Date: Sat, 20 Jan 2024 16:08:34 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 385

Part 385: Off-Camera


`Right, Chilly - we're just gonna need to do a bit of filming of you in
particular today, that ok?'

`Sure, sure...'

`A "day in the life" kinda thing, you know?'

`Oh, right-'

`Just a bit of a one-on-one focus to the training footage, basically - a
bit more of a feature. We need to up the engagement on the old socials
this month, if you get me.'

`No bother...'

`We won't be too annoying, and it won't be much different to the usual
footage - you don't mind, do you?'

`Not a problem, mate, just let me-'

`Now, could you hang on a sec there, and just tie those laces again a
bit more slowly for the camera, could you? We need it to look
"authentic" and you were a bit rushed there, if you see what I mean.
Good, good - promise we won't be a nuisance.'


There was a little banter from a couple of his squad mates about the
social media team's choice - `Disney prince good looks' was thrown
about as a phrase, and `the Premiership pretty boy' - but the
27-year-old defensive player certainly liked to think his popularity was
more about his talent or work ethic, and the idea of being the
best-looking guy on the Chelsea roster was a challenge to his natural
humility. It was his commitment, he assured himself, his performance and
resilience - barring the unfortunate injury spells, he believed himself
to be one of the most stable and consistent performers on the West London
club's line-up, that was all, and so the Chelsea fans had really taken
to him, online and on matchdays. That was why he was being picked for a
daft little "day in the life" montage video, not because he looked like
a... a "Disney prince", for fuck's sake, what did that even mean? The
serious-faced Englishman scoffed this idea aside even as he ran his
fingers through the glossy curtains of his chestnut brown hair and puffed
out his lean muscular chest, ready to throw himself into action on the
training pitch.

A smiley chatty indoor warm-up, kitting up with a few of his friends, and
lolling idly about the gym before heading out into the frost of the late
morning greyness; an `authentic'-looking insight into a Chelsea
player's day, he was assured, as the two-person social media team asked
him to lift the same light weight for a third time and then suggested
that he pose next to the new cardio machines even though a coach was
shouting on everybody to get outside and assembled.

Still, it really was only a minor nuisance, a minimal shift to the tone
of his day, Ben all smiles and enthusiasm after another irritatingly long
interruption in his fitness - outside, he worked hard in the drills and
activities he was assigned, equally happy working on targeted action with
his fellow defensive players as joining in for attacking set-pieces and
proving that he could contribute goals. A happy, confident, and sociable
young football star, captured for social media - only the faintest
glimpses of impatience or annoyance during the day's late lunch break,
when a gaggle of club VIPs were mingling with the sweaty players in the
canteen, and the cameraman kept getting too close and making it harder
for Chilwell to just relax and eat his lunch. It would be edited out
later to meet the short-attention-span demands of the internet, but Ben
looked visibly aggravated when he was being jostled and pestered
simultaneously by the suggestions of the Chelsea social media manager and
one of the visitors in smart-casual attire, a club legend who seemed to
be on site for a totally different media opportunity to this one -
looking exasperate for a moment before remembering the camera's gaze,
Ben made awkward apologies to both the excitable social media manager and
to the gent in chinos, shirt and cardigan, and disappeared from the
refectory under the excuse of needing the toilet. When the 27-year-old
returned shortly after, he looked more composed and upbeat again, and Joe
Cole had been carried away in the fuss of whatever separate schedule he
and the other guests were subject to.

Back outside for Chilly and the others, back into the ice-cold January
air, sunset already darkening the vista around their Surrey training
ground - lots of banter and horseplay between the former Leicester star
and the likes of Mudryk and Gallagher, Fernandez and Palmer, Sterling and
Broja, until it was inky dark above, and the athletic young men were
bounding about through the glare of the floodlights.

This was a day in the life of Ben Chilwell, caught on camera, edited and
glossy for social media - but there were other parts of that day which
escaped the beady eye of social media, parts that might have shocked the
average Chelsea FC supporter.


