Date: Sun, 10 Sep 2023 22:20:19 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 368

Part 368: England Camp, Day Seven


`Alright, sexy lad,' drawled the familiarly rich tones of his mate's
voice as he answered the call, and he couldn't help but giggle stupidly
at the playful greeting from his club teammate; the jokey affection
slipped quickly to the more casually abusive banter that defined such
laddish friendships, but also an earnest gratitude when he got to the
point of the call. `Happy birthday mate,' he said seriously, `I hope
you're having a fuckin' class day, y'know? Sorry you aren't up here
with us to celebrate.'

Up here, right now, was the outskirts of Glasgow, the England squad's
new base - following the Ukraine draw, there had been a fairly early
journey back into UK airspace, touching down north of the border and
settling in for a day's prep work at the Rangers FC training ground.
More specifically, up here was the humid foliage of a hotel garden, where
the 27-year-old Leeds lad had strolled out on his own to try and get in
touch with an absent friend.

`Aww, thanks pal,' droned the deep Brummie voice of his superstar pal,
and Kalvin Phillips grinned with the usual face-splitting grin that was
his default, sat on a bench beneath a sweaty night sky. `You're a real
good pal,' he was complimented firmly by an at least tipsy Jack
Grealish, who had stepped away from the noise of a family party after the
first difficult minute of the call. `Thanks for taking the time to call
me, I really appreciate that, I do. Top class, matey.'

The two of them chatted on - it had been one of Kalvin's defining
friendships of his much-criticised time at Manchester City, and he was
genuinely sad that Jack had been ruled out of this England camp before it
had got going. The loss of him as a roommate was a definite dent in the
experience, even apart from his bubbly presence in training and on the
journeys between venues. And Phillips, being the kind-hearted Yorkshire
lad that he was, had vaguely worried that the absence might be even
harder on Grealish than anyone here, given the Brummie lad's fierce
passion for international footy - but by the sound of his merry state and
the background noise of family shenanigans, he'd coped well. Now Kal was
just glad that his pal was able to celebrate his 28th in a way that their
Scotland fixture might not have allowed, and he almost wished he was
there in outer Birmingham too, joining the Grealish clan who had been
very good to him on their visits to Manchester.

The defensive midfielder quickly drew the call to an end after five
minutes or so, conscious that Jack should get back to his mates and
family, and also feeling a big urge to crack open a beer, hearing the
drunken edge to Jack's effusive cheer and affection, just a
magnification of his everyday charisma. `Get back to your party,'
Kalvin insisted down the line, `and stop letting me distract you. Enjoy,
fella.'

`Yeah, yeah,' Grealo agreed. `Say hi to all the lads for me, hope
they're doing well - hope Kylie isn't being too fucking big-headed
about that overdue goal, you know! And say hi to-' There was an awkward
pause there, Jack's tipsy voice faltering on the line, making Kalvin
only momentarily curious about who Jack was about to make special mention
of, then thinking better... Lil Phil, he supposed, hyper-conscious of how
much young Foden hero-worshipped their boisterous mutual pal. Couldn't
really be anyone else, could it? But Jack had murmured on as if there was
no awkward pause: `Smash it up in training tomorrow, sexy, and get
yourself fucking picked for Tuesday, yeh?' A raucous laugh as they said
their goodbyes and his mate disappeared into the ether, back to birthday
cake and beer, leaving Kalvin sat in his shorts and tee in the Scottish
humidity. It was cooler here than England or Poland, but the air felt
thick and sticky, and a sheen of sweat glowed on his arms and legs, even
just sitting her chuckling away with the birthday boy.

Phillips remained where he was, hands draped between open thighs with
phone in grasp, a lingering smile breaking up his boyish features, and
Jack's stupid pet names hovering momentarily in his mind - `sexy lad',
what a dick-head! Kalvin wasn't the one with Instagram accounts
dedicated to his fucking calves, was he? Jesus, the lad was bonkers. He
chuckled and shook his head, and thought...

