Date: Wed, 10 Jun 2020 10:05:13 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 120: The Picnic

Part 120: The Picnic


The `car park' turned out to be nothing but a scruffy layby off a
B-road, a few battered signs standing on the grassy verge that divided it
from the intermittent buzz of traffic. The day was mild, the sky streaked
by ambivalent cloud, hints of a sunnier day leaking between them now and
then. Pushing the door of his car shut, he hesitated at whether he was
dressed right for the day, but then, what the hell was right for this...
occasion?

He hovered there at the car door for a minute, looking down the skid of
parking space that oozed off the road, just one more vehicle parked
there. Of course, he'd recognised it instantly from the road, as he knew
it was. He wasn't detail-obsessed enough to claim he knew the license
plate, he didn't have a head for numbers; but he recognised the model
and colour and, more intimately, he could see the dents and scratches at
one side from a story he knew too well. One careful owner, except when he
wasn't.

Ben Chilwell smiled a little at that thought and took a couple of damp
steps to tug open a back door and grab the small Nike backpack off the
backseat, throwing it over one shoulder. A thick plaid shirt hung open
over his tshirt, and denim shorts reached down to just above the knees.
He locked the car and habitually checked his hair in the cloudy
reflection of a window, fingering at the parted flop of his dark hair and
wondering if he should have shaved this morning, after all.

Giving up on this vain rigmarole, the 23-year-old man backed away from
the car and tried to keep his steps remotely dainty, mildly irked by the
muddy streaks threatening his fresh new trainers as he moved through the
layby. As per the instructions on the text message, there was a public
footpath branching away between the trees, though just as described, the
faded signpost marking it out was more or less screened by fresh summer
foliage. This gave the path an oddly secret air, the entrance to a
mystery world; that, he supposed, was the point.

Ben felt a faint nervousness as he made his way down the gently sloping
path, tugging a little on the single bagstrap and fumbling at a loose
button on his shirt with the fingers of his other hand. His trainers
quickly stopped their quiet squelches against the mud, moving onto the
soft undergrowth that had invaded the path. Its slope sharpened and he
picked his way a little more carefully -- after all, being a Premiership
footballer was a bit like being an expensive racehorse. Careless footing
on a casual outing could be crippling.

There was a cheerful backing track of birdsong and, after a few minutes'
walk, it was undercut by the most gentle hint of water. It was another
few minutes before he saw it, the odd sparkle or flutter of running
water, between the tree trunks. The path had faded a little into more
open space, the trees thinning out, the ground sloping quite steeply.
Thick roots created rough platforms on which he stepped one at a time.
Soon, the narrow but noisy river broke open in front of him, and the path
seemed to reform, following the steep banks away upstream. And just
ahead, sitting against a sloping trunk with his eyes firmly on the
passing water, was his... date.

Ben smiled automatically, an almost shy and boyish little grin, before
treading carefully over some more whorled roots and down onto the
riverside path. His feet crunched quietly at fallen leaves and twigs and
the noises evoked a little jolt of awakening from the waiting lad at the
tree trunk. Jack Grealish looked up from his silent thoughts and his
reaction was less instantly warm than Ben's unseen one: his eyes bulged,
his lips flickered between smile and frown, he glanced up and down the
path repeatedly, then got up to his feet.

`You found it then,' coughed the Aston Villa captain, a backpack slung
over both shoulders and his Puma tracksuit top open over a low-scooping
neon vest. His shorts, Ben noted, were as undersized and close fitting in
leisure as the ones he opted for in the game. Plenty of tanned, hairy leg
muscle was on show in the dappled light of the riverside.

`Sure did,' Ben said, hurrying the last few steps towards him, reaching
out one arm. `Your directions were pretty... detailed.' A nervously
affectionate laugh. He pulled his arm about Jack's shoulders, felt him
stiffen up a little, considered more, resisted. `Good to see you, man,'
the Leicester left-back told him quietly, patting him in the middle of
the back.

`Yeah, yeah, and you,' Grealish agreed with a ready nod. `Erm, it's
just a bit further up this way though, the place I meant.' He pulled his
shaggy blond-tipped hair from his eyes and nodded upstream, his eyes
darting back between the trees as if fearful for privacy. `Sorry. I
thought I'd wait here, make sure you knew which way to go, but it isn't
far, promise.'

`Why are you sorry?' Ben asked gently, patting his back again, just
above the droop of his rucksack, letting his fingers trace one strap up
to those firm shoulders. He looked at the scraggy beard of mousy brown
that currently occupied Jack the lad's handsome features, felt he'd
been right not to bother shaving. `So,' he said, as they began walking
on, `how'd you know about this odd old place, eh...?'