It was hard for Ben to shake the chummy media personnel at the end of the
day, too polite to refuse their requests for a quick photoshoot of some
new merch in the gym, making him late into the changing rooms and
entirely alone by the time he was showering warm life into his ice-cold
physique and scrubbing away the frosty muck of the day's exertions. The
Milton Keynes-born football stud was only mildly irked by this, always
ready to accept that football in 2024 was interwoven with its huge online
media presence, but then he suddenly realised the more annoying
consequences of the delay - being stranded in the cold car park with his
backpack on one shoulder and a puzzled frown on his chiselled face.

Ben's car was in the garage for minor repairs this week and he had been
hitching rides with a few close friends on the squad, swopping idly
between their generosity each day... so that now, with his exit delayed,
it seemed like all the other players who travelled further into the city
were already gone, each perhaps assuming that Chilly had travelled home
with a different teammate. There were a few other members of Chelsea
personnel in the process of driving away, but all ones who lived further
out in Surrey or Hampshire in country peace, rather than clinging to the
trendy London life like Ben. So the `day in the life' of Ben Chilwell
was ending with the left-back stood awkwardly to one side of the car park
with pink cheeks and nose, wishing he'd brought a heavier coat with him,
and begrudgingly opening up the VIP taxi app which would over-charge him
for the simple journey into West London - the cautious spending habits of
his prim family were hard to shake even on his salary.

A car ground to a halt directly in front of him, and the passenger window
rolled down - Ben had to stoop forward to look through it and meet the
enquiring face of the driver, whom he immediately smiled awkwardly at and
hesitated to respond - `You okay there?' Joe Cole called across the
front seats of his beefy Jeep, leaning this way whilst holding onto the
wheel - `Do you need a lift anywhere, matey?'


Chilly was a bit uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to cut his frozen
nose off to spite his pink blotchy face - he accepted the lift from the
42-year-old footy pundit and podcaster, and shivered into the heated
passenger seat as Cole swerved out of the training campus and onto the
country roads. At first, there was little need for the active player to
say much, able to just focus on warming up and getting comfortable, glad
at least that his former interviewer actually lived a short distance from
his own Chelsea townhouse - Joe was happy to regale him with a lengthy
explanation of why he'd been on-site today, doing some nostalgia
interviews for a TV special, and how much effort the club hospitality had
made in hosting him and the other `legends' who'd participated.

But then, once they were on the busier route into West London, Joe fell
as quiet as Ben, and a certain knowing tension thickened in the heated
car interior, hardly mitigated by the chirpy quiet of Radio 1 playing
from the dashboard. Despite a couple of attempts on behalf of the retired
winger, there had been no real communication between the current and
ex-Chelsea players since Ben attended an interview at Joe's family home
late last year.

To Chilly's quiet dismay, the shorter stockier bloke began to quietly
address it: `Look, Chilly mate, I'd just like to say sorry...'

Ben cleared his throat and stared pointedly out of the passenger window.
`Oh, don't mention it, all forgotten and okay,' he told him in a low
rush, overcompensating for how little he wanted to address the matter.
`Everything's fine and I totally respect you, nothing to worry about,
ahem...'

Joe, who had paused to allow him this quick ramble, said a bit more
heavily, `No, I was really out of order that day, I'm sorry.' The
weighty tone made Ben glance his way, seeing the regretful frown on the
stubbled features, the older man focused fully ahead on the traffic and
not returning his shy glance; Ben shifted his pert buttocks against the
warmed leather of the seat and he sighed awkwardly, unsure what to say.
`I honestly don't know what came over me,' Cole told him, very
quietly, `and I'm just really really sorry, mate, I was bang out of
order, you must think... Well, god knows what you think. I don't normally
do shit like that, I have to tell ya, and I'm really really embarrassed.
I just hope you ain't told a soul, y'know, and I hope you mean it when
you say you still respect me.' From here, via series of furtive sidelong
glances, the 42-year-old looked genuinely rueful and worried, and this
mollified Ben's passive aggressive wariness.

`Don't worry about it,' he muttered ambivalently.

`I do,' Joe assured him. `You were our guest.'

