Date: Wed, 3 Feb 2021 08:19:34 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 234

Part 234: Villains...?


It was a perfect Saturday afternoon feeling, and the celebrations in the
Away changing rooms of St Mary's Stadium felt even better than the
tentative physical distancing on the pitch as he'd slid into a victory
pose and shook his fists at an absent crowd of travelling supporters,
much-missed by all the Aston Villa players. But here in the musty
locker-rooms of the Southampton football ground, the lack of football
fans was less tangible, because his teammates were hollering his name and
thumping him on the back of his shirt as he moved between them. His
solitary headed goal, assisted of course by the captain himself, had put
them ahead and proved the winner, and Villa were continuing to surprise
all with their upward trajectory in the League.

Ross Barkley just grinned widely at each congratulatory gesture and
shouted burst of admiration, glad to share the moment of personal and
professional triumph with this loyal and ferocious bunch; he'd worried
that his injury break during the winter might dull the camaraderie and
belonging he had begun to feel about life in the Birmingham club, but
2021 had brought a solid return and an easy pick-up of his vital spot in
the attacking formation.

Yep, today had felt good.

Ross wove his way to his spot against the far wall, peeling the dark away
shirt up and over the toned muscles of his chest and shoulders then
slapping it down against the bench and lifted his arms to air his slick
hairy pits. `Calm down lads, calm down!' he huffed brightly at those
nearest him, who were still hopping up and down and applauding his work
as if they'd just won a cup.

He sat himself down, plating his heavy cheeks on the metallic bench and
then reaching down to unlace and tug open his tight boots. Around him,
the rest of the Villa players were almost bouncing off the walls in their
enthusiasm; many of them had been already worried about relegation from
the Premiership at this point last year, he supposed, so their
over-excitement at every win was charming and understandable. For Ross
himself, it was really just the prominence and the respect, having become
a permanent substitute in his Chelsea role.

Left sock and then right sock were rolled down over the thick aching
muscles of his calves -- god, he needed massaging down if that was
possible -- and off his feet, then back up to stretch out the waist of
the glossy baby blue shorts that had hugged so tightly at his thighs and
middle throughout the strenuous performance. He stopped with his thumbs
hooked into the waistband as a particularly excited member of the squad
jogged into his personal space, grabbing him tightly about each bare
bicep and planting a jovially tactile kiss high on one of his cheeks.

`You fuckin' legend,' burred the Brummie football captain, Jack
Grealish skipping from bare foot to foot, stripped down to white trunks
that were very tight about his low bulge. `Yes, man, yes! Man like
Barks!' The winger was so giddy that he almost sounded drunk already,
having already grabbed and celebrated him half a dozen times since their
joint strike went in.

Barkley, smirking bashfully, pushed him playfully away, conscious of his
undressed state against him in the busy changing rooms, but very happy
that the 25-year-old team leader was such a good mate to him and so
obviously buzzing for his headed goal. `You been on the voddy there,
Jacko?' the 6ft2 Scouser demanded quietly, punching him lightly in the
arm and toying at the front of his shorts, feeling a hesitation at
dropping them in front of the hyperactive Birmingham lad.

`Not YET,' answered Grealish firmly, taking a step out of his face.
`But later...'

`Huh, if only,' Ross muttered to him.

`Ah, well!' cooed Jack. `Bit of a party lined up, if we play our cards
right.' He winked. `I'm trying to get summat set up at the hotel, if I
can. Captain duty, you see. Ha ha.' He winked again, unsubtly, and
tapped secretively at the side of his nose. `Just you wait, drinks will
be all in your honour later on, Scouse. You big legend!' He slapped his
palms lightly and cheekily against Barkley's jaws then skipped away --
as he bounced about the room, grabbing and hugging Watkins and Targett
and Luiz, his bottom looked particularly round and hypnotic in the tight
white fabric.

Ross, feeling a scrap of privacy return to his spot, even with two other
big undressed blokes either side of him, pushed down at his blue shorts
and then the black Under-Armour briefs below, turning his back to the
room to hide the loose mildly excited flop of his cock and balls once
naked, until a towel was snapped loose and wrapped firmly about his
waist. He smiled to himself as he knotted it and made a beeline for the
showers, high-fiving Cash and Mings on the way by, loving the prospect of
any partying that might sneakily be achieved -- it felt like the day for
it!



It was all a bit naughty, but it didn't seem too risky -- it wasn't
quite the full team or anything, and sitting around having some beers
together was hardly more dangerous than the physical activity they
engaged in together day after day. Jack knew that if the boss found out,
or the hotel complained, or somebody leaked it to the press, he'd
definitely be the one with the proverbial smacked wrist -- as if he
hadn't already had enough trouble in the headlines in the last year! --
but he also felt a captain's obligation to the lads.

It was just a load of beers in a supposedly closed bar on the top floor
of the seaside hotel, with a shift manager and couple of other staff
members bribed with his own generous cash. Silence and normality bought
for fistfuls of notes that he could quite easily spare, and a night of
muted celebration made possible when they were supposed to be paired off
in their rooms like good little boys. Of course, Grealish was not
entirely stupid and reckless -- a secret curfew of their own had been
agreed and the ten or twelve lads present, mostly players but some of the
extended crew included, all knew they had to control or hide their
hangovers in the morning as they were marched onto a coach back for
Birmingham.

