Date: Tue, 14 Nov 2023 10:23:20 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 376

Part 376: Keeping Out of the Headlines


One by one, he acknowledged the men who were climbing onto the coach -
just a pat on the arm, a few blunt words of praise, or a fuller manly hug
where the men were more tactile or expressive. It was one of those little
duties as captain that nobody told him to do, but the 26-year-old
brickhouse was becoming attuned to, partly from just observing other
Premier League leaders on fixtures like this. He kept a look and tone of
measured reserve as he greeted the other players being rushed aboard
their coach, not wanting to be falsely cheerful, but needing to
acknowledge a hard-fought point - Chelsea should have been an easy 3pts
for his team on their current form, but he was still expressing honest
pride to the men he led, given the depth and struggle of the 4-4 match.

And eventually Ruben Dias himself could take heavy steps onto the
vehicle, patting large hands against the edges of side-rests to either
side, and finding space for himself near the centre of the large bus they
were occupying to exit London - chartered jet would replace the coach at
the edge of the city, with the squad needing to be deposited back in
Manchester as soon as possible. Many, Ruben himself included, had
journeys planned tomorrow morning to join their national squads, and the
Portugal player silently questioned why he couldn't travel directly to
his home country from this London trip.

The tall well-built defensive player was in a state of agitation that had
only small part due to the frustrating battle against their Chelsea
hosts, which had come so close to a proper win; more than anything else,
he was irritated at the British tabloids, and there noxious interest in
his love life. A number of stupidly written headlines in the last couple
of weeks had pointed attention towards his fledgling situationship with a
Love Island girl; not only was the Portuguese man intensely private, but
`journalistic' attention had put stupid pressure on the casual sex and
glimmers of romance, and now the narcissistic reality TV contestant was
turning that pressure on him to label their early-days-dating.

His attention was drawn by a mild fuss of noise at the coach doors. Ruben
cursed his own counting skills as one final City player was ushered
hurriedly onto the departing vehicle, his head bowed apologetically; like
schoolchildren, the football players on board hollered and cheered
sarcastically for the arrival of Julian Alvarez, who was being scolded by
Guardiola's assistant, before scampering down the central aisle. He
glanced apologetically this way as he passed Dias' seats, and the
captain found the attention span to glower authoritatively at the
youngster.

Unnecessarily, he barked moodily at the Argentine: `What took you so
long?'

Alvarez froze awkwardly, resting his hand on the edge of the empty seat
next to him, looking briefly troubled before speaking to him in
Portuguese: `I needed to pass on some news to my friend Fernandez,
that's it, and just-'

Dias stared cynically at the 23-year-old, noting the dishevelled nature
of his club jersey over his white print t-shirt, and the red mark on the
side of his neck. He rose up slightly in his seat, leaning closer into
the aisle. `Passing on a message, or kissing passionately with some
Chelsea bitch?' he snapped with unwarranted aggression, taking out his
mood on the junior player, and switching to Argentine Spanish to prevent
such sucking up. He grabbed loosely at the hem of the younger guy's
jersey, drawing them closer but keeping his voice low enough to avoid
further panto attention from the busload. `Don't delay our team with
your love life, Alvarez.' He was taking a punt based on the red marks on
the youngster's spotty face, which could easily be sore spots from
physical moments in the game, but Julian's facial expression confirmed
it - the handsome little fucker had definitely been having an intimate
moment with someone!

`It was just a moment,' the World Cup winning youth panted quickly,
switching now to awkwardly pronounced English. `I had to see Enzo to-'

`Enough,' Ruben snapped simply at him, waving dismissively. `To your
seat.' As soon as the boyish-faced younger player had rushed on, Dias
felt acutely aware of his harshness, but this just made him scowl more;
heavy November rain pelted the window at his side as the bus rolled out
onto London thoroughfares, and this felt representative of the
centre-back's mood. The arrival of more wintry weather felt tied in with
the toxic personality of the British press, and Ruben felt an almost
annual pang for Iberian warmth and his Benfica past.

Their coach powered them through the wet city, as wet tonight as
Manchester itself, and Dias remained glowering alone with his aching legs
wrapped in sweatpants and spread across a pair of seats. He looked very
briefly at his phone, studying the imbalance of text messages between
himself and this latest casual partner - a week or two ago, he might
easily have made arrangements for her to be waiting at his apartment when
he returned, where he could give her the fucking she warranted, but now
it was coming with questions about `what they were' and when it could
`go public' on Insta. Ugh.

