Date: Sun, 29 Dec 2019 22:28:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 16: Jack the Lad

Part Sixteen: Jack the Lad


Ben Chilwell pulled the visor of his American baseball cap down low and
hugged his big thick jacket about him, an easy touch of anonymity as he
made his way through the crowded spaces of Birmingham New Street station on
his first Sunday off in ages. It was a chance for the Leicester lads to
recover from the intense Christmas week, and the freedom from both family
commitment and professional life felt incredibly liberating to the
23-year-old, who'd barely been able to celebrate his own birthday amongst
all the festive madness. And so here he was, intending to spend one of the
final days of 2019 with one of his closest mates.

Jack Grealish was in the same `uniform' of low-profile backgrounding, a
beanie pulled low and the collar of his coat turned up to `disappear' as
effectively as was possible for Premiership footballers in the
post-Christmas retail crowds. But he was easily spotted by Ben, picking his
way through the station, since the two lads had exchanged joking selfies of
their `disguises' whilst Chilwell travelled the short train journey into
town. The two greeted, as always, with an immediate tight hug, no shyness
between them after a good few years' friendship.

`Chilly,' the local Brummie lad cooed excitedly, `the birthday fucking
boy.'

`Jack the Lad,' returned Ben eagerly, squeezing his slighter pal tightly,
then letting go. `Great to see you, matey, merry Christmas and all that
shite.'

A quiet pint in a nearby pub was top of the two lads' agenda. The two had
bonded whilst playing in the England Under 21s not too long ago, though Ben
had made the jump to the senior team last year unlike Jack, who had spent
much of his younger years using his Irish claim instead. The two didn't get
to see each other often but when they did, it always as if they went back
much further, like old school pals or something. Those formative trips in
the Young Lions had been a bonding time for the pair.

There was a bit of chat about their teams' recent highs and lows, both lads
typically passionate about the sport and league, but there was an odd new
dynamic for them since Aston Villa's promotion. It had only been in the
last few months that the friends were actual rivals in the same league, and
they'd found it an amusing challenge facing each other for the first time
at the start of this month. Whilst Ben was on a high from Leicester's win
yesterday, Jack was clearly a little but sullen at his own side's defeat.

`I'm hearing quite a few transfer rumours about you, pal,' Ben said after
they'd got a second round in. The beers were tasting great, but both
athletic young blokes knew this was probably their limit on a Sunday, with
intense training schedules waiting for them both tomorrow morning. Ben was
aching from the last few tough games himself, and he suspected Grealish
would be feeling it too.

`Oh, ignore them,' Jack said vaguely. `My agent is always in talks with
someone, mate. You know I love it at Villa. Been a true fan of them my
whole life, haven't I.'

`Yeah but... big fish, little pond,' Ben quipped playfully. `I know what
you mean though. My agent has been on to me about a few offers too.' He saw
Jack's surprised expression and shrugged. `I can't say anything yet. I
don't know. Leicester has been fucking good to me. Great crowd. Even since
my mate big Harry left.'

Jack nodded his understanding. They both took long slow sips on their pints
and, almost in sync, wiped away froth moustaches, then laughed at one
another. Like brothers, they always liked to joke, so close and similar
were they.

`Been banging the hottest model lately,' Jack said suddenly. A bit of dirty
talk on their antics had always been there in the pair's banter, as two
very good-looking-and-they-knew-it lads hitting their prime together in
England shirts on the Under 21s team. Ben was a lot more cautious and
polite in how he covered such matters, but he enjoyed Jack's laddish
frankness.

`Oh yeh?' he said, raising an eyebrow. `Anyone I'd have heard of?'

`Nah, doubt it,' Jack said dismissively. `But fucking lovely tits. She's a
French lass. Don't think it'll get serious, but I'm seeing her again soon
hopefully.' He grinned like a wicked imp and drank more beer. `How about
you, chief?'

Ben's nervous grin at this gave something away, surely. He couldn't help
but smile, thinking about how erm, interesting things had become for him of
late. Actually, it was unlike him not to have some good pussy stories for
Grealish around this time of year, but in reality his only action in the
past few weeks had happened with Harry and Jamie, which was funny and
sleazy and embarrassing all at once. He looked at Jack's curious impish
features, and just shrugged. The other lad laughed and Chilwell knew such
vagueness was not going to stand.