And it was good fun, though not entirely satisfying to the 25-year-old
skipper. He enjoyed unwinding with the few illicit pints and, even more,
watching the other blokes toast to Barkley and then a series of
increasingly obscure little factors in their win; but there was a little
creeping loneliness there that was hard to brush away, when the person he
really wanted to sink a pint with was up in the big city and he couldn't
easily get to see him. As he'd confided in trusted lads like Ross, this
latest lockdown and the separation it was creating between he and Ben was
wearing thin -- Jack was a naturally upbeat and positive guy, always had
been, but he just kept wanting to look around and see Chilly waiting for
him, offering a little cuddle or peck, and the promise of more later on.
He wished this was an England international away game so that the Chelsea
defender could be here drinking with him, mentally betraying for a second
his precious Aston Villa.

One of the guys at least seemed to pick up on the way Jack had begun to
remove himself from the main fray, and was approaching him now where he
stood, leaning on the bartop like some protective patriarch watching over
the collection of drunken men. Jack glanced up as the notably taller
figure of his team's giant centre-back swung into place next to him,
slapping one massive hand on the marbled bartop and using the other to a
lift a half-finished pint his way.

`Cracking party,' Tyrone Mings told him firmly, full of big cheery
smiles and his usual towering confidence. `And it's nearly bedtime and
nobody's done anything totally mad or blown our cover yet, can you
believe it? I don't even think any daft prick has filmed us for their
Snapchat, so maybe we'll get away with this little knees-up after
all...'

Grealish grinned tipsily at the bigger, older bloke. `Yup,' he chirped.
`Here's to that.' He lifted his own plasticky pint glass and knocked
it dully against Tyrone's. `Good to relax and pretend life is normal,
even for a couple of hours...! Nobody's head will be too sore in the
morning, do you think...?'

`Nah, all good,' the big Somerset lad said pleasantly, leaning in a bit
closer, both of them in the same Villa polo shirts with their tracksuit
tops tied about their waists like school jumpers. `Shame you've sulked
on your own at the edge of the bash for most of it, Cap'n Jack.' Ty
tilted his head and gave him a curious smile. `Feeling a bit lonely,
skip?'

Jack raised one of his arched brown eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders
evasively. `What? I can hardly go crazy and be the life of the party
when we're already breaking so many rules...'

`I ain't complaining, matey. I'm just saying. You good? Missing...
someone?'

Grealish fixed him with a wary but loose look, starting to feel the
night's drinking take its unravelling effect upon his body and mind.
`Maybe,' he admitted weakly. The 6ft4 defender was another guy he
trusted closely, and had become slowly more open about his own life with;
so, of course, the knowing and friendly smile on his broad face could see
through any attempts to dismiss the question, so Jack just nodded sadly
and felt oddly lonelier for admitting it. `It's tough at the minute,'
he said quietly. `Not much chance to see him.'

`And not much action,' Tyrone murmured.

Jack burst out a little chuckle, leaning more heavily, almost sleepily on
the counter. `Well, no...! But it isn't just that,' he added, feeling
sentimental, and then a little embarrassed at this admission. He glanced
over at the centre-back, catching the glint of mischief in his dark brown
eyes and the little smirking curls at the edge of his Cheshire grin. `It
is KINDA that,' Jack said, letting his voice trail into a throaty little
chuckle of desire. Actually, if he'd been sober enough to really collect
his thoughts, it was less than half THAT; yes, he woke up first thing in
the morning with wood, wishing Benji was next to him in bed and he could
roll over and rub it demanding on his leg. But it was the cuddles he
found himself craving at the minute, the downtime on a sofa, the little
attempts by a serious-faced Ben to teach him how to play chess. The box
sets and laziness. But his relentless horny energy was, he supposed,
going to waste. He would wank himself silly some nights over pictures
sent by his Chelsea boyfriend.

`I know you,' Mings was saying. `You can't go without it for a week
never mind a month.'

Jack smirked. `I'm not an animal.'

`Aren't you...?'

The bigger guy's long muscular arm stretched a bit, crossing the surface
of the bar so he could stroke the tips of his fingers on Jack's elbow
quite lightly. Jack grinned sheepishly, laughed to himself, then slurped
down the last of his pint. He looked up at Ty's little thoughtful leer,
and then glanced about the room -- nobody else had left yet, but it was
almost time for things to wrap up. Guys looked sleepy with beer, dozy
with satisfaction; those who had played 90 minutes were behaving as if it
was 3am rather than just gone 11pm.

`You're being very cheeky here, big guy,' Jack mumbled, then
sniggered.

`I know,' Tyrone admitted. `But...' He bit his lip, then leaned in
close before whispering. `It's just... the sight of your arse today in
blue shots, Jacko, fuckkkkk. I thought I was going to get hard on the
pitch. I've never wanted to be a bit of nylon so much in my life, you
know what I mean? That... wedgie, getting right in there, oh boy...' His
voice was gravelly and intense and Jack shuddered with longing, meeting
his dark eyes. `What you saying, Greals? Do I get to go where that
wedgie did, yeah?'

Jack nodded dimly and licked his lips. `Let's get out of here. Party's
over.'