`Hey,' hissed a voice.

With some reluctance, Ruben shifted in the seats, and looked back through
the gap in the headrests: the whiskery features of Jack Grealish were
there between them, poking through to meet him, a cheeky expression on
his features. Ruben gave him a serious look, trying to communicate to his
friend and teammate that he was not in the mood for any of his humour or
games - there was an eagerness in Jack's face that prodded at his
curiosity all the same, and Dias paused before telling him to back off.

`He wasn't lying,' Grealish muttered in a low, conspiratorial tone.

`What?' Dias demanded, that brief bit of captain's discipline already
forgotten.

`Lil Jules,' the Englishman hissed at him. `He WAS with Enzo
Fernandez, I saw `em.'

`Oh.' Ruben felt disinterested in this already, although before he
could dismiss the gossip, he did picture the rub marks on the boy's
throat, the blotchiness of his bright young face, the guilt in his wide
eyes when he'd been accused of pausing for a cheeky kiss with someone -
and there was a playful leer to Jack's expression, as was often the
cause, that made such suggestive links all the more apparent.

`World Cup fwends,' muttered Grealish meaningfully, his face pushing
further into the gap between the headrests, becoming distorted by the
ridiculous posture.

`Huh,' Dias grunted back, not catching the reference; he rose up
further, on one knee, and throwing an elbow over his headrest to look
down on Grealish, who pulled gently back in response, relaxing back into
his seat - squashed next to one of his other buddies, rather than nabbing
a double-seater for his own comfort. And Ruben's eyes drifted to the
window seat and the bulky presence of fellow defender Kyle Walker, which
immediately gave him cause to raise his dark shapely brows - `What the
fuck?' the centre-back demanded crossly, unsure why he was getting a
glimpse of his colleague's big cock outside of the showers - of all
things, the other English footballer was taking a photograph of his
equipment hanging out of his tracksuit pants. If Jack had already been
aware of this act, he still whooped with interest and amusement, and Kyle
himself guffawed quite happily to be discovered.

`Just sending it to Cole Palmer, the traitor,' Walker announced quite
cheerily.

`Great banter,' Grealish evaluated simply.

Ruben Dias stared at the pair of them, thinking that the two juvenile
players were again representative of this stupid wet nation and everyone
in it. He wondered who was more stupid, these two yobs behind him, the
newspaper editors putting his casual dating on their front page, or the
young woman who was refusing to meet him for sex tonight because a
headline had made her think they were getting serious.

At that, the large muscular captain slid and rested back into his own
seats and ignored the schoolboy cackles of the two men, both older than
him, in the row behind, not wanting to know if Walker still had his meat
out, or if Grealish was spreading gossip about Alvarez and his Argentina
buddies. He shook his head irritably and looked out of the window, noting
the way the busy West London streets were already giving way to suburbia
on the route to the airfield. A short flight and he would be home to
Manchester, but without a beauty awaiting him on the silk sheets of his
bed; he thought briefly about trying to arrange a sex worker like he
might back in Portugal, with relative ease, but he remembered the stupid
newspaper reports when his reckless colleague in the seat behind had done
similar. You couldn't do anything in the Premiership without getting
into the headlines, he reflected angrily, furious to think he would just
have to toss himself off at the end of the long night.


Jack Grealish was hoarse from laughter by the time they landed in a
private corner of Manchester Airport: cackling like an idiot next to Kyle
Walker on the coach out of London and in the cold wet airfield, and then
playing ridiculous half-spontaneous card games on the brief flight with
Haaland and Foden. His giddiness was giving way to sleepiness at this
point, but with a strain of restless excitement all the same. He'd
enjoyed making presumptuous comments about Alvarez to other players on
the journey, and he'd enjoyed making teasing remarks to the young
Argentine himself from across the length of the cabin in the air. Just a
wind up, he'd assured Julian a moment ago as they collected their
personal luggage and dispersed into the car park, just a bit of a laugh.
He only half-believed that the two Argentines were in a secret
relationship, but the narrative was credible enough to give him a hefty
dose of entertainment, and a far more suppressed dose of... jealousy?

