Date: Fri, 9 Apr 2021 22:56:05 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 257

Part 257: Four Quarters (3 of 4)


For such a private call, he'd found himself a quiet seat in the lush
green grounds of the Portuguese hotel, the air still a little warm even
late at night -- a little taste of the summer ahead compared to the
up-and-down spring temperatures back in London this month. The seat was
angled carefully into a boxy corner of dark green plants so that Ben
Chilwell could feel comfortably alone, iPad propped up in his lap where
he curled comfortably, a single earphone slotted in on one side and his
handsome brown eyes flashing cautiously across the lamplit gardens below
the hotel -- on the rectangular screen, Jack Grealish was spread lazily
over a bed in skimpy shorts and an oversized tshirt, the smallest of his
dogs curling in against his chest to be stroked and spoiled while the
long-distance boyfriends caught up.

`I dunno what came over me,' Ben Chilwell admitted, his late winner in
the night's Quarter Final resurfacing in the conversation for the third
time, `you know me, I don't get to practise the finishing that much,
so... just went for it and somehow it bloody worked, haha...' The
24-year-old Chelsea player gurned self-consciously at the other lad, both
fiercely proud and cautiously humbly about his surprising contribution to
the 2-0 win over Porto.

`Instinct,' came the burring Brummie voice of his man, grinning very
approvingly at him through the internet connection, stifling another
yawn. `You just did what you had to do and of course it went in, those
feet of yours. Brilliant.' Jack's face glowed with his approving smile,
shifting to make himself more comfortable on his lonely king-size bed,
glancing up and down from the pup to the webcam. `Whole team must be
right fucking chuffed with you, Benj.'

`Seems like it,' Chilwell admitted with a little laugh, not wanting to
dwell on his achievement too much but enjoying Grealish's strong
approval and confidence in him -- finding a whole new warm buzz in
discussing the strike with Jack after already being toasted and
congratulated by so many fellow Chelsea fellas since finishing the game.

`You and lil Mase, burning it up,' Jack continued cheerily. `And
looking dangerously cute in your selfie!'

`Oh, you saw that,' Ben chuckled back, happy with the posing pic he and
his young ally had both posted from the corner of the changing rooms in
their garishly striped away kits, excited for themselves and each other.
`Standard upload, right?' the left-back asked breezily, wondering if it
had been a bit too egotistical or, worse, a bit too cosy-looking with his
Chelsea and England teammate. `Had to be done, had to be done.'

`For sure,' Grealish agreed readily, `you both shone tonight, and
fuck, you look pretty together.'

`Oh, fuck off...!'

`What, I can't think my boyfriend is handsome as fuck?' demanded the
Villa captain.

`And you think that about Mase too, then?' joked Ben with a sulky air
that he couldn't maintain for more than a few seconds before laughing
again. `Don't be daft, just two brothers celebrating each other's
goals...!'

`Cute together though,' the 25-year-old back in England pushed
teasingly, winking into the cam. `He is a very good-looking lad, I think
we both agree on that, Chilly!'

`Well, he's alright,' the former Leicester defender mumbled with an
awkwardness he didn't often show in the company of his closest friends,
unsure what was the okay or uncontroversial response to such remarks from
his lover. `I don't really think about him like that, you know, it's
different when you're teammates and stuff...' His voice trailed off and
he grunted away the discomfort of the topic, enjoying the playful smirk
on Jack's face and the lazy way he shifted positions on a bed that they
both wished they were sharing tonight. It felt so difficult and
infrequent for them to meet now, Grealish still injured out of play and
their local restrictions making every meet-up a military operation.

`Oh come on, you're rooming with him tonight, aren't you?' prodded
Grealish.

`What's that supposed to mean?'

Jack blew raspberries with his lips. `Give him my love, then, right up
the bum.'

`Jack!' Ben chortled uncomfortably back. It wasn't that he hadn't
played around at all with Mason Mount, but just some mild forays when he
was new to Chelsea, mixed in with Pulisic and Werner -- but what struck
Ben in his memories of these antics was that his Midlands man had been
far from impressed. Some casual messing about at Stamford Bridge had
triggered their worst rows and temporary split, and yet now Grealish
could joke and tease about it.

`Oh, come on,' mumbled the drawling Birmingham accent again, `we're
pretty open, we do what we need to do. You know I won't mind if you have
a little roll about with the twink prince of Chelsea, man.' A relatively
sleazy chuckle from the Aston Villa hero. `I'll jerk off later thinking
about it, if I'm honest. If anything does happen, just send me a
picture, you dirty dogs.' A bright flashy smile and a wink -- again Ben
thought about the contrast to the scratchy jealousy that had marred their
contact towards the end of last year, only bridged by his dramatic
proposal that they should be more official.

Chilwell shifted about in his curled-up posture on the seat, adjusting
the iPad as it slid across his lap. `I've told you, I'm just excited
to try and get up your way soon once I've got a day off from Chelsea
training, okay? I don't need nothing else going on until then, J. Stop
messing.' Jack smiled at him but didn't say anything, releasing the
wriggling pooch from his arms and then stretching out, yawning more
openly. `You look tired,' Ben said sweetly.

