Date: Sun, 26 Mar 2023 16:35:04 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, PArt 355

Part 355: Rice, Rice, Baby


As he walked between hotel rooms, Declan checked his phone - he was
hoping for a reply from his Mason, given what he was about to do, and he
would like to see some explicit encouragement from his serious boyfriend
before he went dabbling beyond the boundaries of their tightly intimate
relationship. Of course, Mount's encouragement had been open and blunt
enough this week so far, asking several times by message and call whether
Rice had `enjoyed himself properly' yet, chuckling playfully down the
line or barraging him with cheeky emojis as he questioned the 24-year-old
West Ham captain's sensible bedtimes and football-focused enjoyment of
this latest England camp... his first in as long as he could remember
where he hadn't been joined by the Chelsea twink.

Sure enough, there was the message, the reply to his own slightly nervous
`Might be celebrating that goal with a few others LOL' and a wink, to
which Mason had predictably replied with a love heart and then a blunt
monosyllabic `Go. Get. Some.'

It was late, certainly past the manager's curfew for this second night
in their Napoli hotel, and the flight back to London was scheduled for
early on Friday morning, leading them straight into prep for the second
Euro qualifier fixture. Really, the defensive midfielder should be in
bed, just like his roommate, and conserving energy for the coming three
days; instead, he was strutting quietly along the identical corridors of
the ultra-modern accommodation, checking the room number in the text, and
grinning to himself with boyish excitement.

Mainly, he would say to himself, he'd been missing Mason's
companionship: missing waking up next to someone he loved, and being able
to spoon comfortably against him at the start or the end of the day;
missing all of their silly in-jokes and their permanent simpatico; missed
the cheeky smile and uplifting mood of being in the other 24-year-old
player's presence. But he was a man with needs like any other, and of
course he was missing the affectionate private touch of his boy, and the
joys of partnering with someone who was instantly hard at the softest
kiss or quietest suggestion of playtime - Mason's appetite for fun was
beautifully exhausting, and it was why Declan tried to be so open-minded
and forgiving about their slight struggle for fuller monogamy.

But now, he supposed, it was his turn. Mason clearly found it hard to
believe that Declan was getting through the week without any such
attention - not even a solitary wank. He was here to focus on his
football and to guarantee his future place at the heart of the Three
Lions squad, and tonight he thought he'd proved that to anyone watching,
contributing significantly to a historic win in Italy. He'd earned
glowing reviews from Southgate himself and suspected that his stock value
in the Premiership might have shot back up tonight, ready for the
summer's prospective transfer opportunities... so yeah, football first,
always, and yet... those manly needs. There had been offers already, he
could point out to himself, though he hadn't bothered to point that out
to Mase, who was already incorrigible in sending him dirty messages and
suggesting how he might entertain himself in breaks during this busy week
of international break. Mason, he supposed, was bored at home, and living
vicariously through his horny suggestions; Dec hadn't told him that
before the end of his first day at the training camp, Luke Shaw had
slipped a warm hand onto his thigh at the dinner table and asked him how
he was feeling about being here without his best mate; he hadn't let on
to Mason how he'd caught Eric Dier giving him a funny look in the
showers at the end of day two; he hadn't made a single comment to his
boyfriend about the way No.1 goalkeeper Jordan Pickford had loitered at
his room door last night on the way to bed, telling him that he felt too
restless to go to his own room, `if you wanna hang out, matey'. Perhaps
he'd overthought all three of those indirect approaches, and he was
being a bit unrealistic about his own attractiveness, it was hard to tell
- but tonight, for sure, fun was on the cards.

As every lad on the team had grabbed him in sweaty hugs in the aftermath
of tonight's 2-1 win, he'd felt the rising excitement in him, the
restless urge for physicality, quite apart from the tender pangs he had
for his specific missing boy - and then there had been the last of those
hugs, just before the showers, and the growling purr of that Brummie
stud's voice in his ear, telling him `We'll celebrate properly later,
man, yeah?'

Rice could easily have laughed off the remark from a beaming Grealish -
in the moment, he did just that - and forgotten about it, very conscious
of the Man City man's high spirits and bawdy banter. But then he'd got
a text from Jack just as he was brushing his teeth and getting ready for
bed, telling him to come to `Room 412' in half an hour so that his goal
could be `proper fucking celebrated'. Right.

Rounding the corner and approaching the numbered room, Declan already had
a semi in the vivid blue sweat-shorts he'd pulled back on to leave his
suite, although he had to accept a slim chance that his friend was merely
up for a swift nightcap of strong liquor, more than had been allowed in
the bar downstairs after supper - a limited number of low-alcohol beers
under the strict supervision of the management. Yeah, he reminded
himself, adjusting the waist of his shorts and spotting the swell of his
own bulge in them, there was a chance that a `proper fucking
celebration' just meant a little bevvy after curfew. But... it was Jack
Grealish, after all.

The 6ft1 footballer knocked lightly on the door and stepped back, shoving
fists into each pocket, and glancing warily up and down the bright
neutral corridor; a slight scuffle of noises behind the door and then the
click of a lock, and it opened inwards. Not Grealish himself there to
greet him, but- ah, that other attractive young fella of the Manchester
City ranks. Declan tried to calmly hide his surprise and just nod
appreciatively at the broad smile of the younger player, who beckoned him
in.

`It's just Dec,' Phil Foden called to their host, stepping aside to
let him in. The 22-year-old talent was in the same loose blue shorts and
close-fitting white tee as Declan, though his socks and trainers were
already off and he was barefoot on the pale carpet.

`Rice, Rice, baby!' intoned the deeper voice of Jack Grealish, and the
excitable winger was stood to one side of the suite, pouring miniature
spirits and cans of pop into glasses and teacups, a very amateurish
cocktail waiter in his tight-fitting black shorts and contrastingly baggy
Dior sweatshirt.

For a moment, taking slow steps into the room, Rice was attempting a
calculation: did the presence of Jack's fellow City midfielder make it
more or less likely that drinks weren't the only thing on offer in here?
He took one look at the sultry welcome on the 27-year-old's handsomely
scruffy face, and the eager brightness of Foden's smile, and reached his
conclusion. He knew both of these lads too well to think they were just
sharing a drink. But his brain had a bit more maths to do: there were
more than three drinks being poured out on the long desk at the side of
the room, Jack humming to himself as he did so.


Before leaving his own room, Ben Chilwell had found himself giving his
hair a quick comb and rubbing a little bit of matte moisturiser into his
soft-featured face, inspecting himself fussily in the bathroom mirror
before pausing and laughing awkwardly at his own behaviour. He'd pulled
a light over-shirt on top of his white vest before wishing a quiet `see
you in a bit' to half-asleep Reece James, and then he was out in the
hotel past curfew, defying Southgate's rules with little hesitation.
`You still up?' had begun the message from Jack Grealish, pinging in
his phone's inbox not so long ago, and then `Wanna come to my room for
a little drink? My roommate's gone walkabout. We can catch up.'

The pair of messages had set the 26-year-old Englishman into a hot sweat
of urgency, already sat on the edge of his bed and wondering what TV show
he was going to watch an episode of on his iPad before catching some
sleep. On the one hand, it had come out of nowhere and was a total
surprise, a cheeky little transgression after the squad's relatively
muted post-match celebrations at the Neapolitan stadium and downstairs in
the restaurant and bar; but on the other...

Well, the pair of them, old friends reunited, had sat side by side for
quite some time the other afternoon, interviewed playfully by the almost
ubiquitous social media face of the team, Josh Denzel. It had been an odd
experience in a lot of ways, with Ben initially clamming up when one of
the PR staff pulled him aside in training to tell him it was on the
schedule, and that it was going to be great content for the team's
socials; as much as Chilwell and Grealish maintained coolly friendly
relations as part of this national side, surely everybody knew they
weren't half as close as they'd been before...? Ben didn't think many
would suspect the nature of their short-lived relationship or the extent
of their estrangement since, but still... To be literally interviewed
about their bromance as part of the team's media output?! He'd almost
feigned a stomach bug and written off his chances of squad selection to
avoid it...! But common sense or post-World Cup ambition had prevailed,
and the Chelsea left-back found himself greeting Josh and Jack in one of
the indoor training blocks, seated close together and ready to be quizzed
on one another.

