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Subject: Premiership Lads part 71: Dominated from a distance Part seventy-one: Dominated From A Distance On a windowsill, a Bluetooth speaker pumped out The Weeknd’s latest album at a low volume. Hot water and stray bubbles splashed at the roomy sink beside it, where he rinsed dishes from tonight’s dinner and hummed along to himself. It was only another quiet lockdown dinner between himself and his younger girlfriend, Ruby, but they were getting experimental in the kitchen in these quiet, isolated times, and so whilst she headed upstairs for a relaxing bath before bed, he was left to clear up and potter the downstairs of his seafront villa on his own. Danny Ings smiled contentedly to himself as he switched off the hot tap and began drying crockery. Yes, he missed training and matches, he was partly restless without the daily and weekly battles of life at Southampton FC. But he was also enjoying himself: there was a relaxed domesticity to this restricted living, `trapped’ here with his beautiful missus and nobody else, that was soothing and satisfying to the 27-year-old footballer. He was as keen as any of his Premier League contemporaries for the FA to come up with a plan to save the league, or for the virus-induced shutdown to hurry along to its completion… but lockdown life was not so bad, he reflected with a self-conscious little grin: the burly tattooed yob of the football pitch transformed to gentle house-husband. Upstairs, the gentle groan of plumbing ceased and he pictured his beautiful young lover sinking into her bath, and wondered whether she would be in the mood for a repeat performance when he joined her upstairs shortly. They had already made love (he sniggered at himself for the sentimental phrase) three times this morning, as they did most mornings at the moment in this quarantined `honeymoon’ of living together, but perhaps they would both be up for a fourth fuck before catching up on sleep. He entertained himself with this vague notion as he continued to tidy the house’s huge kitchen-diner area, with its expansive views of the English Channel lapping in the distance. Feeling the slight chill of night in the air, he grabbed his thin sweater from the back of a seat and pulled it on over his close-fitting black tshirt, padding back and forth in his chores in just this and some loose-fitting chinos. Probably there would be no more sex tonight, he decided after a while, as they were probably both worn out and needing to recharge. Would his sturdy dick even get up for a fourth session?! Still, shag or no shag, there would be cuddling spoons and the satisfaction of falling asleep with her in his strong arms. Danny was a romantic at heart, as much as he tried to hide it publicly, and maintain his laddish persona for the blokes at football and elsewhere in his life. There was still an inch or two of Merlot in the wine bottle on the dining table; he splashed it out into his own glass and went to toss the bottle into the recycling. Just as he returned to pick up this last snifter of red wine for the night, he was alerted by the vague chimes of his phone ringing somewhere in the house. Wine in hand, he strolled through � pausing briefly in the spacious central hallway to listen to Ruby singing to herself in the bath � and found his iPhone where he’d left it on the arm of a sofa in their lounge. He paused for a moment as he neared it, seeing the name flashing over the phone screen: `Shane L’. Odd. It was kinda late in the evening to be getting a random call in from one of the Southampton lads, and actually a bunch of them had just done a group face-time last night anyway over a few beers, a weak simulation of a Friday pub session. Still, he had better answer it. A couple of guilty memories pushed at the edge of his consciousness but he dismissed them and picked up the handset, running his thumb along the lit bar to answer Long’s call. `Alright, pal?’ he mouthed with forced casualness. `Hey there,’ came the gruff Irish accent of his fellow striker. Danny paused before speaking more. `What you after, Shane?’ A scoffing little laugh down the line. `Oh right, bit rude, Daniel,’ the Irishman chuckled at him. `Sorry,’ Danny mumbled through a sip of Merlot. `I didn’t mean to- I just meant, is everything okay…? It’s a bit late, so…’ `Past your bedtime?’ Long murmured playfully. `No, nothing wrong. Just callin’ for a chat, fella.’ `Oh, fair enough…’ Danny glanced briefly at the Rolex on his wrist, reminding himself that he wasn’t being odd, and it was well past 11pm. He shrugged self-consciously and sipped more wine. `You a bit bored or summat, then?’ `Bored! Aren’t we ALL bored?’ They both laughed, Danny a little uncertainly. `Cooped up for days, nay, weeks on end with only the missus and the wee lassies to keep me company… jesus! Can they just invent a vaccine this week or summat, pal?!’ Danny laughed along again, taking nervous little gulps of wine and trying to push aside the strange bashfulness that came over him whenever he spoke to his teammate these days; the tension that had replaced the easy banter and rough humour of their usual friendship. `It’s not the worst,’ Ings said thoughtfully. `I’m… well, I’m quite liking the down-time, I guess… For now!’ `For now,’ agreed Shane with a smirk in his voice. `At least we’re safe and healthy,’ the English striker pointed out, moralistic but hesitant. `Aye, agreed,’ Shane sighed. `I shouldn’t gripe.’ `No,’ Danny agreed, `you shouldn’t. But I get where you’re coming from. Sorry it’s getting to ya, mate.’ He listened to the thoughtful little noises his friend made over the phone, and drained the dregs of the red wine from his own glass. `Will be back on the training ground together before you know it, lad. Trust me.’ `Perhaps.’ Danny wandered back through the hall and into the back of the house, idly checking he’d tidied and cleaned everything from dinner, waiting for Shane to say something more purposeful: surely there was actually a reason he’d called? It was definitely strange, when they’d spoken with the others yesterday, and the group chats were buzzing with memes and banter anyway, and surely Shane had plenty of closer friends to kill time with if… Long’s voice interrupted his rambling thoughts, `Where’s your girlfriend at?’ `Upstairs, in the bath,’ he grunted. `Why?’ `No reason.’ Ings found himself pulling gently at the neckline of his sweater and glancing at his own vague reflection in the windows, as if being looked at. Unsettled, he frowned as he spoke down the smartphone to his teammate. `Look, I’m kinda busy,’ he started. `Busy mersin escort doing what?’ challenged Long lightly. `Well, you know, this and that,’ Ings returned awkwardly. Shane’s lilting Celtic laugh met his comment. `Oh come on, you’re never too busy for me.’ Danny mouthed a response and stopped, just heaving a sigh. `What does that mean?’ he asked, lowering his voice a notch and fiddling with his wine glass on the counter until he almost knocked it off, and realised just how on edge he suddenly felt right now. `Shane?’ A silence, and then, `You know what it means, fella.’ Danny remained quiet, righting the tipping glass where it stood, and backing away from the kitchen counter to pace the room. `I’m gonna hang up in a moment,’ he said levelly. He wasn’t sure if it was a warning, a threat, a promise… or how he wanted the Irishman to take it. He waited for Shane’s answer to that, which was slow coming. When it did, his musical accent was languid and teasing. `Fine. Hang up, lad.’ Another heavy sigh from Danny. `Mate,’ he grunted, `I don’t know what you think-` `Oh come on. Relax. I’m just bored.’ `Well… I’m NOT, so…’ `You’re not bored?’ `No, I’m fine, I’m actually-` `Not bored of fucking her yet?’ There was a bit more of an edge to his voice there. `Not missing your good pal Shane just yet, then?’ prodded the other striker when he didn’t answer immediately. A light, rasping chuckle down the line. Danny held himself firm and kept his voice as calm as he could. `I’m not having this chat right now, matey, you can just-` `And yet you still ain’t hanging up,’ Shane broke in, interrupting him once more. `Ain’t that funny now, Daniel? Your girlfriend’s upstairs, you say?’ `She is,’ Danny confirmed through gritted teeth. He cocked his head to listen, but no singing or wet noise from above now. She was probably half-asleep, relaxing in the bubbles. He took a few steps to the doorway into the hall, his breaths tight and apprehensive. `Then you’re all mine, for now,’ Shane said, after a few moments’ thought. `All yours?’ Ings asked, but to challenge the idea was ridiculous. Since his interests had been confronted that day last month, he had felt utterly exposed: how could the Irish heartthrob had ever seen through his bluster and bravado, when he’d barely known it himself? He cringed and shuddered and genuinely considering hitting `end call’. But he was, as Shane knew, all his. `What are you wearing?’ `Don’t make me answer that!’ `Go on. Tell me.’ `A fuckin’ sweatshirt, mate. Over my tshirt. And some… you know, chinos. Fuck’s sake…’ `Boring. What’s under the chinos?’ `Mate!’ `What’s under the chinos?!’ `Just some… erm… Calvin Kleins. Black ones. Fucking hell, Shane.’ A teasing snigger. `It’s only an innocent question, Ings. God, calm yourself down, will ya?’ `I should go…’ `You’re not going nowhere,’ returned Long’s quiet but authoritative bark, and his body trembled to hear it. His voice caught in his throat and he rested one hand on the doorframe, feeling the other footballer’s power over him, the dynamic that had slowly been established in these last few weeks. He waited for further dominating dialogue, but it didn’t come, so he answered the only way he could. `Yes… sir.’ `That’s better,’ Shane said darkly, and then another light, tinkling laugh. `Stick your hand inside your briefs, fella.’ Ings paused but did as he was told. He took his hand from the doorframe and pushed it down the front of his sweater, loose over the tightness of his six-pack, finding the waistband of his chinos, which had just enough give in not to be unfastened; four fingers pushed in under this and the fabric of his CK boxer briefs, and in against the roughness of his trimmed pubes, into the stale warmth of his package. `Yes sir,’ he murmured into the phone, barely audible. `I’ve done that.’ `Touch yer cock,’ said Shane in a restrained snarl. `Touch it up now.’ He did so, feeling the weight and shape of his dick, still a bit achey from it’s triple performance in bed this morning, rubbing at the sweaty folds of his ball-sack, running against his loose foreskin, then… `Now give `em a good sniff, fella. Go on. Do it for your teammate.’ Ings retrieved his fingers from the front of his pants and lifted them up to his nose; he knew Long would need to hear this properly so he took a deep, noisy sniff of his own musty scent on these fingertips, and cringed again at his own submission. He heard the little gasp of enjoyment down the phone-line, gulped. `Good man,’ said Shane warmly. `Shame you’re just sniffin’ your own dick, not mine. Eh?’ `Yeh,’ Danny agreed compulsively. `Yeh?’ `Yes SIR,’ Danny corrected firmly. `Better. Now stick the same fingers up your arse, eh?’ `What??’ He’d sucked the handsome 33-year-old off four more times since their first changing room showdown, and licked his juices up each time, from the glistening bell-end, from his hairy thighs, from shin-pads and socks and boots. But there had been no mention of arse-play, not once. `Push `em down the back, like you did the front. Go on. Do it, lad.’ He did; reaching awkwardly behind himself, he forced the same four digits down the back of his chinos and CKs, feeling the hairy globes of each cheek, and letting one finger rest in the space between. His hesitation must have sounded in his breath. `Stick one in there, feel your dirty crack, lad.’ In he slid his index finger, feeling the matted hair between his glutes. `Now,’ drawled Shane Long imperiously, `give that a good sniff too, you pussy.’ Was it the faint smell of his own arse-hole that made his cock twitch and throb then, or was it the commanding tone of Shane’s voice? Or was it simply the memory of what had gone on between them, the sordid moments on his bruised knees, looking up at that indifferent bearded face, the little sparkle in those Irish eyes as commands were issued and obeyed…? `I bet you wish you were sniffing my fingers, not your own,’ pushed Long’s voice. `I do, sir,’ he admitted weakly. `I do.’ `You dirty queer prick,’ grumbled the other player bitterly. `Sniff it again, take it in. You pervert. Then push it in again, find your little hole, eh? That’s it. Good lad, Daniel. Good lad.’ He stood there in the doorway between the kitchen-diner and the hallway in the expensive seafront house his hard-earned wages had bought, and felt reduced to nothing, a satisfying submission to the powerful voice on his iPhone. He stretched the waist of his pants a bit, pushing his hands awkwardly in against his bulky backside and forcing a finger into that hairy crack, unsure escort mersin where his hole even was. He could hear Shane’s breath getting a little heavier down the line: was he playing with himself too, as he dished out the orders…? `Danny,’ called the interrupting voice of his girlfriend from upstairs, and he tensely up awkwardly. Clearly, Shane had heard too. `Ignore her,’ he purred furiously. `Danny,’ she shouted, `I’m done in the bath, are you coming up? Babe?’ `Tell her to the fuck off,’ snapped Shane’s voice possessively down the line. `I’ll be up in a bit,’ Ings shouted up the hallway and stairs in a strained voice. `Just need to sort a couple of things. I’ll see you in a bit, hun. Okay?’ He took long slow blinks and tried to balance out his breathing, and listened to the mocking snigger on the other end of the phone conversation, relaxing his cheeks and pushing his finger back between them. `Aye, that’ll shut her up,’ Shane’s voice went on, `because you’re mine now, aren’t ya? Not hers.’ `Yes… sir…’ `Couldn’t here ya. Say it again.’ `Yes sir,’ Danny said, dangerously loud and clear. If Ruby was still hovering about on the landing somewhere, she would hear! But no, it seemed that she’d took his vague message and was off to bed without him. He was left down here, all Shane’s. `Go back into the kitchen,’ Long told him, `and shut the door.’ He did as he was told, sliding the big door shut between the spaces, sniffing his one dirtied finger again nervously, listening as Shane called him names down the phone. He paced the room awkwardly, ashamed of the erection in his CKs, ashamed that the last thing he wanted to do was end the call and hurry upstairs to her. `Get those trousers and underpants down, yer big knacker,’ Shane told him aggressively. `Let your dick out, I know it’s rock-hard by now. Rock-hard just hearin’ my fuckin’ voice, I bet ya. Eh, fella?’ Before these encounters, he’d never seen or heard such a mean streak from the other striker, a charming alpha male always so relaxed and confident. And then, like a prick, he’d teased and pushed him with his stupid Troy jokes, and… He knew he deserved this treatment, and he craved it in ways he could explain to no one. He willingly let his chinos sag around his ankles and his underpants hover somewhere beneath the knees, taut over his shins, and he did as he was told: `Finger your hole now, you dirty cunt. Go on, imagine it’s me doing it to ya. You’d like that, I bet, wouldn’t ya?’ `Oh, yes…’ `Yes, what?’ `Yes, sir! Mmm…’ It felt weird and a bit sore. Danny nudged his rough fingertip against the hot ring, unable to help the little mumbling noises each push provoked; his teammate and superior seemed to enjoy each one, echoing them with soft groans of his own. Danny was worried about his own noises, in case they were audible upstairs, or she just fancied a glass of icy water… He would look an imbecile, stood in the kitchen with his pants around his ankles, phone pressed to his ear. `Right,’ said Shane. `Open yer fridge.’ `Huh?!’ `Open yer fridge. Get a carrot.’ `Shane, mate, I…’ `You gonna fuckin’ argue with me now, Ings?’ Long, heavy sigh, full of conflict and desire. `No, sir, never.’ He opened the fridge and looked at the bag of carrots on the middle shelf, varied sizes and shapes, but all faintly phallic. He knew what was coming. As he stared at them, the phone call cut dead on his handset, and he stood there, incredibly awkward, his own boner swaying a little between his sturdy legs; he could feel the cool of the refrigerator against his bare thighs and swinging bollocks. And then just as he was about to shut the fridge door, a new call on the screen of his phone: a video call. Now when his Irish master spoke down to him, he could see his face. A little pale and clammy, the picture grainy; wherever Shane was hiding from his family to make this phone call, he’d left the lights low or off. He sneered into the cam with a wild look in his eyes, one that Danny recognised well from their first surprise confrontation, his first eager submission to the man he had suddenly fallen for. `Pick the biggest one,’ Long ordered down the video-call now. `Go on, fella.’ Danny did so, sliding a weirdly thick and straight-shaped orange carrot from the bag, and letting the door fall shut on the chilly fridge. `What am I gonna do with it, sir?’ he asked dumbly, his hand shaking as he held the cam towards his face. `Do you want me to… suck it, sir?’ He lifted the carrot to his face as it was Shane’s prick, and he pulled out his oversized tongue and ran it around the bumpy shaft of the vegetable. `No,’ Shane said bluntly. `You daft prick.’ The grainy image shifted; Danny wasn’t looking at his pal’s face now, in whatever poorly lit corner of his mansion, but at his hard-on. He gasped longingly and felt his own erection throb powerlessly at his crotch. God, he needed that dick right here. Fuck self-isolation! `Oh sir,’ he moaned pleadingly. `You’re gonna fuck yerself with that carrot, Danny boy.’ The glimpse of the Irish meat was gone and it was Shane’s pasty, smirking face on show again. `You’re gonna stick it up yourself and let me watch. Right there on the kitchen floor, you fuckin’ pussy. Do it NOW. Do it now or I’ll see what bigger veg you’ve got in that fridge, for fuck’s sake.’ Danny was obedient despite his nerves. He propped the phone down at the base of the fridge door, and sat on the cool tiling of the floor. God, let her be asleep already, he prayed. This was shameful enough without being caught. He kicked the boxer briefs and trousers fully off, baring his legs and crotch and arse, and sprawled in what he hoped was a… seductive (?) position for his Irish master. `That’s it,’ Shane snapped authoritatively but encouragingly, and he was pleased at the feedback. He spread his big strong legs apart, spat on the rough carrot, and pushed it between his cheeks. `Go on,’ came Long’s voice again, sounding heavy and distant. `Go on…’ The tip of the makeshift sex toy was thinner than Danny’s own index finger, so it slid into his furry crack and found his virgin hole with surprising ease � `Oh!’ � but immediately felt sore and invasive against the muscles. But Shane was really panting now, clearly wanking out of sight, his face and bare chest filling the small screen, as if leaning closer to see this private show better. Danny, 73kg of well-developed English muscle, sprawled out on the chilly tiles, legs apart, and strained one strong arm to slide the carrot into himself. His mouth opened and stretched and his eyes rolled, and mersin escort bayan in it went, edging into his arse-hole centimetre by centimetre… `Push it right in,’ growled the sexy Irish voice on the phone, and right in it went. `Ohhh… sir…’ On the kitchen floor, Danny Ings fucked himself, whimpering his frightened pleasure and glancing constantly from his own body to the mobile phone screen, to his trembling untouched prick, to the orange weapon he was pushing in and out, taking a bit more of its inanimate girth with each shove. The 5’10 striker writhed and groaned on the floor, dominated from miles away, and desperate to please. He arched his back a little and lifted his bottom into the air more to improve Shane’s view, and was pleased by the groan of approval this earned. He lifted and parted his hairy legs more and pushed hard on the `toy’. `You wish that was my dick, don’tcha?’ Shane almost shouted, though it was tinny and distant. `Yes,’ he gasped pitifully, `yes I do…’ `Fuck your cunt with it, lad… fuck yourself…’ `Yes… oh… yes, sir… ohh…’ He began to reach for his aching cock, shocked at how stiff and alert it was despite all today’s exercise, but � `No, don’t touch yourself yet, you don’t deserve to,’ snarled Shane, whose huffing voice made it clear how furiously he was wanking off-screen. Ings would have given anything to see that, to be there, to take over, to use his mouth instead of a hand… oh yes. `Push it all in, you stupid fanny,’ Long was barking almost angrily, `you’re not getting enough inside ya…’ He tried his best but it felt thick and impossible, though he knew it wasn’t so massive in reality, and his cheeks ached and stung with the newness of it. But then he heard the telltale groan and low half-audible swearing of his master’s orgasm. He squinted and saw, in poor definition, Shane’s cum-face. Oh god, that man, that beautiful beast of a man… His arse relaxed and he pushed the carrot an inch further, and ignored his orders, grasping his own cock with the other hand and pumping it furiously while listening to the languid sighs of Long finishing off. Danny came in seconds, his orgasm muted and fairly dry: he was surprised even a few streaks of the white stuff burst lazily from his spent member, knowing he’d came in his girlfriend’s cunt, mouth and on her tits at various points this morning in bed. He lay there, his arse hurting, his dick almost as dry and sore, and slowly curled his body round to