`What does that mean?' Grealish demanded playfully, taking another swig.

`This and that!' Ben said evasively. `Busy time of year.'

`What are you hiding, Chilly?' Jack chuckled thoughtfully, stroking his
thin goatee.

`Nothing, nothing,' Ben told him clumsily, sitting back a bit and glancing
about the quiet old man pub they frequented on these meet-ups, where they
seemed to go very much unrecognised in their generic, laddish
streetwear. He looked back at Jack, and his arched brows, and gave it some
thought. Of course he'd considered a bit of openness: as soon as Jacko had
texted him to organise this quick meet, in fact even before that, he'd
wondered what he could share with Grealish. They had this track record of
sharing dirty exploits, and comparing success rates, and generally being a
filthy pair of shaggers, and yet... This was obviously different. It had
been a real shock for Ben to find big Harry so weirdly experimental, and
then for Vardy to have been so open-minded in his behaviour, but he could
hardly take that as a guarantee his good mate would be quite so casual! He
could easily imagine the Irish Catholic lad reacting VERY differently.

`You are being a real secretive fuck, aren't ya!' Jack exclaimed in a stage
whisper, giving him a punch in the arm. `Come on. We're in the most
discreet corner of the most discreet pub in the centre of Birmingham, for
fuck's sake.'

Okay, okay, thought Ben. A bit of truth was okay. And there was one thing
playing on his mind more than everything else anyway, that would be good
to... discuss. `Well,' he said, slowly, `there's nobody special at the
moment, no supermodel of mine to show off against yours! I've had a tiny
bit of action though, just a couple of... slags.'

Jack nodded eagerly, as he often did when these chats got going. There was
something very similar about him to Vardy, now Ben thought about it. A
self-confident streak of sexual awareness that burned in their eyes, as if
they were constantly on the lookout, and evaluating every female that
passed them. And in Vardy's case, Ben now thought, perhaps not just every
female?

`And I did have quite a freaky night with one of them, the other night,'
Ben said, after an uncertain pause, waving his hands about in a gesture of
bewilderment. `Got up to some... new stuff.'

`New stuff,' Grealish almost cackled. `What the fuck does that mean? What
"new stuff" do you discover at 23, birthday boy? Fuck, I meant to bring you
a present. Sorry pal. I'll get lunch.'

Ben grinned and blushed and accepted the offer and hesitated to take the
topic any further, but he could tell by Jack's face that more detail was
demanded. He leaned in, across the small wooden table in the shady corner,
and put it into words. `You ever been rimmed, Jacko?' he asked in a curious
murmur. Jack, as he half-expected, looked startled, and jerked his head
back for a moment before any response.

`Does that mean what I think it means?' the Villa player hissed back
uncertainly.

`Er, depends what you think it means, I guess!' Ben laughed cautiously. Was
he going to regret admitting this, even as a half-truth?! He tried to
measure Jack's reaction, which looked somewhere between disgust and
intrigue, as he might have guessed, and distracted himself with a long gulp
of beer, almost spilling it down his dark green hoody as he did. He
shuffled in his seat, giggled nervously, and fiddled with his baseball cap
for a moment.

`Well that is new,' Jack conceded, after a pause. `If it's what I think it
is. You dirty bugger. How the fuck did that come about?'

`Oh she just did it,' Ben half-lied, at least in pronoun terms. `I mean, it
was just a quick sesh back at mine, I'd met her... er, out for a drink with
Vardy.' Again, there was just about enough truth in that sentence, right?
`You look horrified. Sorry!'

`No, no, we always share,' Jack laughed back, scratching his neck with
visible discomfort. `I'm just... Well. I guess I'm impressed,' he said,
though he didn't sound convinced by his own words. The admission seemed to
have derailed his own sexual boasting about this model he was getting with,
and he looked on the verge of a dozen questions.