Grealish was in as playful a mood as ever, perhaps a little warmer and
softer with him than the last few times they'd attempted to hang out
like old times - apart from anything else, the City winger made constant
jokes about their interviewer, implying that the Love Island reject
couldn't stop staring at Ben's bulge and that the daft lad probably
wanted to get spit-roasted by the pair of them if it wasn't for the
cameras. This was, of course, all in secretive whispers between shots,
and it added a kind of confidentiality and naughtiness to proceedings
that took Ben back in time - soon he was muttering back his own jokes to
his ex, pretending to see a semi in Denzel's tracksuit bottoms, and
arguing that the over-enthusiastic sports reporter was clearly more
interested in `a taste of Grealo'.

Flirtatious jokes aside, the interview experience had been nice, and
seemed to involve a lot of both lads showing off their detailed knowledge
of each other, or calling on significant memories of the footballing
milestones they'd shared when they were England youth players together
back in the day. Ben had to keep stopping himself from getting a bit
over-excited at a funny story, or choking back a hint of emotion as his
own comments revealed just how closely their lives had once been
interlinked, despite playing for two rival clubs in the Midlands at the
time.

When it was over and they were being dismissed to go back to different
corners of the Tuesday afternoon training schedule, Chilwell was left
feeling slightly empty and alone, inviting various questions and concern
from the other defensive players he was with out in the drizzle. `All
good,' he claimed with breezy smiles to first Shaw and then Stones, and
again when his old Leicester City bro Harry Maguire took him by the
shoulder for a side-hug and checked where his head was at; `just
worrying about getting a chance on the pitch in Italy,' he lied,
brushing off the interest of the gigantic centre-back, and a similarly
concerned look from nearby Luke Shaw. Even Eric Dier took a moment to
draw close to him as the rain grew heavier and they moved indoors,
stroking at his upper back in a way that brought back aching memories of
their one-off closeness. `Everyone's a bit worried about you, Chills,'
the Tottenham Hotspur player said softly. `You seem really distracted?'
He fobbed off the kindly eyes and sexy beard of the Spurs player in the
same way that he had to his other football pals, and got on with the last
part of the day. He was thinking about dinnertime and a chance to maybe
speak a little more privately with his ex-boyfriend.

At dinner, Ben had ended up at the same table as Jack, able to quietly
laugh along as he bantered with Maddison and Rice, thinking about the
brotherly bonding he'd missed out on when these guys were all in Qatar
and he was, as usual, injured. But you wouldn't think it, the way
Grealish constantly paused Doha in-jokes to explain them to Chilly,
making sure he felt included in the chat - and reaching across the corner
now and then to tap him on the arm or give his shoulder a rub, publicly
affectionate in front of the other players.

It was enough to give Ben seeds of hope, a feeling that he'd brought
with him on yesterday afternoon's flight to Naples, and all the way
through tonight's match, where he'd failed to make the starting line-up
or to get out there as a substitute. He was delighted when Grealish was
benched and, swaddled in warm coat, chose to come and perch next to him
for the remainder of the game, though all they spoke about was Rice's
performance and the record-breaking penalty by Harry Kane. In quiet
moments, Ben couldn't help but smile nostalgically to himself and stare
to one side, seeing the way the lines and freckles of Jack's slightly
weathered features caught the stadium lights, his face full of sexy
pouting intensity as he studied the remains of the game.

And now... this invite.

Ben walked down the corridor with a lot of nervous tension in his 5ft11
body, his palms sweaty and his throat dry. He was particularly interested
in the apparent absence of Jack's roommate - Kalvin, was it? - before
inviting him over to share a drink. The possibility to talk properly
seemed to lurk there in front of him, though Ben didn't dare to imagine
anything more specific or exciting than that. He just hoped they could
talk. God knows they needed to... discuss things. And without a fucking
interviewer and camera present.

When he knocked on the door to Jack's room, he was surprised but not
immediately worried to hear multiple voices inside, and only started to
turn from nervous anticipation to confused worry when he heard his name
called from the other direction and saw an ex-teammate strutting towards
this same numbered suite. Ben couldn't hide the confusion and perhaps
dismay from his good-looking face as he stared down the arrival, who let
out a whistling laugh and reached in for slight hug with one arm, the
other cradling a bottle of vodka that James Maddison had magicked out of
nowhere.

`Sweet,' chirped the 26-year-old Leicester City faithful, one of his
closest buddies from that period of his career, `Jacko said he thought
you were coming, hehe. You knocked?' James turned his bright grin from
him to the door, which was clicking open - both young men were enveloped
immediately by the gruff `Lads!' of Jack's voice, and then enveloped
by his sleeved arms as he lunged out to grab them in the hug of an
already-tipsy man. `Come on in,' Grealish insisted, dropping his voice
to a whisper as he seemed to remember the curfew, `come on in...'

Suddenly gripped by the cold realisation of his own stupid naivety,
Chilwell tiptoed into the hotel room, nodding blankly to Foden and Rice
as he saw two more good friends seated along the bottom of one bed, both
clutching white mugs of drink. Next to him, Maddison gushed with
enthusiasm, `This was a fucking sweet idea,' he was saying to them all
at large, thrusting the illicit vodka bottle into Jack's hands then
rushing to hug and jostle at Declan. `Rice, Rice, baby!' he laughed,
shaking at their friend and hero of the night, making the grinning lad
blush and giggle.

But Ben just stood there between them, wringing his hands together and
looking back at his own stupid thoughts. He'd misread this, he realised,
and probably misread a dozen other little signals in the days of this
week. Fucking idiot. He needed to patch up a smile on his face and shift
his expectations, that's all; he was here for a little post-curfew
drink, and one of those was now being pressed into his hands. `Saved one
of the decent glasses for my posh mate,' quipped Grealish with a big
smile on his face. `Can you imagine your mum's face if you told her you
drank voddy out of a coffe mug in a hotel? Fuck, you'd be out of the
family group chat in seconds, ha.' There it was, Ben thought, that glow
of Jack's approval and attention, and those casual allusions to how well
they knew each other's worlds... but that was just his way, wasn't it?
That's how Jack was with everyone, and why he was so universally liked.
He treated everyone like they were his special favourite, and the world
treasured him in return.

Ben took hold of the glass and nodded his slow thanks, forcing a laugh at
the remark, and then sinking down into the seat that he was offered,
right beside the empty miniatures and crushed cans, his eyes falling on
the vodka bottle supplied by Maddison - perhaps he could just down the
whole thing right now and forget what a plonker he'd been, trekking
across here expecting a romantic tete-a-tete and a frank discussion of
where things went wrong.

`To Rice,' Grealish boomed next to him, resting a hand warmly on his
shoulder but facing across the room to taste Declan, who laughed and
raised his mug. `To Rice!' the room chorused enthusiastically, before
everyone but Ben broke energetically into a chorus of `Rice, Rice, Baby
- Rice, Rice, Baby!'


It was Jack the lad who got things going, unsurprisingly, and Maddison
saw the mood shift coming; he was watching their host closely and he saw
Grealish tug at the crotch of his skimpy shorts with particular vigour
several times before anything else happened. But then he saw Jack, who
was still bopping to an impression of Vanilla Ice, shift closer to little
Phil, who was up doing the honours of topping up one drink a time with
the vodka that James himself had smuggled into the hotel - and without
much preamble, Jack was reaching to the side and giving the young
player's arse a pat and squeeze through blue shorts, then gesturing at
it as if premiering a work of art. `Just look at that, fellas,' cooed
the Brummie hunk, framing Foden's pert backside with both hands, then
bringing one hand to give it a good spank in the shorts. `What a little
masterpiece booty he's got.'

And Maddison was delighted - not that he couldn't happily just sit here
and drink and talk shit with his fellow England players, pretty pleased
to be back in the fold after so many past snubs before his World Cup
inclusion. But he'd come across here tonight, ditching the snores of
ageing goalkeeper Fraser Forster, because Jackie boy had heavily hinted
that he was in the mood for mischief. And watching him now bend Phil over
the side-table and lightly spank him in his shorts, there wasn't any
room left for ambiguity.

