Date: Sat, 7 Nov 2020 09:47:09 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 201: Fresh Starts

Part 201: Fresh Starts


Jack Grealish woke with the usual fuzzy uncertainty of the early morning,
winking open one eye at a time and then blinking them both with sleepy
fury. His body felt incredibly relaxed, weightless in fact, like he was
waking up from a luxurious dream that he couldn't quite remember. He was
stretched out at a slight angle in the spacious white folds of his hotel
bed, and he became only slowly conscious of not being alone; the physical
awareness of the man beside him dawning on him just like the watery light
sneaking under the curtains and in through the half-open bathroom door.

He turned his head a little against the cool fabric of the pillow,
realising how chilly the bedroom had actually become. Beside him, a foot
or so away, was another face, pressed in at the pillows at an awkward
angle with this usually slicked hair fuzzy and loose. A contented smile
between Ben Chilwell's short dark stubble seemed to reflect Jack's own
mood back at him, and a flash of pale shoulder and chest muscle remained
on show where the edge of the blanket fell short of his hunched dozy
body. His breathing was heavy and slow, not quite snoring but somewhere
close.

With a little sigh, Grealish half-rolled that way, then stopped himself.
His left arm jutted beneath the muscular weight of Chilwell's upper body
and their legs overlapped a little somewhere beneath the tangle of
sheets. It was difficult for the sleepy 25-year-old to move without
disturbing the nestled comfort of the slightly younger footballer, and
Jack held back from reaching out to stroke his shoulder or his cheek or
ducking into angle his vacant face for a good morning kiss. Let him
sleep, he thought, remembering how tired out Ben must have been from his
game last night before he came trekking up here to North London to...

Jack turned his head a little, shaking it to dislodge long strands of his
hair out of his eyes, and looked down his angled body at where his
loosened arm lay over the covers. His eyes fixed on the chunky little
outline of the sovereign ring on his little finger, burnished gold
glinting in the half-light. The memory of that moment took his breath
away and made him feel almost uncomfortable and stressed with the deep
excitement of it -- a notion that had been so powerful and right in the
middle of the night when it was a shared idea, but suddenly terrifying
and unlikely in the lonely dawn.

The Birmingham lad separated himself from his bedfellow with care, not
wanting to disturb the deep laddish peace of the Chelsea player -- he
dragged his arm out from beneath him very gently and rolled his leg away
as stiffly as he could, making on the quietest rustle of sheets as he got
out of their shared bed and onto his feet, momentarily embarrassed by his
own nudity as he slid out into the cool air. He dragged his hair out of
his face with both hands, yawned, and moved over to the windows, briefly
dislodging the heavy patterned curtains to shut a window and block out
the breeze; paused only for a few seconds to scan the grey London skyline
then drag the curtains more fully shut again and back off. He could
remember them opening this window in the early hours of the night: the
room had become far too hot and steamy after their time together and
they'd needed the air!

Jack's bottom stung with the happy memory of it, and a seedy little
smile played on his lips -- the passion with which the both of them had
ricocheted around the room and grasped at each other seemed to well up in
his body again, making his low-hanging balls and loose curved cock tingle
and the pain in his hole feel so beautifully worth it. Ben had fucked him
for so long in the bed and he'd struggled to take it again after such a
break in their intimacy, but obviously his man had just been so tender
and slow with it to make it work.

`You really do have the most beautiful arse in the world.' Ben's voice
tutted into his thoughts, quiet and sleepy and instantly making the smile
on his lips turn into a full beaming glow. He tensed his rounded bare
buttocks then looked over his shoulder, seeing Ben's one open eye fixed
on him across the murky room. Chilly shifted in bed, but only a little,
and lazily lifted one arm to make a gentle beckoning gesture with a
couple of fingers. `Come back, babe...'

Grealish paused for a short moment then hurried to the side of the bed
and literally lunged in, scrabbling back under the warmth of the covers
and wriggling his body across towards the other lad, unable to stop a
dirty giggle from his lips.  He reached across at the heat of Ben's
waist and stomach and then, irresistibly, slipped his hand lower and
reached for the dormant weight of his cock and balls, making Chilwell
titter and sigh and spread his body out with languor.