Ben was enjoying it a bit, feeling some surge of superiority. He was a year
and a bit younger than Jack, a difference which had seemed to matter more
when they became friends at 18 and 19, and he'd always felt more or less
the vanilla one, the prude, the less assured player, in their little
private league of fucking around and scoring with increasingly hot
women. In the past, he'd been amazed by Jack's luck with hot older ladies,
for example, or some of the bizarrely public places Grealish had got his
dick wet: now, he seemed to have the upper hand. He'd done something new
and actually kinda freaked the other lad out with it, which... sounded
weird, but felt like something of an achievement now they were sat here
face to face.

`Well then,' Jack muttered. `How was it?'

This was the tricky bit, in a way. But honesty had to prevail. `It was
really fucking good,' Ben confessed very quietly. `Mate, I can't even
describe... Like such a weird new pleasure, but... God, she had some skills
back there. Hah. You got to try it, Jacko. Seriously.'

Grealish gave a slow nod, and let out a little whistle. `Perhaps. You dirty
freak.' He raised his half-empty glass. `Well, cheers to your adventures,
Chilly, you bloody legend.' They both burst out laughing, and clinked their
glasses with grins on their faces: Ben's one of smug pride, Jack's one of
confused judgement or envy, it was hard to say.

They were disturbed a minute later by an elderly gentleman at the bar
recognising first Jack, and then Ben, and there was a quick round of
greetings and selfies for grandsons, and they took it as a strong cue to
move on. Both felt but didn't express their gratitude that the
celeb-spotting hadn't happened just a minute earlier, though their chat had
hardly got graphic. They headed on to a small expensive restaurant Jack
knew, nothing fancy, but somewhere they could feel less bothered, and ate a
small lunch with sporadic chat, asking after mutual friends and each
other's family and generally keeping it clean after the conversational
detour in the pub.

It was only towards the end of the afternoon, as they strolled down a
canalside path, vaguely on the way back to the station for Ben, that Jack
brought the topic back up.

`So rimming,' he said in a low, almost academic voice, `is when someone
like... tongues your arsehole, right?'

Ben gave him a grin at the topic change and nodded his head, sticking his
hands in his coat pockets and traipsing along the path. `Yeah. Spot on. I
know it sounds fucking weird, but...'

`I've heard some lads talk about doing it,' Jack continued thoughtfully,
`you know – like before they do anal – but I've never heard anyone
mention... like... receiving it.' He gave Ben a really quizzical look that
again was hard to read.

`Well, I dunno, maybe anyone who has is too embarrassed,' Chilwell
commented. `Maybe they don't have an open-minded mate like you that they
can compare notes with, eh? Hah!'

Jack chuckled at this. `Fair point,' he added with a shrug. `But... Mate,
that is some kinky stuff. I can't believe you banged a bird who would do
that to you.'

`She's a real dirty sort,' Ben said accurately, picturing the drunken look
on Vardy's face as they lolled about on that sofa-bed, `celebrating' his
birthday late in the night. `You really ought to try it.'

`And would you do it to a girl, you reckon?' Jack asked him then. They
looked at each other, both a bit hesitant, turning the corner down the
quiet canal path, the busier station area opening up ahead of them, and
Chilwell's journey back to Leicester awaiting. `I know in theory it isn't
THAT different to eating out cunt,' Jack said quietly, `but still... it IS,
you know?'

`Sure,' Ben murmured, `but...' He settled on immature humour, what had
always connected them. `Any hole is still a goal though, hey?' He laughed,
and Jack laughed too, and he realised they were both blushing. `I guess
what I'm saying,' Ben concluded, `is yeah... I would try it. I mean... I've
never fucked a girl in the arse, after all. I'm not as experienced as you.'
It was partly compliment, partly humble-brag: this had always been true,
until now. Jack's experiences taking girls from behind, and describing it
to him in detail, had been a cornerstone of the Villa star's sexual prowess
between them. It wasn't a position Ben had achieved with any of his lovers.

`God, you've got my mind going mad,' Jack admitted, flustered.

`Sorry, pal...'

`No, no. Don't be sorry. It's cool, like I said. I really am impressed. I'm
just... curious, now! I guess.'

`That's fair,' Ben told him, trying not to sound patronising. `I'm sure
you'll talk some dirty bitch into giving you a try with it, though, if you
want it! And hey, next time we chat, we can compare it: you might have
tried getting rimmed, and I might have tried rimming. Eh? Haha.' They both
laughed at this open filth between them, and shook their heads in
disbelief. Imagine if somebody overheard. They hovered about at the
junction. Ben's departure suddenly seemed so ill-timed and the afternoon
had disappeared away too quickly.