`Uh, long time ago,' Jack mumbled in his thick Birmingham tones, `used
to come fishin' round here with my grandpa back in the day, you know.'
He looked embarrassed by this explanation but Ben felt inexplicably
warmed by it. He followed close by, picking his steps carefully on the
narrow riverside path. Jack asked him about the drive over from Leicester
and he fed him the dull filler conversation it demanded: roadworks,
traffic, oddities. It wasn't what either of them wanted to talk about,
was it? But not far ahead, the path broadened again and the space by the
river flattened out. Rather than steep verges and looming trees, a small
but open space had hollowed out against the waterway, and Ben could just
picture a young Jacko poised at its edge with an encouraging grandfather,
hoping for a big catch from the glimmering midlands water.

`It's a nice spot,' he said honestly, stopping to admire it.

`It'll do,' Jack said less certainly. `I know it ain't best, but --
well, like you said, nowhere's open, is it, and so-` He was rambling, a
broken sentence that seemed liable to go on forever. Ben grinned at him
and reached over a hand. He slid it against Jack's and let their fingers
brush then interlock, just for a moment. Grealish shut up his mumbled
monologue, lifted his eyes beneath a messy curtain of hair, met Ben's
gaze.

`It's perfect, mate,' Chilwell told him, squeezed his palm, let their
hands fall apart. `Perfect spot for a picnic, yeah. I've been looking
forward to this all week.'



Jack chomped on the neatly made sandwiches he'd brought along, sat
cross-legged on the grass. He felt a bit self-conscious about his bulging
cheeks and the crumbs in his shaggy goatee beard, so he looked out to the
river rather than at Ben, concentrating on an armada of ducks and
ducklings gibbering past them.

`It's not exactly normal yet,' Ben was saying, `but it's starting to
be... Well, when you're in there, it almost feels like nothing is going
on, you know?' Jack glanced his way with a little nod. `I dunno about
at Villa but the Foxes mood is good. Really good.'

Jack finished his mouthful. `Same,' he said, as monosyllabic as he'd
been since they met. He was aware of himself clamming up, and aware of
how clumsy and daft what he said was. He was suddenly fixated on the idea
that Chilwell must think him a right idiot. At least the weather was
getting better, the clouds above thinning out and a golden tint reaching
their little riverside patch, full of fond memories for the young
captain.

`These are nice,' Ben said mildly, picking a mini sausage roll from one
of the small Tupperware boxes taken from Jack's bag.

`Mom made them,' Jack said, and felt a hot blush come to his rounded
little cheeks, seeing the almost teasing grin on the other player's
face. `What?' he said with a self-conscious laugh.

`Where did you tell her you were going?' Chilwell demanded, giving him
a loose shove in the arm across their little flat patch of riverbank,
sitting sideways with his shirt falling wide open. He grinned handsomely
from behind his light stubble and the floppy but somehow maintained
curtains of his dark hair. There was always a look of alertness about
Ben, sometimes mischievous, sometimes determined; right now he looked
both.

`Visiting a friend,' Grealish said. `Which I am.' He heard how this
might sound: defensive, resistant, in denial. He glowered apologetically
at the other lad from behind the tangles of his own loose hair, then put
down the crusts of his mother's lovingly made sandwiches on a plastic
lid between them. He wiped any stray crumbs from his unkempt facial hair.
`Well, it isn't a lie,' he added after what was definitely too long a
pause, `um, we are meeting up, as friends.'

Ben nodded quietly. `Yeah. We are.' He reached over again but it
wasn't a playground shove, it was a light touch of Jack's upper arm,
fingers brushing the nylon of his tracksuit top, which prickled warmly at
his bare arms and shoulders. `Good to meet as friends,' Chilwell said
pointedly, `just in case next time we meet it's Leicester sending Villa
back to the Championship, you know...?'

`Ha bloody ha,' Jack intoned. He poked at the other picnic food between
them, mostly provided by him. Ben had contributed a slightly stale
looking baguette and some lukewarm garlicky cheese, whilst Jack had left
the house with his mother forcing homemade cupcakes into his bag as if he
was half his age of 24. He picked one up now, admiring it with a fond
little smile, then saw Ben watching, and rolled his eyes. `You've met
her. You know what she's like.'

Ben just smiled quietly and scoffed another of the miniature sausage
rolls. `You heard any more from United, then?' he asked gently.

`Hmm? Oh. Er -- no, not lately. I think my people are talking to them
but... I dunno, Ben, I dunno what I should do. There's talk of some big
sums, and it's a dream, you know, but Villa is Villa, so...' He paused
in the act of peeling down the paper casing on the little cake, amused by
the delicacy of it while he discussed his manly athletic career. `It's
Man United, ain't it...?' he said almost gloomily, looking Ben's way
for some shred of guidance. In their long phone calls, they'd both
discussed their transfer prospects and confidential talks with other
clubs, trusting in the intimacy of their connection, but Ben was reserved
in advising Jack on this tough call. Jack, on the other hand, had waxed
lyrical about why Ben should move to London and take Chelsea's offer,
though he couldn't help but fearfully imagine the distance between them
if these two transfers actually took place, Manchester to London, London
to Manchester.