`Well, you'll be the knackered one,' Jack retorted. `Playing that
intense game like you did, and then pounding Mount senseless when you get
up to the room...'

`Bloody hell,' Chilwell muttered with a mixture of amusement and
annoyance, `get over that idea, will you...! Look, I'll let you get to
bed, handsome, and we'll chat proper soon, okay...'

`As soon as we can,' sighed Grealish wistfully, blinking sleepily and
beginning to fiddle with the laptop that was broadcasting him from his
bed to this Portuguese night. `If you can't make it up soon then I'll
be straight down to yours, I need me some lurve. Miss you, babes.'

`Miss you more. Sleep tight.'

`Don't let the bedbugs bite.'



For a moment, Christian Pulisic paused at the windows to the hotel room
before lowering the blinds, noticing with fond eyes the sight of the
team's heroic young defender strolling back up the paved swirls between
the planted patches and decorative water features, vanishing then from
view under the rear porches as he returned to the building of their team
hotel. Then the American fiddled with the cords and brought the blinds
down, blocking out the faint lights of the city and making the shared
suite instantly a little more cosy and complete.

The 22-year-old backed off from the windows, blinking sleepy eyes, and
listening to the faint drone of rap music lifting from a Bluetooth
speaker on the table between the beds. Pulisic had not played a huge
portion of the night's first leg game, subbed on for Mount in the second
half, but it had been a fraught and physical confrontation and the
international travel had left the whole squad a little dazed -- he was
glad that the hotel beds looked especially soft and comfortable, and that
their London flight in the morning was not too obnoxiously early.

Dressed in just a loose black vest and some thin pyjama pants, the
American soccer player moved across the room to go and brush his teeth in
the bathroom, and he paused to stare at his roommate -- a man that in
earlier months he would have given his left foot to share a room with,
well more than a room ideally, but now he felt a sort of dull distance
from. On the floor between the room's two double beds, the German was,
ridiculously, executing a flurry of needless pre-bed push-ups to the beat
of the music, grunting gently as he lifted up and down against the pale
blue carpet. Christian stopped for just a moment to gawk at this
excessive behaviour, given the intricate and relentless fitness regime
they were both already on, then padded through into the en suite to get
ready for bed.

He'd been smitten with Timo Werner for quite some time, he supposed,
almost from the moment the highly-rated German landed in London -- he
could remember with pornographic vitality the time he had spied on Werner
fucking a female physio through the smoked glass window in the treatment
room door, a voyeuristic moment that had filled many of his late-night
moments on his own. The crush on the sharply handsome Stuttgart man had
been very distracting in the first half of this season, and only burned
brighter as a result of some limited sexual contact with him --
initiating fumbles with him, Ben and Mase, or their lurid `goodbye' to
their former manager. It had become quickly obvious to Christian that
Timo was far more interested in the distinctly unavailable Chilwell, or
perhaps more accurately, was just far more interested in himself.

On cue, Werner was at the bathroom door, hovering impatiently there
whilst Pulisic brushed at his teeth -- of course, the nocturnal press-ups
had to be done shirtless, so that the 5ft11 striker had his pale pecs and
abs on show as he loomed there, a slight sheen of sweat on the smooth
definition of his lean upper body and frowning face. It wasn't so much
that Christian's smouldering crush had slipped to antipathy and
resentment, but he was annoyed with how much this close proximity had
wasted so much of his energy in 2020 fantasies, fruitless and
dissatisfying. The 22-year-old Pennsylvanian had slowly adjusted to
accepting his lust for men, but for him it had been paired with nothing
but annoyance at the men around him failing to reciprocate -- he had
turned out to be nothing but a plaything to Barkley before the big
Scouser vanished away to Birmingham, and even after, and his fixation on
the fluidly promiscuous Werner had been of teenage-style frustrations.

`Can I brush mine too?' Timo demanded in his barking voice.

`Sure,' Christian conceded, shuffling left to make space as he brushed
thoroughly away. An inner voice laughed bitterly at the intense
closeness, Timo joining him at the sink and matching his efforts at
dental hygiene so that their arms brushed and bumped in awkward moments,
their grimacing faces and contrasting physiques repeated in the mirror.

Still, the shorter player reminded himself, it was good that he'd now
relaxed in his attitude -- his yearning for the aloof Leipzig transfer
had been almost painful to bear at points late last year and really taken
his mind off his football at points! The bland apathy that had replaced
the burn was a more convenient outcome, especially when the decisions of
their new manager occasionally chucked them together in hotel rooms like
this for away games, where Pulisic might previously have spent the night
wide awake and rock-solid in his undies.

He stared critically at 25-year-old man's face in the mirror as he
swilled and gargled and then leant indelicately forward to spit out in
the sink, tensing all of his bare supple muscle as he did; pfft,
Christian told himself, what's even to be attracted to? Tall but not
quite 6ft, handsome but very sharp-edged and intense-looking, very
muscular and lean but not so impressively physical as some other men
he'd had to shower tantalisingly close to in recent years! He wasn't
such a big deal. Even his much-hyped talents had been notoriously
incognito for much of his first Chelsea season, presumably the trigger
for vain behaviour like a fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups at this time
of night, making their supposedly relaxing room feel like a gym...