Their exit was noticed with only a mild note of interest by Ross,
arriving at the long bar area six yards away, planting both hands on the
cool marble and finding nothing odd or intriguing in a moment of quite
conference between the two experienced Villains. He turned his attention
back to the display of bottles behind the bar, having ditched beer after
one bloating pint and offered for a series of strong short drinks, the
mixed spirits pulsing through his bloodstream now and making him restless
rather than sluggish and exhausted like everybody else.

`What can I do for you, darlin'?' asked the solitary blond barmaid who
had been helping him choose luxury spirit brands every fifteen minutes
for the whole party.

Ross, never a natural flirt, just huffed out his breath and grinned as
she fluttered her eyelashes at him and pouted her lips; he was sure there
was a funny and charming answer to her question that could express his
interest in her and hint at the lust in his pants without sounding like a
pushy neanderthal, but it escaped his imagination. Instead, he had to
rely on just flexing his arms and chest a little beneath the pale blue
polo shirt with its open collar and buttons down from the neck, trying to
emphasise the thick muscles that strained against it. He grinned
foolishly at her, unsure if she'd really notice the little physical
effort.

`Whatever you recommend,' was what he limply mumbled for her.

`Whatever?' she echoed playfully.

Drunk and a touch shy, the 27-year-old Liverpudlian just matched her grin
and then folded his arms to lean forward a little more, shifting closer
to her but also exaggerating the bulge of his biceps against the arms of
the top. `Whatever, babe,' he repeated in what he hoped was a flirty
tone. It wasn't that he'd ever struggled with the ladies -- he was a
6ft2 footballer who had reached the top-flight in his late teens, after
all -- but he had none of the plucky charm or gift of the gab of lads
like Jack or his old Everton chum John Stones. He could barely cope with
the wordy trauma of post-match interviews, never mind trying to start a
flirty conversation with somebody he fancied.

`Well,' she said, dragging out the syllable, `your mate Jack said the
bar has to close in about five minutes.'

`Did he now?'

`He did. So that'll be me free.'

`Right. Errrrm.'

`You sounded dead Scouse there, you know.'

`Did I? Err...'

`I liked it.'

`Oh, right.'

`It's making me wet.'

`Oh.' He paused, grinned at her, tried to look confident and brooding.
`Me too.'

`Your accent is making you... wet?'

`What? Erm. Oh. No. Errr...'

She giggled, leaned in towards him, and rubbed her thumb across his blunt
chin a little. `I'll pour you one last vodka, sexy, and then I want you
to follow me downstairs to the kitchen, and I'll recommend you a taste
of something better. Okay?' Silently, because he was far more sure he
could be sexy when he kept his mouth shut, Ross nodded his strong jaw and
straightened up his posture, suddenly even more alert and excited.



`Look at him,' Matty Cash complained quietly where he sat, propped on
one of the low stools in the centre of the bar area, the warm dregs of a
pint clutched between both hands between his parted legs, his eyes
trained on the little interaction at the bar. `Big fella hardly sober
enough to string a sentence together, and still he's charming the only
pussy in the room. What is it, are Slough accents not as sexy as Scouse
ones, haha, or...?'

The 23-year-old full-back turned to the right, smirking at his own weak
humour, to see if his current drinking buddy agreed that Barkley appeared
to have `scored' for the second time this Saturday, and that there was
something to jovially resent about the big lad's accidental success. But
Matt Targett, who looked half-asleep from too many pints, was staring
blandly into his phone screen, which glowed against his face, more
interested in whoever he was texting than picking up on Matty's
half-joking complaints. Matty stared at him for a few moments but got no
response; either the more established Villa player was too drunk to focus
on more than one thing at a time, or he was a bit bored of Cash's
stilted youthful banter over the course of the night.

The young defender sighed, picked up and finished his drink, and swung
his legs away a little on the stool, twisting his head to look around
their scattered and thinning gathering; it seemed as though the skipper
himself had already disappeared away, so surely that would signal the end
of the party. It was the approval of Grealish that made the secretive
shindig seem acceptable and worth the risk, but if Captain Jack was
calling it a night, then perhaps they all ought to.

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder and the occupant of the next
stool was back, having disappeared earlier to take a call from one of his
girlfriends back home in the Midlands. Cash angled his head and smiled
vaguely at the other new-ish Villa player. `Where've you been,
twat-face?' he demanded brusquely. He wanted to loudly complain at being
left with slightly dull Targett, but surely the other footballer
couldn't QUITE so engrossed in his text messaging.

Ollie Watkins just laughed, squeezed the back of his neck, then shook at
his floppy curtains of pale brown hair. `Oh, just sorting something
out,' the 25-year-old striker exclaimed, dropping comfortably into the
next stool and keeping his hand on Matty's neck. `What were you
sayin', sorry?' He followed Matty's irritated gaze, which had shot
back towards the bar -- Ross Barkley was trying shot glasses of various
dimly coloured liquids and the barmaid was laughing loudly while curling
her blond hair extensions around one finger. `Pfft,' dismissed Watkins.
`She ain't all that. Are you jealous of him, or are you jealous of
her...?'

Matty glared at him. `Fuckin' dick.'

`Just messing!' sniggered Watkins, elbowing him a bit. `Look, don't
be sulking -- we don't have to end the night being bored. I've sorted
summat out.'

`She's the only bit of talent here,' Matty muttered at him. `This is
hardly a party, is it? God, when can the bars just re-open and let us get
out there and enjoy our 20s, y'know...!'