`You'll do the right thing when you know what it is,' Chilwell said
with frustratingly calm wisdom, as he'd said a couple of times before on
recent calls. He pulled a hand back through his hair and lounged on his
side a little, stretching his legs against the grass. Jack watched the
inevitable tickle of grass and leg hair and the bulging curve of calf
muscle there.

`If you say that one more time,' Jack threatened ominously, and he took
a bite of the cupcake, the sickly sweet pink of the icing and the moist
beige of the sponge. When he looked up from it, Ben, on his side, was
laughing loudly, discretion forgotten. Jack furrowed his brows, annoyed
that his close pal would find anything entertaining in the biggest
dilemma of his career, pursuing ambition at a top club or staying on to
battle with his hometown... He was about to say something, snap back at
the smugly calm Leicester player, when Ben lifted up off his side and
leant over the picnic food towards him. He reached for Jack's face and
scooped a finger beside his mouth, lifting a wad of pink icing off his
beard and holding it up between them.

`You daft lad,' Chilwell murmured. Affectionately.

`Oh.' Jack wanted to burst out laughing too, at his misunderstanding,
but he could still feel the sensitive tingle of Ben's finger on his
beard. And sat there, hunched towards him, the 23-year-old was sliding
his finger into his mouth and sucking off the smear of sugary topping.

`Tasty.'

`Er, I'll tell my mom, so...'

`Wait.' As told, Jack sat very still, cross-legged like a buddha on the
flat grass. Ben leaned into him, resting one hand on one shoulder, and
then pulled their faces close. Jack felt himself tense up at what he knew
was coming, but then it didn't: no kiss, not on the lips anyway. Ben
held his mouth close and unfurled his broad tongue and ran it over the
tip of Jack's nose, then licked his lips. `Just a bit more icing,' he
explained, that cheeky look in his eyes. Jack realised he had been
holding his breath, let it out in a giddy sigh. They locked eyes.

Interruption: phone call. The generic dingaling of the iPhone. Both lads
pulled back a few inches and reached for pockets. Jack's palm closed
about his own device in the zip pocket of his top, calm and still. Ben
was pulling a phone from the tight rear of his denim shorts. `Oh shit,
my agent,' he chirped, and hopped up onto his feet. He only went a few
feet away to take the call, but he felt suddenly distant. The slow
mounting intimacy of the picnic seemed shattered now. Jack realised his
face was burning red. He yanked the tracksuit top off, down to his vest
to cool, and shuffled his arse cheeks round to look into the river,
instead of watching Ben pace back and forth and talk animatedly on the
phone.

He pulled a fist up to rub at his mouth, nose, chin. No more icing. Ben
had got it all. He glared at the half-eaten cupcake beside him, sugary
intruder making a fool of him on this... this... this... He couldn't use
the word `date', but he couldn't think of a better alternative. He
turned his head to look longingly at Ben. It just felt so good to see
him. Really comforting. So many phone conversations, but it wasn't
really the same. It had taken a lot of careful suggestions and coaxing on
both their parts to make today happen; whenever one of them brought it
up, the other seemed to get cautious and unsure. And then somehow,
they'd fixed a date. Date. There it was, although it had many meanings.
This was a date.

The conversation on the phone was short, but Jack's thoughts ran hot and
quick while he crouched there waiting. The sun was getting hotter against
his tanned arms, the back of his neck, the lengthy exposure of his folded
legs. The birdsong around them seemed loud enough to drown out the real
world, the nearby road; that was what was so great about this spot, it
was so entirely screened from anyone but waterfowl.

`Sorry,' said Ben in a slow singsong, returning to his side. `More
bartering -- seriously, you can tell these guys work for commission...!'
The left-back folded down onto his bare knees, staring at his phone
screen as if replaying the quick convo. `It's pretty much at terms and
conditions now...'

`So,' Jack said, `it's happening.'

Ben nodded distantly. `Looks that way. Chelsea, here I come...?' Again,
Jack felt distance, kinda felt he'd lost him. He hated Chilwell's agent
for calling him with the secretive update now. He knew from his own
current experience that this was a long, wearying process, probably there
was very little to say -- just another slick fucker in a suit earning his
%, or pretending to. He resented the twat for calling now, interrupting
them, pulling Ben's mind away from the picnic. He was staring at a
message or an email on his phone, looked entirely preoccupied, none of
the easy grace with which he'd emerged from the trees and greeted him,
not long ago. Jack scowled away at a nearby moorhen and picked up the
rest of the cupcake; they were messy, but they WERE good. He pushed it at
his mouth and ate it greedily. Comfort in sugar. After a minute, he
realised Ben was looking at him.

`Come on,' Chilwell said in a little murmur, `now you're just playing
with me.'