Christian, rinsing his toothbrush and wiping the back of one forearm over
his short dark beard, found he was getting quite heated and frantic in
his internal analysis of Timo's flaws, working hard to reassure himself
that the crush was long over and he could be comfortable around the
laconic German forward after all. He'd wasted enough time being a
lovesick loser, confused and insecure, and it was about time he started
to make things happen for himself-

At that moment, he realised that Timo was looking at him in the mirror
too, just as he had momentarily examined the taller man. Timo's crisp
hazel eyes seemed to have fixed on him, and he held the stare, bringing
the brush back up to pop in his mouth and scrub at his neat white teeth,
his strong gaze not flickering once in the time it took him to finish
brushing; even as he stooped to spit, he only lowered his eyes for a
second, then straightened back up at Christian's right-hand side, a good
few inches taller and markedly broader in the shoulders.

`I dunno why you need to do extra exercises before bed,' Pulisic found
himself muttering stupidly, putting his brush down on the porcelain with
a little clink. `Not with that six-pack you already got.' The shy young
American found it was him flickering his eyes away, unable to maintain
the strong gaze of his teammate in the large wall mirror ahead of them.

After the slightest pause, `You like my six-pack, yes?'

Inside, Pulisic groaned at the question, his eyes drawn inevitably down
the reflection to admire what he could see of Werner's body above the
waist of his bed-shorts. He pulled a face and looked away, unhappy at the
idea of stoking the older lad's ego with any response to this silly
question -- but unable to offer a convincing rejection of the truth. He
just splashed his hands under the tap and then brought their cool
dampness against his blazing cheeks, while Timo finally stopped staring
at him in the mirror and turned to face him more directly.

`If you do,' purred the German accent, `then...' He stared awkwardly
at him, the close confines of the hotel bathroom making their athletic
bodies feel extraordinarily close. `...why don't you touch it?' The
striker's eyes twinkled and his grin stretched, and Christian's heart
skipped a beat.



`Your six-pack is unreal.'

Ben just rolled his eyes and laughed at the casually thrown compliment.
His Chelsea roommate had been as giggly and high-spirited on his return
to their room as all night -- Mason was too charming and sweet to be
labelled arrogant, but he was so clearly revelling in the limelight of
another game where he had surpassed the club's expensive Germans and
shone through. The 22-year-old Portsmouth lad had been hyper and
insatiable about it in the changing rooms, with Ben trying to calm him
long enough to pose for a selfie and then being the sensible one
reminding him not to rub his success too much in the faces of Werner,
Kavertz and others.

As soon as he was back in the hotel room from his call out in the
night-time garden, Ben had dragged off his hooded top and tshirt, keen to
trim back his stubble already before bed. He certainly hadn't meant to
give a little strip show to his younger roomie, but that's how it was
being taken -- Mase was lounged on the nearer of the two beds, flicking
through a Portuguese magazine he surely couldn't read, and now grinning
goofily over in enjoyment as Ben wandered by, shirtless and idle.

`Has Jack been putting you up to this?' the left-back remarked
jovially, expressing just a hint of his cynicism through a raised eyebrow
and the lilt of his smile.

`What? Bugger off, nobody needs to tell me to notice how ripped you are,
Benny! Silly git.'

`Huh. Well. Not exactly lacking in that region yourself, bud.'

`Why thank you, Mr C, such a flirt.'

`I wasn't flirting,' Ben returned awkwardly. He stared at Mason's
casual smile for a moment then turned away and moved into their bathroom,
unhappy with his own sensitivity there and thinking on Jack's silly
teasing over the video call. In the bathroom, he briefly clocked how
accurate Mase's praise genuinely was, the hard-packed stomach muscles
flexing back at him in the tall mirror, then fussed about with his toilet
bag, spunking foam into his palms and proceeding to shave the tiny
glimmer of stubble creeping onto his chiselled jawline.

He started slightly to find that Mount had come to watch, almost nicking
his skin with the razor. He eyed his friend questioningly in their
reflection and then carried on with the quick task. `Everything okay,
boss?' the sweet young midfielder asked quietly, temporarily calmed from
his giddy and boyish enjoyment of their goals tonight. Between them, the
two young Englishmen had put Chelsea well ahead to progress to the
Semis.

`Fine, fine,' Ben muttered, rinsing his razor and beginning to wash
spare flecks of white foam from around his face, a little embarrassed
that anything in his reserved muttering had alarmed the other player.
Well, not alarmed, but... alerted. Suddenly Mason was by him and bringing
a little hand-towel to his face -- `Here, let me, you oaf!' -- and they
were squashed together side-by-side at the sink, two compact 5ft10
athletes.

`Thanks,' Chilwell said with slight reluctance.

`You should let it grow in though,' Mount said lightly. `You'd look
well sexy with a bit of beard.'