After all, as keen as he was to quip about Julian having some quick
rendezvous on the way out of Stamford Bridge, he was vaguely aware of his
own latent hope for a little meeting of his own. The lad had been there,
he'd noted him in the dugout with the active substitutes, but his
messages had seemed to go ignored. Whatever else Ben Chilwell was up to
in his rehab schedule and ongoing support for his club, it didn't seem
to involve replying to his ex or finding a way to briefly catch up whilst
they were in the same city, the same footy stadium. This source of
hyperactivity and restlessness was something that the 28-year-old left
winger was quick to move on from as it passed through his thoughts, never
the most reflective of young men.

He actually felt like getting pissed, even though tomorrow he had to
travel back south to assemble with his England squad-mates. He'd asked a
few guys on the flight and as they disembarked, but there had been no
interest, not even from Foden, who clearly no longer idolised him, or
from Walker, who had dozed for most of the short flight, showing his
`old' age! As a result, Grealish was swinging his luggage restlessly at
one side and strutting through the wet car park area, working out whose
journey would pass closest to his own apartment building so that they
could car-share.

This need brought him back into contact with his moody captain, though it
was always a little hard to tell with Ruben Dias. The tall 26-year-old
was older than his years and carried himself with an imposing seriousness
that hid his good humour and warm friendship, but rarely fazed or
discouraged someone as gregarious and charming as Jack himself; he dumped
the weight of his bag on the bonnet of the expensive car and placed
himself by the passenger door, simply grinning when the other footballer
looked up in the process of unlocking the other side of the vehicle.

`Taxi for Grealish?' chirped the Brummie lad.

`Fine,' his Portuguese skipper agreed quickly and simply, though Jack
suspected that his suggestions of hitting a bar near their apartment
buildings would be less well-received. He whistled a jaunty tune as he
tossed his belongings into the back with Ruben's, and slid into the
passenger seat next to the other City hero, rubbing his hands together
and exaggerating the chilly air whilst the driver fiddled with the
heating controls.

`Thanks, fella, you're a legend, a true gent, a super-captain - I
couldn't be arsed leaving my own car here whilst we were in London, I
knew somebody would help me out.'

`Hmm. We're not far apart.'

`Exactly, but still, thanks a million, Rubes.'

`Are you going to shut up at any point on the drive...?'

`Oh, I dunno about that, Rubes, I'm feeling HYPER. What tunes are you
blasting?'

`Uh. I don't care. You choose.' A long heavy sigh.

`Let me get my playlists up. What was that sigh about, big man?'

`Huh? Oh, nothing, nothing - just sort the music out and let's get out
of here.'

`Sure, sure... what mood you in? Not hyper, clearly - chill-out? Late
night feelings? Er - horny sex playlist?' He sniggered happily to
himself and ignored Ruben's judgmental look. `What, you have to have
the right tunes ready for those special nights, y'know...' And with a
further snigger, Jack activated the playlist via Bluetooth to the car's
sound system, immersing the pair of them in a sleazy mid-tempo number by
The Weeknd. He crooned badly to it whilst Dias drove them out of the
complex airport car park and onto the highway that would get them into
the city centre - once Ruben's car was whizzing them quickly down this
route, and the city was unfurling before them, Jack returned to the
matter of his captain's sigh, of his rather frosty mood tonight. On this
he was less blunt, less thoughtless, his social skills sharpening, and he
threw subtle questions at the moodily focused centre-back, about his
plans for tomorrow, his expectations for the international break, his
attitude to the Chelsea draw, his love life... until quite firmly landing
upon the obvious source of the other player's mood.

`So,' he asked after a short silence between them, `if she's not a
serious partner, why is it making you so grouchy, eh?'

It wasn't long before Grealish had needled some truth out of Dias, and
the usually reserved team leader was ranting quietly to him in the Manc
traffic jams, complaining about both the tabloids and the girl herself,
despairing broadly at the need for relationship labels and publicity of
any kind. The Portuguese stud monologued about his craving for simplicity
and privacy and Jack just made the occasional noise of agreement or
sympathy, warmly interested in his friend's problems, but also beginning
to muse over his own possibly solution to the problem. There was, as far
as Grealish was concerned, only one good way for hot-blooded young
football studs to keep their activities out of the headlines, and he
thought about how to propose that way to someone as uptight as Dias; he
held that suggestion back, but as they approached the posh industrial
conversions where they lived a few blocks apart, he reached over and
nudged his driver in the arm.