`Well, so long as the two aren't the same thing, haha!' Grealish said,
rolling his eyes and checking the time on his expensive rolex.

Ben laughed, but he stared thoughtfully at his old international squad pal,
and pictured Grealish in his kit. The slightly older lad was fairly short
and slight in build, but his developed muscles bulged in his limbs in a way
that revealed his power, and he really was a handsome fucking thing. Ben's
grin lingered on his lips but his laughter faded as Jack caught his
expression and gave him a tense look.

`Hah, that would be a bit much,' Ben muttered jokily, `I know we're close,
but...'

`It was a joke,' Jack instantly protested, `I defo wasn't suggesting...'

`You sure?' Ben prodded playfully. `You seem so fucking jealous of what
I've been up to, like you can hardly wait to try it!'

`I'm not so hard-pressed for fanny round here that I need one of my best
mates helping me out,' Jack groaned, colour flushing in his cute cheeks,
shaking his head again, and looking totally flustered as he had when Ben
first revealed his antics. `And I'm sure you wanna try this stupid stuff
out on a GIRL'S booty, not... not... mine...'

`Well you do have a nice one,' Ben joked instantly, letting out a laddish
chuckle and patting his friend on the upper back safely. `Like I said... a
hole is a goal. Haha.'

Jack squinted at him, shivering a bit in the cold twilight. `I WAS
kidding,' he repeated.

`Yeah, yeah, I know,' Ben assured him. `Just seems like a convenient
solution, in a way!' Jack stared at him, clearly trying to work out how far
this last comment was just another laddish joke, or even weighing up the
possibility himself. `Two birds, one stone,' Ben said through his laughter,
letting his ambiguous teasing settle in the air between them.

`You're a mad one, you,' Jack grumbled. `I better let you catch your
train.'

Ben nodded regretfully. From the comment, it sounded final, silly
conversation over. But he watched Grealish's blazing red cheeks, his shifty
eyes, and he knew a seed had been planted. He glanced back down the path,
where it joined the more crowded street, and beyond it, he could see the
very busy station entrances waiting for him. But what was the hurry,
really? He turned back to Jack, gave him a friendly smile. `You okay, pal?'
he said quietly.

`Of course I am,' Grealish snapped at him. Then, still harsh in tone, `You
were fucking kidding there, right?'

`I don't even know,' Ben said with full honesty. `Just thinking aloud. I
mean, we both wanna try new things. I know there ain't another bloke in my
life I'd be this honest with, about what dodgy stuff I've been trying out,
that's for sure!' He gave Jack an affectionate smirk, and shrugged his
shoulders at him. `Like you said, though. I should go catch my train. It's
been fucking cool hanging out, bro, I wish we could see each other more
often. Perhaps we need our useless fucking agents to start talking to the
same club, haha?'

Jack didn't say anything, just glowered at him, deep in thought. Ben
lingered there. Was he really pushing for this to happen? Was this a
fucking terrible idea? Did he even really WANT to try this...? He let out a
nervous, squeaky giggle, and they both went to speak, then stopped, then
laughed a bit, then looked at one another.

`There's a taxi rank over there,' Ben said, trying to sound calm and
assured. `Wouldn't be far to your place from here, I guess?'

Still no clear response from Jack, not for a long moment or two. `Come on,'
he said, finally, `I'll hail one down.' And no more than that, nothing more
explicit or affirmative. But the two mates were strolling on down the path
at some pace, and mounting the steps onto street level and pacing through
the crowded taxi rank. Ben felt like he might explode with excitement. He
caught Jack's eye again, for a moment, as the local lad hailed their
cab. Nothing was said, but the two footballers gave one another an intense,
anxious look, and then broke the gaze. Into the taxi.



Grealish lived in converted warehouse not far away through the sprawling
city, though the taxi journey felt awkwardly long in the weekend
traffic. The taxi driver recognised them instantly and tried to get chat
going, but neither Jack nor Ben were really up for it, and they avoided
engaging with him as far as possible without being rude. They were just two
good mates popping round to one of their places to hang out, ultimately,
but sitting in the backseat of the taxi together with what had been
suggested already felt like some incredible taboo that must be screaming
out at the outside world.

