Date: Fri, 20 Mar 2020 20:49:34 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 67: The Last Training Sesh

Part sixty-seven: The Last Training Sesh


`Fucking hell,' the Aston Villa captain groaned, looking about at the other
lads by him. `Can you believe that? Last training session together for so
many weeks...' he sighed on in his heavy Brummie accent and shook his head
sadly.

`It's for the best,' said Conor Hourihane, to his right, and Jack nodded
his head.

There was murmur of agreement amongst the other lads. They were all sat in
a large meeting room of the team's training ground, about to go out into
what it had just been announced would be their last communal session for
quite some time. In front of the gathered men, their manager and chairman
were stood with severe expressions, the difficulty of the decision written
on their faces.

Not everybody looked so gutted, admittedly: some were more worried about
the Corona pandemic than others and were even relieved by the news. But for
Jack it just felt like the latest blow in a grim couple of weeks.

Out on the training ground, he found it hard not to let his alternating
frustration and gloom show. The squad's last two games had felt disastrous,
losing 4-0 to Leicester only a week ago in their last game, and before
that... well, it hadn't just been the Cup loss to Manchester City that had
left Grealish feeling low after that night, that was for sure.

Dribbling his way through a few quick drills with the coach, he questioned
his own behaviour for the dozenth time: had he enjoyed being so submissive
to other lads that day, or had he been really taken advantage of? He
pictured the dominant smirk on Kyle Walker's stubbled face, the dirty grin
on John Stones' lips. He pictured himself, gutted by the defeat, entering
into that bathroom and letting three different guys use him as...

`Oi, Jacko, you fucking listening?' called the coach in half-mocking
annoyance.

A thrown football smacked Grealish in the chest and he caught it
instinctively, a little winded by the intervention, drifting back into the
present away from his uneasy memories. A vivid flashback of being on his
knees in that cramped cubicle dissipated from his mind's eye and he looked
about the field at his hardworking colleagues. Sort yourself out, lad, he
told himself irritably, get your head back in the game. Although, at the
moment, WHAT game? Nobody knew when proper matches would resume, he
remembered sadly, and the cancelled training programme here had to be a
sign they were in for the long haul with this disrupted season, this
national crisis.

But... he was captain. That had to mean something, at a time like this.

As the strange, subdued training session wound on, Grealish tried to rise
to the occasion. He scolded his wandering mind and kept it on the moment,
and reminded himself to force on a confident grin. He thought about the
plucky spirit and easy people skills that had got him the skipper's arm
band at such a young age, and did his best. He moved around the field
swiftly and dished out some encouragement or praise to his teammates and
even to the coaching staff, offering thank yous and big grins as often as
he could. His mood caught on and by the end of the afternoon's training
exercises, there was a resurgence of laughter amongst the men, albeit less
physical contact, as they milled their way indoors and left the spring
sunshine behind.

A hand clapped to his shoulderblade as he neared the edge of the training
pitch, panting a little from putting in so much energy in the last half
hour of the afternoon. He looked over and Tyrone Mings was joining him, and
he felt a surge of mixed emotion. He felt closer to Ty now than he had done
before, and certainly the rift between them after Dubai had been completely
demolished. But the tall defender was part of aa memory that troubled
him. He knew Mings had been there to help him, protect him, but also...

As he looked at Tyrone, walking along beside him, he pictured himself on
his knees again, head buried in the bigger guy's crotch, tasting his
load. Again: mixed emotions. There was a little tingle somewhere in his
bollocks, held in the tight under-shorts beneath his kit, but there was
also a queasy sensation in his tummy and a hot burn in his cheeks. Kyle
Walker had called him a `bitch' afterwards and he was finding that hard to
disagree with. And then, of course, there had been what the two City blokes
had walked in on and discovered, before it got really filth; his butt-hole
tightened and his cheeks clenched, and he looked hotly away.

`Well done mate,' Mings was saying to him. `Real fucking leader out there,
then.'

`Hmm? Oh, cheers.'

`I mean it – I know how down you've been, was great to see some of the
old you back on the field.'

`Hmm, yeah...'

