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Subject: Premiership Lads part 87: The Blackmailer Part eighty-seven: The Blackmailer Jesse Lingard watched with a hesitant smile on his face as the new online bank account loaded up on the tablet screen in his hands. A pixelated picture of his finances rolled into view and his smile widened on his curling lips. The 27-year-old footballer slowly put down the device on the garden table in front of him and allowed himself a villain-ish snigger of triumph knowing that the second payments from both men had just landed in this secret account. He sat back in the comfortable garden seat and brought his hands up behind his head in a relaxed posture, listening to the morning birdsong in the nearby trees, amplified by the silent South Manchester roads beyond them. Fully smug, he swung his legs up and rested bare heels on the edge of the wooden table, then sighed to himself. As if it had really worked. Jesse had harboured his suspicions for some time, since Christmas really. It had begun when he grew bored of dancing his arse off on a pill at Manchester United’s Christmas party. Drifting from the dancefloor in such of a hot lone female to work his `magic’ on, the sprightly midfielder had seen an odd thing: young Dan James bursting out of a disabled loo with a panicked look on his cheeky face, scampering away like he’d just seen a ghost. Seeing the usually cheery junior player so alarmed had broken into Lingard’s party mood and left him wandering vaguely after the other lad. Dan had been in quite some hurry though, so he’d failed to catch up with him. But as Jesse lingered at the top landing of the stairs down from the party venue, he’d looked back and seen both Shaw and Maguire stood talking near the facilities — had they just emerged from the same bathroom? Since Jesse didn’t have either big Harry or pretty boy Luke down as big drug-takers, his suspicions had been aroused. Well, mainly just his suspicions. But he’d been drunk and high and not particularly inclined to trust his own judgement, so he’d largely dismissed the thought the next day and over much of the festive period. But as the season picked up in spring, there had been so many odd little moments. Shared looks he’d noted across the training ground or meeting room, on coaches to away games; little shared looks that were clearly meant to be secret and unseen but Jesse, always alert and curious, picked up on. And then, more oddly than anything, that had stopped. There had been little phases where anyone with open eyes and ears could tell that United’s powerful new captain and its sulky handsome left-back were not communicating AT ALL. It had been those little suspected frosts that piqued Jesse’s interest more than whatever secret the other men shared. He’d tried to investigate, but subtlety had never been his sharpest skill. When he tried to speak to James one day in January, it went badly. The usually cheerful honorary Welshman had been sullen and almost aggressive. `What have you heard? What have people been saying?’ the short speedy player had snarled at him in a quiet passage at Old Trafford before one game. They almost came to blows, but Lingard had backed off and made a silly joke of the whole thing. THAT was his sharpest skill. Around the same time, he’d noticed sour looks and mood swings from the team’s resident teenage brats, both kids who he slightly resented as the peak of his own career seemed to edge by him without the promised glory or accolades. He’d avoided surly Brandon Williams altogether; it was just as easy to believe that moody local’s anger at Maguire was based on fuck all. Mason Greenwood had interested him more, and like Dan, he’d tried to gently question him. `Stay away from the big twat,’ Greenwood had muttered to him one evening, but refused to say more. At that point, Jesse had got excited; he’d felt surer than ever that something was going on. Something taboo and exciting and scandalous… something potentially profitable? He’d thought he might slowly pump more from the handsome teenage goal machine, but then something had changed. Like James, he’d seen Greenwood stalking moodily around the training ground and distancing himself from the lads; but then Mason had entirely cheered up overnight, it seemed, and become unreachable. Nowadays, Jesse had noted, the speedy striker seemed utterly inseparable from Williams, and there was a conspiratorial air about the two young buddies that it felt awkward to try and interfere with. By the time the lads were in Spain during the Premiership winter break, Jesse had burned