`What time is it?' he asked hesitantly.

`I don't even wanna know.'

`Same, same.'

`Give us a kiss, mate...'

Jack leant over and tasted the stale morning breath of his lover,
cuddling in next to him with his hand still gently toying with his clammy
privates and thinking about last night. He sighed happily and brought his
other hand up to roll the covers further up their chests, closing them in
the warm nest of bedding and their strong young bodies. Now that his fist
was up near them, he saw the light catch the ring again, and the sight of
it made him paranoid; the gesture seemed more trivial and daft now, the
melodrama of last night replaced by the hot masculine lust that always
pulled them together.

`Good job that fits,' muttered Ben sleepily at his side.

`Uh yeah,' Jack responded, realising he wasn't the only staring at
it.

`Belonged to my grandpa, that,' Ben said in a faraway voice as if he
was drifting back to sleep. `Best look after it, matey.' One of his
hands crawled over Jack's smooth chest, teasing a nipple an just hugging
across his torso so he could really cuddle into him beneath the covers.

`You're sure it's okay for me to have it then?' Jack blurted back,
his anxieties loosed in his voice.

`Yeh -- as long as you actually want it?' Ben reopened his eyes,
propping his head up at the pillow, close by. `You don't have to wear
it,' he added in a smaller voice, sounding worryingly hurt.

`No, I do,' Jack told him quickly, pulling him closer. `I just... I
mean...' Nervous laugh. `I wasn't sure if you meant it, y'know, now
we've... I mean, when we... well...' He laughed again more awkwardly.
`Fuck, I ruin any conversation don't I?' he asked in his broad Brummie
accent, staring wearily into Ben's grey-blue eyes.

`Course I meant it, daft lad,' Chilly told him quietly, reaching down
his abdomen and finding his loose semi, stroking it comfortingly as he
spoke. `Why do you always doubt everything, you plonker? I meant it when
I asked you. I mean... I don't know when or fuckin' where, or how we
ever tell anyone, but... yeah. I meant it.' His handsome features looked
nervous and shy suddenly, none of the laddish bluster that normally shone
there. `I think I wanna marry you, you absolute spanner.' He squeezed
and tickled his chubby balls and made Jack's dick twitch and stretch
with a sigh.

`It's just so mad hearing you say it,' Jack chuckled back
sensitively.

Ben was choosing not to say any more now, he was just leaning in and
kissing the front of his left shoulder and then across to his chest; Jack
lifted his arms in a loose embrace over the guy's back, pulling him in
as he kissed and licked at the sparse faint hairs across his chest,
making him shudder and sigh. Before he knew it, Chilly was slipping down,
disappearing under the covers; he paused after kissing the centre of
Grealish's tummy and gave him a cheeky look from his cape of duvet, the
fire back in his grin and eyes. Then he was gone into the musty nest and
Jack could feel his lips and stubble creep down his pubes and onto his
privates, nuzzling then taking in his hard-on and making him push back
into the mattress with a deep groan.

Ben, who had seemed barely awake a minute ago, was quick but tender in
his attempts to reassure and satisfy, and Jack just lay there and gasped
into the cool air, both lost in the moment and reminiscing about last
night's lovemaking, the heat and eagerness with which they'd taken each
other after their silly regretful separation of sulks and envy. Last
night Jack had felt a strong urge to please and serve the 23-year-old,
fully blaming himself for his overreaction -- now it all felt equalised
and he was reminded that he'd never before known this kinda submissive
and needy love. A handsome football star from a young age, he had been
very used to girls desperate to please him; and even when he'd first
experimented with Ben here and a couple of the Villa lads, he'd been
full of his captain's prerogative! The selfless ache to pleasure
Benjamin was new, startling, liberating.

But not right now! No, right now he was just stuck on his back with
Chilwell eagerly fellating his sweaty morning wood beneath the covers,
reaching up for his hands, interlocking their clammy fingers, lips and
tongue rolling back and forward over his thick prick. He relaxed
entirely, letting go of his mixed guilt and self-consciousness, just
enjoying the purity of it.

