Date: Tue, 31 Mar 2020 08:09:00 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 72: Breaking the Rules

Part seventy-two: Breaking the Rules


Jack Grealish put down his phone, the #stayhome safety message for his
Instagram story completed as per the FA instructions to all high-profile
players. He sighed and ran his fingers through the darkening mane of hair
on his head, his outlandish cut becoming scruffy without its regular
maintenance – fucking government lockdown.

The isolation and restriction were starting to get to the hyperactive
24-year-old football captain.

He huffed and shifted about in the kitchen seat, looking about the spacious
prison of his apartment and wondering what to do this evening for
entertainment. From the look of social media, most of his footballing mates
seemed to be perfectly entertained with stupid skills challenges or poseur
workouts with their families. But Grealish had no partner or irritating
kids to occupy his attention, and his luxury Birmingham flat was devoid of
outside space.

He'd considered heading to the other side of the city to isolate with his
big Catholic family, but he knew there wasn't much space at the family
home, and that one by one his beloved family members would drive him
insane. So here he was, stuck alone on the fourth floor of a soulless new
build in the heart of Birmingham, pacing the carpets and longing to get his
feet back on a pitch. He had too much energy for this confinement, pure and
simple.

He picked his phone up and tapped idly at it whilst getting up from the
kitchen table and traipsing through the flat, scuffing his toes off
furniture and doorways, instinctively missing the kick of a ball as he
moved around. At the top of his inbox were three unread messages from his
Scottish chum. Fuck. He shoulda known giving one to John McGinn was an
error. He'd seen the puppy-dog devotion on the slighter lad's face that
day, he'd known he was taking advantage of a crush. He hadn't banked on a
dozen text messages a day asking after his health; McGinn was worse than
his old mom.

Grealish deleted them without reading: not out of cruelty, but he needed to
stamp this thing on the head. He'd fucked John out of... what, curiosity?
Frustration? A desperate need to reassert himself after the Man City
incident, that was all. He hated how easily he had submitted to those City
players, to his own pal Tyrone Mings, and how he'd lowered himself in that
Wembley toilet cubicle. Ugh. So yeh... sticking his nob up a lad had just
been... balancing, or summat. The last thing he needed in these weird,
restrictive days was to be receiving loved up emojis from a closeted
Scottish bloke, fending off the affections of one of his best mates... So,
for now, deleting was best. Tough love. McGinn would get it. Things would
return to... normal.

Ping, and a fresh message supplanted John's last text (`just worrying about
u and...') at the top of the messenger screen; an update in the group chat
with the boys from his old secondary school. Grealish was fiercely proud to
keep up all these old friendships from his youth, never wanting to turn his
back on the local lads just cos he was a Premiership star with big teams
chasing a deal every week. He thumbed open the group chat and smirked at
the dirty memes and banter he'd missed out on earlier this afternoon, and
then the latest few messages... `secret house party', claimed one of his
close pals, and `bring your own booze' responded another. Hah, seriously?
He sniggered and paused, resting on the arm of his sofa, and staring at the
messages.

Nah, surely not – things were under serious lockdown. Nobody was going
out. Everybody was staying home, staying safe... He laughed bitterly at
himself: he'd literally just said as much in his cringey little video to
his young and impressionable fans, as demanded by the League. `u in,
jacko?' read a text from one of the boys. `nah, he's 2 bigshot for a little
secret sesh' came a jokey message from one of the others. `jacko never lets
the boys down!!!' someone else sent. He stared at these messages with a
thoughtful smirk, and chewed his lip. Nah, surely he couldn't...

Ping. A fresh message from McGinn: `can u just call me 2nyt and...' FUCK
OFF. Delete.

He sighed, and tapped his silenced phone gently against his forehead a few
times. It had been such an intense period lately, and now he was shut up
like a caged animal. If he took his Range Rover out for a spin and stopped
by the lads' place for a few bevvies, was it really so bad? They'd all been
isolating long enough, they all must be clean right now, surely? So... It
wasn't such a long drive out to the suburb where they lived, and he had
plenty of beer in the fridge he could pack into the back of the car,
so... He opened up the group message again and scowled at the doubt over
his attendance, and quickly sent a string of affirmative emojis.

This wasn't a big deal, not really. Nobody could expect a lad his age to
just stay in alone night after night, surely?! Ridiculous. Right, time to
load up the drink, and...



In a quiet East Midlands suburb, electric lights glowed faintly form the
windows of a sprawl of big detached homes. The last of the sunlight was
long gone, but in the stretching back garden of one property, somebody was
still out, putting a ball back and forth gently under the soft glow of a
security lamp. The lonely figure panted as they zigzagged about the lawn
and stone patio, dribbling their ball past imaginary rivals in some
desperate tribute to the stagnant football season.

