Date: Wed, 15 Nov 2023 04:26:02 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 377

Part 377: Chelsea Buns


He'd decided to walk rather than drive, seeing just how close their
postcodes were - a potentially pleasant London stroll on a Tuesday
afternoon, and one that allowed him to pick up coffees and pastries from
a posh Kensington bakery on the way there. And then, predictably, the
skies had opened and he'd got soaked in the final two minutes of his
walk, breaking into an awkward run up what he hoped was the right street,
and tucking the Gails bakery raid under the inside of his bomber jacket
for protection. Fortuitously, his host for the afternoon was already at
the door, holding it open and looking out for him, and the drenched young
football star was ushered quickly into the porch of the sizeable London
townhouse before he could be truly sodden, gasping a relieved `Cheers!'
and allowing the older man to muscle him encouragingly into the busy
entranceway of coats and shoes, all the signs of a bustling family home.

Ben Chilwell had hardly hesitated at the suggested interview, and not
just because of the free time afforded by his fairly slow-paced rehab
program. He was inching towards what he believed to be an end to his
hamstring recovery, but the club physios were being incredibly vague and
refusing to pin a date for his return to full training with the rest of
the team. As in previous bouts of poor fitness, this brought its own toll
on his mental health, and the cautious 26-year-old was investing
carefully in how he spent his free time to keep himself upbeat and
focused, productive and optimistic.

But aside from that, it was a great opportunity, and he was keen on the
idea of being one of the first guests on a dedicated new Chelsea podcast,
especially if it meant being interviewed by THIS legend in front of him,
who was ushering him across the porch with gruff blokey laughter,
snatching a towel from a shelf somewhere and throwing it about his
shoulders and head - it was a gesture that should be a bit interfering
and overbearing, but Ben was just so relieved to be back indoors and out
of the rain, so he quickly relented to being helped out of his soaked
bomber jacket and then swaddled in the pale cream towel, which was warm
from a radiator. The coffee cup tray and bag of sweet treats were
snatched from his damp grip and then he was further attacked with the
towel, strong manly hands against his shoulder and neck and ruffling it
in his hair - there was an almost paternal mix of kindness and
brusqueness to it that caught the young man off-guard and made him laugh
awkwardly, somewhat dazed when the towel was allowed to drape about his
shoulders, and he was blinking into the smiling expression of the former
Chelsea player.

`God, that's got heavy, hey?' exclaimed the 42-year-old, grabbing him
by his upper arm. `You're alright though, are you? Not too soaked? Here
- let me hang this for you - come in, come in, er - you don't mind
taking those soggy trainers off, do you? Haha - it's the missus, you
know how it is...'

And like that, the injured football player was hurried into the large
family home of the Coles, with Joe himself scampering quite eagerly ahead
of him, gesturing through a couple of doors into the big kitchen
extension across the back. With a quick dancing gait, the
player-turned-coach-turned-pundit put down the cups and bag and then
clapped his hands roughly together, turning to inspect his visitor -
`You're okay, are you? You don't need any dry clothes, or-?'

Still a little overwhelmed by the tornado of warm welcome, Chilwell
blinked stupidly at the older guy, and then shook his head - actually, he
wasn't as wet as he might have thought, his long-sleeved t-shirt largely
untouched, and just a faint dampness down the outer sides of his baggy
trousers. His socked feet stretched and flexed against the underfloor
heating of the open kitchen, and he collected his senses. `I'm good,'
he assured Joe, grabbing at the towel on his shoulders and giving it
another rub across his face and the glossy dark curls of his damp hair.
`I'm all good-'

`Here,' insisted the podcast host. `I'll go get you a warm jumper,
kid. Have a seat, get comfortable - I thought we'd do the chat in here,
if that's alright? It's the tidiest part of the house, hah.' And with
the same high level of nervous energy, the short stocky ex-footballer
disappeared away for a minute, and Ben drifted into the bright extension
area to inspect the long garden through rain-soaked French windows. And
then Cole was back, holding a big thick sweatshirt - it was branded with
the Premiership legend's brief American team, Tampa Bay Rowdies, and
fashionista Ben thought it was pretty cool in an ironic kinda way. He
received it gladly and, more out of politeness than temperature, pulled
it on before fiddling with his coiffed hair, ruined by the weather.