Ben knew how to please him and it did not take long. Jack wanted to hold
back, avoid the selfishness of cumming already, but Ben was insistent,
gripping his fists and sucking him almost furiously. He softly cried his
name in full as he shot his load, spilling it against the licks of the
stud's tongue. He continued to gasp for long moments before Ben was
emerging, his lips and chin sticky with goo, climbing on top of him and
chuckling triumphantly.

`My turn,' Grealish whined loyally, but Ben shook his head quietly and
kissed him once on the cheek.

`If I get caught here, you're screwed,' he said simply, rolling aside
and hopping out of the bed in the direction of the bathroom, giving Jack
an inverted view of his own window posing; the rippling smoothness of
Chilwell's strong back and the round muscular bulge of his peachy
cheeks.

He was just so fucking gorgeous, wasn't he? Jack thought about the
casual player he had always been in his love life, not just when he was
sticking it to every half-attractive girl in Birmingham, but when he was
getting his first fuck in a cubicle with little McGinn or opening his
cheeks for Drinkwater's tongue by the recovery pool -- messing around in
the sun this summer with Alli and co and tumbling to Chilwell full of
shame and regret. Here was a guy who just accepted and adored him
whatever he did and whoever he was, it didn't even matter about the
football or the captaincy, because how impressive were those things to a
player of Ben's calibre...?

That gorgeous arse and the gently smirking face attached to it equalled a
fresh start for Jack Grealish, and he smiled loyally across at him. He
noticed his cock was pleasingly stiff from the enjoyment of giving oral
as he strutted to the bathroom door, Jack sitting up and mooning
disappointedly after him, wanting so badly to return the favour
instantly. `But,' Ben pointed out, patting his flat tummy and lingering
in the door of the en suite, `just cos I need to be away before the team
is up... that doesn't mean your fiancé has to shower alone, does it...?'



In the same silvery dawn light, Frank Lampard slipped out of his 4x4 and
into the damp concrete of the Stamford Bridge car park. He had little
need to be at work today, never mind at such an insanely early time on
the morning after a big game, yesterday's home match to Sheffield still
echoing in the stands as the Chelsea manager arrived through the autumn
mists.

Between the car and the building, he limped a little. He couldn't
actually believe how much it smarted, had struggled to find a comfortable
position in bed for it; he hadn't really been able to deflect some
amorous advances from his freshly bathed wife, but he had been tame and
lazy in his efforts with her and frigged her into a sluttish coma of
delight, leaving him to lie awake in agitated discomfort, hurting his
butt every time he lay on it.

The 43-year-old club manager approached the blocky rise of the football
stadium through this eerie mist, glad at least to be out of the house.
He'd left bed early after brief snatches of sleep, pacing downstairs and
finding himself in the French windows with a black coffee in one hand.
He'd examined the little smears on the panels of glass, the handprints
and the other little stains, the ghostly confirmation that last night had
really happened. And he'd quietly gone outside and wiped it clean,
staring guiltily up at the dark windows, finding the garden haunted by
the knowledge of his submission to a man, proper submission, so much
further than he'd gone with his toying Chelsea players or with his smug
cousin. He had opened himself up for John Terry and given up all of his
power out here.

Soon after that he'd got in the car and left. There were plenty of
excuses -- he did have things to do, stuff that could easily be done in
the townhouse study, but there was an alluring safety about the big desk
and presitigous office here in the grounds. He rarely used it in reality,
being based more commonly in their Surrey suburb training facility, but
he liked the pomp and status of his office suite here in the stadium
itself. And with all of the restrictions at the moment, the place was
near empty, he could sneak in and hide out in that room for as much of
his Sunday as he liked; Christine would complain, but he would blame
stress and pressure, unfinished contracts, scouting reports, email trails
with important links and media representatives. There were a dozen real
things on his managerial to-do list that could be blamed even if he ended
up spending the morning here just brooding and looking back at old
photographs of his playing days, he and Terry arm in arm in their blue
kits.

And then he was here.