`Real quality leadership,' the tall Somerset lad continued admiringly, `I
dunno why I ever questioned you...'

`Look,' Jack snapped at him suddenly, `I appreciate what you're saying, but
give it a rest, mate, okay?' He fixed him with a steely look, pausing at
the touchline before they caught up with the others and his tone could be
overheard. `You don't need to keep bigging me up just cos of what those
City cunts did to me, okay?' he snapped.

Tyrone stopped, thrown by this response, but a guilty look on his
face. `Jack, buddy...'

`Leave it,' urged Grealish impatiently. `I'm the skipper and I did my
job. That's all.'

A long silence from the other guy, who stood there shifting his arms
uncomfortably and tugging idly at his Villa training kit. `Well, yeh,' he
said slowly, `okay. You're a fucking true leader around here, Jacko. That's
all I wanted to say.' A long pause. `I'll never tell anyone about that
day,' he promised in a lower, softer voice. The hint of pity or intimacy in
the voice stung Jack more and brought him back to the scene, three men's
cum on or in him and his own dick aching in his pants. `Jack,' Tyrone began
again, and reached a hand towards him – but Jack looked at those long
brown fingers and pictured one of them finding his hole, and he tensed up.

`Go on in,' he grunted dismissively, `I'm gonna go talk to the gaffer. In
you go.' He grunted again and nodded meaningfully forward, dismissing his
teammate and avoiding the intense memory that was playing on his mind;
surely Tyrone would be thinking back to it too?!

The 27-year-old centre-back gave him a last look and wandered on, loping
after the other Villa lads and heading indoors to get showered and
changed. Jack watched him go and felt some persistent suspicions rise. More
than anything else, he worried that Mings was so pally and friendly with
him now because he wanted a replay. As protective as he'd been that night,
Tyrone had still gone on with it, still enjoyed himself,
still... unloaded. Jack felt himself subconsciously lick his lips and he
grunted his annoyance and wiped the back of a sleeve across his gob, torn
up with uncertainty about his feelings here. He'd never even THOUGHT about
another lad before... Well, where had it all started?

To distract himself from that question, to which he knew the answer all too
well, he did as he'd claimed to his teammate, and sought out their
manager. He didn't really have much to say or ask of Dean Smith, but it
seemed worth getting some quick one-to-one with the boss man before joining
the other lads. As it turned out, Smith agreed, and took him aside for a
chat on a bench to the side of the field. The manager started spouting the
same stuff as Tyrone just had: praise for his resilience, his leadership,
his commitment to the team during a really difficult period... Jack found
himself getting more and more emotional as he listened to it, and his voice
was almost choking up when he eventually replied.

`Cheers boss,' he mumbled, and got a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

`Look after yourself as we go into isolation,' Smith told him
quietly. `You're a real hero, Jack. If we lose you to a big club this
summer, then fine, we'll all understand... But you are LOVED here, you know
that?'

Jack gave him an earnest look, and nodded. He'd been trying not to think
about the question of his potential transfer. Since the pandemic scenario
had started to take over, it had felt like a minor issue, not the constant
headache it had been just a month or two ago. Everybody wanted a piece of
Jack Grealish next season, if his agent was to be believed.

In he went, much delayed by the heart-to-heart, turning over in his head
the tough weeks ahead, the questions of his career direction, the confused
semi in his tight compression shorts – jesus, what was he even getting
horny about now?! Just misplaced tension and nervousness, he supposed.

Inside, he was surprised to find many of the guys already departing. He
passed Samatta and Moraes heading out, already showered and in fresh
tracksuits – quick, unemotive goodbyes, instinctive hugs withheld –
and Mings was in just as much of a hurry. They didn't say anything to each
other, just a knowing look; Jack felt some regret at speaking so harshly to
him if they weren't going to see each other for a while now, but he wasn't
about to run after him apologising and making himself look even more of a
`bitch' after all.