`Huh. How'd Deccers feel hearing you say that?'

`Lighten up,' Mase told him, returning to the youthful sniggers of
their back-room celebrations and nudging him in the arm with his
knuckles. `You think Dec doesn't fancy you too, buddy...? I think we
both remember THAT night, yeah... So he can hardly blame me for wanting a
bit of Bulging Ben.' With one of those goofy-but-gorgeous grins covering
his thin face, Mason leaned closer and threw an arm about Ben's bare
shoulders to hug him as he laughed -- flirtatious but matey at once.

`You're just horny from the game.'

`What, and you're not...?'

`Oh, mate...' He looked down, finding Mason's other hand on the crotch
of his loose joggers, giving him the gentlest feel through them while his
butter-wouldn't-melt grin fixed him face-to-face. Ben let out a huffy
indecisive breath, holding his strong defender's body still, peering
cautiously back at the cute 22-year-old colleague. `This is happening,
then,' he said in a wary voice.

`Sure is,' chirped Mason with an infuriatingly relaxed air, squeezing
him softly through the material, and stooping to kiss him once on the
muscle of his shoulder. `Come on, Chill, it's what we both deserve
after tonight... isn't it?'



From the bathroom, the two Chelsea players drifted smoothly through into
the bedchamber; Timo held lightly onto one of his hands, with the same
soft but guiding grip that he had just led him in a slow few minutes'
stroking of his honed six-pack and flat broad chest muscles, no more
words spoken between them since that authoritative suggestion.

The squeeze of the German's hand grew a little tighter about
Christian's, and he followed breathlessly to the furthest of the two
beds, dignity and decisiveness abandoned now -- who was he kidding? He
still wanted nothing more than a night with the lithe continental
striker, and his dick was already swelling in the front of his clingy
PJs.

Werner pulled firmly but not aggressively on his arm, dragging then
pushing him into a seated position on the side of the bed, and standing
authoritatively in front of him. Christian's shoulders trembled a little
in the vest as they were patted and stroked by those commanding hands,
and he sat there, his face level with the sculpted midriff of the topless
bloke.

`Touch it some more,' Timo ordered or suggested, and Christian gladly
complied. He reached for and stroked the hard sides of the pale torso,
tingling when his little finger on each hand brushed at the cotton
waistband of the shorts then darted back upwards, waiting to be given
permission to explore those light black shorts that hung about muscular
thighs. He daren't look up for the 25-year-old's expression, unsure he
would like the aloof and sneering expressions that tended to hang there
on the chiselled face when they spoke. He had realised early on that Timo
didn't think much of him or consider him of the same footballing status
-- just an American novelty.

Then Timo's hands were again on his, clamping them just below his
nipples, and dragging excitingly downwards until they were being rubbed
at the front of the shorts, his fingers dragged across the hard skin
below and the very obvious outline of what hung in the middle. He
remembered to breathe, heard it suck in and out with ragged enthusiasm.
Finally, he looked upwards, and just saw an ambiguous smirk directed at
him.

`I am so horny,' Werner announced simply. `You want to help?'

Dumb with desire, Pulisic just nodded, putting aside months of recovery
and self-discipline, dragging at the thin material until it was falling
away and the long slim erection was rising up to meet his lips, the
foreskin curling back about the narrow pink head. He held its thicker
base, let his tongue curl out over the head, kissing it full-on, making
Werner begin to groan, then took it fully into his mouth, letting it go
deep and resisting the immediate urge to gag.



Ben moved slowly and passively, grinning back at the flirty murmurings
from the attractive younger Chelsea player; he allowed himself to be
guided through their room, past the beds, onto the short sofa by the
windows, where he sat with his legs spread and Mason close at his side,
reaching between them to stroke and manhandle the growing rod in there,
cooing about its impressive size as if he hadn't been well aware of
those proportions already. Ben sighed with a mixture of desire,
resignation, reservation -- was it really okay for he and Jack the lad to
keep their relationship quite this open? Was it a key to healthy survival
between the distanced lovebirds, or was it just... dangerous?

`How's that?' Mount asked, perhaps sensing his indecision.

`Feeling good,' Chilwell assured him, patting and stroking his back
through the thin England t-shirt he wore, besotted with his national duty
even on a Chelsea away mission. `You sure you want to play like this
tonight, bro...?'

The 22-year-old Pompey just laughed at this, taking Ben's hand off his
shoulder and pushing it into the crotch of his slim-fit trackies,
inviting him to reciprocate and feel his growing stiffness as
confirmation. Both lads just leered at each other and relaxed in the
sofa, giving lazy handjobs through pants and underpants, their lips
breaking with the same chummy giggles as when they had sat and taken
selfies in the away suites of Porto's stadium; both of them exuding an
air of masculine innocence despite the secrets they shared, protected,
indulged.

`Here, let's get your whopper out,' urged Mase quietly, reaching into
the joggers and the clingy black trunks beneath, fingering the girthy
thing until it was out in the open, Ben's massive manhood that he'd
learned to be so proud of in the past 18 months -- it was a genuinely
huge dong, exaggerated against his medium stature and Mason's quite
delicate fingers. He closed his eyes and groans as it was dragged back
and forth, then spat on, then... mmm, sucked.