There was, he had to admit, a slightly more specific pang of regret to
missing Grealish, as a teammate and a roomie. The reason made his dimpled
cheeks colour and him scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, then
pull at the sticky chest of his patterned t-shirt. The thing about being
pals with a lad like Jack, Jack the lad, was that... stuff happened,
didn't it? Jack was dynamic, always the centre of the fun. Even that was
euphemistic. Kalvin was thinking about Qatar - no, further back than
that, his senior England debut trips, where he and Jack had pulled and
shared a couple of stunners in the hotel bar, and fucked them
side-by-side several floors above. The thrill ride of friendship with
Grealish had began then, long before... he cringed, and scratched his
chin, and pictured them in Doha, taking turns on squealing Dan James,
fucking the lad's big peachy arse like it was nothing, like the Welsh
dude was just another stunning slag from the bar.

It had seemed to mean little or nothing to Jack, the transgression,
whilst Kal himself had been mentally beaten up by a previous blowie from
DJ for months! That night in the Croydon strip club, sucked off by
smiling Daniel, he'd really struggled with the shock of it; and then in
Jack's electric company he'd just embraced it, fucking first Dan's
mouth and then his generous backside, relishing the tightness of his hole
and those big booty cheeks, a greater arse than any of his girlfriends!

He cringed and blushed and got up from the bench. The path of his
thoughts was telling him that he wished Jack the Lad was here on the
squad so that the rakish playboy could initiate something weird and kinky
of that nature, and it made the confused Leeds bloke feel ashamed and
uncomfortable. He thought further back, remembering a brief handjob from
a Leeds teammate in a chilly hotel, and judged his own failure to cut off
these naughty encounters - he'd been allowing boundaries to slip before
he could blame Jack's explosive personality for a drunken mishap,
hadn't he?

And here was Jack calling him `sexy' down the phone from his birthday
bash, soft and jokey, but stirring more awkwardness and ambiguous
yearning in Kalvin's heat-addled brain; what WOULD he have got up to
this week if the winger was in attendance...?


Upstairs, he let himself into his hotel room quietly, guessing correctly
that his replacement roomie would be asleep. For much of the week, Kalvin
had actually had a suite at their main base to himself, as he'd been
scheduled to room with Jack; someone in charge had amended that as they
arrived in Poland on Friday night and now here he was with the young
superstar, and he had... mixed feelings.

Phillips moved slowly into the room, sliding off his trainers and padding
ankle socks across the carpet, but pausing midway to his own bed to
glance again at the nearer double and its occupant, confirming that Jude
Bellingham was indeed asleep and gently snoring.

Jude was, of course, a good lad - impossible not to like. And so he made
for a good roommate, with a great balance of healthy professionalism and
light-hearted chat, a pretty high-quality roomie by all standards! And
yet...

The thing about the 20-year-old from Stourbridge was... well, he was just
Mr fucking Perfect, wasn't he? Kalvin paused and looked at him with this
on his mind. He knew the sad truth of it: he was just projecting his own
insecurities. He couldn't be blind and deaf to the flak Southgate was
getting for selecting the likes of him, Maguire, Henderson. And really he
was used to it, because he got plenty of that criticism for his role at
City in general, collecting the club's accolades with fairly minimal
game-time contributions of his own. Kalvin still didn't know how to feel
about the big money career glow-up that had taken him from club hero of
his boyhood city to spare training fodder at a mega-club who were
snaffling up trophies like nobody's business. He'd felt deeply
uncomfortable throughout the `Treble' celebrations of the summer,
carried along in the wake of Jack's beery bender, but ashamed to hoist
silverware that he'd not properly earned.

And here, spread out on the other double bed in front of him, was this
prodigious 20-year-old, who was now the toast of La Liga - rightly,
Bellingham had been welcomed to the camp as a hero and a legend,
constantly praised and fawned over by players and staff alike, and...
yeah, he was sweet and humble and every bit of it was well-deserved, but
it was tough stuff to swallow when you were in Kalvin's position. The
kid was barely out of school and he was already conquering his second
European league and a sure-thing member of the England senior line-up,
with some corners of the squad muttering about a captaincy when Kane's
retirement starts to loom.