Heading into the dressing rooms still in his own sweaty kit, he was
high-fived by Danny Drinkwater, the Chelsea loan who he had also been,
ahem, `intimate' with this season... but Drinkwater was all private scowls
and disinterest right now on his way past. He'd been in a bit of a row and
a physical bust-up with Jota at the end of last week, and as well as two
weeks' wages in a fine, there was talk that his loan spell would soon be
terminated. Jack turned to look over his shoulder as the bulky Mancunian
lad headed out on his own, seemingly shunned by a lot of the others for his
recent aggression. Jack pictured the look on the other lad's face as they'd
shared the plunge pool that quiet day together. Fucking hell.

He pushed on into the dressing room and pulled his long-sleeved training
shirt up and off and flung it irritably against the tiled wall above his
other things, then did the same to the thermal vest beneath. Shirtless, he
heaved a sigh and rested his hands against the wall for a moment to steady
himself. Around him, many of the others were drying off or dressing or just
emerging from the shower. He might have expected more of a lingering group
chat in here, given the circumstances, and following the cheerier banter he
had stoked throughout the training sesh.

But no – the players were nervous and wearied, keen to get back to
partners and families. Jack could hardly blame them, but he also felt a
surge of loneliness, thinking of his empty apartment. He wouldn't stay
there for long, he'd already spoken to his parents and joining the bigger
family home he'd bought them if a serious lockdown came along. But right
now... he felt lonely, confused, and a lingering humiliation that had begun
in the Cup Final that night. He was nobody's `bitch', was he? He'd enjoyed
dabbling in dirty guy-on-guy fun, but in control, in power, a captain
amongst men – he hadn't expected to find himself taking loads and
groaning greedily in front of... Fuck, get out of my head! He pictured the
smug look on Walker's face all over again and almost punched the wall.

`Hey,' came a gentle Scotch purr to his left, `are you okay, skip?'

He glanced over his bare shoulder muscle and found John McGinn joining him
at this quiet side of the changing room. The 25-year-old Glaswegian was
almost naked, only a pair of black briefs on over the pale sunless skin of
his lean body, striding about ready to take his shower. Jack scowled at
him, unable to lose the aggression he was feeling, and immediately sensing
the tension that had settled between the friends in recent times. John
looked at him with an uneasy concern, and Jack pulled long strands of hair
out of his eyes and straightened up his posture.

`I'm fine,' he said unconvincingly in a growl.

`You were about to go Anthony Joshua on those wall tiles, mate,' McGinn
said very quietly, forcing a smile. `Now you look like it's me gonna get
the smack. What's up?'

Grealish stared at him, struggling to focus his thoughts, but also
surprised. The Scotsman had largely avoided him in the past couple of
months. There had been a time earlier this season when the likely lads had
been almost inseparable around the Villa grounds and on away trips, almost
always room-sharing. But things had cooled, and Jack knew it was his own
fault, though he suppressed that thought right now. He looked away, unsure
this was a conversation he wanted to get into.

`We're all tense,' was all he said by way of explanation, and he shoved one
leg up onto the bench to undo his laces and roll down his footy socks.

`Aye,' agreed McGinn, `we really are. But...'

`It's just the whole situation,' Grealish insisted, cutting him off.

`Right.' A long sigh from the Scottish lad, his fellow midfielder. `It'll
be weird not seeing each other much for a while, yeah?' A pause as Jack
undid his boots and stripped his socks and then stood back up, thumbing the
waist of his playing shorts. `Not that we've spoken much lately as it is,'
McGinn pointed out gently, and the two lads stared each other down. Behind
them, the room was slowly clearing; white towels whipping about as lads in
various states of dress got on with their sombre exit, the club's imminent
shutdown in the air.

Jack tried to read John's expression: was he being blamed for this frost in
their friendship, or was this an apology? It was hard to say. He couldn't
tell quite what the sadness in McGinn's eyes actually was, or why he was
lingering there in his tight black briefs and not fucking off into the
showers when everybody else was pretty much ready to leave. Grealish broke
the stare and pulled anxiously at his hair again, slicking it all back, and
letting out a little huff of breath.

`That's true,' he agreed in a mumble. `Thought you were sick of me, or
summat.'

`Jack,' McGinn said a bit whiningly. `You know it ain't that, big lad.'