Lampard was halfway between the vehicle and the doors, jangling a key
from the pocket of his puffer jacket, when the manly silhouette formed in
the mist and he realised someone was waiting for him by those doors. For
a moment he thought it was a member of the site security who would
probably still be around, but the height and breadth of the man become
obvious and then they were close and he knew exactly who was waiting for
him here at this odd time of the morning. Someone who should also still
be in bed getting his rest.

Terry gave him a simple nod of greeting, as if it was the most perfectly
obvious thing in the world that he should be here at this time, waiting
for him.

`How did you know?' Frank asked hollowly. `How'd you know I'd...?'
He heard the faltering weakness in his own voice after last night, the
loss of manhood in front of his old pal.

`Not many work harder,' John grunted simply, then in a softer voice,
`I couldn't be sure.'

The Chelsea manager carried on past him in his slow slightly limping
gait, undoing the padlock and letting them in through the discreet
side-entrance here. Inside, he turned and stared more at JT, saw the
ghost of sleeplessness in his face too -- Lampard pictured him returning
to the Villa team hotel, tossing and turning over what they'd done
together. But, he told himself, that wasn't owt new for big John here,
was it? He knew Terry had fucked lads, he'd literally watched him. So...

`Let's go to yer office,' the Aston Villa deputy said to him in a
brittle, detached voice.

They walked up there in silence. Gladly, the football stadium was as
empty as Lampard had expected. A few clocks on walls reminded him of how
obscenely early it was to be here, how strange his departure from bed
might be when his wife woke up and wondered at his absence; but also how
odd and intense it was for Terry to have come here looking for him. At
least he hadn't looked for him at home, causing trouble and raising
suspicions of scandal. Frank unlocked and let them into his inner
sanctum, the manager's office, and he stared at the desk setup
remembering how he'd nervously left it last night to travel to Regent's
Park for their unsuccessful confrontation.

`Fuck,' muttered the other former player, walking slowly along the long
window side, `as if you're really sat in here, top fuckin' dog. Funny
how things turn out, innit.' He was in a tight-fitting Villa tracksuit
now as if already dressed up for his team's Arsenal match this evening.
It clung to his broad shoulders and the slight curve of his rear, taut
over those long defender's legs. He seemed intensely thoughtful and
Lampard wondered what he was really here for. Quietly, he ignored the
nostalgic talk and moved to the desk, slipping off his jacket and dumping
it on the back of his chair.

Terry was looking this way now. `That's it,' he said in a rough little
bark, `get your kit off.'

`Huh?'

`You heard me. Get it all off.'

Frank paused where he was, momentarily bewildered and then quickly
excited. He loved the little East London rasp in Terry's voice and the
casual firmness of his commands. He didn't hesitate for long. He reached
up to his neck and undid the few buttons of his polo shirt collar, pulled
the blue garment up and off himself. He felt unusually self-conscious
before Terry's consuming gaze, but he knew he had a very good body for
his age, if not as lean and ripped as when they would shower together,
share hotel rooms, share women.

`And the rest,' JT said.

Lampard reached down to undo the little drawstring on his Adidas trackies
and began stepping out of his soft old trainers, peeling the nylon down
his thick hairy legs until he was stood there in just loose grey boxer
briefs and mismatched colourful socks. He took long breaths and kept his
gaze locked on Terry's mean eyes. Terry remained fully dressed and
relaxed in posture, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jersey and legs
set apart in a manly pose. `All of it?' Lampard asked, sounding a bit
more himself now the game was afoot.

`You heard me, buddy,' said Terry coolly.

Frank did a sock at a time and then pulled off the underpants, stepping
away from the desk so that he was stark naked in the centre of his own
office, willingly degraded by the casual instruction of his best mate.
Terry gave him an appraising look that made his balls tingle and his
pulse quicken. Then the other coach was coming over, standing in front of
him, and Frank reached out to touch him through his tracksuit; but Terry
caught and held his hands in place, teasing and provoking him with the
delayed pleasure of proper contact. `Good lad,' sighed the ex-defender
with surprising softness.

`Fuck,' murmured Frank excitedly, `I'm so turned on already, JT...'

John bit his lip and his weathered face seemed conflicted as he replied.
`I can feel that. Now turn around. You are my girl, aren't ya?'