`How's that, Philly?' James called enthusiastically, hearing the sharp
little yelps and giggles of the young City star who was trying not to
spill vodka whilst bending to Jack's instructive touch. Down went the
back of his shorts so that Grealish could spank him a bit more properly,
planting his hand down on those lean pert cheeks through the simple white
trunks below. `Do you like a bit of a spanking from old Grealo here, do
ya?' Maddison sniggered to himself, seeing something of Vardy's bossy
kink in the way Grealish carried on, and unable to stop himself from
rubbing the crotch of his sweatpants as he did so.

He himself was seated on one bed with Rice to one side and Chilly on the
other, and he glanced between those two for approval as Grealish began to
cuddle at Foden more peaceably, and help him to sort out the drinks. The
horny mood had been initiated, and he could see it reflected with goofy
handsomeness on the long hook-nosed face of Declan Rice, who was staring
appreciatively with his mouth half-open, looking like he wanted to get up
and take a few smacks to Phil's backside to try it out; but on James'
other side, he thought that Ben looked reserved and prudish, one arm
hugged over his chest and the near-empty glass of liquor held close to
his lips. Pfft. James knew the medicine for that: he reached his left
hand across and lay it provocatively by his old teammate's lap, then did
the same with his right, taking a gentle hold of Rice through his shorts.
From both athletic men came quietly approving sighs of consent, and James
smirked to himself.

He gave both lads a bit of a rub and a squeeze, then deprived them of his
touch, hopping up to his feet to receive his refilled drink form Phil,
and to pull an arm around the smaller lad's back as he did - the 5ft7
Stockport scally wavered between he and Jack, both only 5ft9 but looking
taller next to this wiry lad. `You're right,' Maddison announced,
bringing his hand down Foden's back and cupping at his arse, `it does
feel like a work of art.' Jack's hand wnet there too, overlapping with
his as they squeezed at Phil's cheeks through the shorts, and rubbed
curious fingers with each other.

Seated on the bed, Dec and Ben were watching them closely; from here,
Ben's seriousness looked a bit more sexy and intense than sulky, but Dec
looked just as big a goofball, and it was very endearing. He'd found
himself admiring the tall young man a fair few times back in Doha,
especially when he'd seen him leaping into the pool in well-filled
speedos - but getting him alone without Mason Mount had always seemed an
impossibility. Well, now was his chance to get a taste of Rice.

Maddison took a long swig from the excessive vodka drink and then placed
it back onto the table, before giving himself a good feel in the front of
his tracksuit pants, and then advancing on the bed once more. He grinned
decisively at Dec, who stared back with something that almost looked at
panic, and then relaxed back onto his elbows as he understood and
accepted; as the tall West Ham bloke stretched back, Maddison was given
great access to those loose-fitting shorts. He reached greedily up one
baggy leg to find the bulging briefs below, then brought his face in
against the outsize to nuzzle the shape of a big swelling cock, making a
loud appreciative `Mmmm' before looking up at and winking to tonight's
goal-scoring Man of the Match.

Without wasting much time, Madders grabbed hold of the shorts and pulled
them down; now he could kiss and rub at the mound of privates in the grey
briefs more easily, kissing his lips and rubbing his nose into the
enclosed perfection of the Rice crown jewels. At the same time, he
reached his right hand away until he was stroking encouragingly at the
leg of Ben's khaki pants, inviting him closer with his touch; oh yes, he
thought, now I remember how well-hung that posh bastard actually is...

It didn't take the Leicester player long to have two cocks bared in
front of him, peeling away Dec's grey briefs and releasing his long and
gently curved weapon, whilst also undoing the button fly of Ben's khakis
and fighting at the silky black undies until a less erect but even more
impressively proportioned slab of meat was exposed. With exaggerated
noise, the slim 5ft9 midfielder spat into his palms and brought both
hands to work, taking Dec and Ben in his grip and pulling gently on them
both in rhythm, smirking from one flushed face to another, and deciding
who he should suck off first. Ben was a treasured old friend, but... well,
Rice, Rice, Baby... he opened his mouth wide and leant into taste the
long-desired prick of the tall Londoner, gratified by the immediate moan
of pleasure.


Leaving the hotel was even more strictly against the gaffer's curfew
than having other guys in your room, although there were probably
unwritten rules about gay orgies that might get a bit more response out
of the FA than a quiet decaf coffee in a 24-hour-cafe on the other side
of the road to the accommodation. That's where Kalvin Phillips was now,
seated on a stool against the window, swaddled in hoodie to hide his face
and distinctive afro ponytail, unsure a visiting England winner needed to
be recognised on the streets of Naples tonight. He was supping his second
frothy coffee on the stool, but he was also staring fixedly back across
the road, studying the slick dark bulk of the hotel, and the single
glowing window up on the fourth floor - his own vacated suite.

`Don't be like that,' Jack Grealish had moaned at him in his low
monotone. `Don't be so uptight. Just a laugh. Few drinks. See what
happens.'

`You've just said what's gonna happen,' the confused Yorkshireman had
protested loudly, pushing away the gentle hug from his buddy and
teammate. `Fucking hell, Jack, we're meant to be getting to bed and up
before dawn to get ready for the flight...'

`We won,' the 27-year-old protested, constantly trying to pat and hug
him - way too tactile in his attention and arguing. `We deserve to
celebrate a bit more than a fucking Bud Lite and a carb-free buffet, for
fuck's sake...'

`I'm not staying for this,' he'd told him, and stood by it; pulling
his hooded top on and exiting their shared room to get away, `out for a
walk'. Not much of a walk, since he'd done laps of the block and ended
up here at this cafe. Fucking hell. Why did Jack have to be such a
troublemaker? There was no point risking any bother from the gaffer or
the hotel, not when the week was going so well...! Phillips had been
delighted to start on the right wing and play a full 90 minutes in the
fixture, and he certainly didn't want to discourage the boss from
repeating that come Sunday in Wembley. Besides... he knew full well that
his mate had more than a couple of discreet drinks on the mind, the way
he'd carried on as he played with his phone and fussed over his hair.

What had happened that night in Qatar still troubled Kalvin, just as it
first had when he'd become over-excited in the Croydon strip bar away
with Leeds - but the night in the winter heat had been much worse,
sticking his dick up a squealing Daniel James instead of just letting the
Welsh twink blow it in secret. He pictured himself and Jack Grealish
taking turns to mount and pulverise the gasping Welsh boy and he felt
absolutely disgusted at himself, finding it very hard to accommodate any
open-mindedness about his sexuality; and more specifically, absolutely
unable to look his girlfriend in the eye during sex for many weeks after
they returned home in time for Christmas.

It's not that Kalvin wasn't somewhat in thrall to his charismatic City
friend - Jack was one of those guys who you wanted to be in with, and it
had been a great source of comfort in a difficult first season at his new
club, to have the friendship and support of someone as confident and
gregarious as Grealish. The 27-year-old Yorkshire lad had left a lot
behind to make the relatively short-distance transfer, and it had been a
year riddled with regrets and self-doubt, except for when he was having
his ego stoked by the Brummie hype-man, or being forcibly integrated into
the team spirit by a player who never showed a second's insecurity about
his price-tag or his leap in football clubs, even if he would confess to
both in private conversation.

So these two facts left the burly midfielder in an awkward position,
because he wanted to remain close buddies with Jack the lad, but he
couldn't quite sit comfortably with everything that friendship might
entail. It had been one thing when he was first bonding with Jack on his
England debut, and they'd shared a sexy prostitute together; that
transgressive three-way had been one boundary trampled, high-fiving over
her quivering body and plunging their big manly cocks into the same wet
lips... but that night after the Wales game, well that had been pure
madness, and he'd felt so dirty and ashamed in the hot morning that
followed, despite every one of Jack's dismissive and reassuring quips.