And then, the chaotic entrance over, the pair of them were settling into
smart but comfortable chairs at a breakfast table nearby, and Joe was
thanking him profusely for the coffee, and serving the sticky pastries on
a platter between them. The 42-year-old former midfielder was laughing as
he did so. `Chelsea buns?' he demanded through his gruff giggles.
`That used to be my nickname, back in the day...!' The retired player
laughed heartily at his own joke and Ben joined in, but with an edge of
awkwardness, as he clocked what his interviewer meant, and he felt silly
or conspicuous for being instantly aware of a certain notorious feature
of the older guy's physique!

`Until I was replaced by Eden Hazard,' Cole continued lightly, settling
down into the other chair, and fixing him with his easy laddish grin,
`and stopped getting Rear of the Year from Heat Magazine, y'know...' A
pause, a scratch of that greying stubble, and another heavy laugh. `And
replaced now by you, no doubt, Ben's Buns? Haha.' He was all wide
beaming smile and glittering blue eyes, a handsome fella as he entered
his 30s and left his sporting prime behind - and he had an easy relaxing
charm to him that Ben instantly took to, abandoning the awkward
self-consciousness in favour of nodding enthusiastically and welcoming
the silly tone. `Sure, sure,' he agreed, sipping his cappuccino, `I'm
pretty sure it's on my FIFA stats - Chelsea Buns legacy.' He sniggered
and gestured vaguely at the sweet treats, `Is that what you call these?
I didn't know, I just thought they were pastries or whatever. Hah - I
hope you like them, it seemed wrong turning up empty-handed.'

Another big grin from his host. `You'd be surprised how rare those
manners are,' Cole told him sagely, slightly exaggerating his position
as the wise and experienced ex-footballer, and swiftly labelling him `a
true Chelsea gent'. They both drank from their coffees and chewed
quietly on the sugary dough for a moment, before Joe asked gruffly,
`Shall we get started on this interview then, fella?'


As he might have expected, Joe Cole was an easy guy to talk to, and they
were already indulging in spiralling friendly chatter for the many
minutes it took the host to set up his laptop and recording equipment,
prompting them the only awkward pause as Joe told him to `save his
banter until the green light was on' - Ben asked vague friendly
questions about the house and Joe's life at the moment, unsure if he
still had any coaching commitments or just a media focus, and asking
after his family. `Hey,' Cole warned him warmly, finally getting the
kit ready, `who's the one being interviewed here, a hot young left-back
making his Chelsea legacy, or a boring old cunt who spends more time
gardening?' The 42-year-old laughed self-deprecatingly and Ben just
fumbled for words, unsure how seriously to take these words, but settling
into a light laugh when he caught Joe's expression.

`The kids are at school, of course,' he pointed out as he fiddled with
the laptop, and Ben nodded along, unsure of their ages or even how many
the guy had, `and the missus is out shopping, of course. You know how it
is,' he added presumptuously, before pausing to ask an obvious question
- `Or are you single? I don't think I know anything about your love
life, fella, which seems rare for a Premiership footballer, ha.'

`Single, for sure,' Chilly told him a little quietly, `for now.'
Then, feeling the need to expand for some reason, he muttered, `Seeing a
couple of people casually but... nothing major, nothing big... erm...'

But Joe's interest in this question seemed to be low, and he was rifling
through a set of printed notes before doing a few more checks on the
laptop. And then they were off, and Ben found himself chatting quite
volubly to everything the older guy had to ask him. Joe was just so
relaxed and forward, nothing media or PR about him, purely chatty and
frequently bursting into that gruff London laugh, still the working-class
kid from Paddington. And as much as he'd joked about the interview being
for Ben not him, they did talk about Joe too - it was much more of a
rambling chat between the two intergenerational players than a formal
interview, and Ben found himself asking questions out of genuine
curiosity. He asked about Cole's transition from West Ham to Chelsea,
and on to his days at Liverpool and Villa, and of course America,
inspecting the baggy thick sweater that enveloped his warm and dry body.
He found himself openly asking for Joe's advice on coping with injury
setbacks, and the two very different players discussed issues like men's
mental health taboos and, with surprising honesty, the current state of
politics at Chelsea FC.