Christian was reluctant to stop sucking off the long pale meat, having
shifted from position to position without letting up in his hungry
attention -- first sat on the edge of the bed, mouthing in disbelief at
it and having his shoulders gently stroked from above; then sliding off
the bed and onto his knees so that he grab those strong white thighs and
have his lips fucked a little by some gyration of strong hips; crawling
back onto the bed, Timo propped back comfortably on pillows while he
nestled between his open legs to slobber over his prick and lick at his
balls, breathless and wanting to relish every second of contact he had
craved for so long.

But Timo was pushing at his head now, guiding him back away, trailing
spittle from his lips and beard hair, deprived of the long prick and
gasping for air. The other Chelsea man just laughed lightly at the sight
of his red-cheeked desperation, holding his face back and stroking
fingertips over the short dark crop of his hair. `I think you like
that,' Timo said smirkingly.

`I want to eat your cum,' the Hershey-born footballer gasped openly,
not even ashamed to hear his own greed vocalised as he lay there on the
bed, still in vest and pyjamas, his own dick straining at the material,
his hands roving back and forth on the thighs, knees, shins, absorbing
every second of physical closeness he was being allowed with this
handsome rogue.

Werner made a slight tutting noise. `We will get to that,' he informed
him, `but first...' He didn't say it, but Pulisic quickly and
delightedly realised how far this would go, as their bodies were shuffled
and pulled, and suddenly his attacking teammate was grappling with his
PJs, pushing them down and slapping one hard palm against the small chub
of his butt cheeks, making him whimper and nod wildly. He wrestled with
the vest himself, and once it was up about his head and shoulders, the
older player tweaked one of his nipples and toyed with the thick gold
chain there.

When the vest was tossed away, his own fumbling motion aided by Timo's
strong hands, he found himself face to face with that mercurial grin.
`Calm down,' the German told him, and he realised how frantic and silly
his breathing was; he laughed uncomfortably at himself, reaching down to
play with the cock that he'd sucked relentlessly, feeling it slick and
wet with his own saliva. He mumbled a `Sorry, dude' that just made
Werner laugh more, and then his second attempt at apologising (for his
own apology) was ended by a short peck of a kiss, nothing too tender or
romantic, but a definite firm locking of their lips.

And then, oh god, it was happening -- he was being pushed onto his front
and the 25-year-old striker, goalless and frustrated as he was, was
mounting and controlling him, rubbing against him from behind and
slapping more at his buttocks, spitting into his crack and rubbing the
tip of his dick there against the wetness. Christian grabbed and hugged
at the pillows, burying his face in them to hold in the screams of
eagerness he wanted to emit, teased and toyed by the attention from
behind, so fucking ready for it!

He pushed back with his rear, thrusting his chubby haired cheeks back
towards the aim of Werner's cock, signalling his eagerness and readiness
-- more laughter, barking and husky, and then physical agreement from
Timo, who gripped his sides and angled his meat between those fuzzy
mounds, pushing into him with little preparation or foreplay.
Business-like, but so powerful and satisfying. Christian bit into a
pillow to stifle the squeal of pain that would surely precede pleasure,
doing his best to just relax and ease the act... and quickly rewarded by
the confident stroke of that tool inside him, going a little deeper with
each jolting push, making the bed squeak and rattle. Werner's breaths
were soft focused grunts and his own were snarling gasps of joy.

`Fuck me,' he hissed needily, `fuck me harder, please... oh, fuck fuck
fuck, yesss, fuck me dude...'

And with speed and strength, Timo did, holding his hips firmly and
ramming him over and over, never saying a word, just delivering the
longed-for smashing of his arse that had burned through his head ever
since his cherry was popped by that surly Scouser.



`You're sure you're up to taking this?' Chilwell asked, still
hesitant and cautious with their fun, lying on his side close to the
other slim stud on one of the beds, both of them naked but for the white
tube socks bunched about their sore feet, and the cheeky grin plastered
over Mount's face. Two of the left-back's fingers were already brushing
between the firm round muscles of his friend's arse, rubbing a little
lube against the faint downy hairs and hungrily twitching entrance, the
hard rod of his endowment thwacking gently on the side of a buttock as
they lay in this position.

`Oh, fuck yes,' insisted Mount, rubbing back against him, lifting up
his face until their heads were very close, an inch or so of air
separating their lips from a kiss that... well, Ben felt the need for it,
he always enjoyed a good snog, but surely that would be a step too far, a
symbolic act that broke something invisibly important? `I haven't been
fucked in way too long.'

`You said you got done by Dec before we flew out last night...'

`Yeah, over twenty-four hours! Way too long. Hehe.'