So here he was, on his own drinking decaf cappucinos in a silly little
cafe, ousted from his own hotel room when he ought to be getting his head
down, because... what? Jack Grealish was organising some kinda orgy?! It
had sure sounded like that - one minute he'd just been talking about
trying to get some time alone with an old friend who he needed to catch
up with, and the next Phil was at the door, saying he was gonna have a
shower and be back in twenty, and Jack was sending furtive messages to
Declan Rice and James Maddison, claiming that it was time for a real
party. He didn't know what to think about Dec or Madders, but he had a
clear enough image of Grealo's dynamic with Lil Phil: his friend had
been far from shy in sharing it with him once the season had re-started
and they were in the week-to-week battle of chasing Arsenal for the
title. `He's a good little slut,' Jack whispered to him out of the
blue on the edges of the training ground, `and I'm sure you could
borrow him sometime if you liked, haha?' He'd thought that was a joke,
but stray comments like that came too often, and he came to realise that
the friendship between the other two English lads was far from the
brotherly banter that got talked about. `Pretty sure he's seeing
someone else,' Jack had mused on one occasion, `but I've never figured
out who - he'll bend over for my cock pretty much whenever, though.'

Kalvin grimaced and shook his head. He'd been thinking about heading
back in and just asserting his right to a good night's sleep when the
gaffer had set curfew, but then he'd started to picture what he might
walk in on, and get uncomfortable. But... as it always did, the thought of
Jack's casual manliness and his utterly unabashed confessions came back
to him, normalising the whole thing. It wasn't shocking or scandalous,
according to Jack's dopey smirk and honest chatter, it was just what
happened between testosterone-fuelled sports studs when they had to spend
so much time away from women. Maybe he was right...?

When the waitress came to collect his two empty cups, she found a 300%
tip in the hastily folded Euros tucked under the saucer, the high stool
vacated, and its shifty occupant just about visible through the dark
window, crossing the road in a hurry - must be English, she thought,
wearing tiny shorts like those on a chilly March night!


Contrary to what Jack might boast in moments of laddish bravado, Phil had
barely touched him in that way in the past few months; for a long period,
Foden had needed to fight his crush on the charismatic older lad, and
he'd held himself primly away from Grealish, Pep Guardiola's mission to
appease and comfort the disruptive Villa lad long ago forgotten... Jack
was now a regular starter at his new club and not likely to flip out and
run crying back to Birmingham for a minimal fee, as their Spanish boss
had once feared. And Phil had done what needed to be done to cut off
`the feels' for the sexy bastard, before, during and since the action
of the World Cup.

Tonight, though, it was exactly what the horny Stockport lad needed, and
he'd blazed scarlet with excitement when he caught sight of a naked Jack
in the steamy showers after the game, remembering how good that meat had
felt in his mouth and his arse. Unlike everybody else in the suite
tonight, Phil hadn't been summoned by some cheeky message; he'd dropped
by just before curfew and told Jack in no uncertain terms that he needed
fun, and would go for a quick shower before returning to claim it. He'd
seen Kalvin's innocent eyes burst out of their sockets as the hot
Yorkshire lad eavesdropped in the background, and felt so reckless that
he didn't even care - of course Jack had told him about their
experiences in Doha, so Phil even dared to hope that Phillips might join
in. His absence was a shame, but not one the 22-year-old was going to
dwell on.

After all, he was now in this increasingly warm and stuffy hotel room
with four other Premier League studs. First, a gentle and playful
spanking from Jack, who had learned his penchant for that a year ago; and
then grabbed and manhandled by the tipsy and horny Brummie fucker, almost
spilling all of the bottles and cans from the side table as Jack went as
far to snog him and kiss him hard enough to leave love-bites on the neck.
Even better, he was being held from behind by Jack's arms, which pinned
and protected him, but also reached down the front of his baggy shorts to
tease his erection and make it leak pre-cum against the confines of his
white trunks. And this also meant that, whilst being kissed and cuddled
and groped by Jack, he could watch as Madders went down on Rice and
simultaneously jerked off Chilwell - then swapped positions, gagging on
Ben's ridiculously oversized equipment whilst tossing off the spit-wet
length of Declan's dick.

When released by Jack's arms, Phil wasted no time in wrenching off his
England-branded t-shirt and flinging it aside, and scampering in close to
get a taste of Dec himself. He slid sideways onto the bed, coming in
close to the goal-scoring stud, tall and masculine; in he leant, kissing
his neck and collarbone, whilst his hand reached in and took over control
from James, playing with and pumping on his gorgeous cock. Dec moaned
appreciatively and hugged him from the side, before bringing that hand up
his bare spine and onto his short-cropped hair, and push down. Oh, yes.
Phil became the second horny bastard in the shared room to go down and
drool over Rice's captainly hard-on, taking it deep-throat with more
aplomb and practice than free-and-easy Maddison.

Of course, none of these cocks were quite as pleasing to Phil as his
Papi's, but that was probably why he was so totally up for it tonight;
Pep Guardiola had sent him a rare dick pic from a restaurant bathroom in
Barcelona, the huge circumcised monster jutting out from a nest of
silver-streaked pubes. `Need you on this as soon as we are home' read
the simple caption to the auto-deleting message, sent to Phil only
minutes before the England squad had to take their places on the pitch
and sidelines, and leaving the youngster rigid in his kit for the entire
first half.

But in anticipation of a reunion with his Papi Pep, the 22-year-old
scally was very happy to play about with these studs of the England
line-up, starting with a mouthful of Declan's hard shaft, and a good
lingering kiss of his low-hanging balls - but then reeling aside and
dropping to his knees to service Madders, whose cock was a perfectly
compact mouthful and whose deep gaps of surprise suggest he'd never been
sucked by anyone with REAL talent. But then, just as he was chowing down
on the Leicester star, he felt and heard the same little judder and thump
of a door, a noise that sent a ripple of discomfort through the sexually
adventurous occupants of the suite-

When Foden looked up form where he knelt, he found the rosy-cheeked
wonder of Phillips' face staring down at him, and wildly to every corner
of the room. The 5ft10 fellow City midfielder stood there in oversized
hoodie and undersized shorts, much of his thick smooth legs on show
between them and his ankle socks. Phil stared interestedly back at him
and licked his lips, still holding James' prick in one hand, and vaguely
aware of the tensing and shifting of three other bodies close behind him.
The Leeds man stood there staring at them, but seeming to particularly
stare here, and Phil waited to see his response. Over his head, Jack's
voice called, `Don't just stand there, for fuck's sake.' Kalvin
looked like he was about to speak, and then stopped himself; but Jack
shouted again, a hearty laugh in his voice that clashed with the sudden
anxiety of the others. `Get your big nob out and let Lil Philly have a
taste, will ya?' boomed the Brummie playboy firmly. `Come on!'

Phil gently let go of Maddison's cock and rubbed his forearm over his
mouth and chin, turning and shuffling his knees into a better position to
face the newcomer, who took a few inexorable steps forwards, despite the
conflicted look on his cute dimpled features. And then Foden was in front
of him, kneeling forward, and reaching for those strong thighs, but
looking up at him with parted lips and shiny vulnerable eyes... with tight
grip, he yanked down the small black shorts across the broad thigh
muscles, and the man's underpants came with them. Out flopped his cock,
short and thick and pressed forward by his enormous balls; it was soft,
more or less, but it wouldn't be for long. Phil leaned in and opened his
mouth and gave it a long sucking kiss, welcoming big Kal into the party.
Above him, the Yorkshire stud just gasped, and then a shivering voice:
`Is there any vodka left?'


Jack Grealish kept having to remember to keep his voice and his moans
down - it was his one tipsy concession to cautiousness, unsure who if
anyone was occupying the rooms on either side of his and Kalvin's shared
suite. He was sensible enough to know that this `party' could have
shitty consequences for the lot of them, but he was also happy and horny
enough to give minimal fucks. They'd won big in their qualifying match
against the slimy Italians, and undone bad memories of the 2021 Euros
final - they all deserved to let off some steam, sexy Declan more than
anyone - `Rice, Rice, Baby!' This might have been hollered out with all
of the gusto of a football fan in the stands, but that modicum of caution
made him trill it out with reserved excitement, reaching across and
slapping the lanky fucker on his bare back, having helped him out of his
t-shirt a moment ago, and then pushed Phil's head back down into his
crotch to suck on him some more.

Jack himself was sprawled on his back in the centre of the bed, propped
on his elbows, and all of his clothes hastily abandoned except for the
off-white Puma socks which clung to his feet and ankles, jutting out at
angles cos his big hairy legs were separated to allow Madders a good
mouthful of his long fat cock, the slim Leicester lad gagging loudly on
him at delightful intervals. `Fuck,' he groaned happily, `I'd forgot
what that mouth could do, Mad-Dog - who you sucking off at Leicester all
the time to get this good...?!'