Frank paused at this but nodded, willing to be anything Terry wanted. But
as he turned away from him and took the two steps back to the edge of the
desk, he felt his big naked body tremble with a little flutter of fear.
`We can't do that again today,' he said in a mumbling tone of apology,
`it hurts too much man, you know that was my first time, mate, so...' In
answer, John was grabbing and pulling at one of his fleshy buttocks,
stepping up behind him.

`Hurt ya, did I?'

`Yeah, quite a bit...'

`Worth it, though?'

`Well, yeh, obviously...'

`So why you bitching?'

`John...!'

A harsh smack of that buttock and a lilting laugh. Suddenly Terry was
leaning in, his lips and nose rubbing at the back of Lampard's neck. His
dick twitched into life and his nipples went stiff. He reached both hand
forward to rest on the edge of the desk, bending a little so his plump
softly haired backside was pressing into the shapely front of those Villa
tracksuit bottoms. His arse still stung and throbbed but would he really
say no to second helpings, no matter how painful it might be...?

`All those times we fucked next to each other,' muttered JT with that
same nostalgic tone.

`Yeah,' Frank murmured, `you always outdid me there, you beast.'

`Did I? Dunno. You were pretty wild once.'

He was patting and squeezing at his arse still while he held him from
behind, not quite kissing the skin around the top of his spine but
nuzzling it so that Frank couldn't stop shivering and his breaths became
little excited gasps. `Are you gonna fuck me?' he asked weakly, both
longing for and dreading the prospect of that forcefulness again like
he'd experienced in his own back garden, fucked against the glass just
beneath his dozing wife. He thought of all the girls and women he'd seen
beneath Terry's powerful body, squealing at his strength and girth. He
was just one of them now.

`No,' replied Terry after the most tantalising pause. `Not if you're
in pain.' He said it bluntly and dismissively but somehow in the moment
it felt very tender and caring and Frank was embarrassed by the way it
made his balls throb and his chest ache. Then, `There was summat else I
thought of.' He squeezed really tightly at one buttock and, finally,
kissed him on the nape of his neck. `What I say you do to that goofy
little fucker McGinn.'

Realisation shook Lampard's body with a heady thrill of surprise.
`Really?' he asked, hoarsely.

Terry's voice, when he answered, betrayed some anxiety and hesitation
beneath his burly alpha male persona, grasping Lampard's cheeks
possessively and whispering near his ear. `Will you let me, mate?'

`I'm yours,' Lampard whimpered back, aware of how pathetic he sounded
but glad when Terry's immediate response was to bite possessively at his
shoulder muscle and squeeze even more tightly on each of his buns. And
then the man was moving downwards, his tracksuit crinkling a little, his
hands sliding aside and his mouth pecking in little kisses at the broad
sweep of his back and down to the top of his crack. Again Frank thought
of the scores of ladies: he'd seen Terry go down on a cunt for ages at a
time, really to some extent learned his own craft from discreetly
observing his younger yet more confident teammate in those seedy hotel
room moments of the late 90s and early 00s.

And then, like one of those club rep sluts or cheap prostitutes or some
other player's wife, he was getting that tongue; it must be John's
first time trying this, he concluded, but wow... Frank's moans were loud
and words blurred into each other, leaning forward over the desk and
tensing his 6ft body, feeling the strong wet push of that dirty tongue in
between his cheek's. At first it stung him where he ached from his lost
virginity, but then it became really quite soothing, an itch scratched,
just what his throbbing ring needed after being opened up and pounded by
this fellow ex-Chelsea beast.

JT worked him from behind, on his knees, making breathy gasps and wet
slobbering noises as he did it. Frank leaned further forward, pushing his
arse back and lifting it a little, his dick rock-hard now. He reached for
it but then one of John's hands was reaching around to stop him,
preventing that satisfaction while he was so busy. His tongue felt so
strong and supple as it worked around his crack and against his little
hole. Frank's moans became almost cries, sobs of frustrated pleasure, a
horny thrill he couldn't have imagined when he was waking up weak and
agonised in his marriage bed. He gripped the desk and panted weakly into
the office air, feeling his cheeks tugged more fully open and that tongue
really go for it.