`Let's have a nightcap and toast to the international break, eh?'
Grealish suggested, half-expecting to be told to piss off. `You can tell
me more about this whole mess of a situation, if you like, I can be a
surprisingly good listener when people let me.' He turned his most
innocently charming look towards the 6ft1 powerhouse, and found Dias
looking momentarily conflicted. `One drink and I'll leave you be,' the
Brummie lothario promised, `and I reckon I have some ideas on how you
can keep out of the headlines, if you wanna hear them, big fella. What do
you say?'


Ruben Dias was more surprised at himself than Jack could have been,
agreeing to this and then leading the way not up to Jack's latest pad,
but to his own artfully furnished penthouse only a couple of buildings
apart. The 26-year-old might have blamed this willingness on Jack's
trademark charms, or simply his assumed persistence, but he shared
something of the English guy's restlessness and adrenaline, the ferocity
of their Chelsea battle still in his blood and in his thoughts, even
apart from his more personal aggro.

He led Grealish through the apartment, needlessly pointing out a few
details he was proud of, given that the left winger had attended half a
dozen different parties here over the past couple of football seasons. He
didn't ask about what Jack wanted to drink, instead pouring healthy
measures of a particularly expensive scotch he'd invested in, and then
leading the way into the square of sunken seating that dominated the
centre of this top-floor bachelor pad extraordinaire. For a moment,
Dias' mind flashed with what might have awaited him here - the Love
Island beauty he'd picked up at a recent fashion event could be on that
sofa in her knickers, wet and ready, like she'd been after their last
away trip. But no, the papers had put ideas in her head, and she'd
already asked them which magazine he would be most keen on if they did a
joint photoshoot.

Jack trailed past him, his trainers kicked off, and his monstrously large
calves on show as if it wasn't approaching wintertime outside, the only
man in the squad who'd travelled back on a wet evening in just casual
shorts. In a simple manoeuvre, the lithe 28-year-old wriggled out of a
baggy grey hoody and threw himself on the sofa in just t-shirt, shorts,
and white gym socks, comfortably choosing to occupy the same territory as
Ruben's regretful fantasy. The lounged posture of his teammate both
punctured and irritated the tall centre-back's imagined end to tonight,
and he took his first sip of scotch.

`You were saying,' he said in a low voice, stepping down to sit at a
corner to the other player, `that you had some ideas...?'

Grealish seemed to ignore this question, having retrieved his phone,
propped now on his chest as he lounged sideways. `Jesus,' he said,
`what the fuck is Walker playing at, sending that in the group chat?
Fella is mad.' His words sounded reproachful but his creased face was
one of enjoyment, delight. Ruben stared expectantly at him but when the
Birmingham guy said nothing more, he fished into the pockets of his
sweatpants for his own device, and found that a bunch of photos had
appeared in their squad group chat - the first couple were harmless
enough images of casual behind-the-scenes life on the Chelsea trip, and
then suddenly there was a lot of skin on show. Alvarez, whatever he had
or hadn't done at Stamford Bridge, retreating shyly from the lens in
just white briefs - the same kind of tighty whities he'd ran the pitch
in a few months back to the surprise and laughter of all of his
teammates, after donating his shorts to a fan - everyone had had plenty
to say about that at the time, he remembered! But then a couple of the
others, and finally a picture of Jack, which he guessed was what had
roused that half-hearted outrage, and perhaps also that smug complacency
on his guest's face.

Dias frowned at it, but spoke ironically too. `I wonder how much Pep
will fine him for that.' He wondered how he should react in the chat,
given his captain's duty, looking at the oddly framed shot of his
visitor in the nude, arse prominent and eyes almost seductive over
shoulder, caught in the process of getting dressed hours earlier -
really, Kyle Walker was the biggest kid in their team even at 33, and
never seemed to drop the clown act for a minute. Ruben generally enjoyed
it, but this photography seemed a bit ridiculous - what if those pics
were leaked to the idiotic tabloids?!

`What do you think?' drawled Jack's Brummie accent from the other
sofa.