On Jack's right, Dec was seating and panting, sat a little bit more
upright with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, his hands quite
tender as he cradled Phil's head in between his smoother thighs. Jack
almost laughed and shoved him, wanting to tell him that Foden doesn't
like it so tender as that - the little scamp needed to be treated rough!
But what did he know, since this was the first time in ages that Fodes
had seemed remotely interested in him? After walking in on an obvious
incident between Lil Phil and Jude Bellingham in their Doha hotel room,
Jack had been unable to swallow his considerable pride and be the one to
make a move on the younger lad in the few months that had elapsed - he'd
started to assume that their once hot arrangement had burned out.

And there, to his left...

For the moment, Benji was just taking care of himself. He stood to that
side of the bed, but with one leg propped up on the mattress at an angle,
forming a dramatic lunge with his body. A little sweaty already, he'd
just pulled off the over-shirt he wore, but that white vest still clung
tightly to his lean torso, except for where it bared a stretch of his
lightly haired chest... and his pants were well off and discarded, strong
legs exposed and parted, and his hand pumping rapidly back and forth on
his long sturdy weapon, still slick wet with spit from James' mouth. He
stood there and wanked furiously as if impatient to get his turn again,
lunging against the bed as he pleasured himself and stared - almost
angrily - down at the blowjob Madders was lavishing upon Grealish
himself.

He'd imagined a different night when he first messaged Ben not so long
ago; he'd sensed that this was a quiet night where he might briefly hang
out with his old bestie, since things seemed quite mellow and upbeat
between them this week. But no sooner had he texted Ben than Phil was at
the door, stroking his cock through the front of his shorts, and putting
other ideas in his heads. Minutes later, Jack had orchestrated this whole
playful gathering - well, it didn't matter, did it? He could get
Benjamin on his own some other time to talk about stuff, it didn't NEED
to be tonight.

He reached across and took his dick by the hand - Ben looked momentarily
alarmed, his posture stiffening up as much as his rod, but then Jack
stroked it at the right angle and pressure, and his ex's features melted
into an open-mouthed gasp of appreciation, eyes half-closed. Jack licked
his own lips as he leaned his body more to the left and really stroked
that big tool, running his thumb about the head where the foreskin pulled
clear. And then - fuck it - he rolled more to that side and dropped his
face close enough to lap a tongue against the fat head of Ben's cock,
tasting his saltiness, and gripping the big beast about the base whilst
slobbering over its tip.

`Ohhh,' moaned Chilly's throaty voice.

`Tastes just like I remember,' Jack whispered, more or less quiet
enough for his ears only, and continued to not-quite-suck him - kissing
and licking and spitting on it, and easing his fist up and down the
bottom few inches of it, impressed all over again by the size and girth
of what the 26-year-old was packing. He held onto it but pulled his face
away, because the blowie had stopped: it turned out to be just because
Madders was grinning up so excitedly at this contact between them, drool
on his thinly bearded chin. `Here,' Jack exclaimed, ruining a moment of
possible tenderness as he caressed Ben, `if your'e bored of my cock,
give my arse-hole a lick!' And he sprung away from Ben's lunging
posture and threw his back down to the bed, pulling his mighty legs up
and apart to flash his big meaty arse at the cock-sucker from Coventry -
`Go on, give us a rim,' he chuckled, staring at Maddison's uncertain
expression, and spreading his cheeks.


Declan saw this and felt faintly inspired. It was still not something he
felt totally comfortable and confident with, but he knew how much Mason
enjoyed it, and he always tried his utmost to please and satisfy his
precious lad. So... why not try and get better at it? But he didn't lunge
across and take the opportunity from Maddison - he lifted Phil's face
out of his crotch and smirked down at the sharp handsome features, then
asked him outright, `Can I rim your arse, mate?' He wasn't ready for
the feverish earnestness of the nodding reaction, or the speed at which
the City starlet got up from his knees and began to push out of his white
trunks, his surprisingly large dick quickly loose. Dec helped him,
guiding those white pants down smooth legs, and dragging the 5ft7
football player up onto the crowded bed - but pausing to take a moment to
appreciate how strong athletic Phil was getting. It was easy to dismiss
the diminutive Manc lad as a scrawny thing, but he was densely muscular
in his own way, increasingly strong and defined on that petite frame -
but Dec supposed that the same was true of he and Mase, slim young men
who were working hard to pile on the muscle and protect their bodies.

Dec helped Phil into position, hands and knees in front of him, their
bodies parallel to those of Jack and James; and then he crouched forward,
taking hold of the youth's pale thighs, and pulling up on them a bit to
help close the gap between his huffing face and the pert smooth buttocks
who still bore the slight red handprints of Jack's opening gambit.

`Yes, mate!' exclaimed Jack's voice, background to him, as he leant
in, contorting his tall body to come forward enough, and spit between
Phil's lean cheeks. He pushed his face in, tickling his stubble against
that soft skin, and sliding his tongue between them until he was licking
at the smooth pink hole. Phil whined for him, and Jack chuckled out
another `Rice Rice baby!' whilst slapping him on the back. Their voices
gave him a bit more confident and he squeezed open the cheeks to really
push his tongue in there, trying it just as Mase would - in eager frantic
pants - try to advise and instruct him, always with a slight tone that he
wasn't quite doing it right. As he licked, he gave a good slap to one
cheek, loud and firm, and earned more throaty approval from Grealish, and
more shuddering moans from the younger player.

Lifting his head, Dec looked to the side, excited to see Jack's splendid
legs up in the air, and Madders' face down low, stretched low to lick
and kiss beneath the swell of the Grealo bollocks and the swaying tower
of his hard-on. James didn't look sure what he was doing, but he was
going for it, much like Declan himself. Dec turned back and spat into
Phil's crack, then pushed his face in to try some more, making the young
lad tremble and whine, and making his own cock ache and throb - fuck
this, he needed to put it to proper use!

He leaned back a little, took a single index finger, and pushed it into
Phil's wet entrance, giving it a few slow pokes, then beginning to shift
the positions of their hard-muscled young bodies. `You ready for my
cock, Foden?' he found himself gasping out too loudly, forgetting this
was all a dirty secret. `You ready for my big cock, mate?' he huffed
imperiously, a little bit drunk on all the attention he had earned in
tonight's match. But `Yes sir' came the whining gasp of the
22-year-old, excitingly subservient, and Rice pushed him down into the
bed to mount him, shaking with desire too.


Ben felt his cock slide further into the soft warm mouth of this coveted
stud, moving his body further onto the bed, leaning and angling himself
so that he could properly feed himself into Jack's pursed lips. Ben
pushed down with his right arm to steady himself, pressing his knuckles
into the bedding on the other side of Jack's twisted head, where it
bobbed and moved to lap at his cock, not just teasing it with licks, but
properly sucking on it, fellating him in front of everyone. God it felt
good, and Chilwell couldn't help but tell the world about it, moaning
and gasping out `Yes' after `Yes', his left hand coming down and
rubbing at that strong chest, feeling around his hard nipples and then up
to his neck and his soft dark facial hair, stroking up and down his
cheek, guiding the face in there to suck more inches of Ben's prized
whopper.

But the Chelsea defender's pleasure was jarring and inconsistent - for
moments he was lost in his enjoyment of this contact and attention, and
unable to stop rubbing his hand across Jack's face and chest, just
wanting to empty his balls in this receptive mouth and then stoop down to
kiss it clean. But his eyes flickered open and shut, as if to keep
reminding himself that they weren't alone in this, that this wasn't...
like it had been.

He could look down at Jack's sterling chest and abdominal muscles, and
see the flop of his big hard dick, which he could reach for and stroke...
he could look at his bared thighs, those mighty leg muscles nestled in
dark hair... but between them he could see the lines on Maddison's
extended forehead, where his former teammate's face was buried low to
try and lick between Jack's big peachy cheeks, something Ben had once
introduced him to in a lamplit bedroom over the canals of Birmingham.