Upstairs, things were not much less tense. Jack let them in, and went to
get two beers from the fridge, and Dan looked about the immaculate
showhome-like flat on his own, tensing up. He'd been much more relaxed in
his banter with Harry, and half-cut during his encounter with Vardy. Now he
felt worryingly sober and on edge, perhaps mostly because HE had been the
one to really initiate it, HE was making this happen... if it really
happened.

Jack came back in. He'd taken off his hoody and was just in a tight-fitting
designer tshirt and dark skinny jeans, both of which hugged his lithe
figure well. His face looked set in an almost angry expression, similar to
the determined grit that settled on him in the throes of a difficult
football match. Ben took his beer, and clinked it gently with his.

`We can just have a drink,' he said lightly. `What we talked about earlier,
it doesn't have to...'

`It's what we came up here for, though,' Jack mumbled. `Isn't it?'

Ben looked at him levelly, and tried a smile. `It is,' he
agreed. `But... You seem... Tense.'

Jack grunted a laugh at this, took a swig from his bottle, and spoke
without meeting his eyes. `Are you sure you are up for this? I mean –
it's a bit much, right? Even for... even for a dirty fucker like you,
haha. I don't want you to...'

`If you're worrying about me,' Ben said softly, `you need to chill. I
wouldn't have... you know, suggested anything, if I wasn't... down. An arse
is an arse, right? I just wanna try something out. Fuck knows if I'll like
it.'

Jack, red-faced, nodded his theoretical agreement with this, and they both
stood there in the pristine lounge for a few minutes, sipping beer from
bottles. After a while, Ben put his down, to tug off his sweatshirt, also
stripping down to tshirt and jeans. He thought through what was, in theory,
to come.

`Do you want to take a shower, pal?' he suggested gently. `I mean, so
you're... really clean?'

Jack's eyes bulged for a moment, but then he nodded his head furiously, and
looked almost angry he hadn't thought of this himself. `Of course,' he said
quickly. `I'll... yeah, I'll get myself really clean. You sure about this?
Umm. Why don't you... I dunno. Just chill. I'll shower. I'll be quick.' He
was speaking at 100mph. Ben grabbed him by the forearm, and clinked their
bottles.

`Take it easy, Jacko,' he said encouragingly. `This will be... fun.'

Grealish disappeared through into the master bedroom of the small but
luxurious flat. Ben hovered about for a while, but once he heard the watery
rush of a shower, he followed Jack through, into his buddy's bedroom, and
sat on the edge of the bed. The door to the en suite was ajar, and through
it he could hear a nervous humming mingled with the roar of the showerhead,
as his buddy prepped himself for their daring experiment. Ben smirked at
the beer in his hand: it was doing nothing for him. Was there a right
amount of beer to get you drunk enough to try licking your friend on the
arse? Jamie had done it, he rationalised, and he'd seemed to enjoy it,
hadn't he?

The shower noise stopped, and so did the humming.

Ben looked about the room. Like the rest of the flat, it was slick but
bland. Jack had clearly paid an interior designer to sort it all out, make
it look cool. But it just looked lifeless and dull. It really really didn't
look like the right place for what they were about to do. He got up and
turned off the harsh main light fixture, and flicked on a couple of small
lamps instead: was he doing this to relax Jack, or himself?

And then there he was, at the en suite door, clad in just a short beige
towel, his lean ripped body gleaming a tiny bit with hot water in the
lamplight. There was only an inch in their height, but silhouetted in the
door, Jack did look quite small and innocent, though Ben supposed he had
the advantage here in all ways, after his recent exploits.

Jack took a few steps into the dimly lit bedroom, and toyed with his
dangling strands of messy hair, pulling the blonde and brown streaks back
behind his ears and over his head. Ben smiled at him, but he wasn't sure
how visible that was in this light. `Mate,' he said cautiously, `you
ready?' Jack just gave him a slightly sullen nod. `Okay,' Chilwell said,
trying not to let his voice tremble with the nerves he felt, `why don't
you... get on the bed?'