`I think he's a... you might say, twat?'

Grealish chuckled, presumably at that most English of words in a
Portuguese rasp, and Dias laughed too. He slid his phone away on the sofa
and relaxed his big body, supping more scotch, and regretting not pouring
more. `A dickhead,' he added, and `a pillock', reaching for more of
the British words he had learned in his Manchester career.

`I didn't mean of Kyle,' the other lad chuckled, and Ruben didn't
know what to say to that. He just leant back further into the press of
cushioned support, staring around his sparse stylish flat, a hint of
loneliness in its chic tidiness. He felt Jack looking at him but he was
confused by the question, and he wanted to go back to his OWN question -
what had Jack said before, in the car, about having some solution to his
love life problems...?

To his surprise, if not slight alarm, Grealish was back on his feet, and
his glass was empty. Without needing to be served, or even offered, the
summer dressed footballer was prowling out of this sunken square and
fetching the extortionate bottle. He was back, sloshing a double or more
measure into Ruben's unfinished glass, making him raise his dark brows.
Jack stood over him grinning. `You reckon they'll put that pic on the
Sun front page if I leak it?' mused the playboy forward in a joke that
was a little too thoughtful to be 100% joke, making Ruben both laugh and
frown.

`We're supposed to be talking about keeping out of the headlines,' he
said heavily, drinking form his now overloaded glass, whilst Jack dropped
a single thick knee to the sofa at his side, gently sliding down into a
seated position to his left, much closer now. He turned, tired but
restless, and looked intensely at his guest. `What did you mean, about a
solution to that? How do you manage privacy these days, with your
following?'

Lounging in so close that their shoulders touched, Grealish laughed.
`I'm not sure that I do, skip, but... well, some things stay behind
closed doors.'

`Some things,' Dias found himself echoing thoughtfully, taking another
long sip.

`The other summer,' his teammate said, and Ruben found that he'd
expected that to come up, expected THAT to be the example, from the
suggestiveness of tone - he stared away into the centre of the room as he
drank, nodding slowly. `We all had fun,' Jack said wistfully, `and
nobody else needed to know.' Ruben kept nodding, but he also thought
that it was a poor example, something very apart from the problem he was
sharing - what did that drunken antic on a rooftop beer garden after the
trophy parade have to do with his love life and the media's interest in
it, really?

`I don't know if that helps,' he said distantly.

`Doesn't it?' - Jack's voice almost a yawn - `It sure helps me.
Knowing I can fuck about with lads who get it and nobody's gonna go
crawling to the press to sell their story, cos everyone is getting paid
as much as me.'

Ruben couldn't help but lift an eyebrow and nudge an elbow into Jack's
warm side. `Is that true, Mr £100 million man...?' He laughed abruptly
and took another sip, astonished at how quickly the nightcap went down.
He turned to look thoughtfully at Jack, who was lounging right into him
on the sofa, and tilting his scruffily bearded face this way - looking at
him in the moment, he couldn't help but see him as that photo from Kyle
Walker had presented him, and also as he'd been on that summer rooftop.
How they'd all been, really: triumphant, relaxed, horny, experimental.
True, Ruben hadn't pushed his deviance as far as others, he'd drawn a
clear line, but...

`Some things are safer,' Jack was telling him in a murmur, rubbing one
of the large muscles bulging from his shoulder. `Some things don't get
to the papers, y'know, and that's coming from me - I've had my share
of trouble, matey.'

`Hmm.' He remembered that he'd been tempted to go further, watching as
Jack and others REALLY took advantage of Phil Foden's shocking
willingness; but Dias himself had stopped at receiving oral, like he'd
tried on Portugal camps in the past, though haunted by the one time it
had gone too far. He had never intended to try sucking a cock himself,
but how did one say no to an icon like Cristiano...?

Grealish was stroking his shoulder, and now the back of his neck. Dias
turned, and found their faces very close. Jack's breath smelled like the
scotch. `What are you saying?' he asked, but he thought he already
knew.

`There's people you can fuck,' the expensive winger purred, `and it
defo won't make the papers, y'know. Safe fun.'