with nosy interest. He had engineered the Scott McTominay incident with one goal in mind: to test Harry Maguire’s sexuality, and to figure out what the fuck was Luke Shaw’s problem. It had been fun but inconclusive. He’d been amazed to see Big Harry so dominant and aroused, but what did that prove? It was a laddish dare, and surprising fellas like Fernandes and Pereira had got as involved as anyone else! There had been one element of that seedy group session that had become concrete for Lingard and his suspicions, though: Luke Shaw had been intensely jealous throughout. At one point, Jesse and Luke had been quite close, but since that evening in Marbella, he could see the snarl on that pretty face every time he came anywhere near… Jesse bounced from his seat, overcome with energy. An outdoors workout before the sun got any hotter, THAT was what he needed. Months of embittered speculation had come to nothing, he supposed, until the ridiculous mishap in online technology. All through the group zoom call, he’d wondered if he was imagining the little silences and thoughtful stares into the camera from Harry and Luke. When he logged off and sat alone at his computer, tipsy but awake, the thought had plagued him. So of course he’d re-entered the call, of course big dumb Harry hadn’t thought to lock it or move to another call. And so Jesse had seen what he’d seen. And hit record. And now the men were his. Financially, apart from anything else, though who knew how he could exploit these two United cornerstones once they were all back to work and the season was resumed, in whatever form that took? But first, the money; so much money! Jesse didn’t need the money, not by any means, but he fucking loved to see it and fantasise about how he would be treating himself now he’d rinsed blackmail cash from two equally rich Premiership lads. Not that the money was his main motivation, he admitted silently to himself, grinned bashfully, then pushed the thought away. Workout, he reminded himself. Time for a workout. Forty-five minutes later, Jesse Lingard gleamed with sweat. He had quickly had to abandon his training top, overheated and keen to see the progress on his defined six-pack. He ended his challenging back garden circuit with a series of crunches and V-sits, unable to stop vainly inspecting the sweat sheen on his abs as he mersin escort worked his stomach muscles and built his already good core strength. He huffed out a victorious `Fuck yeh!’ as he reached the end of the last set of reps, then collapsed back against the fitness mat and stretched out his aching limbs of lean brown-skinned muscle. Jesse lay there awhile, letting his body recover, bringing both hands to rub sweat from his sticky face. He’d pushed himself hard with rounds of HIIT and ball skills and now, he decided, deserved a lazy day on the sofa binge-watching some of his fave TV shows. Perhaps a spot of online shopping with his full new bank account, too; he’d had his eye on a big jacuzzi for this lovely rear garden, that would be perfect for isolation evenings… He heard a car and paused. Not unusual in itself; the world hadn’t quite shut down overnight. But it was the loud growl of a more flashy sports car and it didn’t sound like it came from the main road beyond the thick trees. He propped himself up on elbows and heard another noise — the slam of a car door — and realised it most definitely came from around the corner of his big detached red-brick house. Jesse was just frowning at who the hell his visitor might be when the figure came sweeping around the corner and paused halfway across the lawn towards him. Jesse pushed down on the grass to flip himself up on his back, tottering to an anxious standing position with his eyes on the visitor. He felt exposed in just his skimpy running shorts and long white socks, his bare torso glistening under the mid-morning sunshine. He held his arms awkwardly at his sides and stared in bemusement at the sudden arrival and his grim facial expression. `Long time no see, kid,’ grunted Jamie Vardy in his familiar Sheffield drawl. `Yeh,’ Jesse returned in a low, cautious voice, `this is… a surprise.’ Vardy was wearing short shorts himself, similar Nike running ones that left a lot of his lean pale legs on show, and a baggy sports sweatshirt on the top half as he took a few more steps forward, moving with that faux-Oasis cock swagger that he always did. Lingard continued to stare at him, totally bewildered and wondering if this was part of some absurd dream. `We need to talk, Jesse lad,’ Jamie said simply. He was looking around, seemed to be scoping out the house and its garden. His expression was odd: shifty, aggressive, secretive. `I don’t think anyone is supposed to be receiving visitors,’ Jesse pointed out slowly. He was beginning to suspect this call was far from social. He looked his former teammate up and down and glanced about for his discarded shirt, feeling more exposed than vain now about his lithe muscular body on show and the beady, calculating eyes of the Leicester champion standing opposite him. `Anyone else in the house?’ snapped Jamie bluntly. `Few family members,’ Jesse muttered back, unsure what the question meant or why he was complying. `What the fuck, Jamie…?’ `Where can we talk?’ the older man demanded simply, taking another step forward. Jesse watched him, unnerved. Both men glanced at the house checking for faces at the window — Vardy with a grim determination and almost aggressive posture, Lingard with a self-conscious excitement at what he suspected might be about to happen. He nodded then to the nearest doorway, wide open to the house’s double garage, and shrugged. `In there, if we must,’ he grumbled. `What the hell is this about…?’ Jamie strode on in through the double-doors, ignoring him. It was open because this was where Jesse stored all his fitness equipment, raided for his private circuit. He glanced back at the mat and props on the lawn, and his phone and tablet on the table next to his breakfast dishes, then back up at the windows of his house. Nobody seemed to be up and about at the moment. He followed the Leicester striker into the cool low space of the garages and pulled the doors shut behind him, experiencing a tingle of nervous excitement laced with fear. `You remember your Leicester days, eh lad?’ Vardy asked, pausing in the centre of the cluttered space. He’d stopped beyond the mass of fitness and gaming equipment that littered the first half of the garages, signs of Jesse’s decadent and addictive spending, and reached one of the two slick sports cars parked in the far half. He’d just been fantasising last night about what motor he’d be buying next, perhaps using Luke’s hard-earned money. Lingard slowly followed him towards the centre. `I do,’ he said vaguely. `Bits of it, anyway.’ Jamie turned to face him and he had a sneering smile on his face. `Quite a loan spell for you, huh.’ `Jamie,’ Jesse murmured, `I dunno why you’re bringing all that up, it was…’ `On your knees, bitch.’ The striker’s voice was steely and authoritative, and it whipped 27-year-old Lingard back to much earlier in his career, to those strange alien days on loan to Leicester City when he was only a youth. He thought back to that first hotel room fumble, high on coke, sharing that one bed with too many confused and excited blokes. Vardy, Nugent, Smith, Blyth, Drinkwater… `Sorry?’ he mumbled, not in the cheeky confidence of the 27-year-old United mainstay, but the nervous squeak of the 20-year-old loanee. `I don’t think I need to repeat myself, do you?’ Jamie Vardy lifted up the front of his baggy grey sweatshirt a little and began undoing the little knot of waist-cord at the front of his dark runner’s shorts. A flash of tight six-pack between the waist of the shorts and the lifted hem of the jumper. Jesse looked back up to his face, the tight sneer of superiority on his mouth and in his eyes. The 33-year-old man was only very slightly taller, no less lean and compact physically; yet he was still a powerful, intimidating sexual presence. A lot of late-night memories from that season were milling in Jesse’s brain. His knees buckled and he sank down to the concrete floor of the garage, keeping his eyes trained on Vardy’s, relaxing his own sweaty frame into a crouching position whilst the other man leaned casually back against the side of his own flashy red sports car. `I haven’t sucked cock in years,’ Jesse murmured. In his head it was a protest, an argument; it came out sounding like a weak apology, a hungry whimper. He reached forward and took the sides of those shorts in hand, still holding the steely gaze above, and Jamie’s semi was out and his balls hanging. Jesse breathed them in and let his eyes slip down to the prize in front of him, remembering how good it could taste. `You were always so nervous back then, but you did a good job.’ `Jamie, buddy, I’m straight…’ `Like fuck you are. Eat it.’ Jesse crouched there in total confusion; where had this come from? He’d barely had any contact with the man since those wild Leicester nights, though in many a dark night on his own he’d let his mind wander back to escort mersin it. Especially that first time, so many dicks to grab at, big sexy Nugent and the other young lads Vardy had persuaded into experimenting… In his sweaty skimpy shorts, Lingard’s cock twitched and rose against the fabric. `Come on,’ Jamie snapped impatiently, `I’ve driven a long way for this. Open your gob.’ Jesse opened up and leaned forward and licked the tip of Jamie’s prick, then took more of it into his out-of-practice mouth, then all of it. He sighed and sniffed in the manly odour of the guy’s crotch, pushing his lips around the stiffening member and stroking his hands up and down the tensed thighs. Vardy was soon fully hard, his modest but ferociously hard cock pushing against Jesse’s tongue and the roof of his mouth. Mmm. `Remember that time I made you lick my boots?’ muttered Vardy. `Yes sir,’ Lingard whispered, again in the voice of a much younger self. He was back there in the dirty changing rooms of Leicester City on his last appearance of that loan season, and staring up at the near-naked figure of his on-and-off master, wearing only his dirty boots from the victorious match… No, he was in his own garage full of expensive shit that his Man Utd wages had bought him, and he was NOT that needy confused kid! He pulled away, spat cock-flavoured spit out on the floor beside him, and began to get up. `Fuck this,’ he muttered, `what the hell are you doing here?’ Jamie snarled, grabbed his hand, pushed it against his own dick so that Jesse was holding it in his palm if not his mouth. Then the other guy, always surprisingly strong for his height and build, spun them around and pinned Jesse’s body back against the side of his overpriced car, smearing his workout sweat against its pristine metalwork. Vardy stood against him, thrusting his dick in and out of his curled hand, and holding him by his bare, sweaty shoulders. `You’ve been causing a spot of trouble, youngster,’ the seasoned striker growled. Jesse blinked in realisation, trembling against the cool metal of the car. `This is about… those two?!’ `Harry and I have a lot of history at Leicester, he’s a mate,’ Vardy said sharply. Jesse stared at him in surprise, though the connection felt obvious. `This is nowt to do with you,’ he blurted, and was pushed back more firmly into the car. `You should be fuckin’ careful, Jamie Vardy, or they won’t be the only people I’ve got footage of, and…’ `Don’t threaten me, prick.’ At the same time, Vardy pushed his hand away and began jerking his own dick, squeezing precum out of the bulging pink tip. Jesse’s hand hovered nearby, released but impatient to return to this supposed punishment. The men stood close by, enclosed in the sweaty odour of Jesse’s body and the cool dark of the garage. `There’s CCTV in here and-` `You think I give a fuck?’ Vardy snapped. `You can’t threaten me, boy. I own you.’ `That was a LONG time ago…’ `But it feels like yesterday, don’t it? Look at you. Creaming your shirts just being near me. I can see that tentpole. You dirty fucker. You’re almost cumming just having me breathe on ya. God, how much you squealed when I eventually got a finger in your hole…’ `Sir,’ groaned Jesse weakly. He didn’t even know what he was begging for. Escape, or…? `Like you say though,’ Jamie grunted then, `it was a long time ago.’ He backed off, released his harsh grip, casually stroked his own hard-on as they stood facing each other. `I’ve had much better head since then, let me tell you that. You were pathetic.’ `Oh sir,’ murmured Lingard, ashamed of the erection straining the limited material of his running shorts. He grimaced. He thought about the time he’d had Vardy spunk twice over his face in a toilet cubicle at the Walkers Stadium, minutes before a big game. He’d meant to be on the starting line-up but he’d been late, washing the man’s dribbling cum off his face and hair and then finishing himself off in a urinal because he’d been so excited; the manager had been furious and it had cost Jesse several follow-up matches sitting out on all the action. His love for Jamie’s prick had dominated that loan season far more than his footballing talents, he’d always known it. `You need to leave those two alone,’ snapped Vardy. `Now get on your knees.’ Jesse sank down willingly, and Jamie thrust forward. Oh god. He found himself on his haunches with his back and neck pressed to the side of his car, Jamie’s hips working to fuck his slippery lips now as he’d once done behind a skip in the car park of a Leicester pub. So many memories. He gripped onto the tight smooth muscle of his master’s backside and tried his best not to gag on the thrusting meat in his gob, eyes watering with the effort of it. He knew the paintwork of the vehicle behind him was being stained and smeared with his own sweaty marks, he tried not to care. His vanity extended to every vehicle he owned, but right now this dirty feast was all that mattered. `Get up,’ Vardy demanded suddenly, pulling away. Jesse’s mouth felt empty without his master’s prick. He used Vardy’s hips to pull himself up, his body shaking with a mixture of fear and complete arousal. Then he was being turned around. His torso pushed forward over the bonnet of the sports car with rough energy, and his shorts tugged down at the back. He felt Vardy part his strong sweaty glutes and shove a finger into his hole unceremoniously. `Oh sir,’ he whined, `ohh….’ Internally, he wondered how soundproofed the garage actually was. `Knew you wanted this, you dirty slut.’ `Yes, sir, so much…’ `Take it then, relax your hole, you little bitch.’ `Yes sir!’ `Dirty little prick…’ `Fuck me sir. Please, fuck me. I wanna feel your cock…’ The two fingers pushed and pulled at his ring and he groaned wildly, embarrassed by his sluttish pleading but knowing how true it was. Back then, he’d been too scared to suggest going that far, unsure how much the dominant striker was willing to try; but he’d been fucked a couple of times since then, before he’d tried to move away from the bi fun, and he knew he could take it. But Jamie’s fingers were removed from his hole and now the Leicester player was just lightly spanking his beside and laughing. `No,’ Jamie said, `you don’t get that pleasure today, you blackmailing little fuck.’ `Sir…’ Jesse felt his sweat-damp body slide off the bonnet and he almost fell to the concrete floor, but he righted himself and swung onto his knees, which were sore from grazing the hard surface. He couldn’t stop himself reaching down to take his own dick in hand, turning round to find Jamie’s crotch in front of him and the powerful striker jerking himself furiously with his cock aimed right at his face. As he wanked, Jamie pushed one hand at Jesse’s face; he slid the two fingers that had been up his hole into his mouth for him to lick, and gave his prick mersin escort bayan a left-handed stroke. Jesse lapped and sighed and gasped and wanked himself until he was spurting silvery-white cum down his hand and his thighs and onto the floor. `Feed me,’ he gasped at the dominant bloke. `Feed me your…’ As he asked for it, it came. Jamie growled his orgasm and his load spilled against Jesse’s face and neck and, he noticed a minute or two later, in globby streaks over the red paintwork behind him. He swayed on his knees and caught his breath. Holy fuck, he thought, am I really still so subservient…? `You’re a right little slut, aren’t you?’ Vardy demanded, rubbing at his red cock and taking a step back. `I did wonder if you’d moved on in seven years or whatever, but… seems not. You cock-hungry little bastard.’ Jesse could hardly deny it. He pulled an arm against his face but it just mingled his own cooling sweat with the sticky load. He climbed unsteadily to his feet and panted. `Just like old times,’ he groaned playfully, recovering form the shock of his own desire. `This ends today,’ Vardy threatened. `You leave Harry Maguire alone, you little cocksucker.’ Jesse rubbed at his face again, more successfully, let his head clear. Then he burst out laughing, and focused his eyes on the confused scowl on Vardy’s face. Lingard relaxed his shoulders and arms, stretched out his muscles, licked his lips. `You think cumming on my face is gonna stop me making a profit from this fucked up situation, old man?’ he asked quietly. Jamie paused, clearly unsettled that the narrative in his head wasn’t quite playing out. The two men stared at one another, and Lingard laughed again. No, he told himself, you aren’t quite the same bitch you were at 19 or 20. He let out a long satisfied sigh, scraped some spare cum from his chin, and licked it gently off his own fingertip. `You still taste good,’ he cooed. `Harry is a good guy,’ Jamie said, not without a hint of reluctance in his tone. Hmm, what had gone on between those two former best pals…? Jesse shrugged. `Is he? Not sure his poor fiancée would agree if she knew. Nor the average United fan.’ He nodded his head gently across the garage, and let Jamie’s eyes follow. A small security camera sat up against the ceiling, trained on the expensive vehicles behind Lingard’s back. He saw the twitch of panic in Jamie’s threatening expression. `Yes,’ Jesse sighed, `that’s how it is, Leicester. That’s how it fucking is.’ `I told you,’ Jamie snapped, not convincingly, `I don’t fuckin’ care.’ `You don’t care if the world sees you finger a lad?’ Jesse asked. `What about you?’ Jamie spat. `You want your fans to see you treated like a slut?’ Jesse laughed complacently. `Would it look consensual, do you think, on that cam up there…?’ `What?’ demanded Vardy furiously. `Are you for fucking real, kid…?’ Jesse pulled away from him, stretching and rolling his neck, cracking his knuckles and pacing across the cluttered garage until there was a safe distance between them. He pulled his shorts up more comfortably, covering his limp dick and chubby backside. He could see the change in arrogant Vardy now, the alpha male cowed and uncertain. `Like I said, it ain’t just Maguire who needs to be careful now,’ Lingard told him coldly. `I have the footage I have. I can do what I like. You pricks need to watch your mouths. I’m the one in control now.’ `What do you want?’ growled Vardy angrily. `What the fuck is this about? Just money?’ `The money is good,’ Jesse admitted. He took a step back seeing the violent gesturing of his visitor, but took comfort in the watchful CCTV. Jamie didn’t need to know that it was just a fucking decoy, hooked up to nothing. He stopped himself form bursting out laughing at the reality of his own empty threats here. `But it isn’t what I’m really after, you know…’ `Then what is? What the hell are you playing at, Lings…? You’ve changed.’ `I grew up, Vardy. Sorry about that.’ Jamie was red-faced in his anger as he pushed his cock into his shorts and adjusted his ruffled sweatshirt into place. He kept looking at the little wall-mounted camera, and at the sweat and spunk smears on the car. He took a threatening step back towards Jesse. `What will it take?’ he demanded loudly. `What will it take for you to back the fuck off and leave my mate alone?’ Jesse paused, unsure how much to admit now. Should he tell Jamie about the first time he’d met Harry Maguire on a flight to an away England match? How his dick had throbbed and twitched in his trackies when faced with such a tall, commanding figure in the seat beside him? How he’d watched him piss at a communal urinal later that evening and had to wank himself silly in his hotel bathroom thinking about it? Should he tell him about watching Maguire in the pool during the 2018 world cup, his shorts tight about his mighty thighs as he rode an inflatable unicorn into playful battle? How he’d sneaked off to a quiet corner after that session and fingered his own arse-hole whilst sniffing some discarded socks of the mighty Yorkshireman…? Should he tell Jamie about the night he’d embarrassed himself in a shared hotel room with Harry Maguire, dropping hint after hint about a mutual wank or something but being totally ignored by the dense giant? How he’d lain awake, cock straining at his PJs, listening to the man snore and almost sneaked under his bedding to touch his mighty snake in secret? Should he tell him about the moment Harry signed for Manchester United, how he’d woken up from his only ever adult wet dream and found his bedding soaked with his own semen? The nervous glances he’d given the big strong defender in the changing rooms during their first training sessions and matches together, hoping desperately that- No. No he couldn’t tell him all of that, but perhaps now was finally time to get what he wanted. `Lings,’ snapped Vardy impatiently, `just fucking tell me. I thought I could talk sense into you by reminding you what a little bitch you are, but I see you’re… Well. You’re even more of a cunt than I always thought.’ He snarled. `This isn’t my fight. I’m just trying to help a mate. You can’t keep blackmailing them, Jesse. It’s ridiculous.’ `It’s working,’ he pointed out coldly. `But thanks for the snack, sexy.’ `What do we need to do?’ Jamie asked and this time it was his Sheffield voice that sounded pleading and submissive. It burst out before Jesse could really work out how to say it. His heart was going crazy in his chest and the smell and taste of the first man he’d experimented with was driving him wild with a lust that his orgasm had done nothing to quench. He lunged forward as he spoke, waving a hand dramatically at his forbidden visitor. `Harry Maguire,’ he yelped. `I want Harry fucking Maguire. I want his cock. I want his arse. I’m going to fuck Harry Maguire and make him mine.’ He was shaking with passion as he said it, losing control of his voice and his body language; Jamie reeled back in surprise at the ferocity of the demands. `Tell Harry he’s going to submit to me, or I’m going to leak the zoom video tomorrow night.’

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