And your wife was right upstairs, Ben thought awkwardly. `It's
forgotten,' he insisted dumbly, hearing how unconvincing such dismissal
was given that the married dad had cuddled him tight by the basement pool
and tossed him off to sticky completion. It was not a memory that
Chilwell had shaken off easily, and... it was hard to be sure that he
wanted to forget it, in all honesty. But he felt he'd been hurt too much
in the past, too trusting and open, and experience had taught him
caution.

And then, as abruptly as he'd brought it up, Joe seemed to move on from
the taboo topic. He pointed out a particularly nice suburban village they
were passing, and told Ben a story about a drunken weekend spent there
with his missus; he went back to recounting the nostalgic glory of his
day's filming; he started suggesting that Ben ought to come back to the
Coles' place one Sunday soon for a big roast dinner, he should bring his
girlfriend if he was seeing anyone, etc. etc. etc.

And Ben, for his part, relaxed, and forgot for a while that he'd been
left guilty and uncomfortable by his last visit to Chez Cole in a
neighbourhood not far from his own, coffee and sticky buns by the laptop
turning into something much more in the basement pool-house below. He
still said little, happy to let the older guy do the talking, and
thinking abstractedly about what he was going to make for his dinner, and
what series he was currently bingeing on the streaming services; not
ignoring his kind driver, but only half-present in the idle conversation.
With less shyness, he kept glancing across into the driver's seat and
checking out Joe's profile, noting the mild weight gain since his
playing days, the thick stockiness of his figure as he hunched over the
wheel - the fullness of his handsomely stubbled face, more mannish and
rugged than men in their 20s or 30s. He was a full warm presence, and his
heavy inner London accent gave him the blokey persona of a chatty taxi
driver rather than a retired millionaire.

They were passing through the outer layers of the city now, Surrey left
behind, and Ben kept finding himself looking at the other man for longer
and longer each time... still the quieter half of their conversation, but
less distracted by other matters, and more distracted with trying to
match up the chatty laddish footballer in the driver's seat with the
strong comforting arms who had hugged him through his towel and made him
feel... safe. He felt stupid when he thought about how awkward he'd been
at Joe's attempts to speak about it, his apologies just pushed aside in
a very repressed manner - looking back, Ben supposed he'd been a bit
rude or unhelpful, treating it like that, but... what was he supposed to
say or do?


When they were idling in a parking space on Ben's street, the older guy
didn't quite return to his effusive apology, but he did turn this way
with a slightly more serious look on his face, and then rest the tips of
two fingers just above the knee of Ben's slim-fit joggers. `I'm glad
we're still mates, fella,' Cole said earnestly, beaming at him.
`You're a great kid and Chelsea are very lucky to have ya - I'm glad
the fans know it.' His fingertips stayed there, the slightest of
physical contact, and the attractive older man seemed composed and
controlled now, none of the inappropriateness of last time. Ben stared
uncertainly back at him, one hand resting on the door-handle to exit, and
the other bunched into a loose fist on his thigh, close to where Joe's
fingers rested. After a moment of indecision that felt like an eternity,
Ben's left hand loosened, shifted, and he rested it shakily on top of
Joe's, bringing it more fully to rest on the warmth of his leg, the
softness of his joggers.

`Do you want to come in?' the left-back asked quietly, surprised to
find his voice so dry and hoarse with nervousness as he spoke. He saw the
momentary flinch of surprise in Joe's expression, the flicker of his
eyes and the tightening of his warm smile - he was slow to answer, and
Ben sensed that he'd broken some quiet agreement by making the falsely
innocent suggestion. He swallowed and moistened his lip and stared
hesitantly at the married bloke who'd kindly driven him home. `It's
okay if you need to get home,' he said, even more quietly and almost
stammering.

`Kinda,' was Joe's taut answer, still looking intently at him.

`Okay,' Ben said slowly, very slowly. `Maybe that's for the best?'

`Maybe.'

`Okay. Erm.'