`Mate, chill,' Ollie hissed at him. `You finished your drink? Cool.
Come with me. Trust Oliver.'

`Hmm. Why is that phrase making me worried?'

`I've got some fun planned,' his roomie and friend assured him.
`Don't you worry. Barkley won't be the only one dipping his wick.
Hehe. Come on.' He shoved and grabbed him a little, pushing up off his
stool and zipping up his hooded top. He yanked at the collar of Matty's
to insist on his company. `Trust me when I say we will NOT be ending the
night unsatisfied,' leered the Devonshire lad, pushing playfully at his
shoulder until Cash got to his feet and made to follow him, shooting one
last jealous glance towards the attractive barmaid, then following his
mate in quick excited steps out of the so-called party.

Ollie was still giggling to himself as they cleared a short flight of
steps to the floor below and turned onto the corridor where their shared
room lay. Matty caught up, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants,
blinking his tipsy eyes and feeling his overgrown hair fall into his face
a little. He shook this mane back and kicked stupidly at his mate's
ankles. `What are you on about? What is it you've sorted? Have you
found another gal like her? Another sexy barmaid who doesn't mind some
overtime for a... big tip?' He sniggered and gave his friend a lewd grin
as they reached the right door.

Ollie gave him a sly look. `Something like that.' He swiped a key-card
in the slot and shouldered open the door to their room, dragging Matty in
by the sleeve then pushing him on ahead. The striker was laughing more to
himself as Matty wandered on, stumbling to a slower pace and then halting
in front of the room's two beds, on one of which was sitting the
entertainment that his roomie had sourced.

Quiet and a little self-conscious, their Scottish teammate sat on the
inside of one bed, dangling bare legs, just in pyjama shorts and a baggy
t-shirt, holding a glass of dark whiskey in one hand. His cheeks blushed
a little behind his light brown beard, but his beady eyes sparkled, and
he tilted his face to look Cash fully up and down, then glancing
demandingly over at Watkins instead. `Great,' John McGinn rasped, `I
see I'm getting two meals tonight.'



He gave her a good licking before anything else, spreading her legs and
burying his face between them; her knickers hung about her ankles and her
broad chunky arse was spread across the shiny metal surface of the
kitchen worktop. Ross hunched lowed, holding the thighs open while he
rolled his tongue over her clit then lower and deeper, loving the high
squeals of enjoyment that his forceful tonguing provoked.

Only when he was sure that she was wet and ready did he stop licking at
her cunt and climb upright, cock in hand. `Oh god it's so big,' she
whined before it was even in, keeping up the dirty talk she'd been
gasping at him since they slipped out of the hotel bar and into a service
elevator heading down. The barmaid had gone down to, not getting his cock
out of his sweatpants but kissing and nuzzling the shape of his hard-on
through them.

The quiet echoey kitchen surrounded them as he pushed his face against
hers, kissing her with his lips shiny and sticky from her own juices,
battling tongues. He groped at her full round breasts and the curves of
her body, then pressed the fat head of his hard-on in against her other
lips. He pushed inside her and they cuddled passionately, snogging more.
The girl kissed at his cheeks and his neck so passionately it was like a
bite, might leave hickeys there on his tan skin.

And then he fucked her properly, ramming her into the kitchen worktop
with rapid drilling motions, finding his rhythm and stamina and grunting
in a workmanlike fury while she squealed, yelped, and muttered filth for
his ears only.



`Fuck me HARD,' he growled, flat on his back with his strong curvy legs
up in the air, tanned and hairy with those shapely thighs and calves
emphasised against the taut brown muscles of Tyrone's lofty trunk of
body. `Fuck me HARDER,' Jack panted raggedly, his arms spread out at
his sides and his fingers grasping at the cheap cotton of the hotel
bedsheets.

The short dreads of Tyrone's hair bounced and flopped over his sweaty
brow as the 6ft4 powerhouse slammed him between the cheeks, fucking him
hard on the squeaking bed. Jack knew the big guy had fucked John McGinn,
but he was still a little surprised by the force and confidence with
which his centre-back had manhandled him onto the bed and was now piling
into him. The rapid sweaty fuck felt like a long-anticipated
inevitability between them -- that first daring circle-jerk seemed such a
long time ago, and since Mings had gradually relaxed into some
experimenting, a little frisson had always flared between captain and
defender, the prospect of Jack's perfect peach always seemed to thrill
and entice the other guy.

Of course, drunk and horny as he was, Grealish had not just agreed to
this hunky romp entirely without conditions. He was attracted to the big
sexy bloke, had developed quite an eye for his confident centre-back and
experienced friend, but he was a reformed guy these days, the sovereign
ring on his pinky finger said so.

With that in mind, Jack growled louder, and gasped and yelped more at
Tyrone: `Slam it in me, fuck me you absolute beast, mmmm YES...' His
compact body buckling and arching against the bed, legs held in place by
Ty's strong hands, every bit of him juddering with each rapid thrust!
His loose sweaty hair flopped and lashed at his brow, the bridge of his
nose, the high bulge of his cheekbones. He writhed and groaned and
smirked, sweat prickling on his olive skin and in amongst the fluffy dark
hair of his legs and arms. And every detail of it was captured by the
camera phone he'd propped up on a wooden chair beside the bed, its lens
aimed carefully to them in order to maximise the view.