`Oh, mate, oh JT... fuckkk.... Ohhhh...' Finally, he couldn't stand it
any more, reached for his cock again; this time, there was no
intervention rom the alpha behind him. He tugged for a few moments at his
rigid prick and then spilled his gooey load against his fingers, sobbing
into the wood of his desk and wondering if this intense pleasure could
literally go on forever. Even when Terry had stopped, pulled back, was
just gasping behind him and slapping at his cheeks, he felt rocked by
waves and waves of orgasmic intensity. His legs buckled and he went to
his knees, still leaning at the wood of the desk, but lower down and
half-turning so he could see big John getting up to his feet again. His
arse still stung and throbbed but the pain was dulled by pleasure.

Terry was removing the impossibly thick weapon from his bottoms and
wanking it over him, stood saying nothing but gasping deeply for breath,
a madness in his eyes at the taboo he'd just conquered. Frank squatted
dizzily below him, staring up at this powerful lad he'd always admired
and cared for, but only recently realised what a sexual icon he'd always
been in his imagination, his dirtier and more rampant partner in crime.
Last night and this morning felt something straight out of that
imagination, a fantasy come true. And the fantasy came, quite literally,
all over his face. John's grunts were bestial and his load amazingly
thick and full.

Lampard closed his eyes but kept his mouth open, face angled at the
blast. Cum splashed on his nose and cheeks and brow, dripped off his chin
and oozed around his jawline. He felt it will around his lips and tasted
it on the edge of his tongue, so salty and musty. He sat there, lost in
his own linger pleasure, listening to the deep gruff roar of the other
man's.

`You filthy slut,' Terry wheezed.

`Yeah,' he answered gladly, agreeing -- he'd always been a slut,
really, unable to keep his dick in his pants no matter the relationship
or marriage he was in, was this anything new? Yes, of course it was new,
the pleasures he'd tasted since first experimenting with Redknapp at
Christmas...! But it had all been so dangerous, so problematic: his
cousin! His players! The dynamic with that beautiful brute Barkley, who
had been using who?! All of that was such a mess, like the spunky mess on
his face, but this friendship with Terry, this was...

`Your MY filthy slut,' crooned the other Londoner.

`Yes,' he gasped back, tasting more cum trickle into his mouth, `yes I
am...'

`My sexy girl...'

`Yeagh, yeh I am, JT, yeh...'

The spent cock was pushed into his mouth for him to lick clean and he did
so, clinging to Terry's tight thighs and relishing the taste of his
seed. THIS was new, he thought, this was a fresh start -- pleasure and
excitement far away from the intense pressure of his job at Chelsea or in
his own family. This was something new, the bond they already had and the
role he'd found on his knees in front of a more powerful man. None of
the desperation of asserting himself over Ross or Mason or Ruben. While
he was in this moment and belonged entirely to JT, all of the other
pressures in his busy life disappeared, and only the alpha's big dick
existed, hot and stiff in his mouth.



The bed was as comfortable as he remembered and the room smelt faintly of
scented candles, which had made him sneer a little bit last time in some
weird judgement, but now made him grin with begrudging affection and just
enjoy the cosy atmosphere it provided. The curtains weren't quite fully
shut and there was a certain grey daylight creeping in, which told him he
would need to drag himself out of bed very soon and make the quick
journey. He would need to be back there soon, before breakfast was called
and the day began; luckily, the Arsenal match was an evening game and
their Sunday routine was not as tight as normal, he was pretty sure he
could be back in that Islington hotel before anyone was concerned.
Besides, Jack owed him, Jack would cover for him.

He stretched out his body in the expansive comfort of the bed, which
seemed huge, what was bigger than kingsize? It did feel just a little
lonely though, clearly meant for more than one tall body. Still, the soft
sheets felt good against his own skin as he stretched out his thick bulky
legs and his upper body, rolled his head against the masses of pillows,
gazed blearily around the half-familiar contents of the suburban master
bedroom.