Ben Chilwell jogged after his own kick like an overexcited dog chasing a
throw from its owner, balancing to a controlled halt with one foot poised
on top of the ball. He spun on his heel, tapped it skilfully back across
the limited space of an otherwise extensive garden, and jogged after it. It
was just cold enough tonight for his breath to form little puffing clouds
of condensation in the icy white light of the security lamp.

He halted again, scooped the ball up with his toes, and did a few more
keep-ups before flipping it to a resting place in one of the flowerbeds,
then sniggering at himself. He imagined his mum's horror at seeing the
potential damage of this, and had flashbacks to being much younger, and
terrorising a much smaller family garden back in the day. But things were a
bit different when it was the sprawling suburban home you'd bought your
parents with your own Premiership paycheque, of course.

He stretched out his legs and lingered in the nippy outdoors air, relishing
the freshness and sense of space before heading back in for the
night. Upstairs, a couple of windows darkened as lights were switched off
and the rest of the Chilwells settled down for the night. He glanced up at
them with a fond smile, then continued doing a few more stretches of his
muscled legs and lean arms, then shivered as the temperature caught up with
him. He had pulled a baggy fleece on and an old grey beanie, but he was
just in shorts on the lower half, and the spring sunshine didn't quite warm
the nights just yet.

He was just about to head over the patio to the back door, trying to
remember what films or box sets he had listed and waiting on his Netflix,
when he was surprised by the muted growl of an engine somewhere on the
estate. A bit odd, at this time, when nobody was leaving their homes
much. He took the football from the flowerbed, rested it under one arm, and
made his way around the side of the house out onto the front drive to see
who was coming or going, a nosy streak awoken in him.

Things were as quiet as usual out on the broad winding streets of the
little luxury hamlet of homes, but his eyes picked out a large white Range
Rover that had parked a little way down, awkwardly angled on the corner
kerb; its lights had just gone out with its engine, and he blinked at its
vague outline beneath the streetlamps. He recognised it half-consciously,
knowing its style and colour without mentally connecting it to its owner
for a moment. When he realised why he knew it, its owner was already
slamming shut a door and shuffling down the pavement towards him.

Chilwell dropped the football in surprise, heard its gentle bounce, and
strode on down the path to greet this surprise visitor. `Jack?' he asked in
bemused surprise, blinking again and taking in the jarring sight of his
footballing pal making his way towards him, dipping in and out of lamplight
until they were standing face to face.

Something wasn't right, he quickly concluded. The Villa player was a little
red-faced and erratic-looking, his hair disturbed and dishevelled. He stunk
of a mixture of excessive aftershave and cheap lager. He was only wearing a
thin designer tshirt despite the sinking temperature. He eyed Ben with an
odd intensity and rubbed at his goateed chin.

`Mate?' Chilwell said, stopping himself just as he neared him, the 2m rule
coming to mind. With it came more context. `What the hell are you doing
here?' he asked, as the full oddness in the middle of a serious quarantine
sank in. `What's wrong?'

`Nowt,' Grealish barked instantly, and from his voice, he was clearly
drunk. `Just thought I'd spin by and visit my best pal!'

`Er, keep your voice down a tad, matey,' Ben said hopefully, waving a hand
vaguely at him and glancing about the dimming lights of the estate,
half-expecting some nosy neighbour to be twitching a curtain and spying an
unwanted visitor. `Er, Jack mate, you know you're meant to be...'

`Isolating?' grunted Grealish, shrugging. `Fuck that, man. How you keepin'?
Not seen you in ages, buddy, so...'

`Mate,' Ben interrupted in a more serious, thoughtful voice. `How much have
you had to drink?' His eyes jerked to the Range Rover down the kerb from
them, and his heart sank. `You drove here pissed, buddy...? Shit, Jack...'

The Villa player scoffed. `It isn't far...'

`From Birmingham to Leicester?! Fucking hell... Mate, what's WRONG?'

`Nothing's wrong!' Again, Jack's voice was a little too loud. `Why does
something have to be wrong? For me to visit one of my best mates in the
whole fuckin' world... jesus! Can't you just be... fuck, like, glad to see
me, or summat?' He could barely stand up straight, Ben realised, hearing
the slur in his voice. Bloody hell, he'd been on MOTORWAYS to get here...

With a worried sigh, he broke the 2m distancing and stepped in, patting his
friend's shoulders and meeting his bloodshot eyes. `Jack, buddy, you better
come in...'