No, Jack agreed mentally, it was not that. He saw the parallel between
them, and realised how McGinn must have felt after what went on with the
four of them that time. Now he knew: the weird shame, the powerlessness,
the sense of being a plaything... and yet, he remembered distinctly, the
Scottish bloke had been so willing, so quick to get on his knees. So were
you, he told himself coldly, then batted the thought away. John was still
standing there, an almost pleading expression on his freckled face, eyeing
him anxiously as if there was more he wanted to say.

`Big lad,' he echoed in a mumble, `is that my new nickname, McGinn?'

John coloured a little in his cheeks and across his exposed chest. `Well I
ain't gonna call ya wee lad, captain, am I?' he responded awkwardly. `We're
neither of us competing with Ty in the height stakes, but you are taller
than me. A good inch.'

Jack found himself smirking in spite of his mood. `And you would know all
about a good inch,' he muttered, pulling down on his claret shorts and
stripping to the black Nike compression shorts beneath, hugging his hips
and thighs and sizeable package. He looked at the reddening complexion of
the wiry Scotsman and wondered why he'd gone for such a mocking little joke
there, when he knew just how desperate John had been to forget what he'd
done for the other lads.

`Jack mate,' grumbled McGinn, but then he laughed, a strained, pitchy
laugh, and backed off a bit in his briefs.

Grealish could see a solution opening up to himself, a way of not feeling
like a `bitch' any more. He looked around at the emptying dressing room,
the door swinging shut behind El Gazhi and Konsa, just a couple of others
left. One was sitting down to tie up his shoelaces and the other was drying
his hair in front of a mirror. Soon there would only be the two of them
left. The air between Jack and John suddenly felt... electric.

`I thought you agreed you wouldn't bring that up again,' McGinn commented
quietly, but lingered nearby in his state of undress, rubbing one hand
against the back of his neck and pulling uncomfortably at the waistband of
his briefs with the other. `I'm gonna go shower,' he said then, taking a
step back, lowering his eyes, seeming to give up on whatever olive branch
he'd approached with just now.

`No,' Jack breathed out suddenly, watching as first one of the other two
footballers exited, and then was quickly followed by the other. `No,' he
repeated, `not yet.'

`Not yet?' McGinn said back.

`I don't want you showered,' Grealish told him in a low growl, `not just
yet.'

`What are you on about?' McGinn asked, but there was something in the
widening of his eyes that said he had a fairly good idea.

Jack felt consumed by a newfound purpose. Okay, okay, he'd let himself be
used, he'd given in to those pushy cunts, he'd accepted his place as
`loser' that day, but... That wasn't HIM, not Captain Jack the Lad,
champion of Villa, hero of this sinking team... He felt fired up now, the
forced energy and authority of his play in the training session still
simmering in his lean muscles. He looked John up and down, mentally
comparing their bodies; the pale smoothness of John's torso and limbs
compared to the faint tan and furry covering of his own bare legs, the
slightly better definition of his own chest and abs.

`Why are you looking at me like that?' McGinn asked.

`Why am I looking at you like what?' Jack teased back. He smirked, and
their eyes met again, and he took a step closer. John looked anxious but
instead of retreating, he did the same, and they were stood a couple of
foot apart now, in the abandoned musty air of the dressing room. Jack
smirked more widely and hooked both thumbs inside the front of his tight
shorts. `Get in the toilet cubicle now,' he said.

`What?'

`You gonna ignore your captain?' he asked wickedly.

John's face was hot red now and the Scottish lad looked on edge, glancing
along the wall to the toilets branching off from the changing room. He
turned back and opened his mouth to speak then stopped. He was trembling a
little bit, flushed and restless looking. Jack took an extra step forward
and gently rested one hand on the other footballer's forearm, and the
trembling stopped.

`You sucked dick so well,' he purred. `Was that really your first time...?'

John nodded and squirmed. `I dunno what came over me,' he said rapidly.

`Three blokes, that's what,' Jack quipped, and he pushed aside the
parallel. `You loved it.'