`You're terrible,' Ben groaned, but with a glitter of lust in his blue
eyes, his face cracking with the affectionate smile that his midfield
companion always brought out in him. He rubbed a bit more firmly with his
fingers, nudging them into the receptive ring that he had already
fingered a little with one digit, and now stretched in preparation for
the main event. He bit his lips to stop himself leaning forward and
plucking that taboo kiss, instead nuzzling and pecking at Mason's neck
and shoulders, making him shiver and giggle and groan, `Oh Benji, you
minx.' This campness always crept out in their banter and pranking at
the training ground, and blurred into tonight's convenient intimacy --
it was something very different and fun for Ben, whose sex with Jack was
often rather intense and brooding, full of both men's tensions and
uncertainties. Mason, he thought, was a truly liberated young man,
delighted with his willingness to fuck.

And Ben now put that willingness to the test, beginning to hump him
side-on, taking it slow, holding him and kissing the top of his spine
while edging his huge meat between those extraordinary cheeks until the
thick head began to really prod at the teased hole. Ben had learned how
to be very slow and careful with his weapon, cringing to remember how
roughly he had tried it on virginal Jack in the early days of their
relationship -- no wonder poor Grealish had been reluctant to take it for
the first few months, always preferring to be top, until Chilwell had
figured out how to prep him and really proceed with caution!

But as often happened with his beautiful Villa captain, it was a care and
caution that could only last so long -- Mason grinding against him and
groaning encouragement, there came a point where he inevitably thrusted
his hips and broke more of his girthy meat into his hole, feeling that
familiar tightness against his shaft and urging it in. But where he
expected Mason to whimper and struggle, the lithe young man cried out
happily, `Fuck yes, you are SO thick, Benjy!' In fact, he pushed back
more with his arse, wanting even more of the whopper inside him, so that
Ben couldn't do anything but grab him tighter and begin to gyrate his
strong hips, clenching his six-pack and thigh muscles to really begin to
pummel his target.

They shifted from this gentle side-by-side posture into a doggy position,
Mason on hands and knees with his bubble butt slightly raised and Ben
just pushing madly into it in quick awkward strokes that he had to
control carefully and slow himself down, gasping out his enjoyment: `Oh
-- yes mate -- oh fuck, you're tight, maaaaan...' And taking his cock
with delight and ease, Mason growled for him, `Slam it in me you
bastard!' He was surprisingly rough and dirty, as Ben had often
suspected. When the four of them had played `wife swap' that night in
London, they had tested out one another's handsome partner, but this was
the first fuck to take place between them directly.

Ben leaned down, hugging him tighter as he jumped and grinded, kissing
his spine and shoulder muscles in a hot flurry, teasing his nipples on
the other side as he hugged his chest and then stroked down his six-pack,
which really was impressive -- it was silly for the handsome little
bugger to be throwing around compliments when he was packing this rig on
his slim frame!

`I'm gonna cum soon,' Chilly found himself blurting, embarrassed by
the speed of it, as sometimes happened with his Jack, but needing to warn
the sexy lad -- surely seeding him like that would be an insult to Rice
and his ownership of this prize rump!

`On my face,' Mount insisted, `cum on my face?!'

Oh, yes, fuck yes! Ben withdrew, returning to caution as he held the base
and pulled inch after inch of himself from Mason's stretched ring, then
jerking the lubed shaft in his right hand and helping Mase to flip over
onto his back, gasping and beaming. Ben shuffled forward on his knees and
brought them over the sides of his friend's torso `til he was kneeling
over his nipples, wanking his big tool straight over that handsome face,
bright-eyed and enthusiastic, mouth held open, lashes fluttering... god,
had he always been quite so bloody handsome?!

`Feed me,' Mase breathed, managing to be very sexy but still playful
and exaggerated. He rubbed at the tense front of Ben's thighs, licking
his own lips and then holding his mouth wide open again -- Ben's abs
crunched as he hunched forward, now jerking himself with BOTH hands,
pumping his cock like a machine until -- aaaargh -- he could watch the
flickers of ooze jet out over Mason's handsome face, painting his lips
and hooked nose with messy white. Oh, yesss... Mase licked at it through
thick laughter, slapping at his thighs and moaning playfully. `Lionel
Messy!' he joked, sticking out his tongue and letting a sliver of cream
roll back over it before he swallowed some of the Chilwell seed.

Ben always felt still intensely horny in the moments after ejaculation, a
last burst of energy before the traditional exhaustion claimed him, and
he knew Mase was yet to peak. He moved backwards, pushing his knees and
his body back over the covers, sliding down Mason's prone form -- for a
moment, he was going to plant his lips over his cock, which was always a
bit bigger than he expected from the slight 22-year-old, but then he went
further. He pushed his hands under his friend's legs and hoisted them
before dropping his chest and chin to the covers so that he could plant
his mouth in between the cheeks, tasting the minty-sour lubricant there
as he rolled his tongue against the freshly-fucked hole.

`OH,' came Mason's gasping approval, `OH BEN!'