`King Jude,' the 27-year-old muttered to himself, standing at the
corner of his pal's bed, and examining the stretched height of the
youngster, who had almost entirely discarded his duvet because the room
was too hot; there was air-conditioning, but neither of them had quite
figured out how to work it without it making a terrible racket. And so
the 6ft1 fellow mixed-race youth was stretched out on his back, a thin
shaft of outer light cutting past a blind and glimmering across one
thigh, his taut grey underpants, and the firmly-defined muscles of his
slim long torso. Kalvin was only rooming with the wunderkind because of
some odd mix-up anyway, something about Trent Alexander-Arnold requesting
a room swap away from Hendo right before his minor injury had him sent
home - the outcome had been that Phillips and Bellingham were the two
spare parts, enjoying solo rooms for the whole of last week, and now
bunched together for the last few nights.

Huh, boy wonder, now man of the moment... Kalvin tried hard not to resent
him,and failed. He let out a quiet little sigh, his face frowning and
unhappy in a way that few ever saw, and he lingered there a moment too
long. This was the moment he should have fumbled onto his own bed and
climbed in, probably ending up as uncovered as this lad, because the
Glaswegian hotel was as stuffy as hell. That's what he should have done,
but he stayed where he was a moment too long, and his thoughts...
wandered.

Look at the length of them legs, like the kid was designed in a football
laboratory; look how bloody ripped his stomach is! Kalvin thought he
probably still had a bit of puppy fat when he was turning 20, not that
washboard. Jesus, he then thought, look at how he fills his fucking
under-crackers too, for God's sake, he's even- He stopped himself,
blanching, as he began to chastise himself for not being quite so
well-endowed as the younger Englishman, and now he felt very silly and
petty. And... something else, but the word escaped him.

But look at it! The lad just splayed out like that with only a scrap of
duvet under one arm, so that his full physique was on show to the night.
The way the flimsy strip of external light fell, it really highlighted
the space that lay below the resting thigh muscles and the washboard, and
Kalvin found himself staring at it: the rising heap of presence in those
grey trunks, with one of Jude's sleeping hands resting not far from it
on his hip.

The 27-year-old football player was hardly conscious of himself moving
forward, but here he was, closer to the bed, and stooping forward better,
as if to better take in the sight of his sleeping teammate, his younger
yet superior colleague - and his eyes were adjusting to the low light in
a way that made Jude's 6ft1 physique all the clearer, all the more
impressive. He stared at him and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh,
and... again, he stared at how well the 20-year-old filled the front of
his undies, and... damn it, before he knew what he was doing, he was also
staring at his own hand as it reached out and, yep, gave it the gentlest
of strokes. He didn't know why he'd done it. To check that the kid
didn't shove a pair of socks down there before going to bed? Fuck's
sake.

Kalvin froze where he was, aware that this was crazy. He'd lifted one
bare knee to the edge of the bed, and was stooped forward, his hand
cupped gently against the side of the large package. It was as if he'd
had a blackout at the door to the room and then come to his senses in
this mad position, looming over the sleeping younger lad, and staring
down at the shape of a resting cock in those pants. So why now did he
stroke it again, feeling the outline of it, the length and girth of it
obvious through the material where it curled slightly on top of his
balls. Lucky fucking lad.

He kept his breath quiet and hunched there, half on the bed, rubbing
gently at the shape of Jude's cock, and lifting his eyes to stare up his
six-pack and his expanding chest, taking in the angelic peacefulness of
his tilted face - the slightest flicker of his full lashes, the hint of
movement in his lips, but still surely asleep. Kalvin's hand rested a
little more firmly on his bulge, and he had no idea what he was doing.
With his other hand, resting forward on his elbows, he stroked one of
those thighs, feeling the dormant power of it - then he stroked further,
past the hip and tracing his finger close to the navel, playing over the
muscular rows of the abdomen, before trailing back and teasing at the
elasticated waistband of the Hugo Boss underwear.