`It'll all get edited down,' Joe reminded him regularly, especially
when Ben made a worryingly frank comment about management behaviour at
the club, and his panic must have shown all over his handsome face. Cole
just slapped him on the shoulder and assured him that he would be doing
cuts himself before he sent it to the editor. `Relax, kid, relax.'

When the coffees ran out, Joe made them some more from a noisy machine in
the kitchen, clearly something of a caffeine snob too, and the two men
began to chat idly about non-football subjects, almost forgetting the
recording altogether. So much so that Ben was taken by surprise when Joe
stopped his travel anecdote and started clicking at the laptop - `Hang
on,' the Chelsea legend told him, `I best stop this before it gets any
messier to edit, hold that thought.' Frowning in the concentration of
someone less tech-savvy than he was trying to seem, Cole busied himself
with the devices, and then turned back this way with genuine interest in
his eyes - `What were you saying?' Ben paused only briefly, surprised
that his interviewer actually wanted to hear about his latest holiday now
that the recording was over, but very ready to enthuse about his fave
Greek island boat trips.

Chilly found himself almost disappointed that they'd recorded enough
material, sitting there with an empty coffee cup in front of him, and
picking at some crumbs from the Chelsea buns on the platter. Cole had got
up to go and check something in the kitchen, resting a large warm hand on
Ben's shoulder for a moment, and leaving him to linger comfortably;
there was something so inviting and comfortable about the Cole family
home, he thought, that made him want to linger here, even though the
rainfall on the windows was much lighter than the downpour that he'd ran
through on the street. The 26-year-old felt a vague urge to while away
his day off here, with only a few simple physio exercises to do before
dinnertime, and so enamoured with the older man's patter and openness;
but a well-mannered `Chelsea gent' as he was, feeling somewhat posh
with his Milton Keynes RP against Cockney-tinged Cole, he knew it would
be rude to impose and he should be making his move rather soon now that
the interview was so clearly over.

But, to his surprise, the coffee machine was hissing and bubbling again,
and Joe was asking him if he wanted oat milk again with this one, frothed
or just chilled; and Ben answered distantly, as if knowing he ought to be
refusing the extra hot drink and getting a wiggle on instead. But he sat
there, comfortable, and received a fresh cup from his host, who patted
his shoulder with the same avuncular affection, then sat back down to
join him. Now at last they seemed to be out of things to say and both men
just sipped their flat whites quietly, looking out at the wet autumnal
garden.

`I do hope to see you back on the pitch soon,' the ex-player told him
quite earnestly, after a while. `You're absolutely central to that
squad, and they suffer when they don't have you or Reece out there, for
sure. I won't ask for a date - if you knew, you'd be telling me.'

Chilwell smiled weakly in gratitude at this, rolling his eyes to signify
the well-known vagueness of these matters, and nodding. `I don't think
any supporter or insider is as eager for my comeback as I am,' he
assured his host. `I mean, it isn't even just Chels, y'know - the lads
are assembling today for England training, and I'm missing that too,
AGAIN.' He sighed wistfully, surprised at the sudden downturn in his
mood. `Sorry, ignore me being maudlin - this is nice coffee again, Joe,
thanks.'

The older man gave him another fond smile that dimpled his grizzled
stubble and lined his blue eyes. He licked coffee foam from his upper lip
and nodded slowly. `Hey,' he said with a little suddenness, `you must
like a swim, with that leg strain? We've just had the indoor pool
re-done, if you want to give it a go.' And then with an expansive wave
about the kitchen, `I'm assuming you'll stay on for dinner, yeah? I'm
cooking my signature lamb, and the wife and kids would love to meet you
properly - obviously they're all True Blues.'

Ben paused at the broad invitations, unsure what to say - he felt that it
was rude to accept, and yet Joe seemed so keen and genuine. And it WAS
still raining out there, he reminded himself, with little else to do with
his day. And, he thought, a little dip in a pool would be just the amount
of exercise he needed to tick off today's requirements - still, it felt
a real imposition against the generous guy, who was beaming expectantly
at him. `Er...'