Mings had been a little hesitant, probably would have resisted the idea
if not drunk and randy and clearly VERY determined to get a go on
Grealish. But now the camera was rolling and he was balls-deep inside the
Brummie stud, he was actually quite a performer, grinning and turning to
look at the camera every few minutes. He began to go even faster and grip
Jack's legs even more tightly, squeezing bruisingly at his shins and
then twisting his face to kiss his ankles and the soles of his feet in a
little burst of kink.

`Yes,' groaned Grealish, loving the speed and force of it on his hole,
so much better at taking it than he had been those first few attempts
with his Ben. He lifted one of his arms and pushed it down over his toned
tummy to find his big nob, jerking it furiously to match the strokes of
Ty's rocket inside him, wanting to cum together, especially for the
camera. He couldn't wait to send the drunken video to Ben, an idea they
had been floating in their late-night phone-calls for weeks now: the next
time one of them did anything a bit naughty, the condition was that they
would film it for the other's enjoyment... The detailed conversation
about how Jack wanted CCTV footage from Lampard's office had only
solidified the plan, and now he was finally trying it out for Chilly. The
thought of the Chelsea pretty boy opening up an attachment in bed late at
night or first thing in the morning, then opening and witnessing this
sweaty scene...!

Jack came, as much at the thought of Ben seeing it all, as the potent
thrusts of the top lad inside him. He spurted his cum against the hard
rack of abs that stretched up Tyrone's body. `YES,' he wailed,
thinking that there was the `money shot' for his beautiful lad, and he
imagined Ben cumming in his own fist as he saw that, drooling and
nibbling his lips and rewinding the footage on his phone!



Ross had fucked her in a couple of positions now, shagging her hard on
the corner counter and then doing her doggy style on the lino floor,
before lifting her up in his arms and fucking her against the fridge door
while she wrapped her legs about his backside.

He had the drunken, wired stamina to keep going, but he was given his
hard thrusts a rest, as she had pushed him back against the same cool
fridge door and dropped down to suck him off for a bit, soothing his raw
cock from the hard shag he had slammed into her. He grunted almost
wearily, the tiredness of match-day and too much booze beginning to catch
up with him after the athletic performance with which he'd dragged this
anonymous hottie about the hotel kitchen.

She was doing her best to suck his cock but he felt like it was a bit
chafing and irritating for some reason, really not as good as some of the
oral action he'd received over the last year or so... still, it was good
to rest his muscles and just lean back against the fridge door, letting
her do the work. His balls tingled and throbbed and his cock pushed at
the roof then back of her mouth as she angled and adjusted her face over
and over, pulling her hair back out of the way. He'd already made her
cum twice and it seemed now as if she was almost impatient to do the same
for him, going from impressed to frustrated by his Herculean stamina.

`Yes,' he growled bluntly, pushing his cock further in but accidentally
making her gag and reel a little at the length and girth of his member.
He grimaced apologetically, having tried to force a deeper blowie than
she was up to, having experience more voracious and accommodating
mouths... `Sorry,' he mumbled but she ignored him, giving him an excited
smirk and just pushing up his erect cock to lick under it and lick the
balls a bit. `Mmm, I like that...' His cock pushed right back against
his waist and his balls being lapped and kissed... He stroked his fingers
into her soft hair and pushed down a little. She moaned into his bollocks
and kissed just under them a bit...

He lifted and parted his thighs a bit, hoisting his right leg and pushing
his weight back more against the fridge door via his big buttocks and his
upper back muscles... encouraging her face down a little more, pushing at
her head from above, feeling her kiss graze the furry skin behind his
balls and then... mmm, his hole was sweaty with excitement from fucking
her like a machine, and he REALLY wanted it licked, so... `Urgh, what are
you DOING?' she developed after pulling her head firmly away and
spitting aggressively at his leg. `Jesus, fella!'

`Wha'?'

He hadn't meant to push so demandingly on her, so he stared down
guiltily, but he saw her disgust was a bit more specific as she got up,
tits swinging, wiping her mouth on her hand and sneering at him. `I'm
not licking your arse you fucking pervert,' she told him in no uncertain
terms. `Ergh, what were you trying to do? Sit on my face? Jesus,
mate!'

Ross blinked and swayed a little, drunk and dazed, sensing something
disproportionate and unfair in the snappy remarks now being fired at him;
he just remained there with his back to the fridge, wiped out, while she
danced across the kitchen snapping up her knickers and skirt and pulling
on the starchy white blouse. She was moving fast, and tutting and
swearing in a foul mood as if he hadn't just spent so long pleasuring
her and making her squeal in orgasm. It seemed stupid to try and
apologise further, so he just stood stupidly naked, his hard-on swaying,
looking self-consciously about the kitchen. `Fucking footballers, always
the same,' was the last thing he heard her say before she left, heels in
one hand, tights in the other, letting the door slam behind her as she
went. Ross stared at the doors for a minute before snapping into sluggish
action and beginning to find his boxer shorts and other clothes, fearing
discovery in here.

He'd really wanted her to rim him, he thought, that's what he'd wanted
there. Fucking her had felt great to begin with, but he'd become tired
of the repetitive drilling, and her blowie had felt awkward and
uncomfortable. He'd wanted her to lick below his balls and open up his
mighty cheeks. That's what he'd wanted. She, he thought bitterly, was
not what he'd wanted.