For the next few minutes, the left-back lost control. He pushed and
spread at Mason's lifted legs and forgot about anything but the skills
of his tongue as an agent for pleasure -- the skills he'd first learned
from that senior filth-merchant, Vardy, and then used to induct his
darling Grealish, and now... he rimmed forcefully and noisily between
Mason's perfect cheeks, provoking wild yelps and strings of swear words
from his fellow goal-scorer. He didn't realise Mount was wanking off
quite so much until he felt the warm splashes of cum on his fringe and
brow, and against the insides of his wrists, and heard the shift in his
friend's tone -- `Yessss, Bennn...'

He pulled his face back, lifting up with his hands clasped about the
lad's knees, staring wild-eyed past the drooling cock and tight
six-pack, back to Mason's face, a few streaks of his cum still smeared
across one side of it. He lunged forward, their spent cocks rubbing, and
he kissed him on the lips, tasting a little of his own salt there, and
letting the messy on his own brow and fringe rub briefly against the waxy
tufts of Mount's own hair. The kiss didn't last long, but somehow about
it punched him in the gut and made him breathless and awkward as he
pulled away, nostrils full of the smell of sex, every tight muscle of his
body suddenly wiped out. While he lurched back onto his knees and rolled
his head awkwardly over his shoulders, dirty fringe rubbing at his
eyebrows, Mason yelped with happy laughter in between gasps.

`Oh, you dirty bastard,' he whined joyfully, `that was just... oh my
fucking god. I made Dec try it the other night but I think he's still
pretty unsure, but that was... whoa... you absolute dirty beast!
Awwwwwesome...' And one of his socked feet was kicking playfully at
Ben's thigh while he rolled about on his back, eyes closed and hoots of
pleasure still giggling from his messy lips.

But Ben was climbing back and off the bed, and snatching his boxers up
off the floor, using them to first wipe cum from his hair and the top of
his face, then dragging them over his massive dick to wipe it free of
lube and lingering jizz. He spat some of his stale saliva at the floor,
still tasting the lube a bit, backing off to his own bed and flopping
onto it. Mason was talking, but half to himself -- `God, I needed that...
just you wait til I tell Dec, he'll cream his pants, mate... can we do
that again before breakfast?' -- but Ben found himself unable to listen,
or in fact even look over at the other bed, dragging himself under the
covers and rolling onto his side, catching his breath but feeling a
strange shake overcome his limbs. `That was great,' Mason sighed to
himself. Yes, Ben thought worriedly, yes it really was.



Soon after cumming, he supposed, he must have drifted off -- now he was
waking, the pain in his rear the most pressing sensation, alongside the
muggy-headed awesome awareness that he had finally been fucked by Timo
Werner. He groaned groggily into pillow, lying on his front, in the very
position he had collapsed into after emptying his balls against the
bedsheets -- he could feel some of his dark beard hair slightly stuck to
the cotton, remembering in a flash the way Timo had knelt there and
spunked heavily down the side of his face, forcing him to lick hungrily
for a few drops of the salty goodness. Oh, jesus christ.

Pulisic pushed up with his elbows, blinking rapidly, glancing to the left
of him, where Timo's body was curled and sprawled the other way, his
face disappearing into the gap between pillows, his shoulder muscles
seeming tensed even in a sleepy posture. His back largely exposed, but
bedsheets thrown carelessly across the pale flash of his own muscular
rear. Beautiful, Christian thought, totally fucking beautiful. But
alongside that joyous affirmation was the clunking reality of the
situation -- the music was still playing quietly only a couple of feet
from his head, must have been going on unheard for the whole duration of
their shag. A few images slumped through Christian's mind, from Timo's
showy press-ups to the aloof smirk in the mirror, and the months of
disinterest leading up to tonight's sweaty Porto action: this was a
one-off, he thought, and really their sex together had been one and the
same as those press-ups. The physical lashing of a frustrated talent,
failing to live up to his own promise after his big expensive transfer to
Chelsea. My ass, the young American thought, was just the goal he'd
failed to score in the Quarter Final.

With a quieter breath, Pulisic climbed out of bed, the pain in his rear
seeming worse now he was beginning to reframe the hot sweaty action as
something less magical and treasured than it had momentarily appeared,
just basking in the snoozing beauty of the striker next to him. Naked,
the Pennsylvanian tottered from the bed and reached over to turn off the
speaker, irritated by the thumping rap music, and feeling a little surge
of anger at himself: are you really so pathetic? So hung up? This guy
don't give a damn about you, kid.

Pulisic looked about for his clothes but found they were tangled up in
the bedding and he didn't want to disturb the way it knotted about
Werner's limbs. Instead, he stalked into the bathroom and washed his
face again in cold water, spotting the crimson blush of his shame there
and on his smooth chest beneath the hang of his gold chain. He washed his
cock and balls and his arse in a quiet sulk, feeling quite numbed by the
return of strong feelings he had been suppressing quite badly. He'd
really fallen for Timo at some point in the autumn, he knew -- not just
an intense physical attraction, but a deep admiration for his reserved
humour and resilience in the face of repeated disappointment.

You're a mug, his inner voice told him cruelly.