Jack paused, realising how quickly and messily he'd devoured the treat,
knowing he'd made the same dirty error and smeared his beard -- he
wasn't used to so much growth on his normally boyish face, so- His
thoughts were broken by the kiss. Ben leaning forward and coming at him
from an angle, holding the side of his neck gently while their lips
clashed. He melted into it, lifting both crumby hands up to grab the
thick lapels of that plaid shirt, tugging them down at him. Ben's tongue
slid into his mouths, more confident and assertive than the dim memory he
had of their gentle hidden kisses. He'd been so drunk then, he wished he
could remember every second of his visit to Ben's bedroom. He opened his
lips more, gasping into that warm wet mouth, giving in to the moment...
yep, he was on a date.



Ben broke the kiss with a little rush of satisfaction. He'd worried that
Jack might be less tacile, given that he was pissed as fuck when last
they did anything. He cradled his hand against that hairy jaw and
sniggered into his face. `You need a fucking shave, mate,' he giggle,
then kissed him again, roughly and on the lips.

He lounged backwards and pulled Grealish with him, enjoying the warm drag
of the lad's hands under his shirt and against his tshirt. Just like
last time, Jack was shifting his kisses against the rough stubble of his
cheeks and onto his neck. He pulled at the back of Jack's head with one
hand and slid the other down the back of that loose vest, stroking the
smooth warm muscle there. `Oh mate,' he moaned to the riverside, then
dragged Jack's face up so they could kiss properly again, mouth to
mouth, tongue to tongue.

It went on minute after minute. Every now and then, Ben would feel the
need to pull back, gasp and breathe properly, but then he would look at
Jack's deeply tanned face, his dark little eyes, and just need to snog
him again. Though it didn't quite suit him, Jack's little beard felt
quite pleasingly soft on his face, better than stubble anyway. He pulled
a hand under his vest and rubbed his knuckles up his tight little
six-pack, then back down, circling his thumb around the lad's waist
until he was reaching for a cheeky squeeze of bum. Oh, those tight
shorts, thank god for them.

`There's somewhere we can go,' Jack muttered suddenly, breathy and
close.

`Oh yeah?' Ben said with a smirk. `Somewhere better than this?'

A nervous little scoff and a laugh. `We're out by a river,' Jack
protested, `we can't-`

`I was kidding,' Ben said, pulling his strong shoulders up to kiss
again. He rolled over a bit and realised how much they'd squashed and
scattered the picnic food. Oops. But it didn't matter. His cock was
stirring in the tight prison of his denim shorts. He squeezed one of
Jack's cheeks again, reached around and fond his sizeable bulge, cupping
and squeezing it. `But I don't really care about much other than
kissing you right now, Captain Jack.'

`There's a barn, not far,' Grealish whispered.

`Sounds perfect.' Ben could feel him tremble a bit, see the anxiety in
his eyes. He pulled upwards, back onto his knees, cuddling Jack's body
to his food-smeared shirt, which he began to shrug from his shoulders,
shedding it to the grass. `Hey,' he said, slipping an arm about Jack's
waist, `let's not rush anything.' He nuzzled quietly in, not properly
kissing but just letting their noses and cheeks rub and their foreheads
rest together. `We can just kiss, or whatever.'

`No,' Jack said hotly. `Not just that.'

`You sure?' Ben demanded caringly. He looked at him seriously. `I know
last time we tried to... er, you know, go quite far, but you were pretty
wasted, buddy, and...'

`I wanna try it again,' Grealish hissed. He looked ashamed, which was
sad, but his ashamed face was a really fucking cute face. Ben kissed it,
on the cheek, then the lips, rubbed the tips of their noses and then
pulled away. `If you would still wanna do it,' the Villa player
whispered uncertainly.

`You can fuck me, if you want,' Ben offered. `That's fine, you know.
I can take it. I... well, I've been fucked a few times this year, you
see, so...'

Jack shook his head. `I want you to take me,' he murmured. He was stone
cold sober now, but he was saying it with the same furtive desperation as
Ben had heard it before, sprawled near-naked in his bed in the middle of
the night, stinking of booze and aftershave. It was a moment Chilwell had
given a lot of excited thought to, usually when having a wank, but had
slowly convinced himself might not be repeated. He had to stop himself
ripping Jack's shorts down right now. Instead, he just stood slowly and
dragged his mate up with him.

`Where's this barn?' he asked, playfully impatient. `Come on, Jack.'

They scooped up their things in a rush. Grealish shoved unfinished food
into his rucksack with no worry for mess. Ben discarded his grass- and
food-stained shirt into his, tossed his barely touched baguette into the
river. Soon they were hurrying further upstream, following the path where
it veered away from the water and inland, between the trees. Beneath that
cover, Ben reached ahead and grabbed Jack by the hand again, squeezing
it, pulling him to sporadic halts so he could plant kisses on his neck
and cheek. Grealish just murmured greedily at these, then hurried on,
dragging and chuckling weakly. Ahead, Ben could see the trees come to a
stop and a rickety old wooden structure rise up ahead of the fields. It
was clearly disused, though he felt a second's hesitation at it: it
looked like it would collapse on them at the slightest reason!