And on the other side of Jack's body, so close that they all kept
rubbing against each other in moments of sweaty tenderness, Declan was
bearing down on Phil in rapid hard thrusts, his whole lanky body seeming
to burn red with energy; before his thrusts, Foden buckled and shook,
spit-roasted between the humps of the West Ham hunk and the thrusting
crotch of a tall bare-chested Kalvin Phillips. All attractive specimens
of their sport, lithe strong bodies, bare and glistening with sweat, and
large exciting cocks on them... but these were two different events, two
different worlds. In that moment of awareness, Benjamin could see how
badly he wanted Jack, but... not like this.

Grealish had ceased sucking on him, or just paused, so he could turn
around and watch Dec pound Phil's backside like a sledgehammer; he was
mouthing out obscenities of encouragement and reaching over to slap and
squeeze at Dec's own slim lean arse muscles as he went for it, chuckling
out his filthy approval... as interested in that as Ben's aching hard-on,
he thought, pulling back a little with his hips, and almost staggering
entirely off the bed. He hovered here at the side, momentarily a spare
part, and let out a long awkward sigh, reaching up to pull sweaty strands
of his prince charming hair away from his brows and eyes... and again,
almost sliding off the side of the bed as he lost his balance.

Jack was back turning this way, angling his body properly so he could
grab hold of Ben's dick and suck on the tip - even kicking away James'
attention as he did so, up onto his side and clambering closer, really
grabbing Ben about the hips. And yet... Chilwell could feel it before it
happened, the collapse of his excitement, the slow frustrating softening
of his cock, even as it existed inside the hot wet mouth of Brimingham's
finest son. Ben's ears filled with other sounds: the rapid pants and
`Fuck yes' exclamations from Phil, and the furious grunts of Declan as
he worked his body like an engine; the fresh groans of enjoyment from
Kalvin, and the gobbling sound of Maddison turning his mouth to suck on a
new cock. And he could hear the wet desperation with which Jack now
sucked on his floppy member and kissed at his trimmed pubes and then
dragged his tongue across his ball-sack, panting as he did... when Ben
pulled back a little, he found Grealish was just staring up at him with a
kind of giddy confusion on his boyishly beautiful face.

`Wha'?' groaned Jack stupidly.

Ben panted but said nothing, pulling his now flaccif dick away, and
sliding off the bed at last, steadying himself against first the
headboard and then the wall. Jack came sliding off the bed, feet to the
floor, seated but close enough to bring his hands up to Ben's thighs,
and to lean in and kiss his tummy through the vest, which he pulled up so
he could plant the sam kiss in the centre of the six-pack. Ben stood
there, dropping his hands to play in the coiled mess of Jack's hair,
with his big soft prick pressing in against the furry bottom of his ex's
chin, devoid of arousal... standing over Jack like this, he was just
staring at the sight of Dec pounding Phil into the bed, and of Kal now
face-fucking Madders. It was a sordid scene, and one he ought to find
great enjoyment in, and yet...

`What?' demanded Jack again, a bit more crossly. He'd sat back,
licking his lips, and one of his hands toyed nervously against the weight
of Ben's privates, cupping and pulling on his cock and balls in gentle
motions, as if thinking this change of pace might coax some life into...
`I just can't,' Chilly muttered at him, pulling back and dragging his
fingers out of his disturbed hair, letting it fall about his face in
curtains that now framed a hangdog look of a rejected pup. It was a
heartbreaking face to look at, and completely jarring with the frantic
fun going on behind him. `I can't,' Ben repeated more firmly, and he
cast about desperately for his dropped things - he needed out of here,
and he needed a cold shower.


Maddison pushed Phillips back onto the bed, nudging his big muscular body
into the gap that formed as Grealo slid aside; James only half-noticed as
Ben's bare body slipped past his own, breathing heavily, and grabbing a
pair of undies from under his heel. His attention was entirely on the
Leeds stud taking up one side of the bed, lying there with a nervous
expression on his face, all dimpled cheeks and sparse goatee; next to
him, Phil now lying face-down on the covers with Dec fully on top of him,
ploughing him with solid gyrations of his hips. James just grinned at
Kalvin's nervous expression and then edged himself forward onto the bed,
knees on either side of the other man's thighs, and shuffled forwards.
He reached back down his back and slid fingers in between his own tight
cheeks, then edged further forwards until he was in position.

`Let me feel that big cock in me,' he told Phillips in a breathy voice,
and the ex-Leeds player just stared at him with that same quite gormless
uncertainty - he was clearly not the sharpest tool in the box, but he was
cute and sexy nonetheless, and his return to the room said he was up for
a lot more than he wanted to let on.

Madders spat on his fingers and reached back, finding and rubbing his own
hole; he'd taken a good shagging from Tielemans on Sunday night before
travelling down south, so he wasn't as nervous about bottoming as he had
been on some of his previous escapades. James was comfortably bisexual in
his own view of himself, but he was not the most regular of experimenter
with guys, going through long periods of fidelity and wholesomeness
before the naughty urges dragged him to answer Jamie Vardy's late-night
call or to offer young defender James Justin a lift home and persuade the
stud into a quick 69.

He took deep breaths as he positioned his arse over Kalvin's slick cock
and sat on it very gently, watching the expression of amazement spread
over the mixed-race Yorkshireman's gormless face, increasingly sexy in
his innocence and epiphany - James mistakenly took this to be Kalvin's
first time putting his dick in a man's arse, but it was certainly his
first time doing so sober and fully conscious. Maddison controlled his
breathing and focused instead on his own pleasure, his ring stinging at
the girth of the meat, but slowly relaxing as he pressed down and spread
his legs more, until slowly but surely he was sat astride the boy-faced
27-year-old, ready to ride him and feel his presence deep up his rear -
`Giddy up,' the Leicester midfielder laughed loudly, pressing his hands
down against the toned muscle of the man's tummy, `how's that feel?'


Kalvin heard the door slam after Ben, but paid no attention to it; he
just continued to stare wonderingly at the man who was descending onto
his prick, grinning at him with only mild interruptions of grimacing
discomfort. Kalvin could only begin to imagine how painful it might be
take a cock up there, so he was actually quite amazed by how serenely the
other England player straddled him, settling down on top of him and
beginning to ride back and forth in a way that made Phillips already
begin to panic that he would lose control and shoot inside him - was that
allowed?

And next to them, occupying the other half of the bed, the other two had
switched positions: Phil Foden was on his back next to him, legs up and
apart, and Declan's tall strong body was stretched out to pummel him in
missionary, dripping seat from his chest and the tip of his nose. The bed
creaked under the double fuck, two different positions; to their right,
Rice powered Foden down into the bedding, whilst Phillips just lay
awkwardly still, and Madders rocked back and forth on top of his aching
cock.

And then Grealish himself was back among them, a really deep frown lining
his face for some reason; for a moment he was at the foot of the bed,
visible between James and Declan's bodies, pulling hair out of his face,
but then he was here at the bedside next to him, a bit smilier, and
panting. `That's it, ride him good,' he was grunting at Madders.
`Fuck, yes, how's that feel, Kal?'

`Good,' he grunted honestly.

`Come on, don't make him do all the work,' Jack urged him. `Thrust up
into his pussy.'

`Alright, easy there,' laughed Maddison, `let's not talk about a
guy's sore arse like that. Oh yeah, fuck you've got a thick one,
Phillips...'

`Bloody hell,' Jack was shouting at Dec, `I hope you're gonna get
tired soon and let me have a go on him...' But then Grealish was looking
down, and Kalvin stared back at him - he was half-consciously seeking
some reassurance or approval in his friend's face, lying here with his
cock being ridden, and flecks of Rice's sweat hitting his face and
chest. Jack did smile at him, but it was a lewd grin. He took him by the
hand, and Kalvin let him, and the next thing he knew, his hand was being
guided about the thick veiny feel of- Jack's cock. He tensed, Jack's
tight grip enclosing his own fist about the shaft, and he stared
questioningly into the other lad's smirk. `It's alright,' Grealish
gasped, `just play with it a bit.'


Phil came within a few moments of having to admit defeat and call for a
break, when Rice withdrew from his throbbing hole and staggered aside for
a breather; wow, the power of the West Ham captain had taken him aback!
He'd messed about with Dec and Mase once before, a grateful third wheel
in bed with the loved-up couple, but he'd never expected the 24-year-old
to go QUITE so hard. Wow.