Jack made to step past him, but he let out a gentle laugh, and brushed the
other lad's waist a little with his hand. `You'll need to lose the towel,'
he prompted with the same strained calm.

Grealish looked away, reached down, undid the knot, let his towel fall
away, and climbed up onto the kingsize on hands and knees, and Ben's eyes
followed, honing on the prize. The crouching body of the midfielder was
beautifully framed now by the two soft lamps and the dim twilight creeping
beneath the curtains, a shadowy form of tanned flesh and muscular
curve. Ben approached the bed and fixed his eyes on the beautiful round
globes of Jack's behind. He wondered, vainly, how this compared with his
own rear view, what Vardy had seen that night: well, he was definitely a
bit hairier back there than the surprisingly smooth backside in front of
him.

`Here we go,' he said aloud. He thought he might break some tension, but it
probably did the opposite. The bed creaked under his knees as he climbed
onto it, and Jack moved forward a bit to make space, doggy style ready for
him.

Ben leaned in, and rested a hand on each smooth, perky cheek, gave them a
light rub and squeeze, pulled them apart a little bit, and wondered how the
fuck to get started on it. Jack's head turned to look over his shoulder a
bit, and he looked absolutely terrified.

`Buddy,' he whispered, as if they weren't so entirely alone, `I dunno about
this...'

Ben massaged the firm muscular cheeks for a moment, meeting Jack's eyes in
the half-light, and wondering what he could say: he was every inch as
uncertain as the other lad. But Jack was looking pleading, as if needing
him to be a bit more certain. He decided words were not the answer. He
leant in, and planted his lips at the base of the other bloke's spine, and
kissed him softly, just above the top of his crack. He felt his stubble
brush and scratch Jack's smoother skin, and the body beneath and in front
of him tense up even more. Then, he moved his lips, and planted three
similarly soft, scuffing kisses first down the left cheek, then the right
cheek, and then let out a nervous giggle, he just couldn't help himself.

`You having fun back there?' Grealish let out in a voice of strained
humour. There was a bit more of the usual Jack the lad in it: challenging,
playful, a hint of his normal confidence there. Did Grealish know what a
fucking beautiful behind he had?

`I'm just getting started,' Ben said, and with his teeth, he gently nipped
the soft skin, and then kissed the same spot, and then with his warming
hands, he parted the cheeks again, and pressed his tongue into the freshly
cleaned flesh of the man's gooch, and licked upwards. Jack shuddered and
moaned immediately, and Ben felt that thrill he'd been after, just as when
he'd wrapped his fingers around Harry's big meat. Pleasure given, pleasure
felt. This was... this was okay. This really wasn't all that different to
licking a girl out. He gripped and pulled on the strong cheeks and let his
tongue flick nervously over the lightly haired space between, feeling each
stroke earn a fresh moan of surprise from excitable Jack Grealish.

Now, the hole... He pressed his face further in, again feeling his stubbled
cheeks rubbing on the other cheeks, knowing each touch must be so sensitive
down here where Jack had never been explored before. He licked and kissed
and spat into the warm flesh. Jack's moans became groans became yelps.

`Fucking hell,' came Grealish's heavy voice, `buddy...'

`Is it okay?' Ben panted, lifting his head, spitting down into the crack
again, kissing a butt cheek.

`It's... it's so good,' Jack gasped. `It's weird, but... Wow...'

Ben didn't need to hear more to encourage him. Back to work. Wow. He let
his fingers roam about the strong glutes, and experimented with his tongue
on Jack's tight, sensitive arsehole, and he felt his own excitement
hardening and throbbing in his jeans. He was going to have to sort it out.

`Buddy,' Jack breathed at that same moment, `do you mind if I...?'

`No,' Ben mumbled into his buttock, `you do what you need to do, Jacko...'
He planted another kiss on one of those perfect cheeks, and reached down to
undo his flies, and get out his big thick cock, the one that had surprised
and impressed that fucking giant Maguire so much. He pulled lazily on it
with one hand whilst planting his tongue once more against Jack's crack and
running it over his twitching hole.