`Ben,' muttered Jack, this time initiating the pause in their quick
walk, `I need to tell you stuff.'

Chilwell held his bag-strap with one hand and slid the other about
Jack's slim waist. They were close in height and he was about a year
younger, but he was broader and heavier in build, and Jack seemed to
become so boyish and gentle with him. `What is it?' the Leicester
defender asked with gruff affection. `What's wrong? I told you, we can
go real slow, we can just go back and finish the grub if you-`

`I was such a twat to you, turning up like that,' Jack began,
apologetic eyes, `I should never have broken lockdown and risked you
with...'

`It doesn't matter, it was fine,' Ben told him soothingly.

`I've been so confused,' Grealish admitted.

`Haven't we all...? It doesn't matter, we're good...'

`I fucked McGinn, twice,' Jack burst out. `With other guys. I sucked
off two lads at City when we lost to them, let Tyrone play a bit with my
hole, and...' It was all rushing out. `I had Danny Drinkwater lick my
arse so that I'd put a good word in for him, I er, I've seen John Terry
go and-`

`Mate,' Ben laughed, struggling to follow this rush of secret
information, `why are you telling me any of this?' He squeezed his
waist more, kissed him once on the lips. `What do these guys have to do
with anything? It's just us two here, yeah, so let's just...'

Jack pulled back, almost falling into a twisted tree trunk at the fringe
of the wooded riverside. He looked weirdly anguished and it stabbed at
Ben a bit to see his pal so conflicted, just like when he'd rolled up on
his drunken lockdown mission. He stepped after him and held both his
hands in his, giving him a look of stern hopefulness. `Jacko,' he
whispered.

`I've just been so mixed up -- I didn't expect any of this. I thought
I could just... dick about, throw myself around, captain fantastic -- I
thought I could use lads, just find a bit of no-strings fun and it'd all
be cool, but...' He looked up; was that the sparkle of dears in his
chestnut brown eyes? Ben pulled in closer, shifting hands to his hips and
holding him in place. `I didn't expect to have these fucking feelings
for you,' sniffed Grealish. `I didn't know it would be like this. And
then... and then all I've gone and done is... throw my cock around and...
let guys do stuff, and...' Those were definitely tears. To shut up his
sniffling, Ben kissed him roughly on the lips, almost biting.

`Jack,' he said, quiet and tough. `Do you think I give a shit?'

Not quite getting the point, Grealish squinted at him. `But...?'

`You think I give a shit about what you've done, who you've touched,
what you did for kicks?' Chilwell felt a little like he was hearing his
own thoughts for the first time, he'd been so careful with what he dared
to hope for. `I don't give a shit who you sucked off, where you put
your beautiful nob, you bell-end.' He slid one hand up the front of that
vest, a little stroke at the hardness of Jack's wiry torso, then up to
his neck and against the furry jut of his jaw. `I only care about you,
boyo. That's all. None of that stuff matters. You can do what you want,
nobody owns you. I just want you to be okay and to be happy. And to be...
you know. With me.' Ben stared hard at him and they remained just like
that, pressed against the tree, fingers playing against the fabric of
each other's clothes, breathing suddenly seeming deafeningly loud
against the quiet countryside.

Ben took a deep breath. `You wanna know about me?' he asked. `I'm no
less confused than you, G. For real. You think I knew what I was doing
when I came up to Birmingham and put my tongue in your bum? Fuck no!
We're both just figuring things out, but... We both know there's summat
here, yeah?' He pulled Jack's hand against his own chest, the firm
chunkiness of one pec. `We can tell each other everything, bit by bit.
No secrets, if that helps. I've nothing to hide from you.'



Jack led the way into the barn, pulling Ben along a little. His own palm
felt sweaty against Ben's, but he gripped on tight. In the moment, he
felt like if he let go, this beautiful moment would crash away. It was
too good to be true, too sweet and right. He was rescuing Persephone from
the underworld and if he looked back, she'd be gone. He looked back. Ben
grinned at him, a foolhardy and bold grin, the same one Premiership
attackers saw before a crunching tackle ended their run.

Inside the barn was dark but their eyes adjusted quickly. Jack unhooked
his backpack from his shoulders and tossed it against the nearest wall,
where the strewn hay and plant life collected into soft drifts. Then Ben
was upon him, grabbing and pulling at his vest and chuckling that deep
laugh. Jack allowed himself to be pulled around then asserted some
control, tugging up and up on Chilwell's tshirt until he'd stripped it
away and his hands on that body. There was always something surprising
about the dense, well-defined muscles of Ben's torso, casually hidden
beneath footy kits and baggy designer gear. Jack would have loved to pile
on a bit of weight and get so ripped, but he knew it would ruin his
speed. But Ben's muscles felt so good beneath his hands, and his touch
was making the younger lad growl in pleasure. He found and tweaked his
hard dark nipples, felt the Leicester defender shiver a bit.