`I lost my head,' John mumbled. `I got carried away. We were...'

`Having fun,' Grealish said very faintly, rubbing his fingers gently up and
down the other lad's forearm, then lifting it up and suddenly tweaking one
tight little bullet-like nipple. `And it was really fucking fun, wasn't
it... John, lad...?' He squeezed the nipple tightly, enjoyed the little
suppressed yelp, felt John's body pull gently closer. `Now, I'm tellin' you
again... get in that toilet cubicle, McGinn...' The Scottish 25-year-old
pulled sharply away, his cheeks scarlet, the front of his black briefs a
little swollen, and he skittered across the changing rooms and round the
corner into the toilets, and Jack followed.

He hurried, looking to the doors in case there was any disturbance, but
confident the other Villa lads were on their way out, and nobody else would
come poking in here. He felt a real excitement grip him, just as it had
when Tyrone toyed with his backside after the Cup defeat; just as he had
when he'd pushed his cock in against Drinkwater's plump pout to exploit the
newbie; just as he'd emptied his load on John's neck and chest in the
nearby showers not so long ago. Just as when... another scene came to mind,
as he hurried into the toilet area and followed John into the furthest of
the three narrow cubicles, and the memory of it drove him wild. He pictured
himself, doggy style, on his bed, in a dimly lamplit bedroom, with Ben
Chilwell settling behind him...

`This is crazy,' John was hissing, backing into the cubicle.

`Yeah,' Jack said with a naughty grin, `it's crazy, but it's gonna be
good...'

`What are we doing?'

`Get on your knees!'

Jack pulled the cubicle door shut behind him with a rattle, undoing the
shameful memory of his own submission. Nah, this was more him, right on
top! He could see the eagerness in John's nervous body language as his
Scottish pal got down on his knees, his hands reaching quickly for the full
meaty thigh muscles. Jack pushed down at the waist of his tight compression
shorts and let those pale Scottish fingers do the rest: down they came and
out flipped his semi and low-hanging bollocks, sweaty and musty from the
afternoon's exertions.

`Come on,' he growled, `get to it...'

`Yes, captain!'

McGinn must have been thinking back to this ever since, judging the relish
with which he got going, pushed his lips in and sniffing at Jack's trimmed
pubes, then lapping his thin tongue out and beginning to kiss and lick the
thick snake, still rubbing and grabbing at tensed hairy thighs. Grealish
put his hands to the partition walls on either side and purred his
enjoyment, feeling powerful and in charge once more.

`That's it,' the Villa captain said, beginning to push his stiffening prick
into the thin-lipped mouth of his older mate, `have a suck of the skipper's
stiff one, you bitch...' He saw a flash of surprise in McGinn's eyes at the
harsh word, but also felt himself buzz and get harder as he said it. `Yeh,
be my bitch,' he muttered aggressively, and John did so with relish,
sliding his lips up the stretching length and running his hands up his hips
massagingly.

But this wasn't enough, he thought. He'd had his dick sucked before. He
needed more. Below, John was lapping at the pink tip and pushing back his
foreskin. He moaned and rolled his neck. He needed to feel even more in
charge, to go further than that punk Walker and his stupid crony had,
or... He needed to not feel like he was submissive to that giant Tyrone, or
just a silly mug being manipulated by Drinkwater's thick tongue... He
pushed McGinn's face away from his crotch, his dick quivering and wet with
saliva.

`Captain?' gasped John, running his tongue along his lower lip.

`Get up,' Jack grunted, lifting a hand to again pull loose strands of hair
out of his eyes, sliding it back and feeling how sweaty it was all over
again, his forehead beading with it. `Get up and turn round you Glasgow
bitch...'

`Yes sir,' breathed McGinn submissively, using Jack's strong thighs to pull
himself upright. He leant in for a kiss but Jack twisted away; he saw the
disappointment but ignored it, and roughly manhandled the other footballer
round away from him, pushing roughly forward at his back so that John
tumbled forward against the cistern and the wall.