He closed his eyes again, so relaxed and tired that he wanted to slip
back into sleep -- but aware of the risks he'd taken by being here and
the need to snap out of it, to psych himself up for the day and a big
important match against the Gunners later on. Another chance for Aston
Villa to prove themselves as the League's intimidating underdogs, ready
to shake up the table.

Ross Barkley moved with great reluctance, sliding one leg and then the
other out from beneath the luxurious duvet and dropping his feet to the
cool wooden floorboards then shifting them quickly to the furry touch of
a rug. He stretched again on his feet, enjoying a glimpse of himself in a
full-length mirror at one corner, the sturdy masculinity of his own form
in just black boxer shorts, Calvin Klein.

When Grealish had returned to the room in a very different state of
distress, his brattish sulk swapped for a feverish excitement, Barkley
had been worried for him -- but then Chilwell had tumbled secretively in
after him, and it hadn't taken him long to decide that the pair needed
the room to themselves. Ross didn't quite know the ins and outs of their
connection, but he knew they were close and had played together -- had
seen it for himself in Dubai! -- and he realised why his new captain Jack
had been in such a fucking state recently. Barkley had left them to their
make-up sex, abandoning his own hotel room for the sake of whatever
romantic melodrama had gone on. Jack deserved it, he told himself, pacing
through the midnight hotel in a funny mood, torn between a chivalrous
desire to do right by the other two, and the realisation that he might
have to sleep on a couch in reception.

He'd already been texting Eric a little bit that night -- well, he found
himself messaging him a little bit most nights, in all honesty, though he
tried not to let it get too much and sometimes would leave his phone
switched off for a whole day so that he didn't get caught in one of
those long messaging conversations that made him feel like a lovesick
teenager -- so he wasn't even hinting when he first outlined the problem
to the Tottenham player. He'd just meant it as a bit of a joke, not
willing to explain to his Spurs pal why he'd been ousted from his hotel
room, just laughing about the prospect of napping in an armchair in the
closed bar, sending a daft selfie of him trying to get comfortable. But
Eric had been quick to offer a solution.

Ross looked quietly about the contents of his bedroom, the cosy scented
warmth of it, and fixated on possession after possession: the couple of
guitars that he doubted Dier ever played, the stupid big bookshelf (just
for show, right, no footballers READ?) and the big framed photography of
the Portuguese coast where he'd come of age. He circled the bed,
avoiding the temptation to just crawl back in and set an alarm. Maybe he
could even skip the hotel breakfast, how strict would the boss be this
morning...?

Dier was elsewhere, Away with Spurs. The irony of it had made them both
LOL as they messaged earlier in the week. As soon as Barkley had been
reminded that Villa's next fixture was in North London, he'd briefly
dared to imagine stealing over here for a second little visit, wondering
if they could watch a game together and sink some beers and maybe Dier
could cook for him -- but on the same Sunday that Villa were due in the
capital, Tottenham were away to another Birmingham side, West Bromwich
Albion. Typical. Ross and Eric were in each other's cities. And now Ross
was in Eric's bedroom, alone.

`It's empty, you may as well,' Eric had texted him in the small hours
of the night. `No point being uncomfortable there, m8. I'll tell u
where the spare key is hid. Easy. So close to where you're staying, too.
Go on. My pleasure xxx'

He loved a good three kisses end to a message, that one. It made Barkley
blush but smile.

The 6ft2 attacking midfielder sat on the edge of the bed and this time he
didn't just think about crawling under the duvet and risking another
bout of sleep. He thought about his first visit to this bed, the way
he'd been led excitingly in by his host, and then... well, it hadn't
exactly gone as he'd expected, had it? Not the simple fleshy transaction
he'd travelled down here for, but something more... equal? It still made
his cheeks burn red and a little tremble of nausea, realising the lines
he'd crossed and the newness he'd tried when he'd sucked off Eric Dier
-- the shame was irresistible and private, so much more than allowing
himself to be pawed and coveted by Mason Mount or Frank Lampard or anyone
else. But had he enjoyed it? Ambiguously conflicted, he turned his
thoughts instead to the glorious blowie he'd had in return when he...
finished.