Jack was stumbling backwards and Ben pushed him a bit, not too roughly;
his arse was on the soft drift of vegetation, his back sprawling up it
until his head and shoulders knocked gently at the old brickwork. His
hair would be full of leaves and straw, haha. He couldn't give a fuck.
Ben was tugging his tight little shorts down, the ones he'd picked out
deliberately, hoping they might catch Chilwell's eye; down they came,
revealing his black Hugo Boss undies, the thick obvious angle of his
hard-on prominent in the front. They came down too, pulled to his ankles
by Ben, who immediately took hold of his rigid nob and stroked some life
into it. Jack looked at the shirtless hunk over him, watching as he eased
his hand up to the base and back down over the tip.

`Do you remember when I first touched it?' Chilwell was asking,
demanding and excited. `You remember me licking it a bit, how freaked
you were...?'

`I was so scared,' Jack admitted.

`You scared now?'

`No. No, just really... horny!'

It was a blowjob like nothing Jack had experienced. Poor McGinn, he
thought, didn't have a clue what he was doing, not compared to this. Or
was it more about who was doing the sucking? Ben's tongue felt like an
enormous muscle, specially trained to pleasure just him. His bristly
cheeks felt good on Jack's inner thighs and the trimmed lawn of his
pubes. Those lips just felt full and wet, like only a whole lotta botox
could do for a girl. In this silent, isolated barn, disused and peaceful,
he let out rapturous groans that echoed up to the rafters above.

`That's good?' Ben asked victoriously, slurping off him and wanking
instead.

`So good,' Jack assured him, `just SO good...'

Ben was back down against his cock, licking it and tonguing his balls.
Even when he stopped this, moved up to kiss Jack's naval, lifting his
vest to expose his thinly defined abs, it felt as good as a blowjob.
Chilwell's kisses were shudderingly tender in here, even more than out
in the bright sunshine and nature. `Let's get that vest off you,' he
was laughing, and Jack agreed. He clambered up and grabbed at Ben's
thickened upper arms for help. They staggered further into the barn, Jack
pulling at his lower legs, wrenching his socks and trainers up through
the shed shorts, while his vest was pulled up and off him. Now he was
naked but for his footwear, following Ben into the cool shadows and
deeper beds of crushed haybale.

He caught hold of Ben and wrestled with the button fly of those denim
shorts, impossibly tight and containing on his perfect compact buttocks
and thick thighs. He got them open, interrupted frequently in his efforts
by kisses, Ben's lips tasting a little salty with his own precum. But
then Ben was helping, pushing down his own shorts and briefs, joining him
in this socked/trainered nakedness, pulling their firm bodies together.

The two young Premiership stars collapsed against each other into the
rise and fall of the barn floor, between beams and rafters. It was much
cooler in here, but their body heats did everything. Scraps of dead
plants clung to the softly tanned skin and smooth muscles, and caught in
their overlong hair. Unnoticed.

Jack found himself flat on his back, trembling at what he knew he wanted
but was still scared to try. Last time, he thought, even Ben had looked
scared to try it. He was just so well-hung, that was the thing; massive
down there, really. Bulging Ben, he'd heard they called him, and it
hardly did him justice. But he'd almost took it, completely drunk and
deranged with lockdown loneliness; only just about, he wasn't really
sure how far it had gone. Would he manage it now? Ben seemed to read his
fear. `I have lube,' he whispered, and disappeared momentarily from
sight.

When he was back, he hung over Jack, his handsome features and draping
hair silhouetted against the soft brown shadows above. His fingers were
slippy with Vaseline or similar as he jerked Jack's thick, average
length erection, fumbled at his bollocks, tickled at his gooch. Jack kept
waiting for his fingers to explore further, to go between the rock-hard
muscle of his cheeks, but no -- Ben was true to his word, he was taking
things so slowly. Jack stretched out his arms to the sides, relaxing his
shoulders and back into the soft but uneven bedding. He began to tense
and part his footballer's thighs, anticipating- No, this wasn't what
he'd expected -- Ben was moving forward a bit, hovering over him but
closer, his firm pecs in eyeline, nipples like bullets, six-pack like a
little mountain range, and...

The feel of it was gorgeous, pure pleasure. Ben's body was rising up
over him in a more straight line, and he was so dizzied by the angle that
he took several ecstatic moments to connect the two: the tight, intense
pleasure on his cock and the shifting of Ben's body. Chilwell was slowly
sitting on his rod, squatting over his crotch. He had rested his hands on
Jack's own chest, tweaking and thumbing his nipples. Then, grinning
madly, he began to bob gently, his hair flopping. That was Ben's tight
but confident arsehole he could feel gripping his meat, shifting and
grinding over it. And all Jack could do was lie there, not even making a
noise now, just the silent gasping motions of what felt like a scream!