`Good,' Cole said swiftly, interpreting this as a definite `yes'.
`Come on, I'll show you downstairs - I think you'll be impressed,
everyone is.' There was a laddish excitement to his speech that made it
less boastful or boorish, and Ben just went with it, deciding to embrace
the hospitality of this club legend.


It was, he had to admit, pretty slick - a certain hyper-modernism in the
warm basement that clashed with the soft family edges of the home above,
like it should belong to an unambitious Bond villain instead. But
standing over the shimmering rectangle of lightly heated water, Ben felt
that a short swim was EXACTLY what he needed, and he smiled keenly at his
host. `You're sure?' he prodded self-consciously. `You're sure you
don't mind me having a swim? I can just leave you to it, and-'

`But dinner,' Cole insisted. `Here - there's some spare swimming
shorts here, if you want them.' He was opening neat built-in storage
draws in a corner, whilst beginning to pull out of the zip-neck grey
sweater he wore over his own t-shirt. Ben stood still, looking about for
somewhere he would be able to change, and just deciding it might be less
awkward to get his undies wet - `No, I'll be okay,' he insisted, quite
used to pool dips in underpants during team recovery days.

Seeing that his host was going to make a more serious change of clothing,
Ben shuffled sideways and averted his eyes. Off came the borrowed Tampa
jumper, which he folded more carefully onto one of the modernist
recliners, before tugging his own long-sleeved print top off more
roughly, and then undoing the waist-cord of his baggy combat pants. Ben
paused, unable to help glancing to the right - Joe was casually topless
now and yanking off slippers and socks, back this way. His earlier quip
about a supposed nickname came back to Chilly, who couldn't help but
confirm that the man still had that ample backside mounding in his
chinos, outsized even for his stocky frame - he was not so lean and
well-kept as some media-focused ex-players, the smugly preserved
Redknapps or Linekers of their world, but he still looked good for his
age. (To Ben, the early 40s felt a distant and ancient era.)

And Ben's eyes lingered as a belt was undone and the pants were pulled
down a bit - for a moment, with the chinos on their way down, that large
heavy backside, that speedy midfielder's low centre of gravity, was
framed in pale grey boxer briefs, big solid muscles at the base of a
lightly muscled and faintly hairy back. But then politeness and
self-consciousness took over and Ben looked sharply away, dropping his
own trousers and pulling off his socks - he felt somewhat exposed in his
tight black CK boxer briefs, but he didn't fancy removing them to slide
into a pair of borrowed swimmers - even in his polite awkwardness, he
could tell from the corner of his eye that Joe was stark naked with that
big pale arse on show, pulling on some loudly coloured resort trunks.

To avoid looking that way, Chilly leapt straight into the water, pleased
at the lukewarm temperature, and glad to lose himself in a little light
physicality; with a series of splashes, Cole joined him, but said
nothing. Isolated within the water, they did a series of short lengths up
and down the rectangle, Ben continuing to do so even once he could sense
that Joe had slowed and was floating about more idly. He felt almost like
he was trying to show off his fitness progress to the Chelsea supporter,
but he was really just trying to reach an acceptable count of short
lengths that could make him feel okay about skipping his prescribed
exercises if he stayed here for dinner.

When Ben stopped, clinging to one end of the pool and turning slowly, he
found that Joe had actually left the water. His stocky 5ft9 body dripping
wet, Cole was stomping about on the far side, at the end of the basement
where high narrow windows let in light from the garden; rainfall seemed
to have shifted for bright autumn sun, to his surprise, casting a warm
glow on the stomping figure of the dripping ex-footballer. Ben swam that
way with a few lazy strokes, whilst Joe disappeared briefly from sight,
returning in the folds of a huge cosy-looking bathrobe to cover himself
up. For a moment, Ben wondered if the older man might be insecure about
his body, despite seemingly getting naked without a thought to change
into his swimmers - Ben was hardly oblivious to the tightly toned muscle
of his own taller frame, a young footballer in his theoretical prime,
injuries aside, next to the daddy-ish softening of Joe Cole.

Chilly dismissed this question as his own vanity, climbing the sturdy
ladder to leave the pool at that end and join Joe. The downside of
swimming in undies rather than proper swimmers, he thought, was the way
the pool water almost sucked them from his waist on the way out of the
water, and the way they sagged and clung once he was shivering and
dripping on the slip-proof flooring and looking about for a similarly
cosy robe option.