Ruben realised he'd been holding his breath, and he let it out in a long
sigh, his lips parting gently, and then meeting the approach of Jack's,
accepting the surprising kiss. In his mind's eye there was a ready slut
on the silk sheets of his huge bed, ready for his physical power - and
sure, this wasn't quite what he had in mind, but the fella had a point...


Jack wasted no time in pulling and dragging the bigger man through the
sliding doors into the flat's master bedroom - he wanted to make things
happen before Ruben could change his mind. They had left their glasses of
drink behind, and also the heavy sports sweatshirt that had covered up
the muscular bulk of Ruben's body. On the way through that threshold,
Jack set about removing the close-fitting lycra t-shirt too, and exposing
what he always enjoyed seeing in the changing rooms - what he'd
particularly enjoyed seeing when his friend had agreed to the Nike
underwear campaign, and really brought a spotlight to his hefty physique.

To his surprise and pleasure, the bigger man was strangely receptive,
huge strong hands grasping at Jack's neck, at his back muscles, running
through his lustrous hair. The kisses were nervous pecks, and Jack
stopped trying to meet their tongues, but he dropped his lips to the
exposed paradise of the other man's pecs instead, pulling on his thick
arms but lavishing kisses upon chest muscles and pointed nipples,
tumbling backwards until he was falling onto silk sheets and dragging the
centre-back with him.

There was a moment of doubt there, Jack lying on his back and wrapping
his strong legs about the other man's waist; he could see Ruben staring
down at him in remembered alarm, as if surprised he wasn't a woman. But
Jack reached up and gave scratchy kisses to the side of his neck, whilst
pushing a hand into the front of his sweatpants and finding the big Nike
package to hold and rub, pleased at how quickly the 6ft1 hunk was rising
to the task. Ruben growled uncertainly and Jack grasped for one of his
hands, bringing it about and slapping it to his own muscular arse through
the shorts. `Here,' he hissed into the 26-year-old's ear, `grab a bit
of that - you wanna fuck this big ass, Rubes?'

Really, this was a needy frustration that had been welling in Grealish
since the last England meet, where he'd been unable to find opportunity
to give his perfect peach to any of his favoured national allies, and
settled for regular oral attention from Maddison. It had been a good
while since Jack let himself be fucked and he wasn't sure why he was so
desperately craving it this autumn, but he needed to feel it, and there
were few more powerful and exciting men in his circle than this
Portuguese beast.

The two men rolled and writhed on the bedsheets, battling to lose more
clothing. Jack rolled and tossed away one sock and then the other, doing
so in darting moments so that his hands never left Ruben's muscles or
hard-on for long. Ruben was kissing him quite passionately on one of his
shoulders, more comfortable there than on the lips, a huge muscular bulk
over him, whose sweatpants were a battle to get over his thighs. Those
and Jack's shorts soon went though, wriggled and kicked away over the
side of the bed, so that the two of them wore only their undies.

Jack separated from him, panting, and barked a command. `Lie back and
let me suck you,' he insisted eagerly, and there was zero hesitation
this time - huge and well-built, he soon had his captain lounging back
against the mass of cushions, hands brought up behind his head to show
biceps and faintly haired pits. Down came the camo print of the stretchy
Nike sports boxers, and up came the hard curved trajectory of the man's
rigid cock, standing happily between smooth muscular thighs. Jack
stripped and tossed away his own shiny black trunks, letting his
hardening cock and low balls swing free, and then diving down between
open legs so that he could take Ruben into his mouth.

`Oh fuck,' growled the City captain, and Jack did his finest work,
spitting noisily and sliding up and down the fat shaft, lavishing
attention on the bare head. All the while, he rubbed hands up and down
the thick strong legs at either side, and tickled his fingertips up onto
Ruben's defined six-pack. He kept his eyes open, twinkling his lusty
gaze up that mighty body and meeting the wide-eyed wonder of his captain,
who he'd always known could be led further astray when the moment came.

Excitingly, it was Dias himself who insisted on ending the short blowie,
because the promise Grealish made had him in its grip - `Your mouth
feels good, but I want that arse,' declared the Portugal centre-back
authoritatively, and Jack nodded with eager delight. He rolled to one
side and toyed with his cock, then brought his big-muscled legs up and
apart, whilst Ruben clambered around to face him, chest heaving and face
flushed. Jack spat in his fingers and rubbed it quickly under his balls,
down into the darker furrow between his prominent cheeks - now he could
see nervousness and indecision on Ruben's face, an urgency to try this
before the idea lost potency. Jack needed to let this happen quick, but
he also knew that he would be tight and unyielding after such a long gap
- his days of taking Chilly were a distant memory, sadly.