And now he was getting hard in his boxers, his fat dick pushing
insistently up in the fabric and making him stroke it distractedly while
he sat there, knowing he should grab his Villa trackies off the floor and
hurry out of here. (After feeding the dogs though, he'd promised Eric
that.) He tried to ignore his semi and got back off the bed, kneeled over
and reached for the crumpled colours of his Aston Villa gear, then
realised it had mixed in with the few bits of laundry left by his host.
Eric was a very tidy fella, that much was obvious, so Ross found himself
surmising that the defensive player had left in a bit of a hurry, to have
dropped bits of clothing around the room on his way out, packing a bag
for the overnight and hurrying to the Spurs training ground in the next
suburb.

Ross hunkered there for a moment, his hand playing on the folds of his
own tracksuit jersey, fondling the embossed Villa logo, but staring past
it to the items of Eric's clothing dropped carelessly here on the rug.
He reached for the creased white briefs he saw there, sports one branded
with the simple tick of the London club's kit sponsor. Barkley took hold
of them and pulled them off the ground in a slow half-conscious move. He
stood back up and lifted them to look at, momentarily picturing his
friend undressing and changing in this room yesterday afternoon as he
prepared to meet his teammates and travel into the Midlands.

Driven by instinct of some kind, he hoisted the white undies and took an
experimental breath (just checking if they're fresh or not, he told
himself, just wondering if I could borrow them?) then, smelling the
slightly sweaty contents, breathed in more deeply. Breathing in HIM.

In a moment, he was back on the bed, sitting at first, sniffing the white
briefs clutched in one hand and with the other feeling himself in his own
black pants. Then he was lying back, pressing his body down over the
crumpled duvet still warm from his own sleep, and bringing the garment to
his face while he pushed his fist inside his pants and played with his
hardening prick. The pants smelled of manly sweat and fresh soap, somehow
conjuring up the wholesome ruggedness of the England star -- moments ago,
Barkley had been idly picturing him in this room, strumming that guitar
or adjusting those photo frames or, hah, relaxing with a book, but now...

He pulled out his dick and stroked on it, thinking about how attentive
and skilled Eric was as a lover, the best oral sex he could remember
experiencing by far. But he thought also about his authority, his
self-confidence, his refusal to be pushed around or simply used... it was
as if Ross's belligerent sexuality had come up against a wall, and
instead of annoying him, it made him crazed with lust. His cock was veiny
and rock hard in his hand and he tugged on it; slowly, he slipped his
other hand down that way and wrapped the used briefs about it, jerking
himself through its fine white cotton with both hands, fucking into that
soft material and its manly scents, groaning quietly where he lay. He
thought about how sweet and kind Eric was, but also about how powerful
and masculine and downright fucking handsome, he was... uh, there was that
little shot of sickly shame or guilt again, that uncertainty about what
he was doing or what he wanted, what he was allowing to develop... but it
was superseded by primal instinct and he could not stop jerking his cock
against the material, fucking these undies forcefully until his dick
leaked precum against them, mixing his own fluids and scents with the
traces of their owner.

When he came, he was panting loudly and almost mouthing the other lad's
name, emptying his big balls into the handful of cotton and smearing
their insides with his juice. He silenced himself, holding both hands at
his heated crotch, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. Then he slowly
relaxed back and let go, draping the soiled pants over his thigh and
letting his tall cock waver in its slow satisfied descent.

He didn't know what to think about his attraction to this man, after so
many months just getting used to the notion of his OWN attractiveness to
men. He didn't know what to do with these burning up sensations in him
or the fact that he felt comfortable lying here than he had in over a
year. He didn't know how to feel about the cum-stained underpants drying
against his skin, or what Dier might think if he found them so abused
when he tidied up on returning home late tonight. There were a lot of
things Ross Barkley didn't know, lying there in the afterglow of his
early morning wank, but he knew that this safe room and its charming
owner were a fresh start, and it gave him little butterflies inside to
picture sharing this bed once more.




**I SUPPOSE YOU KNEW I COULDN'T END THE SERIES AT CHAPTER 200... TOO MANY
IDEAS LEFT TO EXPLORE! SO... WHAT DO YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE NEXT 99?
HAHA... X**