The slight moan from Bellingham rose out of the darkness and for a moment
chilled Phillips entirely, before he looked at his hand and supposed that
his clumsy touch had elicited that sound of faraway pleasure. He repeated
the motion, teasing fingertips across where the big head of it must be,
and Jude moaned a little again. His heartbeat skipped and his mouth felt
as dry as anything. Fuck - what the hell was he up to here?

The 6ft1 boy stirred very gently beneath his touch, the slightest
adjustment of limbs, and Kalvin gave the outline a good stroke. It was
getting bigger, firmer, even more apparent. He rubbed again across the
shape of the head and he felt a stirring in his own loins. His face was
descending close almost of its own volition, and by the time his lips
brushed the cotton with a sensitive kiss, he knew he was rock-hard inside
his shorts. On cue, a sleepy moan sounded from further up the bed, and he
hovered there, aware that his muscular bulk on the mattress could disturb
and wake even the heat-exhausted young midfielder; but he was in deep,
and he wasn't sure how he could pull away without applying more pressure
and probably waking Bellingham up...! It was mad logic, but it was a
confused trap that he found himself in, and he nuzzled his lips a second
time against the firm shape of the hardening dick, breathing in Jude's
scent. Somehow the crotch of his underpants just smelt rich and sexy like
some expensive aftershave - for fuck's sake, did this smug bastard have
ANY flaws?

Poised there against him, stroking the sides of his thighs and reaching
up to the hips and the waistband of the grey trunks, he pictured Jude's
already trademark celebration at the Bernabeu, the self-assured way in
which he presented himself to the Spanish crowds, a triumphant Madridista
already. He thought about the young star's potency and he peeled the
grey material away, revealing first the wire-wool growth and then the
base of the shaft and then, inch by inch, the full majesty of it, flipped
free and rising up to meet his shivering lips - long, thick, veined, pale
brown shifting to pink. Kalvin hung over it with his mouth open, thinking
about Dan James' eager little face - what was it like to feel a man's
cock on your tongue, really? He posed the question to himself as if it
was a matter of scientific experiment, and not ultimate taboo and secret
scandal in the hot air of the room. He opened his lips wider and found
out, closing his mouth about that pink tip, and tasting its goodness. No
immediate moan from Jude, but maybe a slight stirring of his restive
legs; Kalvin swirled his tongue about the head slowly, dragged his lips
across it all, and then parted with it, gasping quietly, and averting his
eyes to check that Jude's face remained at that peaceful angle, lids
flickering as if deep in a dreamworld.

He licked his lips, slowly, and thought about it. The cock tasted almost
like the pants smelled. Rich, luxurious, powerful. He darted out his
tongue, rolling it across the head, and this time the sleeper did moan, a
bit more firmly; this scared Kalvin, but it also electrified him. He
grabbed the cock about its base and licked the end like a lollipop,
proceeding to run his tongue down the sides and back up, his weight now
pressing very firmly onto the bed, and his other hand caressing awkwardly
against a bulging thigh muscle. He took the end of it in his mouth again,
sucking gently on it, and thinking that there was just so much of it - he
couldn't put all of it in his mouth, could he?

Again, that stupid curiosity, that sense that this was fair game, a
worthwhile experiment, JUST TO SEE - a heat madness was driving him
forward, and he opened wide. He took one inch and then two inches and
then three, and he tried not to graze the shaft with his teeth, bowing
his head deep into the richly scented crotch, until... fingers brushing
his topknot and rubbing the back of his head, soft for a moment, then
VERY firm. His face was pushed down and held there and his throat was
gagged with cock, and for many long seconds he was terrified to try and
even breath. Not a word from Jude, but a grunting sleepy moan, and a
tight grip of now BOTH hands, holding Kalvin's head there, cock pushing
into his throat, so that he made a horrible awkward gurgling as he, at
last, pulled back, drooling from his bottom lip. But Bellingham was STILL
ASLEEP - he stared at his face, the expression different but the angle
the same, and he stared at the cock, shiny with his saliva, and he felt
the hands on the sides of his head, pulling him in. He didn't know who
the 20-year-old was dreaming of - Dua Lipa? Margot Robbie? A pornstar? -
but he knew that his mouth was fulfilling the role of someone else, and
he panicked at the strength and control of the lad's hands, even as his
cock throbbed and leaked and he rolled his tongue on its way down the
thick veiny shaft.