Grealish walked down the hotel corridor with a dirty spring in his step,
watching the video clip upload into his private chat with Chilwell. Done,
one tick, sent. He grinned stupidly to himself, desperate for the blue
ticks that would tell him the message had been opened and seen, although
it was late now and Chilly could well be fast asleep -- his team were
hosting Burnley tomorrow, after all, so there would be a strict bedtime
for the West London players. Damn it, he thought, it would have to be a
good morning treat for the sexy bastard before he headed in for
warm-ups...!

He got back to the door of his room at about the same time as his
roommate, still grinning foolishly at the chat screen and limping along
in a little sex-satisfied daze; he'd been so turned on by the whole
affair that his large cock was still almost erect, pressing quite visibly
in the front of his sweatpants, enough for him to have been shy about it
if the hotel passages hadn't seemed silent and deserted. But now another
lad was there, rounding the corner and joining him in front of the door
to their room.

`Jack,' panted Barkley, a sweaty sheen to his rugged face, fiddling
with the collar and buttons of his polo shirt, `there you are.' He
stood tall, 6ft2 and broad, giving him stern broody eyes, seeming to lock
his shoulders and square up quite confrontationally.

`Hey...!' Grealish just flashed him a dopey grin, sliding the phone into
the pocket of his jersey, and slipping the plastic key-card from the
other, waving it at his friend and teammate like a treasured possession,
then thrusting it clumsily down the scanning slot until a green light
beeped and clicked. He blinked sleepily and looked back at Barkley, a
little bewildered by his solid intensity and the sweaty, sexy smell that
lifted off him. What had the big Scouse bugger been up to?

`Get in there, then,' Ross grunted now, confusingly; he had shoved one
strong hand against the unlocked door and pressed it open a crack. Now he
shouldered it more powerfully, clearing a way in and half-dragging Jack
along with him, making him sway clumsily and drop the plastic card on
their carpeted floor as he stumbled in with him.

`Where have you been?' he asked his roomie cheekily. `Who have you
been in, eh?'

`Jack,' snapped Ross moodily, grabbing him by the arm.

`You stink of shaggin',' Jack told him giddily. `Do I? He he. Mate...
Oh!' The bigger man's hand was on his crotch now, finding the near-hard
outline of his spent prick in the thick fabric, and at the same time,
pressing close to him as they swayed in unison, so that Jack could feel
the Scouser's big brutish hard-on rub at his inner thigh, wow.
`Alright, Boss, what's this all about...'

`Get it out,' Ross said -- his voice was odd and raspy, sounded both
pleading and forceful at once.

`Mmm, buddy...'

`I need it,' he was told in a harsh Scouse rush. `Get it out, la'.'
Ross pushed his face at him, seeking a kiss that was so surprising Jack
had to pull clumsily away, giggling, clinging to his muscular sides and
feeling their shapely sweatpants bulges rub and bump. `Jack, mate...'

`Buddy,' yawned Grealish pleasantly, loving the heat and sticky feel of
the taller, broader man in his arms, standing over him and pushing him
further into the room, making their cocks rub more firmly, leaning in to
try and kiss him again, but... `Mate, what you up to? What's all this,
eh? I thought you didn't want to-`

`Jack,' snapped Barkley in a more forceful and urgent voice, `please
just FUCK ME.'



Matty watched the other lad cum first, sat opposite him on the inner
sides of the two parallel beds. His own cock, wet with McGinn's spittle,
was in his right hand, his left resting on one of his thick fluffy
thighs. Across from him, Ollie's brown six-pack tensed and relaxed with
his long gasping breaths, and the confident forward broke out into happy
laughter, head thrown back.

In the narrow gap between the bed, on his knees, the Glaswegian
26-year-old spun back around, alternating between the two sitting studs
as he had repeatedly during these frantic drunken blowjobs. Next to
Matty's bare thighs were the little bottles of the miniature spirits
he'd been knocking back while enjoying short bursts of oral attention
from the Scottish slut.

Now the sight of John's honest face was even more alarming and
terrifyingly real, because his pink lips were glossy and stained with the
sticky load of Oliver Watkins. The midfield player's nostrils flared and
his cum-sticky mouth hung open as he leaned this way once more, reaching
to stroke just above Matty's left knee. Behind him, Ollie was still
gasping, pushing back and resting on his elbows, laughing even more
loudly and confidently. His cock flopped back against the bottom of his
abs, trailing a string of silvery-white cum.

The same silvery-white cum that was all over McGinn's lips and chins as
he ducked in and began to suck the other cock again, moving between them
furiously and greedily as he had for about half an hour. Matty shuddered
with a mixture of repulsion (the sticky feel of his mate's spunk now all
over the head and shaft of his cock!) and enjoyment (wow, McGinn was one
of the best mouths he'd ever felt around his long thick piece of manly
meat).

`Fuckkkkk,' Watkins was moaning, `you never fail me, Johnny McSucker...
mmm...'

The Glaswegian just gurgled and panted, working hard on Cash now, but
reaching his other hand over to stroke and pat at one of Watkins' strong
brown thighs. Cash swayed back, losing his balance a little, suppressing
the loud grunts he wanted to make. He felt drunk and bleary and unsure if
he would ever actually climax, the blowjob seeming to go on forever. He
shuddered and twinged, letting out gruff little whimpers and switching
from an urge to push John's face away or drag it in closer and really
fuck that hungry mouth.