In front of him, he could see Grealish reaching under his taut young body
and wanking himself – he caught flashes of a heavy ball bag between the
cheeks and thighs, wow. When he'd been with Jamie the other night, he'd
been pretty scared: there was that wildness with Vardy, a chaotic energy
you never knew how to handle. With his good mate Jack, he felt... well all
he wanted to do was please. He lowered his body, slid round onto his back,
and came at Jack's gooch from below instead. The muscled footy hunk yelped
in surprised delight as Ben's tongue slid down and onto his ballbag, and
then Ben's mouth was reaching for more, and he felt hard cock on his lips.

`Fuck, Ben,' he heard Jack say in a wild voice of shock, but he just got on
with it. He clung one hand to each buttock and pulled his head up, opening
wide to let Jack's hard-on into his mouth, feeling himself want to gag like
he had on Vardy, but trying to resist it. `OH SHIT,' he heard Grealish roar
in clear pleasure. Ben gasped for breath and lapped his tongue about the
cock, which felt thick and long like his own. But again, he couldn't handle
it for long, and he let his head flop back against the bedding, position
between those mighty thighs of Jack's.

`Sit on my face,' he barked urgently, and Jack greedily complied.

Ben lay there, reaching down to his open jeans to furiously wank himself
off, as Jack's cheeks squatted over his face, and he reached his tongue up
for the crack between, aware that Jack must be jerking off with the same
frenzied excitement. A few more beautiful minutes of this, and soon it was
time to peak.

He felt his whole body writhe in the orgasm, still pretty much fully
clothed on the bed, but big dick out, and there it was, the crashing waves
of ecstasy, the release. He slurped his tongue up Jack's gooch once more
and took one swollen bollock in his mouth hungrily as he teased the last
drops of cum out of his own tool.

And then Jack was wriggling about above him, lowering his arse onto the
chest of Ben's tshirt instead, so their eyes could meet for the first time
since this had began. Jack was staring down the length of his muscular
defined torso, eyes wild with pleasure, and his hand was jerking up and
down his shaft with all his energy and stamina. Ben lay there staring up,
watching the sweeping curtains of his pal's messed up hair, dangling over a
glossy, red-cheeked face. Ben reached his hands up and down tensed thighs,
and back around to squeeze the butt cheeks again, and then he stuck out his
own hungry tongue, and met Grealish's intense gaze.

`Holy shit,' gasped Jack in his moment of climax.

Ben closed his eyes, stuck his tongue out as far as he could, and let it
hit him. A spray of salty goodness dripping onto his tongue and chin. He
licked uncertainly at it, and listened to the gruff grunts and pants
above. Drop after drop speckled his cheeks, quickly cooling. Suddenly Jack
felt heavy and crushing on him, and he patted at the big thighs to get him
off. Grealish sat up and flopped aside in a gasping heap, and Ben rolled
the other way, licking more spunk off his stubble and catching his breath.

They lay like that for quite a while, Ben's head swimming, and his lips
sticky with his pal's seed. After about five minutes, he looked over at
Jack's naked form, then slowly got up off the bed. He went into the
bathroom, and looked himself in the mirror in bewilderment: who was that
dirty cock-hungry lad he saw? It was like looking at someone else. Someone
who'd come into existence in Harry Maguire's garage!

He splashed hot water and soap on his face, and then spent a few minutes
trying to wash a few flecks of cum out of the shoulders of his expensive
tshirt. Then he furiously dried at his face with a fluffy towel, and risked
padding back into the bedroom. Jack was sitting on the bed, a towel over
his crotch, looking totally dazed and startled.

Ben stood there, and realised his heavy flaccid dick was hanging out of his
jeans, and that Jack was staring at it. In surprise, in envy, in desire?
Who fucking knew. He stuffed it away, did up his button fly. Fucking
hell. He flexed his arms and shoulders and twisted his neck a bit, sore
from the positions he'd been pulling to try and pleasure the beautiful lad
in front of him.

`Shall we play some FIFA?' Grealish grunted unexpectedly. His expression
was inscrutably bland and indifferent, despite the fact he was sat bollock
naked on the bed and had just shot his load all over his best mate's face.

`Uh, yeah,' was all Ben could find to say.

`Go set it up,' Jack said slowly. `I'll... erm. Get dressed.'

And that was that.