`Fair's fair,' Ben muttered hoarsely, `but don't worry... you'll get
yours.' There were slight twitches to that determined expression;
Chilwell was not so experienced or accomplished that this wasn't
uncomfortable for him, but he took it, riding Grealish like a pro. Jack
worried that he might explode inside him, which might be too much, and
that it might stop him letting his lad top him. He struggled to stammer
out a warning but his expressions were maybe enough. After long minutes
of this heaven, Ben began to lift off him -- even that felt incredible --
and lean fully forward to snog him instead. Their hard dicks brushed like
crossed swords.



Chilwell felt the vague throb in his hole but it had been worth it, even
with minimal lube; it was just what he'd needed to relax this sexy bag
of nerves crawling against him. Jack was an aggressive little fucker,
barely able to register how much he wanted this to be inverted -- Ben was
no psychologist but he could see and understand it. By giving up his own
hole, broken in over those early months of the year by Jamie Vardy, he'd
won something here, and was ready to go for what they both really wanted.

No words, just panting, he pulled up on Jack, cuddling and kissing him,
then flipping him like a pancake. Jack was wiry and tightly muscled, but
light enough, and more than compliant. Soon he was on hands and knees,
doggy-style, and Ben was digging about him for the little tube of
lubricant. Found it. Fresh spurt on fingers. Fingers between Jack's arse
cheeks, so oddly smooth compared to his thighs. The dark crack between
those tanned cheeks. The quiver of that demi-vierge hole.

`Ben,' moaned Jack.

`Tell me if it hurts too much,' he insisted.

`Just fuck me,' Grealish begged.

`You know I'm big-`

`Just do it!'

Well, they were both wearing Nike socks. Ben pressed forward, slicking
more lube in between those pink-brown globes, then some on his long thick
erection, the tool he'd proudly compared with might Harry Maguire's. He
really wasn't sure this would work, but his fingers were really
beginning to work at Jack's tight little rosebud. The pained quality to
Jack's moans faded. He was so horn and lusty right now, absolutely
begging for it. `Fuck me hard,' Grealish whimpered into the back of one
of his arms.

Chilwell was strong and confident enough to know that there was a middle
ground here; Jack simply wasn't ready for the wild ragging he begged
for. But if Ben was as careful as he wanted to be, they'd get nowhere.
So he aimed for somewhere in between. The real wild buckaroo that this
sexy Brummie cunt wanted would happen eventually, but he'd need breaking
in first. Ben's cock began that, breaking between the cheeks, the fat
head pressing against that twitching entrance. He placed his greasy hands
on the middle of his back and shifted his own thighs forward to give him
more strength. Jack made a pained howl then contradicted himself, `OH
YES, FUCK ME BEN, FUCK ME!'

The loudness in here was amazing. The echo, the freedom. The sense of
trespass without actual fear. They were both so lost in the moment that
any old farmer could have wandered in, to be fair, but Ben trusted
Jack's local knowledge, his reccy of the area. And with that trust, he
inched his cock forward, teasing his way inside him. He remembered this,
remembered this resistance, trying to fuck Jack in his own bed at his
parents' place. Jack was still the only guy he'd tried to mount, with
Jamie he'd only ever been on the other end -- and Vardy's cock was
about half the dimensions of his!

`Say when I need to stop,' Chilwell asked.

`Never stop,' grunted Jack.

`I love you, buddy.'

`I love you so much.'

It felt laddish and rough rather than romantic, but Ben knew there was
meaning beneath both of their panting there. He felt his cock force its
way inside, felt that tiny loosening of acceptance from his lad's body.
He began to pull back gently then ride forward, fucking Jack with about
half of his dick maximum. Slow, easy strokes, each one prodding into the
Villa winger and earning yelps and squeals of pleasure. Ben let his hands
moved around his sweaty back then over his sides to stroke his tummy, to
find his nipples, to poke at his naval. Then down to his cock: wanking it
and stroking his balls, all slippy with lube, as he nudged his cock a
tiny bit deeper with every stroke.



Jack's arse was on fire but he had never felt so wanted, no needed, in
all his life, in any sexual encounter. He rested his face in the rough
mess of bedding, arms folded and bearing his weight, shoulders hunched
tight. His knees dug deeper into the soft fuzz and parted a little with
each slow powerful thrust from behind. His cock throbbed to Ben's touch
and he knew he would soon release. `Oh... Ben... oh baby... yess... oh god...
oh MORE...' Every time he thought his arse was full and could take no
more, this machine behind him seemed to go deeper.

`I'm gonna cum,' he heard Chilwell growl, `where shall I...?'

`Inside me,' Jack insisted. `Cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Please.'

`Fuck...! Okay...!'

Ben was going harder now, both hands on his lower back, so Jack reached
one arm under his body to play with himself. His cock needed the
attention and it helped to keep his arsehole a tiny bit more relaxed
against the force of it. He came in seconds, sputtering cum onto the
strands of grass and hay and whitened leaves tangled beneath their
bodies. His orgasm seemed to last for minutes, waves of pleasure up and
down his cock even when the last fleck of his seed had soaked into the
matted drift below. Then he could hear Ben's peak, his growling yell,
his almost painful gasps. And he could feel it, inside him. An indistinct
wetness that meant he really belonged to this beautiful man.