Grealish grabbed the back of the tight briefs that hugged that pert
backside and yanked them down, pushing them right over the strong lean
thighs with their light dusting of pale blond hair, exposing firm white
cheeks and the fluffy shadow of the crack. Yes, this was it. This would
make him way more than any bloke's fucking bitch – if only Walker could
see him now! His and John's breaths were ragged now as he tugged on his
boner with one hand and used the other to grab and squeeze the tight cheeks
of his friend's arse.

`Jack, are you gonna f-?'

`Yes,' he snapped, `yes I am, so hold on tight...'

`Oh, sir...'

`Yeah, call me sir, call me captain...'

`I'll call you anything,' pointed the midfielder in a tiny voice, `I love
you, Jack...' This proclamation rang an alarm in Grealish's confused
sexuality but he only cared about his own pleasure now. He slid two fingers
in between the tight cheeks and poked and rubbed at the virgin ring,
hearing the little whines of desire and discomfort. He pulled his hand back
and spat on the fingers, then tried again, a mix of spit and sweat lubing
his fingers as he pushed it into John's hole. The groan was loud and he saw
McGinn steady himself on the toilet cistern and bend forward more. `Oh,
SIR,' the 25-year-old moaned for him, `yes...'

`Take it,' Jack grunted, pushing in one finger deep, feeling the heat on
his skin, then trying to force a second. It wasn't easy, so tight, but he
wasn't giving up, and John seemed to be liking it, whimpering his name and
title and looking over his shoulder with wide eyes. He pushed the two
fingers in and felt the lad's hole expand for him.

`Fuck me, sir,' John begged. `Please, captain...'

`You think you can take it?' He brushed the slick wet head of his nob
against one cheek.

`I don't know but I want to try...'

Jack hadn't actually had sex in a while, a rare dry spell in his usual
quest for cunt. So the furry crack of his friend's pale backside was
incredibly enticing. He spat more on his hand and slicked it across his
shaft then pushed in. John tensed up but he rubbed one hand up and down
that pale toned back and felt him relax a little, then pushed more, finding
the tight hole with his tip and pressing gently forward. He'd imagined this
being much easier, like a pussy, it was like pushing his dick into a brick
wall – well, not THAT painful.

`Relax,' he grunted, `open up...'

`I'm trying,' whined McGinn, his submission both pathetic and arousing to
Jack.

He gripped both hands to the lower back and pushed a bit more
forcefully. The tightness felt so great against the tip of his dick as he
began to break in. He felt John tremble and make a yelp of pain, so he slid
his hands up that back and reached to massage the shoulders as he went
further, forcing his cock into the tightest hole he'd ever experienced,
and... ohhhh... `Yes,' he gasped, `oh yes, buddy...'

He leant in closer and held John's thin pale body to his and pushed with
his hips and glutes, burying his meat into his close mate and nuzzling the
back of his neck, their bodies pulling close together. John was almost
crying from the pain of it, but still mumbling his name and clinging to
him, hands reaching back for his muscular sides and arms. The toilet
creaked and rattled beneath their weights and Jack began to thrust, unsure
how much of his nob was even inside the arse, just rotating his hips and
feeling the tight grip so much better than any mouth or fanny. He couldn't
even form words, the pleasure was so intense, god... he couldn't help but
wonder how it must feel for John, who seemed to writhe in pain but also
whisper his pleasure (`oh yes, captain, deeper...'). A tongue had felt so
sensational and new, he supposed, but what about a...?

No, he told himself, you are nobody's bitch, you are a top dog, an alpha,
this is your position...

But still...

`Captain,' moaned John, `you feel SO BIG... oh god...'

`I AM so big,' Jack laughed hoarsely, and he thrust a bit deeper, a bit
quicker.

`Ohhh...'

`Yes, yes...'

`Sir, sir, yes!'

Jack was cumming before he knew it, spilling his seed inside his mate's
arse, and grunting wildly into his ear, gripping his body so tight he
suspected he would leave bruises. He let out a long breath as he pulled
back, withdrawing his cock and smearing cum along one buttock. He backed
off, returning his sweaty hands to the thin walls of the cubicle to balance
himself, catching his breath, his flat pecs rising and falling as he
recovered. He looked at John's arse and saw a smear of his white load
dribbling down his inner thigh.