This left the City player gasping on his back, arms spread out and legs
still apart, trembling a bit as his hole recovered. He watched Dec stride
about the sides of the bed, his whole body glistening wet, cock bouncing
up and down, and go to pour himself more vodka. He looked resplendent in
the wake of the night's game and his own significance in it, and Phil
found the gangly lad more attractive than ever before - it was like he
was seeing Mason Mount's boy-toy in a whole new light, and he liked it.
And even better, he turned out to be quite the attentive top, returning
to press a full cup of drink into one of Phil's shaky hands too, before
flopping into the seat by the desk and starting to wank himself.

Foden looked form this glorious sight to what was going on at his side,
with Maddison still power-bottoming on top of an almost terrified-looking
Phillips - aha, he realised why the lad's face was so white and stunned,
seeing his hand sliding up and down the mighty shaft of the Grealish
cock. Probably this stud had never actually done that to a guy.

The 22-year-old revelled in it all and played with his dick and failed
entirely to notice the absence of their sixth player. Already, he was
thinking that he would get fucked by at least one more dick tonight,
though his whole bottom felt almost bruised by the speed and force by
which Rice had taken him. He lay on his side, jerking himself lazily, and
feeling the droplets of sweat course over his pale lean body; then he got
to his knees and wanked a bit more fully, watching as Jack nudged closer
and stroked at Kal's neck encouragingly. The tip of Jack's cock drew
closer to their teammate's face, and Phil watched the full lips part
gently, saw the questioning hesitation in his wide eyes. Grinning, Phil
leaned forward and dropped in close, putting his mouth to one of
Kalvin's big nipples, licking and nipping then sucking it, making him
moan - and when he pulled his face up, he could see the shape of a big
cock in one of those dimpled cheeks, Jack teasing him into his first
taste.

`Good lad,' Grealish was purring, an oddly serious look on his own
sweaty face.

`Fuck, I need a break,' Maddison gasped, and Foden was quick to take
his place, climbing over to straddle this inexperienced cock - shorter
but thicker than Declan's, and it felt so fucking good on the way into
him, making him let out a long gasp of relief.


Jack groaned and enjoyed it, the feel of Kal's lips and tongue, and the
sheer innocent fear on his handsome face, but he didn't push it too far;
he pulled back and slid his hand up and down his heavy erection, nodding
his approval at his mate. `Good try,' he growled, `good first try, big
man...' He bit his lip and grunted, wanking himself and then stepping
back a little, reaching over to grab a drink - somebody's drink, maybe
Ben's - and downing it in one, needing a little more fuel to get him to
a finish.

He looked away from the sight of his `Lil Phil' bouncing up and down on
Phillips' cock and focused instead on Dec. Like James, who was now
collapsed on the other bed entirely, Dec looked exhausted, heaving with
gasps and sighs, and shiny with all of the sweat he was exuding. Mason's
big stud, he thought with an odd misplaced jealousy, and he walked closer
to him, so that he could run his fingers through his short hairs and wank
his cock close to him, reaching down and playing with both of their
tools. `You fuck hard,' he complimented him simply, and Dec just
chuckled weakly at him.

`I think I lost my head for a minute there...' West Ham's golden boy
began.

`Nah, you did good,' he encouraged, and he took him by the hand. `But
enough rest.'

Jack turned, dragging Dec with him, and took the two steps to cross
towards the other bed: Maddison was lying naked on his back, panting, but
Jack leapt onto the bed with him and slapped one thigh. `Ready for some
real fucking, buddy?' He hoisted up the Leicester player's legs and
took up position at his arse, whilst Rice fumbled about on his knees
until he was leaning over the other end, with Maddison instinctively
lifting his head to suck on the goal-scorer's cock. In moments, they
were both at him, pumping their big manly cocks into the arse and mouth
of the England squad's recent addition - and then it was all five of
them, with Phil and Kalvin staggering over to join them here and get a
second bed as sweaty and messy as the first. Phillips looked dazed as he
dragged his knees onto the bed and joined Rice in slapping his dick at
Madders' face, whilst Phil just skulked at Jack's side, kissing his
shoulders and chest and patting his strong bottom as he pumped in and out
of James' hole. And James himself was wanking like silly, making a noise
that might have been a warning if his mouth wasn't at that point stuffed
with the tips of both Dec and Kal's boners - and then the Leicester City
player was creaming up his slim torso, pooling cum on his lightly defined
six-pack.

Jack ploughed on regardless for several minutes, the powerful thrusts of
his hips only about his own pleasure, but his cock almost numb; and then
he slowed and stopped, listening to James' slowly grunted out `Enough,
haha'. Now Madders was rolling aside, smearing the cum from his belly to
the crumpled sheets, and Jack was just kneeling there wanking himself -
he turned to look insistently at Phil, who nodded and threw himself into
position, straight onto the sweaty outline where James had lain.


Declan wanked his own and Kalvin's cocks now, one in each hand, but his
attention was all on the sight of Jack fucking Phil in missionary in
front of them; he was vaguely aware of a slim sweaty Maddison pulling
clothes on nearby, but he was getting closer and closer to finishing, and
he was incapable of thinking with anything but his raging cock - except
for the odd thought of `If Mason could see this!' or `Wait til I tell
him about this!'

At his side, Phillips groaned insensibly, and his heavily muscled arm
could flopping about Rice's shoulders to lean on him. He realised how
close the Leeds lad was to cumming, and so he stooped down, bending his
tall body, and wrapping his mouth about his cock to get a taste. He
wasn't sure why he suddenly craved the taste of it, but he was hornier
than he could remember in ages; he listened to and felt the shakes and
eruptions of the 5ft10 midfielder's orgasm, capturing the first drops of
jizz on his tongue, then letting the rest run down on his cheeks and bead
against the neatly trimmed edges of his facial hair.

Kalvin flopped away from him and climbed off the bed and then, in the
tiny sweaty universe of their excitement, it was just the three of them:
Phil on his back, gasping over and over, and Jack pinning him down, doing
his god-damned best to repeat the power and ferocity with which Declan
had already fucked the younger lad.

`I'm gonna cum,' Phil was crying out, `slow down or I'll... ohhhh,
fuckkkk...'

In a daze, Rice moved about the bed; he was half-conscious of the sound
of the door, which must be Maddison making a sweaty exit, and he saw that
Kalvin was now laid out flat on the other bed, naked and his cock still a
bit hard. On the bed beneath them, Phil's face was a mask of pure
pleasure, and he was covering his own knuckles in a smeared mess of that
released pleasure. Dec ignored this; he was stroking back and forth on
his own big cock, and clambering close to the heaving power of Jack's
body, reluctantly slowing in his thrusts into a second bottom in a row.
Dec reached for and squeezed his behind, taking a handful of meaty cheek.
Jack glanced at him, his face glossy and red, and many lank streaks of
hair dangling in front of his sleepy eyes. He understood the hint, and
nodded.

No sooner had Foden rolled aside than Dec was pushing him down,
manhandling the gorgeous star onto his front, and lying atop him. He
kissed the sweaty back of his neck and eased his dick between those
mighty cheeks, finding and rubbing the tip of his cock against the damp
hole that had been somewhat licked by inexpert Maddison. Dec slowed
himself as much as he could, but he needed to be inside another lad, and
he hugged his arms about the upper body of the shorter and more
well-muscled guy, slowly entering him and pushing down on him as he did,
pinning him to the bed with his cock. Jack's low earthy groan told him,
`That's it, buddy', and Dec began to fuck him in slow jolts, the
opposite rhythm to with which he'd pummeled Foden.

He held the Man City playboy beneath him and fucked him in bursts, eyes
closed, and thoughts muddled somewhere between an appreciation of the
5ft9 muscle stud under him and an image of a naked and expectant Mason,
lounging on their bed and grinning invitingly at him as he approached the
bed. Thinking of both the present and the absent, Dec climaxed, loading
up Jack's tight hole with his spunk, and panting into the back of his
head, breathing in the exotic scents of his hair product. `Rice, Rice,
baby,' Jack sang hoarsely, pushing back with his meaty arse, clamping
about Dec's hard-on, and jerking furiously as he reached down to wank
himself to completion too, but Rice just groaned into his ear and told
him, `This was just what I needed.'