Chilwell thrust slowly on a few more times and Jack's arse felt more
sore than when the fucking had began. He tried not to show it in his
whimpering groans, but there was a strange relief as Ben pulled out and
he felt his hole recover. He remained in position while Ben rubbed and
patted at his back and his buttocks and kissed somewhere near the bottom
of his spine. Then those strong arms were about his waist and moving
upwards. Jack rose on his knees and slid back against Ben's body,
half-turning. `I'm okay,' he assured, seeing the panicky look on
Chilly's face.

`You're sure? You're sure I didn't hurt you?' Ben was kissing his
neck, licking it.

`Just hold me?' It sounded pathetic, perhaps, but it was all he wanted
(needed?), and Ben obliged. They fell more than moved, just allowing
their satisfied bodies to roll down the rise of vegetation and onto
harder floor. Jack found himself big spoon, clinging onto Ben's broader
chest and lifting one clammy leg over his, their meaty thighs connecting.
His dick squashed limp and sticky somewhere above Ben's right buttock.

Then, echoing through the barn with an alarming sense of the outside
world invading, came the phone call. Generic iPhone dingaling. After a
short private heart attack each, the men squeezed closer together and
laughed. Jack chuckled deeply into the firmness of Ben's right shoulder.
`Yours or mine?' he asked. `Who knows...'

`Who fucking cares,' Ben responded happily, but then after a pause,
`it could be either of our agents. I don't mind if you want to check.'

`Erm... I don't, really... unless you do?'

`No. Not at all. I don't wanna move from here.'

`Me neither. But if it's Chelsea for you, then...'

`And if it's United for you!'

`I don't care. Fuck United. Fuck them all. I just want you.'

The ringing stopped as if on cue. The men hugged each other contentedly.
They parted a little from the tight, sweaty spoon, backs to the floor and
Ben's arm curling beneath Jack's neck in a little half-cuddle. As one,
they stared up into the rafters and shadows of the roof, their bodies
numb against the prickles and scratches of the barn floor.

`Ben, tell me what to do,' Jack whispered. `About the transfer.'

`You know I can't do that,' Ben told him gently. `I won't tell you
what to do. You have to decide. If you want to stick it out at Villa, you
can. You know how much everyone will respect you for it. You have so much
there. But if you want a change, then you should go for it, you'll be
great anywhere. I'm sorry, baby. I won't make this call for you.'

Jack nodded, silent but understanding. `I think I'm scared. Of the new.
I love that at Villa, I'm like... I'm top dog, I guess? And I'm loved,
really loved. Being somewhere new, new guys, new fans... It'll be so
fucking scary, Ben.'

`At United?' There was a wistful, musing chuckle in Chilwell's voice.
`I have a friend there who'll look after you, I think. You don't need
to worry. And if I got to Chelsea...' Jack turned his head to look at
him, but Ben didn't seem to dare meeting it, still staring up. `We'll
be far apart,' Chilwell said knowingly, `so I won't expect you to...'

`I'd wait for you anywhere,' Grealish insisted. `I wouldn't touch
anybody.'

`I told you,' Ben murmured, `I really don't care. All I want is you
to be safe and happy. But if you... if you meant what you... said, before,
then...'

Now, Ben did look at him. They lay close side by side and turned their
worried eyes at one another, sharing the moments of discovery. `I love
you, buddy,' Ben Chilwell repeated, sweat dripping from a loose strand
of hair that curled over one eye.

`I love you so much,' Jack returned, a cool draught tickling his leg
hair and shuddering up his body. This time, he could hear them say it so
clearly, and he could see Ben say it with his eyes too. They both meant
it, and he felt pretty sure then: nothing else mattered.



They walked back through the woods quietly, not quite holding hands but
letting their fingers brush occasionally and shooting each other
meaningful little looks and grins of secret closeness. They both slowed
to notice the flattened grass and lingering crumbs that signalled their
picnic and its climactic snog, then moved on down the narrow river path
and onto the slope towards the main road. Just before they neared the
layby, Jack grabbed and kissed Ben, more assertive and confident than the
nervous wreck who had waited here for his `friend'. Ben returned it
passionately and they took their time to say goodbye here in the shadows,
reluctantly separating to walk out into the sun and their separate cars,
to drive in opposite directions, to play for different teams. But once in
the drivers' seats, they shared a last look via rear-view mirrors, and
grinned in the knowledge that this could be their little spot, whenever
they needed it...



**120 FEELS LIKE ANOTHER MILESTONE, BUT I'M NOT SURE WHY... THANK YOU FOR
READING, HOPE THE STORIES ARE GETTING YOU EXCITED FOR THE SEASON TO
RE-START NEXT WEEK. I'M SURE IT WILL HAVE ALL THE GUYS RARING TO GO AND
FULL OF ENERGY... ;) LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE!**