They stayed like that, Cole gripping the wheel tightly on one side and
leaning into it, while his thick sleeved arm reached this way and rested
above the knee, Chilwell's fingers clamped over it there. Ben saw him
look down at this contact and he did the same, staring at their connected
hands on his lower thigh. He found he could hardly breathe with the
tension of the moment. He was about to blurt out a flustered apology,
some spin to underplay his invite and dismiss the tension, to forget the
whole thing as bluntly as he'd tried before - but Joe's grip tightened
on his leg, and the press of a button stopped the background growl of the
Jeep's engine. `I haven't got long,' the 42-year-old said, and he
sounded as nervous as Ben felt.


There was a fair chance that Cole's quiet claim, on the doorstep, that
he needed to be home soon because he had errands to run for his wife, was
just a nervous disclaimer; but Chilwell took it with a kind of determined
seriousness, and filled with a strange boldness, he wasted no time.

His voice brittle with anticipation, he made an empty offer, asking if
Joe wanted a cup of coffee, whilst leading him from the hallway into the
house's minimalist front lounge, directing him to an armchair in the
corner. `Yeah,' the married guy said hesitantly, `if that's okay-'
and Ben entirely ignored the fact that he'd asked the question, made the
offer; whilst his guest sank down into the expensive designer chair, Ben
moved to the room's bay windows and tugged shut thin curtains that hid
them from the street. And then he moved quickly back to the room, watched
with wary eyes by the seated bloke, and went down on his knees in front
of the armchair. `Oh-' was all the older man said.

Ben knelt neatly in front of him between the instinctive man-spread of
Joe's thick thighs, the stone-coloured chinos hugging at the lingering
muscle of an active footballer's legs. He rubbed his hands up and down
each of them, quick and businesslike, and then leant in - quickly,
unceremoniously, greedily, Ben pushed his face into the crotch, pushing
in against the bulging front of the trousers, and feeling body heat on
his cheek, his chin, his nose, his lips. Quietly, he snuffled at the
bulge, feeling that Joe was already quite hard, and breathing in the
manly scent there as he rubbed his mouth across the thick fabric,
touching unsubtly at the contents through two layers, making his
intentions 100% clear - overhead, he heard raspy exhalations of pleased
surprise, and then Joe's strong hands on his head, running through his
hair, patting awkwardly at his ears, the back of his neck. Ben lifted his
face enough to bring his hands in and he undid the belt buckle with
clumsy confidence, pulling down the zip of the fly - back down, snuffling
at the prize now through the finer cotton of some M&S men's boxer
briefs, navy blue, and the hardening contents red hot to his touch.
Feeling Joe's hands on his shoulders, Ben took a good grip of the
thighs, and used his teeth, nothing else, to seize and peel down the
thick waistband of these daddish undies - then rolled his tongue across
the fat thickness of the treat below. He kissed and spat against the
thick chubby length and rubbed his nose in the wiry mass of pubes - he
heard Joe's gasp when his tongue reached the tip, and he took it between
his lips, feeling it reach full hardness with only a few wet mouthy
motions.

`Oh my god,' was Cole's quiet growl, and Chilly only made wet
lip-smacking noises of enjoyment - rolling his tongue generously about
the bulbous end and then the fat shaft, taking enough of it into his
throat to make him gag and splutter and provoke a concerned `Are you
okay?' from a man who clearly didn't get enough head. But `Oh GOD'
moaned Joe as Ben recovered and upped his game, taking it deeper and
managing not to gag; up an down he bobbed, glad when Joe's fingers
pulled a bit more roughly at his hair and rubbed more possessively over
the back of his head.

Briefly, Ben took his mouth off the fat daddy dick and went lower to kiss
and lick fat hairy balls, snuffling in the pubes, kissing the base of the
shaft and then running his tongue up the full length in wet generous
laps; all the while, the 40-something bloke in the armchair and panted
and groaned and exclaimed, as if in disbelief, `Fucking hell, mate'.
This was a generous payback for the cuddling handjob in the basement, and
Ben was like an animal unleashed; he'd been a good boy for too long,
that was the truth, and the sexual tension during the drive back had
snapped his properness.