But once again, taking him quite by surprise, Joe Cole was the tactile
dad with the towel - he'd grabbed a spare one from wherever he'd taken
his robe, and was behind Ben, throwing the towel around him in a quick
helpful motion - `Cheers...' - but not stopping there. His hands,
through the towel, were already on Chilly's shoulders, massaging warmth
and soft dryness against the muscles, really wrapping and enclosing him
in the towel in a movement that shifted more towards a hug, or even a
cuddle.

Unsure of him, Ben just let out a faint strained chuckle, finding
something jokey in the physicality of his host's attention, hugged from
behind; it was nice, he had to admit, the warmth and firmness of it, just
like at the doorway as he left the storm and was ushered warmly indoors.
He liked the strength he felt in the older man's arms, and the air felt
cool on his wet torso and legs, so it was good to be enveloped in such a
large sheet of soft towelling - it made him forget himself and his
chuckle turned to a contented sigh. The easy comfort was short-lived
though, because he thought his sigh sounded a little TOO pleased, and he
expected Cole to pull away. But no. Oddly, if pleasantly, the other man
remained where he was, behind him, and Ben just stood there accepting it,
feeling swaddled and protected in the towel hug. It had gone on too long
now, he thought, and yet it felt quite right. Shorter and broader than
him, the robed figure behind him rocked a little, but held on as he did,
closing arms firmly about Ben, and rubbing those big hands - towelling
his arms, his chest, his neck. Ben sighed acceptance and let the moment
linger, mystified by how safe and comfortable he felt in this position,
when he ought to be questioning what the married older dad was up to - he
didn't immediately recognise anything remotely sexual in the position,
just comforted and supported and grateful. But then, with a slow judder
of awakening, he felt the towelled hands rub down his six-pack, stirring
about his waist, and he heard the heaviness of the sigh behind his
shoulder.

Saying nothing, Joe held him quite firmly, and brought one hand down
further, through the thick towel, to close about the damp front of his
black CKs, which clung to the weight of his prominent bulge. Chilly let
out a long shaky breath but didn't flinch or pull away. He was still
unsure how deliberate the touch was, and he wanted to know for sure. He
relaxed back as best he could, pushing his 5ft11 strength into the hold
of the older man's embrace; the hand went lower, firmer, the towel was
no longer in the way. A large warm hand fondled his cock and balls
through wet cotton, and Ben let out a weak moan that mixed with the
breathy sigh over his shoulder.

Neither man said a word. They communicated simply through their warm damp
bodies, between layers of robe or towel. Ben relaxed and rocked on his
heels, feeling his dozy weight supported by the strength behind him. A
little stubble scratched at his jaw and neck from behind, but nothing
more there; the real contact was down his front, where those big knuckles
were pushing into the front of his undies, and now his cock was being
stroked and toyed with inside the wet underpants. His sigh was louder and
more pleased, trying to indicate how he was more than good with this
intimate touch - any question or weirdness about this happening with the
40-something married dad was gone, there was just the strength and safety
of his touch, the hold of his arms, and... yep, the huge stiffness of
Ben's oversized prick, released from his pants and stretching out to its
full length. A slightly choked gasp over his shoulder suggested that the
older guy was just appreciating how big the contents of these pool-soaked
pants were, more alarmed than impressed; but Ben just sighed and shivered
and closed his eyes, allowing the warm grip to slide up and down his
inches.

After a few blissful moments of this he tried to turn; he wanted to
return the touch, wanted to look sexy older Joe in the eye, wanted to
reach for a dangerous kiss. But no: the strong arms held him in place and
the only contact was the hand on his cock and the breath on his ear. He
accepted it, just floating in Cole's grip, and moaning deeper and deeper
as the pulls and tugs of his big white cock increased; it was a simple
handjob, with no attention to his heavy balls or anywhere else, just a
solid repetitive motion, a hand that moved with a kind of authority and
control over him. But Ben shivered and gasped and knew that it would end
with a mess, he couldn't help himself - as much as he'd felt something
like a dad or uncle in Joe's affection, it now felt like something else
entirely, and it excited him. This rough diamond older London geezer,
this Chelsea legend, this big-arsed hunk... he gasped and sighed, totally
bewildered, and let Joe's hand bring him slowly but rhythmically to
completion, trying to signal it with his own yelping cries of pleasure.
Cole didn't stop or slow. Chilly trembled and whined, and then heard the
globs of his own jizz splatter down on the slip-proof floor while his
cock trembled and throbbed in the older man's grip.