get a better look at the phone-screen, just as the call ended. The little beep of dismissal was heart-breaking yet inevitable. Whenever he finished off his superior, Shane would leave in a hurry, dismissive and disinterested; though when they next saw each other, everything would be fine, and Long would be his old self, full of `craic’. Ings allowed himself a few indulgent moments lazing on the floor, spent and humiliated, but desiring more than ever to snatch some moments with his fellow Southampton forward. Suddenly, he itched for an end to lockdown, a return to the Premier League. Not for the goals and glory, but for… He shuddered, and pictured himself on his knees, his tattooed arms grasping his friend’s legs, and his head bobbing up and down at work. Dear god, he prayed, get me back to him soon. He didn’t stay still long, still scored of being caught. He stared in horror at the slick, dirtied carrot, and pushed it right down to the bottom of the bin before washing his hands four times in a row, staring at them in a sordid tableau of Lady Macbeth guilt. Then he fastened his chinos, splashed cooler water on his red face, and made his way upstairs. He slid into bed in just the black Calvin Klein pants, glad of the warmth and comfort of the bedding and the near-naked form of his young girlfriend. She seemed half-asleep, but once he was under the sheets with her, one of her hand slid over, brushing the toned muscle of his abs, and reaching for the front of his undies. `Babe?’ she asked in a low, soothing voice. `Not tonight,’ he winced back wearily, running his own big strong hand along her side. `Oh baby,’ she giggled into the pillow, `did we wear you out today…?’ `Huh… yeh… yeh, too much fun this morning…’ He kissed her shoulder and then her neck. `I’ll be back in action tomorrow, hun. Sorry.’ They snogged, long and slow, then pulled apart, and he buried his face in his own pillow, biting back a lingering whine of pleasure and pain at what he had just done on their kitchen floor. In the attic study of another, bigger house further down the Southampton coast, Shane Long swung idly on the big leather desk chair, his pyjama shorts still around his ankles and his flaccid dick splayed against one thigh, where cum was drying against his flesh. He lolled his head lazily and reached one hand up to rub his temples, then glare accusingly at his phone where it lay. That had been unnecessary and risky. A stupid late-night decision. A waste of energy. He punched his code at the phone screen and looked at the simple text message Danny Ings had sent him on his way to bed. `thanx sir…’ it read, and he sneered irritably at the two words. Why had he started this? Why was he ruining one of his best friendships on the team? Who the fuck did he think he was…? But dominating Danny, well, it was doing something for him. As sordid and wrong as he believed it to be, it was fixing a problem. Watching the poor guy punish himself with a fucking vegetable, what the…? But he needed to keep it going, he needed to feel this power over another man. Because otherwise… He thought back to fucking his wife this morning in milky pre-dawn light, snatching the private moments before their family home was alive with noise. He’d pounded her as good as always, just how she liked, loads of sloppy foreplay and then all his signature moves. And as he’d cum… He grimaced and rubbed his head again, and swore at himself. `Stop thinking about him, you idiot,’ he snapped, and forced away the image of a North London hotel room and a well-hung teenager stretched in front of him on a bed. He got up and yanked up his shorts, stuffing his sticky cock into them, and picked up the discarded tshirt where it had fallen. He stunk of his own orgasm, but she would be fast asleep when he crept into their bedroom. She wouldn’t have the faintest idea what he’d just done. `I’ll just do a quick bit of admin,’ he’d told her in an apologetic voice, a charming grin on her face, `just sort the accounts a bit before bed, darlin’…’ He winced at his own deceitfulness, and picked up his phone, staring at it as if trying to place all the blame on this one stupid device. It was hardly his fault, after all. Ings was begging for it. And him? He didn’t need any of this, he was happily married. He went to bed with his sleeping wife, and dreamed of Troy Parrott.

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