Dias wasn't really waiting. He was holding his big Portuguese cock at
the base and bearing forward, between the hoisted legs, pointing the fat
head of his cock between the open cheeks. Jack clung to the underside of
his hairy thighs and braced himself, but felt the inevitable, the
closed-door policy of an unpractised arse - he did his best to relax
himself but all he could feel was the battering ram force of a hard cock
being pushed inexpertly up and down his crack with no success. Ruben
swore in what must be Portuguese, several times, and he looked shaky on
his knees, as if he might suddenly pull away and end this.

`I can't get it in,' the City captain announced hotly.

`Slow down,' Grealish urged, `it's different to pussy, you have to
work up to it.'

`You promised me your arse,' his skipper told him almost angrily.

`It's yours,' Jack assured him eagerly, frustrated with himself, but
laughing a little to ease the tension, and pushing two fingers down to
rub against his knot.

`You're too tight,' the bigger younger man said warily.

`It'll go in, I can take it,' he groaned back at him, jerking on his
own stiff member.

`How?' Ruben demanded, sounding frustrated.

`How do you get a good pussy ready?' Jack snapped back, and for a
moment he meant it with just sarcasm, teasing and toying with the horny
impatience of this big sexy man who he'd wanted privately for ages; but
as soon as he'd said it out loud, he was smirking confrontationally at
the hulking figure. `How do you get a girl good and wet before you shove
that beast inside her?' he practically yelled at his captain. And to
make a point, he licked his lips with a showy display of tongue, and
watched the consternation on his captain's chiseled features. `Yeah,'
he groaned, `that's how.'


Jack's magnetic charm, his own sheer desperate urgency, the power of the
scotch, or something else entirely? Ruben wasn't sure, but he did it. He
slid forward, lowering his big muscular form to the sheen of the sheets,
and pressed his huge hands at the base of those hairy thighs, just above
the big parting arse cheeks. He took a deep breath and he pushed his face
in, shocked by the distinctive smell of it, far less unpleasant than he
might have imagined - and as if he was going down on one of his many hot
girlfriends, he pushed out his large fat tongue, and ran it against the
space between those glutes. Jack seemed to shiver immediately in his
grip, and there was something encouraging in that - but he didn't quite
know what to do, realised this was a different task to what he'd done
before, but too late, his tongue already down here, his face buried
between two of England's most coveted buns. And just like that, he
licked the `pussy' of his winger, driven by the urgent burning feeling
of his rock-hard cock and tight full balls - he pushed his tongue up and
down and around the wrinkle of muscular skin... and then pulled back,
breathing into one hairy cheek, unable to voice the question `Is that
okay?' but getting his answer anyway - `FUCK YES,' whined his
Grealish, pulling his body into a better position, `lick me there,
captain!!'

And so he went on, pressing down lower, pulling his face into a better
angle, and really going for it, though he wasn't quite sure what `it'
might be. This was madness, this was wild and way beyond his limits, and
yet it was a way to get what he needed, the satisfaction his big body
demanded. He couldn't believe he was doing this to a man, tasting their
arse and finding their unyielding hole with the tip of a tongue that had
spent hours between the legs of beautiful women. Jack writhed and buckled
and swore and begged, and he loved the sound of it - loved the urgency
and appreciation in that brash English accent, this arrogant fuck whining
for him on his bed like some slut!

He kept stopping, unsure of himself, and staring always in shock at the
hairy muscle around the goal, because it made it so clear that he was
licking no cunt; but Jack's moaning voice brought him back each time,
telling him he was `the best', telling him he felt like `heaven',
telling him to `eat that big ass!' And Ruben spat noisily in against it
and rubbed first one finger then two over, and in, the hole, and he
realised that he'd forgotten his goal for a moment. He gave one last
prodding lick and then pulled away, spitting uncertainly against the
bedding, and then spitting down onto the shaft of his cock.

`Yeah,' moaned one of the most talked-about footballers in the country,
one of the most interesting lads on his team. `Fuck me now, captain! I
won't tell a fucking soul, buddy.'