`Go on, feed the slut,' he heard Ollie's teasing rasp call out. `Cum
on his fuckin' face, he LOVES IT...'

Matty squeezed his eyes shut, overwhelmed. But he did just that, only
moments later, his balls tightening and his load emptying against the
back of the gasping fella's throat. His balance gave way and the 6ft1
defender collapsed backwards onto his bed, lifting his crotch and hips a
little and only pushing his rod further into John's mouth while his seed
was greedily swallowed!

`Yes, mate!' cackled Ollie's voice.

`Thank you,' whimpered John, kissing him on the bell-end.

`Jesus christ,' moaned Matty, pulling his hands over his face.



Barkley steered their bodies towards the bed. He held tightly just below
Jack's firm shoulders, really digging his fingertips and thumbs into his
muscle. `Fuck me,' he repeated, seeing the slow shock on that goateed
handsome face. `Please, just do it, I need to try it, it's
important...' The words tumbled from his mouth in a drunken rush.

`Mate?' gawped Grealish, pushing and pulling at him simultaneously.

Ross felt his throbbing hard-on cross swords with what seemed to be an
almost equally hard piece in the front of Jack's matching pants. He
reached for it again and fondled it desperately. He snorted and growled
in the other player's face then leaned in, puckering his lips, but
denied once more. Impatient, he pushed both palms roughly against Jack's
chest, sending him reeling towards the edge of the nearer bed. Then he
peeled his t-shirt from the sweaty muscles of his upper body in one move,
still sheened with the sweaty results of his kitchen fuck. He lunged
quickly for Jack, who was regaining his balance and grinning goofily at
him, still widening his eyes in confusion...

Ross pushed his sweatpants down over his thighs and threw himself at the
other lad, tumbling them both onto the bed, dragging sweaty limbs
together and over the covers. He grappled with Jack's jersey and polo
shirt, peeling them up and shoving them against his pits and around his
shoulders, stripping him with difficulty to be as shirtless as him,
letting their torsos rub and clash.

He pulled on top of his captain, straddling him heavily, then grabbed one
of his hands and pulled it onto the arse of his underpants, dragging it
against the stretched grey cotton, stained damp with sweat down between
his big glutes. He stared desperately down at Jack's puzzled face,
pushing his hard-on down onto his... although Jack's didn't feel half so
erect any more, it had shrunken back a little, didn't seem quite so
aroused as it had looked a minute ago, and...

`Mate!' With this brusque yelp, the wiry and tightly muscled smaller
guy flipped him away, pushing back on him and rolling them until their
positions were reversed -- Ross was lying on his back, dazed and
confused, and Jack was over him, crotch to crotch, thighs over thighs,
hands pinning his wrists down to the bedding. Ross pushed back, trying to
use his superior strength, but Jack was always so much more powerful than
he looked.

`Oi,' the Brummie boy barked in his face. `What the hell are you
doing, mate?'

Ross stared into his face dismally, and was horrified to find tears
springing up in his eyes. He was not really a crier and when he did, it
was always entirely on his own. Now he was lying pinned to the bed under
another man with tears welling up and stinging his eyes. His hard-on
began to wilt and his heart stopped jackhammering in his bare chest. He
tried to speak but a quiet croak was all he could produce. His head swam
dizzily.

Over him, Grealish sighed, quite gently. `Relax,' he said, less
harshly. `Let it out, matey. Hold still, okay? Just relax. You're gonna
burst a blood vessel or something if you don't calm. Okay?' And his
girpping hands loosened on Barkley's wrists, just rubbing soothingly at
his arms instead, his weight shifting, releasing... and then he rolled off
him and was beside him, holding him rather than pinning him. Ross felt
the guy's arms close about his waist and he turned away slightly,
feeling the tears course down his cheeks in an ugly little burst of
emotion.

He lay on his side, held and comforted from behind by his captain, the
wiry smaller guy gripping him quite comfortably and rubbing at his arm
and other shoulder in slow circular motions to calm and relax him. Jack
placed a simple kiss on the back of his neck, more affectionate than
sexual. When he spoke next, his voice was really gentle. `I'm not doing
anything to you while you're like this, mate -- and honestly? I don't
think I could. I'm spent. Calm down. You're out of your head, mate.
Relax.'

`He wanted to fuck me and I just kicked him,' Barkley said, hearing his
voice thick and ugly with anguish. `I called him some horrible fucking
things, Jack.'

`Who, mate? Who? You can tell me anything, you know. Here, relax...' The
relaxing, friendly hands held and rubbed him as he began to shiver, his
fiery temper and body heat dropping -- Jack sorted that out too, dragging
at the bedding until it was over them both. He held him, but loosely, not
pressing their bodies too close again, seeming to want only to diffuse
the mad tension that had dragged them both into this bed.

`I was such a prick,' Barkley just thought aloud. `I've been so
horrible, I just... I can't stop... hurting people, y'know...? I never
seem to.... I mean, like errrm, I just... Oh fuck...'

`Slow down,' he heard Grealish say from the other pillow, patting his
bicep. `Slow down and tell me everything mate, and if you just want to
sleep, tell me to fuck off. But relax, let it go, and... if you need to
cry, cry it fucking out, okay?!'