Back to work, sucking noisily on it, wanking it at the base, realling
pushing himself in against spread thighs, enclosed in Joe's body heat;
the strong hands were no longer in his hair or on his clothed shoulders,
because Cole was really sprawling back into the chair, gasping and
wordless, and Chilly knew he was doing a better job than the pundit's
missus ever did. He sucked greedily and worked towards the tasty end
result, now wanking the big beast and just lapping his tongue across the
bubbling pre-cum of the head, staring up at Joe's sweaty face as he did
so - their eyes locked intensely, Joe looking almost worried as his mouth
formed an `O' and he panted towards orgasm, Ben just staring him down
and kissing the sensitive head in time with the rhythm of his jerks.

It was a messy finish, and Ben felt the salty cream on his tongue, but
also the stubble over his lips, down his jaw, his chin - he felt the hot
mess cream all over his handsome face and he saw the mixture of delight
and terror in Joe's wide eyes - so, the sexy older guy hadn't ever had
a blowjob from a guy...? Ben had assumed something more confident and
experienced in the naughty married fella who cuddled him that afternoon,
but... Joe Cole was an enigma.

Sticky and gasping, Ben kissed and licked at the quivering cock, causing
almost pained moans from the sensitive DILF; again, Joe's fingers roved
through his hair and tugged at his ears, massaged at his neck. But when
he pulled back, sitting on his haunches, the married guy had one sleeved
arm pressed over his eyes in a posture of swooning disbelief; there was
some tense panic in his body, as if regretting it already. Ben flinched
at the thought but he was still riding the wave of his lust, and he took
the wilting cock in his mouth to suck some more before eventually
scrambling back and getting up - wiping his cummy face on the sleeves of
his Chelsea hoody as if it was just a rag.

Joe remained in the seat, arm over his face, chest heaving through his
shirt and cardigan, and cock flopping sideways to make some little stain
marks on his pale chinos; Ben stood over him, breathless, feeling the
strain of his erection in his boxers and joggers. He rubbed at it idly
whilst his head span, and then he backed off, giving the man space, and
then, growing wary, he wandered away, into the kitchen, making coffees on
autopilot, because he didn't know what to say to the gasping older man.

Ben looked up as Joe appeared in the kitchen doorway, doing up his belt.
His face was dark with inner conflict and Ben's heart sank; had he
really thought this quick visit was ending any way other than this? `I
need to go,' Cole said, predictably, and `No worries' chimed Chilly,
discreetly tossing one coffee down the sink and adjusting the obvious
angle of his hard-on in the front of his pants before turning to face his
visitor; as he turned round, the married ex-player was crossing the
kitchen towards him, frowning. `I really have to go,' the 42-year-old
repeated firmly, but there was something apologetic in his voice and his
face, and Ben nodded uncertainly at him - but then Joe was in front of
him, and grabbing him into a cuddle, pulling him in and wrapping those
arms about him again. The older man must be able to feel my big hard-on,
Ben thought, but he himself was almost oblivious to it - there was
something in the hug that was way more satisfying than a handjob. And
then, as the hug broke, their faces brushed close, and their mouths hung
an inch apart, and... the almost kiss was somehow the most tender Ben had
ever experienced.

But Joe was pulling back, holding him by the shoulders, and composing
himself. `I DO have to go,' he was insisting, and Ben just nodded
silently, dizzy, whilst the ex-player pulled away and retreated, decisive
and impatient. He left the room and marched away and didn't wait for
Chilwell to see him out - the door slammed, and Ben wilted against the
counters of his kitchen, deflated by the exit and yet enraptured by the
quick events preceding it. Right there, one hand leaning back against the
marble worktop, Ben pushed down the front of his joggers and yanked out
his big veiny erection - eyes half-shut and mouth hanging open, the young
stud wanked himself off urgently, still tasting Joe Cole's cum on his
tongue, and remembering the heat of him as he pulled himself to
completion, spattering his own juices against the expensive stone tiles
of his kitchen floor, drop after drop. And then he just stood there
panting, hand resting on his shaft, and sweat beading on his handsome
face - a day in the life, away from the cameras.




'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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