Ruben no longer needed to hear that, no longer had a thought for stupid
headlines; he was driven by his cock and its needs, and nothing else, as
he angled it well and started pushing the big ahead against the wet
relaxing hole, the one he'd licked and kissed and spat on, and he almost
shuddered at the lines was crossing, but it felt too good to stop.
Pushing Jack's legs further up and apart, he mounted him, entered him,
broke him, feeling such muscular tightness around his mighty Portuguese
cock; his own moans, slurring in his native tongue, joined the greedy
noise of Jack Grealish himself, and Ruben began to fuck his first man,
pounding him like any hot bitch who entered this bedroom.


Readied as he'd been by the hot brief rimming, Jack took it like a pro,
relaxing back into an experience that he'd always enjoyed - for a
moment, legs in the air and arse opening up, he thought about his first
time, but that brought a different pain to the discomfort of being out of
practice, and that flashback of loose hay and shadowy barn made him
picture, for a moment, a very different face above him. He returned to
the moment, away from the painful past of first discoveries, and whined
and gasped encouragingly, telling his big powerful captain exactly how
good he was, how strong, how sexy, how fucking amazing - telling him how
this secret would be safe between them, and his skipper could have this
big meaty arse any time he fucking wanted, he just had to ask, as long as
he kissed it like that again with that sexy amazing tongue, oh yeh!

Grealish didn't even last long before, reaching for himself, he was
shooting his own spunk up his bas and onto his chest, emptying out all of
his cum with a few minimal touches to his dick, the arse stimulation of
Dias' thrusts to overpowering and intense. It still felt good in the
sensitive throes of orgasm, but he knew he could only take it for so
long, and he needed to bring the hard-muscled beast to climax - so he
reached for his nips, tweaking and pinching at them, and telling Dias he
was some kinda god. `FUCK ME HARDER,' he yelled into the captain's
face, and he could tell his dirty talk was driving him WILD - the big man
really went for it then, as Jack pinched his nipples and grasped at his
arm muscles, and the tortured look on the young man's face told him he
was getting an arse full of goodness.

Ruben stopped with the same violent suddenness as he'd thrusted, his
eyes squeezed shut and his jaw clenched, and he rolled rapidly to one
side, letting out hot quick pants of almost panicked relief. Jack, on the
other hand, lay quite still, holding his legs up and apart, letting his
sore arse relax and recover, glad that he'd scratched that ich, and
wondering at the fact he'd allowed himself to go so long without a good
stuffing.

`God, you're good,' he purred heavily, listening to Ruben's quick
breathing, and he slid further away from his captain's body - he wanted
to go in for a sweaty snog, but he suspected that the deviance and
boldness might have gone with the orgasm. Instead, he slid from the bed
and found his pants, which he pulled up and on, and then knelt at the
edge of the bed, watching the 26-year-old recover. Every muscle heaved
and contracted, and he dragged big hands over his sweaty face, not
looking this way.

`Now that's one fuck that won't make the press,' Grealish reassured
him again, and he hopped away from the bed to continue dressing, pulling
one item after another onto his clammy physique, and shooting monitoring
glances back at the shaky form of his captain, recovering physically and
mentally from crossing that line.

Fully dressed again and forcing each foot into a trainer, the 28-year-old
England star just stood in the bedroom doorway, taking a moment, scotch
glass in hand. He finished it and put it down, and slid the doors shut
with a final `You're amazing' to the hunk on the bed, and left him to
sweat it out and rationalise what happened. Walking a little funny after
such a pounding, Jack left the apartment and the building with a sexy
little swagger, chuckling to himself and suppressing a yawn - well, he'd
been on the lookout for a worthy top for ages, and here he was, just a
tower block away, his own sexy captain. Jack made the short damp walk
between their buildings, hood pulled up and arse-hole faintly burning,
and he laughed to think of his journey to the England camp tomorrow -
would he still enter the international break with a craving to be made
somebody's bitch, or had he satisfied that need? Would he be back to his
more dominant alpha ways with some subservient fellow Englishman? Or even
a bit of both? He was so excited that he worried he might not sleep -
another week with the finest muscles in English football beckoned, and
Jack was all the hornier for his power-fucking from Ruben Dias.




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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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