Ross nodded weakly, hating the salty stream down his face, just pushing
it in against the drying fabric of the pillow, and lifting a single hand
to squeeze about Jack's where it rested above his elbow. And then,
trembling and shivering a bit against him, he began to choke out detail
after detail, telling Jack about what was going through his troubled
mind.



Jack wasn't woken by the knocking at the hotel room door, he was too
deeply asleep; it was the shifting of the body beside him and the little
subtle squeaks of the mattress that actually roused him from a sweet
dream (mainly, it involved a cruise ship in an ocean with only he and Ben
Chilwell as passengers, oh and James Maddison in a speedo as their
cocktail waiter) and into a groggy, hungover consciousness.

He let out a long sigh and stretched out in the newly emptied space of
the double bed, feeling the indents of his sleeping neighbour's body
against the cheap mattress. There was a little confusion still in his
head, a blurring between the sweet dream and the headachey reality he was
easing himself into. Mmmm. He could still feel Ben's warmth on the
bedding, where had that pretty boy bastard gone and left him all alone
under the duvet...? Imaginary waves lapped and gurgled against the side of
their cruise ship, no, was it a yacht, or really just a little dinghy...?
Somewhere he could hear seagulls cawing, adding to the maritime delusion
of the body-warmed bed...

`Come back to bed,' the Villa captain called into the sea air,
stretching his shoulders out and twitching his thick legs around... mmm,
he needed the taste of Benji's mouth on his, needed to hold his strong
young body in his arms, wanted to cup those perfect cheeks in his hands...
`Come back to bed,' he groaned again, beginning to open his bleary
eyes, `and let me fuck ya, you big oaf...!' He giggled stupidly, just
wanting to be ravaged now, wanting Chilly to throw himself back on this
bed and- It had been ages since he'd been fucked by him, hadn't it? Why
was that, again? They hadn't seen much of each other, really, and...
wait, what... where... um...

He blinked his sore eyes and wrinkled his nose, rolling off his back and
onto his side and then pushing himself up. With one hand he rubbed his
eyes and then dragged the long 90s fringe of his hair out of them,
squinting across the room at the confusingly tall and rugged physique
that was hovering near the foot of the bed. It wasn't Ben. Of course it
wasn't Ben, he was with the Villa, they were in Southampton -- bloody
Southampton seagulls, that was all -- and that had been a DREAM, so...

His eyes adjusted. It was his roomie Ross, stood there in just low-slung
grey undies that struggled to contain their contents at either front or
back. The tall attacking midfielder stood there with a strange expression
on his face, almost emotionless, but his body looking poised for action.
Jack's blurred waking memories tumbled into slightly more sequence:
`Was there someone at the door?' he asked confusedly, realising it
hadn't been Madders arriving with fresh cocktails for he and Ben.
`Ross?' he asked faintly. `Ross, buddy...?' And then the big guy burst
into action, spinning on his heel and haring for the door, which he
almost wrenched off his hinges on his way out.



Overheard, the gulls screeched and cackled. The early morning light stung
his eyes. His feet stung more, though the pain of running barefoot out of
the hotel and across the hard rough concrete outside was slow to really
register in his brain. But it did, and its sharpness helped to wake him
fully, just like the sweeping chill of the wind that was coursing against
his near-naked body as he stumbled to a halt on the paving, having
sprinted through corridor, staircase and lobby to explode out of the
hotel and onto the streets of Southampton.

He didn't know the time but he could tell it was very early. The streets
were more or less deserted, and it was largely just the screams of the
seabirds in the air, loudly mocking him as he rocked there in just his
grey undies, staring left and right and squinting in the winter sun. But
there was no sight of Eric, no glimpse of the man who had been at his
door minutes ago, giving him that deep look of horror and sadness. Where
had he gone? Had he gotten away so quickly? Where had he been parked?
Well, there were plenty of spaces here. There had been the growl of an
engine on the air as he launched his powerful legs across the hotel lobby
and out through the slow revolving doors into the fresh air.

Eric was gone. He'd seen him and Jack, heard that stupid remark, and
he'd gone. Fuck. Fuck!

Ross Barkley stood there, the cold beginning to bite at the panicked heat
of his bare body, his chest heaving and his bulge rippling with each
uncertain movement of his thick legs. His arms hung weakly at his sides.
He was staring down the seafront road and wondering if he could sprint
fast enough to catch up with a departing car... not exactly plausible.
Instead, he just hung his head and let out a long frustrated cry that
wasn't made up of any actual words. And then he dragged both clammy
hands over his dry itchy face and held them there, unable to look into
the bright blue morning sky.

`Honestly,' exclaimed a prim voice somewhere nearby, elderly and
female. `What a sight.'

`Disgusting,' agreed an equally aged voice next to it, as slow
footsteps passed him by.

`Premiership footballers,' the wife of the elderly couple, out for
their morning walk, remarked. `All of them, completely irresponsible and
disgraceful. Well, really!' They tottered on.

Ross just stood there in his pants and cried out against the world again,
punching the air impotently and then turning to march slowly and grimly
back indoors, his feet slapping painfully against a rough chipped paving
and textured concrete, his grey-clad buttocks juddering with each leaden
step.




TO BE CONTINUED


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