Pulisic moved quietly and self-consciously back into the main room, and
he was just about to start pulling back the covers of the other bed, too
tired and drained to pull on any fresh bedclothes, when there was a
slight creak and rustle from across the lamplit hotel suite. Timo's body
shifted and twitched, and though he didn't look this way at all, his
voice called out in crisp English: `What are you doing, Pulisic?'

The American hovered at the foot of his bed, his spent cock and balls
dangling between his fluffy thighs, his chest rising and falling with
awkward breaths. He opened his mouth but no words came out, he just felt
an odd pang of confusion and nausea. Werner spoke again then, his voice
muffled by pillows but still quite commanding: `Come back to bed, idiot
boy. Come let me cuddle you.' And Timo did shift then, rolling aside a
bit and kicking clumsily at the covers, lifting them at the side -- an
invitation Christian could not even hesitate at. With care not to trip
and invite ridicule, he crossed the room again, hesitated, then slid into
the warmed nest, dragging his body in under the covers and feeling one
strong lean arm close about him until he was turned on his side and the
taller man was pulling in against him, breathing heavily on his shoulder
and gripping his bicep. `That's better,' Werner was muttering in a
dismissive, impatient sigh, cuddling into him with stiff tenderness,
`now shut up and let me sleep.'

Christian lay there on his side, just staring dumbly into the shadows
around them, his skin on fire at the enfolding touch at his back. He
nodded silently to nobody in particular, very glad to obey this command
and just lie there very still, his buttocks pressing into the soft warm
piece that had earlier broken between them over and again. A hard sweaty
fuck, and now... this.



`You fucked him, then?' demanded the dry, cheery voice of the Brummie.
Ben stared about the departure lounge, safely distant from his Chelsea
colleagues for this conversation, but still finding himself dry-mouthed
and uncomfortable as it dragged on. A low chuckle down the line from Jack
Grealish, and he blinked his eyes furiously. `Hope you gave it to him
good, then. Could he really take it? I bet he didn't struggle like I do,
ha ha.'

Ben strained to listen to that sweet voice -- was there just amusement
there, or resentment? He felt hot and tired and confused. `It was
okay,' he mumbled, about the fourth time he'd used the word on the
phone to his boyfriend -- fiancé? -- since ringing him here ten minutes
ago. There hadn't really been time for a call at the hotel, he'd slept
in too long after a restless night staring at the ceiling.

`Okay,' echoed Jack with that knowing laugh in his voice. `You're
such a poet, babe.'

`Well,' Ben said back a little rattily, `what do you want me to
say?'

There was a loaded pause before a sweet quiet voice: `You need some
sleep on the flight, Benjamin. Look, I'll let you get back to the lads.
I'm just glad you had a good night, goal-scorer. See you soon?'

Ben allowed his own slow but less deliberate pause: `Yeah. I hope so.
Love you.'

Jack said the same back to him almost instantly, and was still chuckling
sleepily to himself as he hung up and left Ben to stand there alone,
leaning on a luggage cart, watching the ambling idleness of the other
players at the far end of the waiting room, beginning to line up with
their things at some signal from the airport staff. His eyes picked out
Mason himself, up near the front, bent over laughing at some private joke
with Giroud and Azpilicueta. He hadn't seemed TOO offended when Ben
suggested that they didn't sit together on the flight back to London,
but he'd certainly raised his eyebrows and paused in his buoyant mood.

Chilwell's replacement flight neighbour was approaching him now, a wide
grin on his often more serious bearded face. `Yo,' the token American
barked at him, playing with the straps of his backpack, `are you staying
put in Porto, or are you coming with the rest of us?' Pulisic beamed at
him, coming to slap him on the arm and nodding in the direction of the
queue. Ben took a moment to appreciate just how smugly happy the winger
looked right now, but it was not a mystery he was going to give much
thought to. `Come on,' Christian urged him in his singsong voice of the
day, leading him forward to take up the rear behind the others, and the
American `soccer' star began to go on about the team's next upcoming
game with an enthusiasm that outshone his usual manner.

Stood at the back of the Chelsea queue in their matching blue tracksuits,
Ben just stared ahead, his eyes following the bounce in Mason's step as
he casually disappeared through the tunnel to board their chartered
flight, only pausing for a flirty wink and joke with the air stewardess
checking their documents. Fuck, Ben thought, fuck fuck fuck.

Playing about with his close teammate was one thing, a convenient
entertainment for the two young athletes whose boyfriends were busy at
rival football clubs -- but here he was, catching feelings and getting a
bit too into it. He grimaced guiltily and shuffled on after the others,
his brain painted with images of last night's fuck, and the sound of
Mason's happy squeals...




LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE QUARTER
FINALS... ONE MORE TO GO: WILL NEYMAR FIND AS MUCH FUN AT PSG AS HE DID
BACK AT BARCELONA...?

I KNOW THERE'S A FEW GOOD STORYLINES LEFT HANGING, SO LET ME KNOW WHAT
YOU WANT TO SEE DEVELOPED SOON - OR IF THERE ARE STILL SOME MAJOR GUYS I
AM MISSING OUT ON IN THE SERIES. IDEAS ALWAYS APPRECIATED!


'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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