant followed him everywhere lately) so he sucked it up and tried to look calm and humble as he stomped boot by boot across the West Ham pitch, panting like a weary dog. He knew he was tiring and stepping aside for Zohore to come on was smart tactics from Bilic, but the game was not one he wanted to miss a minute of. Towsend’s goal in the first ten minutes had set the Championship boys from West Bromwich Albion alight, here in this expensive temple of Premiership decadence, and West Ham were spectacularly failing to equalise. Charlie Austin had fought hard to make his mark in the game, and he wanted to still be on the field at the 90th minute when they knocked the rich London fuckers out of the tournament and progressed into the next round themselves, an underdog done good. And perhaps, at the back of his heated mind as he strutted off the field of play, there was a touch of resentment: he was the striker here, so it was irking him that a defender like fucking Conor Townsend should be getting on the scoresheet. Austin was playing out a rapid mental scenario of himself snatching one or two goals himself in the closing minutes, underlining the victory and putting his name back on the map of English football after his slow decline of transfers. But that wasn’t gonna happen sweating his bollocks off on the bench like a loser, was it? He sneered at a gaggle of panting West Ham players as he marched by, feeling a touch of paranoia that these better-paid Premier League lads were giving him funny looks and judging him, a Championship has been. Charlie Austin didn’t just have a chip on his shoulder, he had a full chip bap with extra helpings of curry sauce, and a side of onion rings. He scowled at Cresswell, Rice and Lanzini with a pantomime of menace as he strode by the claret-and-blue-clad blokes, dripping sweat from his bleached tips and dark beard. `Alright Austin,’ piped up the southwest London accent of the middle lad, loud enough to be heard on the pitch but not by any passing officials, `no need to take your low-league retirement out on those of us with a fuckin’ career ahead of us…’ The lanky, dark-haired midfielder was leaning for a moment against his older teammate Cresswell as he shot the insult. Austin paused, narrowing his beady eyes in a glare at the 21-year-old: it was as if his most paranoid thoughts had lodged randomly in the nearest player, and the comment stung, even if he kinda knew his own growling expression had probably provoked it. His eyes flashed from that smug-faced inbred Londoner Rice to his two West Ham pals. Aaron Cresswell looked almost apologetic, giving a sharp elbow to his hot-headed junior but saying nothing aloud. Charlie slowed his pace, shot Declan Rice a withering look, but marched on, knowing Slavan Bilic was watching him closely as he exited the pitch. Warnings about his temper had been amongst the first things said to Austin on his arrival at his new Midlands club last summer. Exiting the pitch, he got a rewarding slap on the back from the Croatian manager and his team, a few claps and positive comments from the WBA coaching elite � Charlie loved a compliment, but these ones barely touched him, as he was burning up from that Rice cunt’s comment on the field. Smug prick! Who did he think he was? Charlie peeled his green-and-yellow away shirt up and off with a loud huff as he entered the dugout, the under-armour vest beneath clinging to his thick torso as his chest heaved. He yanked his canary yellow shorts off too, and stood momentarily in the limited shelter of the dugout in just the silvery-white compression vest and a pair of bulging white briefs, turning his eyes back onto the pitch where play had resumed. He could see Rice on the wing, getting stuck in to a couple of West Brom lads in a desperate bid to get some movement going towards the away team’s box � but to no avail, thank fuck. Charlie grunted irritably and scratched at his privates in the sweaty briefs while he watched, then gratefully took the neatly folded Albion tracksuit from a minor coach and began pulling it on before he lost too much body heat. He slumped down on the substitute bench next to Jake Livermore, who hadn’t yet made it on the field today. `Well played, mate,’ the 30-year-old North Londoner said to him with a nod and a pat to the arm. He looked a bit fed up himself to be sat out missing out on the fun. `Sure, thanks,’ Austin told him dismissively, stretching out his legs one at a time and giving his thighs a bit of a rub through the fresh clean tracksuit, contemplating an early shower. `What was that fuss on your way off the pitch?’ Livermore asked him in a lower voice. Charlie hesitated, he hadn’t thought the brief conflict was that visible from this distance. The question riled him, as if Jake here had seen it, so too must Bilic. Fuck. But he shrugged his shoulders and picked up the towel at his feet to dry off his spikes of sweaty bleached hair. `Ah, nothing much,’ he muttered vaguely. `Some West Ham cunts talking out of their arseholes.’ Livermore spat at the ground before their feet. `Typical,’ he commented. Charlie nodded, and spied Declan Rice back in the thick of it. `Yeah, it was that prick there � what is he, like 13?’ He made a mutinous grumble to himself, scratched at his beard. `Needs teaching a lesson, that’s for sure.’ Livermore chuckled at this. `What you gonna do to him?’ he asked ironically. The 5’11 midfielder turned to meet his eyes, his long pale brown face curling with a curious smile. Charlie met this with an uncertain smirk and a shrug. `Whatever it takes,’ he commented quietly. `You wanna give me a hand, Jake, pal?’ `A hand?’ the other bloke said, and they both laughed. `You can’t just go around giving the opposition a smack off the pitch when you don’t-` `Nah, I just mean give him a scare,’ Charlie said firmly. `I’m not a total fuckin’ thug, mate.’ Livermore shrugged and his laugh now was a touch nervous. `Well you do have quite a rep, pal,’ he remarked cautiously. `And when your temper blows…’ Charlie grinned like a Cheshire cat, and reached over to give Livermore’s very muscular shoulder a good squeeze. `I’m a gentle giant,’ the 6’2 striker told him in a voice of exaggerated smoothness, `and I’m as good as gold now. I just think… Well. A kid like Rice needs to learn some respect for the fuckin’ game before things go tits up for him, don’t you think?’ He smirked at his West Brom ally and gave a lazy wink. `I know just the thing for him.’ Slipping apart from the rest of the visiting squad was easy enough. Charlie Austin feigned interest in an early shower and maybe a quick warm-down massage, and dragging Jake Livermore away from the bench was easy, since Slavan had used up their substitutions and the game was clearly won well mersin escort before full-time was called. Yes, the two 30-year-olds slipped away from the eyes of their own management and teammates very easily, into the glossy backstage world of West Ham’s luxurious grounds. Singling out Declan Rice was a little more challenging, but not much. Charlie hung back, largely unnoticed in the throng as defeated West Ham departed their losing game with hangdog expressions and a lot of noise, both loud complaints of unfair refereeing and others trying to be loudly positive or morale-boosting. Austin watched as Livermore nosed in among them for a moment to little reaction, and pulled aside Rice. The England connection had been Charlie’s idea, of course. He didn’t think the broad muscular Jake had ever actually shared a squad with young upstart Declan, but it was enough of a distraction to get the scally away from his men. Charlie backed around the corner as he saw the pair of England players break away from the others and head down the corridor towards him. He darted his eyes to the left and right, and identified the door to a disabled access toilet. Ideal. Declan noticed him as soon as he was round the corner. The tall slim West Ham player was sweaty and shattered looking from his 90 minutes’ play, his dejected air of defeat only partly tempered by the conversation he was entering into with Jake. `Yeah I’d be well up for an England lads reunion night out,’ he was saying, stumbling to a pause at the odd sight of Charlie Austin smirking at him in the otherwise empty passage. Charlie watched his awkward facial expression, letting his smile grow broader and more false, and then nodded approvingly at his decoy Livermore. `Alright there, Ricey Ricey,’ he said lightly, and nodded to the toilet door. `Let’s have a chat then.’ Jake picked up on signals pretty quick, it seemed: the well-muscled Enfield lad grabbed Declan by one arm and Charlie lunged forward for the other, and combining their strength with the youngster’s surprise, they shoved the 21-year-old in through the disabled toilet door and pulled it shut behind them. `What the actual FUCK?’ yelped Declan immediately, stumbling into the loo still in his studded boots, shedding mud and grass on the floor as he did. `Keep yer fucking voice down, kid,’ Livermore barked at him. Hah, big chunky Jake was the perfect wingman for this little stunt, Charlie thought wickedly, although he had doubts about how open-minded the mixed-race lad was gonna be when he really got going. He stepped up to Declan, a good inch or two taller than him and much bulkier, and jabbed a pointing finger into the centre of his chest. `You were disrespectful out there, you prick,’ he snarled. `And I don’t take shit like that easily.’ Declan gave him a look of furious annoyance. `What the hell do you two think this is?’ he asked a little more loudly than was ideal. `Are you the fucking West Brom mafia, or something?’ `Careful what crap you talk,’ Jake grunted. `We just want a quiet word, that’s all,’ Charlie snapped. Declan laughed then, and his arrogant dismissal was just what was needed to stoke the fire of Austin’s resentment. He gave Jake a look, and they both lunged forward again, and shoved Rice right into the white-painted brickwork of the wall, pinned by both shoulders with two hulking men leaning closely at him. Charlie grinned still, as if this really was just a friendly conversation, and let out a low chuckle. Declan’s expression had gone quickly from irritation to panic, and he seemed about to yell for help or something. Charlie clamped a hand over his mouth immediately, pressing his sweaty palm against the young chav’s gob. `Don’t,’ he said in a voice of warning. `Seriously, don’t.’ Declan gave him wild eyes of fright. `I think he just shit his pants,’ sniggered Jake brutally. `We better check,’ Charlie grunted, and he saw his mate’s expression shift a bit at this remark, and also the worried expression on Rice’s face. `But we need him quiet.’ He released one arm from holding Declan to the wall, and the lad immediately struggled, but Jake increased his muscular grip. Charlie kicked off a boot and pulled on his sweaty yellow football sock, bunched it up, and pressed it right into Declan’s mouth as a temporary gag. Jake let out a whoop of laughter at this silliness, but Charlie’s smile was becoming more fixed and determined, less mirthful. `Right,’ Charlie continued, `let’s check those pants, shall we?’ He grabbed at Declan’s arm, nodded meaningfully at Jake, and together they turned him about against the wall, each taking an arm. Muffled noises of protest came from Rice now, through a mouthful of Charlie’s sweaty sock. Austin laughed at this, took his left hand away from holding him in place, and ran it down the sweaty back of the claret-and-blue West Ham shirt. He grasped the rear of the lad’s shorts, and tugged them down. He saw Livermore’s surprise at this. `Oh,’ he drawled loudly to both other blokes, `those briefs look pretty clean, actually.’ Jake met his eyes and mouthed `what the fuck?’ at him. More muffled yelping from Rice. Charlie licked his chapped lips, let out a filthy chuckle, and pulled his hand away for a moment. Then he landed as hard a slap as he could across Declan’s backside through the thin sweaty fabric of his white briefs, feeling the youngster tense up in response. He pulled his hand away and spanked him again, and then a third time. `Your turn,’ he told Livermore firmly. Jake looked unsure, and in fact Rice was barely resisting their hold any more, presumably in shock from this absurd treatment. Livermore pulled back one bulging muscular arm, shorter than the other two guys but so much denser in his upper body, and delivered a powerful slap to Rice’s firm slim behind. The noise was satisfying. `Again,’ Charlie told him. The second slap was even louder. Next, Charlie reached for the briefs, and tugged them down a bit. Vague red marks were visible on the very pale skin of Rice’s buttocks. He let out a sadistic laugh, and released his grip on Declan’s shoulder, indicating for Jake to do the same. Rice whirled about instantly, eyes wide, reaching up to tug the sock out of his mouth and spluttering desperately. Jake let out an uncertain laugh, and Charlie eyed their victim thoughtfully. `Fuck,’ spat Declan, throwing the damp sock to the ground and coughing. His cheeks were as flushed hot pink as the slap marks on his bared bum. `You fucking… Oh fuck…’ He coughed again, rubbed at his face, and looked from Jake back to Charlie. `I’m sorry, okay, I’m sorry… I was out of line… I’ve already had Cresswell tell me to…’ `You WERE out of line,’ Austin agreed. `But you’ve had your spanking now, so it’s fine.’ `Spanking?’ muttered Rice furiously, blushing even more deeply. `For fuck’s sake…’ Jake had gone quiet. He looked a bit shocked at what they’d done just now, and was shaking his right hand as if it still stung from the two slaps. Charlie looked down at the front of Declan’s shorts, and had a couple of suspicions confirmed. He let out a gentle snigger, and leaned against the brickwork, thrusting his hand and forearm just above Rice’s shoulder to lean in on him a little as he spoke. escort mersin `But it looks like you kinda enjoyed it,’ he said in a quiet growl. `What?’ Declan demanded immediately. `Enjoyed being � Oh fuck off, the pair of you…’ `Fuckin’ hell,’ commented Jake, seeing what Charlie had noticed first. All thee men looked down with different attitudes at the swelling, bulging outline in the front of Declan’s claret shorts, tight-fitting even before this at least semi-hard protrusion. There was a moment of moody silence: Jake looked bewildered, Declan looked mortified, and Charlie just grinned eagerly. Well this was going to be even more fun than he’d anticipated. `Lots of lads like being treated like a bitch,’ he grunted quietly. `Should have known a smug prick like you was one of them, Declan.’ `I… I…’ The tall young Londoner garbled and gave up, the blush spreading from his cheeks down his neck. He leaned back against the wall as if to try and calm himself, but the tentpole in his shorts looked more prominent by the second. To the other side of him, Jake looked the most worried of the three of them, probably wondering what the hell he had got involved in. Charlie slowly unzipped the front of his tracksuit top, and shrugged it back over his sweaty shoulders, exposing the muscle-hugging undershirt once more and baring his thick smooth arms, generously sleeved in tattoos. He reached deeply into the front of his tracksuit bottoms to grab his package, and he saw the growing alarm on Jake’s face. Declan gulped loudly between them. `Guys,’ he murmured rapidly, `I dunno what you heard about me but…’ `Oh,’ Charlie said softly, `what might we have heard, kid…?’ `Charlie,’ Jake muttered, `what the f…’ `Relax, chief,’ Austin told him sharply. `Declan just needs to learn some respect, don’t he?’ And Austin’s oozing authority was enough now, no need to pin anyone to walls or spank them humiliatingly. He saw Declan nod dumbly, despite his burning cheeks. Oh yes, this would be fun. He looked from the cowering opposition to his confused teammate. Charlie grabbed Declan by the wrist, pulled his hand over, and pushed it down the front of his trackies in place of his own: without any further command, Rice began to fondle his sweaty package timidly, still poised against the wall. Both Charlie and Declan looked questioningly at Jake, and the silent question filled the disabled bathroom: in or out, Livermore? `Good lad,’ Charlie told Declan in that same authoritative purr, not waiting for Jake’s decision. `Go on, give Jake a good feel too.’ And Declan did as he was told. He reached for the front of the other bloke’s matching West Brom tracksuit pants, feeling the vague outlines in the front of them, and then- `Fucking hell,’ Livermore spat, backing off. `This is fucked up.’ `Sorry,’ Rice yelped immediately, ashamed and worried. Charlie just grunted disappointedly. `If you can’t fuckin’ play nice, then stand outside and keep watch,’ he said in a bored, dismissive voice. He backed away from Declan, the lad’s hand limply dragging out of his crotch, and he unlocked the toilet door. Jake looked totally freaked out. Charlie tugged the door open and glared at him. `I thought you were a cool bloke,’ he said, `but maybe not.’ For a second, the North London footballer looked hesitant, totally lost in this scene, but then he scarpered out of the disabled room, and Charlie slammed the door shut and firmly clicked the lock back into place. `Will he…?’ Declan began to ask in a small voice. `Who the fuck is he going to tell?’ Charlie muttered, patting the locked door a couple of times and then turning back towards the rude young prick who’d riled him on the pitch only thirty minutes earlier. He stepped back up to Declan, hovering at the wall, and licked his lips again. `Why? Do you want him to? Tell someone and have them come… “rescue” you from me…?’ He stepped right up Rice so his superior height and build were more apparent. `Do you want out of here, Declan?’ The young lad looked conflicted. Charlie could see the fear but also the excitement. And this scally prick had sprung a boner after a minute of spanking. He scoffed at the complete lack of answer to his probing questions, and then nodded imperiously downwards. `Where were he?’ he asked more gently. Declan chewed his lip, sniffed a bit, and then reached a hand down the front of those navy-blue trackies again to feel Charlie’s fat semi. `I’m no bummer,’ Rice said in a more gruff, masculine voice. Charlie nodded. `Who said you were, cunt?’ `Nobody, but…’ `Just shush and have a good feel,’ Charlie told him. `That’s it. You like that?’ Declan just made an awkward expression, neither yes or no. Charlie gripped the side of his neck tightly, glared at him, and repeated his question. `Do you like that, Dec?’ he asked again in a strained voice. Declan nodded earnestly. `Much better. Right… turn around now.’ `Are you g…g…gonna spank me again?’ Rice asked in a stammer. It was hard to tell if he asked the question in fright or hope, and it didn’t sound like he quite knew himself. When no clear answer came, he turned around � his pale cheeks were still half exposed, and the faint red fingertips had almost faded. Charlie thumbed the waistband of briefs and football shorts, and pulled them down to properly reveal the young chav’s backside, and then he gave one cheek a very light slap. But no. No more spanking. That wasn’t what he was after. He slid his hand up the back of Declan’s sweaty shirt, guiding him into position leaning forward a little, then, pulling his hand back down and another gentle slap to the other buttock. They were too firm and muscular to wobble much at his spank, which was a faint disappointment to Charlie, who liked his girls to have big chubby arses on them. But still… He pushed a finger into his mouth, and licked it wet, and then teased it at the top of the boy’s crack, enjoying the instant murmur of surprise. He pressed his tongue-wet index finger into the funnelling flesh at the top of the arse, then slid it downwards between the clammy cheeks. All the way. And then back up. For a moment, he thought about Jake. Of course, if Livermore did run to the other blokes, or the gaffer, then this was gonna look pretty shite. But that wasn’t gonna happen. For a start, the lad was a bit of a bully himself, he’d looked happy to get involved in scaring a younger lad for petty reasons, he had just freaked out when things got kinky. No, Livermore would be too ashamed to cause trouble, and he’d never understand what was going on between Rice and Austin now. Charlie chuckled at his confidence on this. He slid his finger back into Rice’s crack and enjoyed the lad’s quivering little moan. `Has anyone been back here before?’ he demanded. `No…’ `No, what?’ Charlie asked. `No sir?’ `Better. Has anyone touched your cock before?’ `Erm…’ `Well?’ `Yes… er, sir…’ `Who??’ `Erm…’ As he spoke, Charlie rubbed his finger a bit more firmly, and when his latest question was ignored, he pushed his index finger against the tight little arsehole and made Rice yelp. `Who?’ he repeated in a harsh breathy whisper. Declan moaned in worried enjoyment before speaking. `Mason Mount,’ he gasped, mersin escort bayan sounding ashamed more at the betrayal than the reality of it. `We just…’ `Interesting,’ Charlie murmured. `Really interesting.’ He pushed more on his finger and felt the hot entrance parting reluctantly about his fingertip. He ignored the unconscious physical resistance and pushed in deeper, enjoying the tightness of Declan’s arse about him until his knuckle was almost pressing into that arse-crack. `Lucky Mason fuckin’ Mount.’ And then he stepped a couple of inches closer and with his other hand reached about the front. As he began to slide his wet finger slowly in and out of Declan’s hole, he found the lad’s quivering boner in the front of his shorts and began to expertly wank it. Rice just moaned a slow, surprised `ohh’ into the back of his own arm and leant heavily into the rough brickwork. `And did Mason wank you as good as this, eh?’ Charlie demanded. `No, sir…’ `I bet he fuckin’ didn’t, the little pussy…’ `Yes, sir!’ `How’s that feel, bitch?’ `Ohh sir…’ Austin sped up his finger work, and really pulled tightly on the younger lad’s prick, which quivered and throbbed to his masterful touch. He leant in and nuzzled the back of the scally’s neck a bit, letting his beard tickle the smooth flesh, not quite kissing, but brushing his lips over the sensitive spine. `Cum for daddy,’ he grunted. `Go on you stupid disrespectful cunt. Go on.’ It didn’t take much longer. Charlie knew it was coming because he felt Rice’s ring tighten about his knuckle, which only made him press in deeper and more firmly, and squeeze on the trembling cock more possessively. Declan’s whines and moans became quicker and more strained, and then he was spunking. Most of it hit the brickwork, but Charlie felt a couple of drops streak his own curled fingers. He lifted his hands to smear them against the hem of the lad’s West Ham top, then gently slid his digit out of the boy’s backside. `Good lad,’ he grunted simply. `Maybe you do have some respect after all.’ Charlie backed off, and watched as Declan slowly pushed himself up away from the wall, still red-faced and trembling, cock wavering out of the top of his shorts, dripping cum from the foreskin. It was a decent size actually, Charlie realised vaguely. But no comparison for his own. He chuckled, seeing the moment Declan realised this wasn’t quite over yet. `I want you on your knees, kid,’ he said. `Now.’ Declan seemed dazed by his own climax, but he did as told. He sank to his bare knees on the rough flooring between them, cock dangling and dripping. Charlie pushed his own trackies about halfway down his thighs, then squeezed the bursting package of his briefs, then slowly tugged out his own fat girthy rod. He stood so close the kneeling youngster that his bell-end almost brushed the acne-marked face of the West Ham midfielder. But Charlie just began to toss himself off, without seeming too interested in the subservient lad at his feet. He threw his head back and groaned with leisurely enjoyment, taking his time. And as big Charlie Austin took his time wanking off over the shivering upstart, he let his mind wander: he’d had a lot of vague interactions with other lads over the years, slowly testing the boundaries of his own once-rigid heterosexuality. The moments of transgression had been sporadic and usually on drink or drugs, or when the natural highs of sporting victory and defeat most pushed at his libido, like today. But few stood out in memory like that debauched night earlier this month, in that London whorehouse… for a moment, he dared to picture fresh-faced Troy Parrott between him and the brick wall, and he let out a hungry yelp of desire. What was it about the Irish teenager that was so occupying his thoughts of late? The dark features of that big slim youngster had popped into mind in the middle of pounding his missus thrice now. How fucking inconvenient… `Where are you going to shoot your load, sir?’ Declan asked in the dry, throaty voice of someone unused to speaking so submissively. The lanky West Ham player was staring up at him apprehensively. Swallowing cum had clearly not featured in his private fumblings with that Chelsea prick Mason Mount, then. `You aren’t getting to eat it today,’ Charlie snapped irritably at him. He could see Rice was relieved, sand that made him tempted to go back on his words, but he had a more symbolic orgasm in mind. Instead, he pulled tightly on his fat boner, and angled it downwards a bit, and pulled himself to completion. With a series of loud, growling pants, he dumped his load, not on the pale, frightened face of the inexperienced 21-year-old, but on the front of his shirt. Charlie’s thick white seed oozed over the logo of West Ham football club. `Fuck you lot,’ he grunted. `Out of the tournament, and covered in my fuckin’ juices. Cunts.’ He slapped his cock once against the side of Declan’s face, leaving one speck of white on his cheek, and then backed off to begin dressing himself. Rice remained on his knees whilst Austin pulled up his trackies and put away his intimidating tool, then fetched his tracksuit top and zipped up. `I am sorry about before,’ Rice said in a voice of forced macho honesty, with a lingering tremble of submission in it. `I was… I was being a cunt.’ `Yes. Yes you were.’ Rice eyed him anxiously. Charlie just grinned at him like they were best mates. He nodded impatiently at the toilet door. `Fuck off then, kid,’ he said. `Give my love to your bum-boy Mason when you see him.’ Charlie lunged forward then, as Declan unlocked the door, and gave his slim arse a squeeze through his shorts. `Make sure you tell him who owns yer arse, though.’ He gave it a gentle spank, and stepped back so Rice could pull the door open and scurry out in a hurry. Charlie Austin laughed to himself, and went out into the deserted corridor himself. Late arriving to the visiting team changing rooms, he faced little questioning from the others. `Interview’ was the only loose lie required. But amongst the sweaty footballers in various states of undress, ice cold beers being passed around in joyful tribute to their FA cup success today, Charlie spied shirtless Jake Livermore, his gym-pumped muscles out on view. He was glaring suspiciously across the room. Charlie accepted a beer from a teammate and made his way across the dressing room. He got close to Livermore, who pulled back instinctively, and leaned in to smirk at him. `What the fuck did you do?’ Jake hissed. `Not much,’ Charlie grunted. Seeing the desperate fury in his pal’s eyes, he sniggered. `Just taught him some manners, that’s all.’ `You’re fucked up,’ the other guy informed him. `Am I?’ Charlie asked with a wild smile. `Maybe I am.’ `You are a-` `Be careful what you say, chief,’ Charlie murmured quietly, leaning in more closely. `You might find yourself needing to learn a bit of respect, eh?’ He narrowed his eyes in warning. Jake pulled away further, grimacing. `I can see why you never last long at clubs,’ he said, and with that, fucked off towards the shower, snatching up his towel and not daring to finish undressing next to grinning Charlie Austin. Left alone, the sex-mad striker giggled to himself, shook off the other man’s judgment and swigged back some beer. Through all of his various experiments with other lads, only one thought had been consistent for the muscular Englishman: Who fucking cared what other people thought, as long as he was having fun?