He shifted his muscular weight forward slightly and rubbed his hands
about the outsides of Jude's chunky thighs, glad when the hands softened
and just toyed with the locs of his knot, perhaps mistaking it for a
girl's ponytail - was he Ariana Grande or Beyonce in the youth's sex
dream? - allowing him a bit more control as he played his lips and tongue
about the flute of the prodigy's manhood. He didn't know what he was
doing, but he did it, sucking happily on it and then gagging again when
he went too far. One hand stroked down the back of his neck, keeping his
face there at work, and he felt the other close over his own hand where
it rested just below the hip. Jude moaned into the night and, like Jack
Grealish when he was cumming inside the Welsh lad, even that abstract
sound of pleasure seemed to have a soft Brummie lilt to it.

If Phillips' world was already on fire with newness, then there was one
further detail that he had not been in the slightest prepared for: the
almost metallic tang of the youth's juices when they hit first the roof
of his mouth, and then his tongue. He might have been instantly repelled
if there wasn't a strong sleepy hand on his head, and he held his mouth
there, eating Jude Bellingham's cum before he knew it, and adjusting to
the salty bitterness, and... trembling with every muscle of his body to
know that he'd brought the midfielder to climax, and tasted the fluid of
this La Liga hurricane.

Jude's body shook a little, and Kal felt yet more salty liquid on his
tongue and dribbling over his lip. He pulled away, angling his head to
escape the guiding hand, and he gasped in a few bursts of air, feeling
warm goo on his chin, and struggling not to rush to the bathroom to find
the Corsodyl. Instead he just hunched there, aware of the awkward throb
of his own hard-on, and staring at the wet shiny head of Jude's big
prick, pointing accusingly at him - it was beginning to dawn on him how
wrong his actions must be.

Leaving the bed was an act of willpower, of precise awkward motions,
trying to minimise the shifts in pressure as this elbow and that knee
left the mattress. Jude though, he thought, seemed to be a deep sleeper,
totally unconscious even with his mighty cock wavering and throbbing and
drooling traces of jizz. Off the bed, bare feet to the carpet, and
staggering the distance to his own double. Climbing into it as softly and
quietly as he could, he grabbed the corner of his duvet and rubbed it
over his mouth, his chin, tasting shame on his lips. He was shaking all
over and fear had killed his erection, his dick limp and fat inside his
shorts and undies. He lay over the covers, trembling, and wondered what
utter madness had overtaken him in the past ten minutes.

And then, rising out of the dark like the moans of earlier, the soft
Brummie accent - less broad and musical than Jack's Villa drawl, but
still distinctively Birmingham. `I knew Southgate brought you along for
a reason,' came Jude's slow breathy murmur across the room, followed by
an almost arrogant sleepy chuckle. And nothing more. Kalvin lay there,
horrified, shaken, head-fucked: he'd been awake all along, he must have.
He stayed still and silent and listened to the long indulgent breaths
that sounded from the lad in the other bed, the faint smacking of lips,
the rustle of a big wet cock being pushed inside undies that couldn't
contain it, and the stretching of limbs. After a while, the voice added,
`Don't be weird about in the morning, mate,' with all the world-weary
pragmatism of someone who had lived far more decades.

And Kalvin Phillips rolled over, away from the direction of the softly
yawning figure in the dark, staring up at the windows and the hanging
blinds, staring out through that thin gap at the vague lights of the
Scottish city. He fell into an uncomfortable sleep with the taste of cum
in his mouth, and what felt like a pube on his upper lip, and dreamed
things that he would never admit to anyone when he woke up on Monday.




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