Away from the action, Ben Chilwell had found a silent empty balcony up on
the top floor of the hotel, by its closed rooftop bar. Out there, the
cooler air could dry the sweat on his face and in his dishevelled hair,
and he could be alone properly with his regretful thoughts. What did he
regret most? Leaving the party without getting proper action? Rushing
along to that room in the first place, and stupidly misinterpreting
Jack's invite? Or further back, the mistakes he'd made in his love
affair with Grealish: namely, reaching a point where he didn't
communicate his needs and channelled them into a tryst with Mason Mount
instead? Ben knew that his own mistakes and confused feelings had brought
his and Jack's relationship crashing to an end that weekend, but he also
knew that their entire time together had been fraught in different ways:
ego, insecurity, fear, shame, miscommunication. He thought of himself and
Jack in their earlier 20s as a pair of excited idiots who just didn't
know how to handle the magic they'd discovered between each other's
bodies, but ultimately he considered himself the bigger idiot - he'd let
it go.

The 26-year-old sat out here awhile, thinking that the longer he left it,
the more deeply asleep Reece James would be, and the less choice of
waking up his Chelsea pal as he sneaked back into the room. He wanted a
cold shower, but that would definitely wake up his fellow Stamford Bridge
defender, so it would have to wait until morning - but he really wanted
to wash the vague, abstract shame of the night, the shame that seemed to
have stuck to his skin ever since he cheated with Mason and almost ruined
two relationships in one go.

Ben brought up the sleeve of his over-shirt and rubbed it against one
teary eye, and then buried his face in both hands and cried - when would
he finally get over this?


James Maddison re-entered his own hotel room with a lot of stealth, and
much more cheer than his old teammate; albeit, with a very sore arse too.
He sniggered between winces at this, undressing quietly by the bed and
then sliding his sweat-drenched lean body in under the sheets. What a fun
night, he told himself, letting a slideshow of bodies and moments pass
groggily through his fuck-drunk brain. He'd be a tiny bit hungover in
the morning and he'd definitely be limping on the way to the flight, but
very worth it to get fucked by two City hunks in a row, and to have been
part of it. Only then, replaying it all in a vague and messy sequence,
did he begin to wonder about Ben Chilwell - why had his former Leicester
pal been so morose, and where had he vanished to just as things got
really nasty?

Still, these weren't thoughts that overly disturbed him, he was too
physically exhausted by it all. The only thing he did before crashing his
face into the pillows and disappearing into sleep was to turn and peer
through the darkness to check that Forster was still there, since the big
goalkeeper's ugly snores had ceased in the time it had taken him to take
part in a cheeky little orgy - huh, now the bugger could sleep quietly!
Let's hope that continued for the remainder of the week.

For a brief moment, he peered through the darkness and wondered what it
might be like to be fucked by a such big brute, vaguely missing Kasper
Schmeichel, but then he just dropped to the pillows and faded into REM,
his dreams a sweet medley of climbing over Kalvin's body and bending
over for Jack Grealish.


Kalvin was equally exhausted, but he wasn't as asleep as an onlooker
would assume. He lay naked on top of his sheets, his body too red-hot to
want to be under anything, and he listened to the footsteps and low
voices of first Phil and then Dec getting dressed and leaving the suite,
accompanied by dirty chuckles and remarks from Jack, and the odd fleshy
thwack of a bottom being spanked. Whistling, Grealish drew close to his
bed, and Phillips felt a blanket tossed over his body - a kind act from
his roommate, he recognised, but he was far too hot. But he lay still and
gave no sign of his consciousness to the other player, because he just
couldn't face the conversation that might happen.

It wasn't the fact he'd fucked another lad that was bothering him there
as he lay still, having found his own strange way to compartmentalise and
dismiss that, just like he had with Dan James; no, it was the Other
Thing. He grimaced in his fake sleep and rolled onto his side, facing
away from the direction of the other bed. Could he still taste Jack's
shiny wet cock in his mouth? He shivered anxiously and wondered how long
that moment had lasted, opening his mouth and letting his frined stick
it, even briefly, in there, testing him, pushing him, corrupting him...

And had the others all seen...? Phil, their City teammate, and the others,
from other major teams in the Prem...? The thought of the gossip and
rumours was making him feel sick, even though logic might have told him
that what went on in such a room party ceased to exist when all of the
playmates went their separate ways.

He listened out for the sounds of Jack getting into bed, hearing just a
few soft footsteps and heavy breaths and the rustle of clothing - but
then, instead of the slight creak of a muscular body settling into the
other double bed, he heard instead the gentle clicks and groans of an
opening door, then the muffled thump of it closing again. Kalvin lay
alone with his thoughts and regrets, and tried not to picture the size
and shape of his friend's dick.


In another bed in another room, Phil stretched out his aching body on the
sheets, and smiled in deep satisfaction in the dark. He'd popped very
quickly into the en suite before climbing into bed, cautiously checking
that Chelsea's Conor Gallagher, an old friend of his from the England
Under-21s, was fully asleep. In the bathroom, he'd contorted himself
over and took the quick snap of his puckered hole, then sent it to his
Papi - `three cocks, sir, but one of them yours', sad-face. He knew
that Pep would be asleep by now and that the arse photo would be the
first thing the Spanish football wizard would see in the morning - well,
it was what the sexy old bastard deserved for sending that cock pic
minutes before an England game...!

Phil drifted happily into sleep, happy to dismiss the multiplayer action
in the other room as pure physical need, and now just craving a reunion
with his manager and sugar daddy; his feelings for Jack had faded over
time, with a long break in their playtime doing the trick and killing
that crush. It had just been a brief fever of desire, but he knew what he
really wanted, and it was to be falling asleep on the warm fur of
Guardiola's hairy chest.


Jack padded quietly through the silent corridors, more fully cautious now
than he'd managed when growling and yelping in his suite. His sweatshirt
and shorts stuck to the sweat of his lithe body, swaggering down several
corridors in an aimless direction, and then finally reaching a stop on
the balcony in the stairwell, realising he had no idea which floor Ben
was on, never mind his roommate. Instead, the Man City star just paused
and leaned heavily on the rails, bunching his hands into fists and
resting his forehead over them.

He felt... anger. He wasn't entirely sure what he was angry at, but he
felt like it was somehow Ben's fault. Coming along to his room like that
and then going floppy on him when he was trying to show him some
appreciation. He pictured Ben's beautiful face turning from intense
excitement to a kind of cold distance in his eyes, and he wanted to punch
a wall. Damn it. He thought about that interview they'd shared the other
day, where he'd sat feeling guilty and awkward because half an hour
before he'd cum all over Josh Denzel's beard behind the building,
making him shifty and restless as he sat between them, being reminded of
how big a part of his life Chilly was.

That's why he'd wanted to talk to him tonight, and it didn't occur to
Jack to blame himself for that missed opportunity - Phil had turned up at
his door, frisky and keen! Declan had needed to be toasted and
celebrated! Rice, Rice, baby, and all that! Just look at big Kalvin and
how much he'd needed that release, ha! Plus someone had to make Madders
feel welcome, long-neglected absentee of the England crew.

Jack hunched there at the rail and steadfastly refused to think about how
he could have shirked all of that mischief and found a way to speak to
Ben alone instead, to address the pangs he'd been experiencing, and how
he couldn't seem to get close to anyone in the same way ever since they
ended it... Ugh. He was drunk and his head hurt and this was all a bit too
much. He rubbed thumbs over his eyelids and pulled back on his hair, then
dragged thick sleeves across his damp sweaty face before straightening up
and telling himself to pull it together.

Grumpy and confused, Grealish left the stairwell and marched back in the
direction of his room, bare feet quiet on the pale carpet; and if he'd
stayed thirty seconds longer he might have heard the external door above,
or the shuffle of feet in trainers making their way down from the top
floor. But as it was, he was already almost back in his room when Ben
passed through the same stairwell, puffy-eyed and embarrassed, and
continued on down to the floor below to find his own shared room, wishing
he could undo the entire night.




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

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