`Thank you captain,' McGinn panted, `thank you so much...'

`You are very fucking welcome,' whispered Jack wearily, staying in
position, throwing his head back and gulping down deep breaths.

`Can I... can I...'

`Spit it out, bitch.'

`Can I lick your feet whilst I cum?'

`Do what you fuckin' want, mate.'

Jack heard his own voice like it was that of a stranger: this was one of
his closest pals, or had been until recently, and he was speaking to him
like dirt. Was this really him? He lingered there, a little freaked out as
trembling John McGinn clambered back down to his knees and started kissing
at his shins and calves whilst reaching down to wank himself off. John
closed his eyes and ignored it, and held firm, his breaths becoming less
laboured, but his thoughts spinning out of control. You just fucked a
bloke, his inner voice accused coolly, so much for a bit of light
experimenting...

And John was licking at his feet now, some fetish thing? It felt funny, it
tickled. He wasn't keen. He let out an awkward laugh and pulled his foot
away from the desperate mouth, and he backed off as much as the cramped
cubicle space allowed, and looked down into John's adoring eyes. McGinn was
tossing himself off and just staring at him, hunched down there at his
feet. And now he was cumming, spilling his juices over Jack's feet and
toes. There was a look of submissive shame on the Scotsman's face and it
struck Jack as unfair and cruel, but... well, he seemed to have given him
what he wanted? God, the lad's arse must hurt now...

He heard John's words afresh from minutes ago. `I'll call you anything,
Jack... I love you, Jack...' Oh, fucking hell.

He reached behind him and undid the lock on the door. He backed out of the
cubicle without helping John up, his own dick swinging as it wilted. McGinn
hunched on the floor for a moment more, catching his breath, then clambered
up and followed him out of the cubicle into the still empty space of the
dressing rooms.

`We should shower,' the Scottish lad mumbled.

`Yeah. We should.'

`What I said, mate... when I was...'

`It's alright,' Grealish murmured quickly, dismissively.

`I didn't mean to freak you, I just...'

Jack cocked his head and allowed himself a little grin. `Lost control,
again?'

John smiled bashfully, limping a little as they crossed to the communal
showers. `Something like that, erm, sir. Huh.' Into the showers they went,
giving each other fleeting glances and suppressing nervous giggles. Jack
looked away after a while, squeezing soap into his hands, and rubbing it
against his chest and shoulders until it frothed and slid away under the
torrent. Well, he felt more powerful now, certainly... he didn't feel like
anyone's bitch, but... John was in love with him?!

Imagine, he thought, falling in love with another bloke, who was definitely
straight and wouldn't return those feelings. He watched McGinn
sympathetically as they dried off a few metres apart, wondering just how
long the grinning idiot had been harbouring feelings for him.

They dressed and said some awkward goodbyes; nobody was meant to be
hugging, but it seemed minor after a butt-fucking in a cubicle. Oops. They
parted ways in the foyer of the training ground and headed for their
cars. Jack pulled back at his damp hair and slid a beanie hat over it to
keep him dry and warm. In the car, he checked his phone, and found a text
waiting for him. Aha, it was form his good mate, Chilly...

"hey jack flash, hope u keepin safe n lookin after u – c u soon
hopefully when all this madness dies down xx"

He paused, in the driver's seat, and stared at the phone in the palm of his
hand. Imagine, he thought, falling in love with another bloke, who was
definitely straight and wouldn't return those feelings... His heart had
leapt in his chest when he saw that name on his phone, when he read that
message, when he saw those silly little kisses at the end of it. Imagine...

`Holy shit,' he said to himself, `Jack Grealish, you fuckin' idiot...'



**SORRY FOR THE DELAY IN STORIES... JUST BEEN BUSY AS A PUBLIC SERVICES
WORKER IN A MAD TIME. QUESTIONED CONTINUING WITH THE STORIES, BUT HOPE THEY
PROVIDE SOME ENTERTAINMENT AND PLEASURE IN A DIFFICULT TIME... STAY SAFE**