`Oh fuck,' Ben moaned, breaking at last the wordless quiet of the warm
basement, a few beads of pool water still trickling in places on his
strong lean body, and the heat and strength of the other guy still
holding onto him through the towels and robes; `oh, fuuuuck,' he moaned
on, feeling slow tight pulls on his spent cock, squeezing the last
glimmering drops of his seed out to fall against that floor. He thought
he could feel a hardness pressing at him low down from the man behind,
but there was such a thick bundle of towel and robe there that he
couldn't actually be sure it wasn't just his own imagination. And then,
just as the hand slowed and stopped around the base of his big erection,
a sudden noise intercepted the chlorine-scented peace: a jarring
mechanical sound that made him flench and wobble, and open his hooded
eyes properly, starting to pull away from daddy Joe.

`That'll be the missus,' Cole announced, and his voice was quite
expressionless. When Ben turned around, his cock swinging awkwardly
loose, Joe was turned away from him and wrapping up his robe, picking his
way down the narrow path to one side of the pool; alarmed, Ben stared
intensely up at the skylights in the garden, but becoming sure that the
noisy garage doors were coming from the ot her side of the house. `Back
from Westfield!' trilled Joe, almost disinterestedly, strutting away in
his robe without a look over his shoulder - this left Ben tottering about
at the edge of the pool, snatching up the dropped towel to hide his
sagging hard-on, his whole body trembling and goose-pimpled.


His skin still a little damp under his clothes, Chilwell joined them back
upstairs, clutching the towel under one arm and the Tampa jumper under
the other; in the central hallway of the house, both Mr and Mrs Cole
breezed past, his host helping his wife to bring several large designer
shopping bags in from the porch. They were going into the same kitchen
extension area in which the interview had taken place, and Ben followed
them in a slow dazed walk, glad of how baggy his trousers were - he'd
had to jettison his wet boxer briefs and so was going commando in them,
his cock still swollen and a little stiff. His face must be bright red,
he thought, drifting after the married couple and their light chatter.

`The kids will be back soon,' Joe was reminding is wife, before
sweeping into introductions, `Here his, then, young Benjamin - fine
young thing, isn't he? The future of Chelsea! He's going to stay for
dinner, and-'

Ben found he just had to interrupt their speech, he burst out with it
before he could overthink the decision. `Actually, I really have to
go,' he said stiffly, then broke into more apology and fawning
compliments, sure that their cooking would be amazing and expressing his
admiration for their home - but it was the rehab schedule and everything,
he really did have to get back to his own place now, thank you very much,
etc etc. There were various protests from both robed Joe and his
glamorous wife, but Chilwell politely deflected them one by one, allowing
the wet towel to be taken from him and thrust into a laundry room to one
side; but when he tried to hand the Tampa Bay sweater back to the retired
pro, Joe shook his head firmly and grabbed him in a manly hug. `Keep
that,' Cole insisted, and because he didn't know how to refuse it, he
pulled it back on over the wrinkled cling of his own thin tee. Mrs C was
about to make more earnest protests at how much they would enjoy having
him stay for the evening, but Ben made his move quickly - more thank you,
more apology, more earnestness, but also haste and nervous energy.

Before long, he was staggering down the garden path and waving pleasantly
back at them in the porch, remembering how good it had felt to be
overwhelmed by affection and comfort there as Joe Cole steered him in
from the storm. If only it had stopped at that, he thought treacherously,
suddenly queasy about the unexpected and illicit handjob that had taken
place in the Coles' basement - how the fuck had he allowed that to
happen? He stared with private horror at the innocent smile on Joe's
wife's face and then turned away, out onto their posh quiet street,
zipping up his bomber jacket, and breaking into as quick a walk as his
weary hamstring allowed him.

He'd just come for an interview and a Chelsea bun, and got a lot more
than he bargained for.



'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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