`Thank fuck, thought you were gonna leave me standing in this bloody cold,
you rude gimp...'

`But Jack,' he insisted seriously, `you're gonna need to shut up a bit,
okay...? My family are asleep and... well, you probably shouldn't be here,
so...' He held him by the shoulders and fixed him with a concerned
stare. `Can you keep the noise down if I let you in and make you a coffee,
matey?'

Jack smiled distantly at him then burped gently. `Coffee sounds good,
man...'



Fifteen minutes later, Ben hadn't got a lot more sense out of his visitor,
but had vaguely pieced it together. An illegal house party, a few too many,
a silly row over – over what? Impossible to tell – and Jack storming
out of his mate's flat. And now here he was, however many miles away on the
outskirts of Leicester, curled up in an armchair in the corner of Ben's own
bedroom at the front of the first floor, hugging his knees like a naughty
child.

`Here,' Chilwell said, and he pressed the cup of machine coffee into his
friend's hands, and sat his backside against a chest of drawers near the
seat, watching his drunken friend make messy slurps on the cup of sobering
black coffee. At his strict request, Jack had been obediently quiet since
entering the house, apart from a couple of dramatic whispers downstairs
whilst the coffee was made and pints of water were poured.

Ben was satisfied to see Jack take long gulps of the lukewarm coffee,
knowing it would do him good. He backed off, pulled the beanie hat away
from his own floppy dark hair, and unzipped and shrugged off the fleece,
stripping down to the Leicester training kit he had romantically donned for
his little garden kickabout tonight. He stood in the centre of the large
bedroom and stared thoughtfully at the other lad, knowing there was no way
Grealish could get back in that car and drive safely home, not tonight. He
thought about his worried parents, and what they'd think of this idiotic
football drunkard turning up in the house out of nowhere in the middle of a
lockdown, oh dear...

Jack was looking at him, a morose expression on his wispy-bearded
face. `I'm sorry, pal,' he mumbled in his thick Brummie accent.

`Hmm?' Ben corrected his worried expression, forced a smile, took a step
back his way. `Ah, don't be daft, no harm done. I hope. It is nice to see
you. Just... bit worried `bout ya, that's all, hey.' He put his hands to
his hips as he stood there. `What's got you drinking this much and fannying
about in the middle of the night, eh?' Jack just shrugged, mumbled
something inaudible, and sank back further into the chair. `Maybe have a
bit more coffee?' Chilwell suggested optimistically to him.

The Leicester player crossed the room to pull shut the curtains, again
looking guiltily out into the little suburban world of their close,
wondering if anybody else had heard Grealish's awkward arrival, and what
trouble this could stoke. He was already mentally rehearsing his
explanations to his parents tomorrow at breakfast. He glanced back at Jack,
saw him sipping uncomfortably at the coffee and swaying a bit as he leaned
out of the chair; he was in a right state. How the fuck had he even managed
to drive here?

`You can sleep in here,' Ben said quietly, half to himself. `I'll take a
sofa downstairs.' He went to inspect his bed needlessly, remembering the
sheets were pretty fresh. He tidied up the pillows a bit out of kindness,
half-lifted the springy duvet, then moved over to take the coffee cup from
shaky hands and aid Grealish out of the seat.

`Sleep?' the usually energetic midfielder was scoffing, his eyes only
half-open. `Thought we were gonna stay up all night and party...!'

`Hmm, yeh,' Ben muttered back, putting the near-empty coffee cup safely on
a shelf and steadying his older but slighter friend with a hand to each
arm. `Look, let's get you out of those clothes and into bed, and then...'

Grealsih scoffed again then giggled. `You always want me out of my
clothes,' he teased in a loud whisper, pushing roughly back at Ben's
helping hands. `And into bed! Fuckin' poof...'

Ben laughed uneasily at this and reached back to help him again. `Come on,
you need some rest,' he said more forcefully, but as he reached for Jack's
tshirt, his arms were caught and gripped and Jack was pulling uncomfortably
close to him in the soft light of a single beside lamp, breathing beery
stench into his face.

`That's where all this started,' grunted Jack a bit aggressively, `with
poofs like you trying to get me into bed, for fuck's sake...'

Ben pulled back warily, frowning at his friend, and letting go of his
tshirt so he almost went stumbling to the side, but catching and steadying
him again. `Hey, hey, less of that,' he chided quietly, helping Jack
upright and backing towards the comfy bed he was honourably giving up for
the night, really worried now by the odd tone of his visitor's comments. He
let go of the shaky drunk and was glad it was too dark in here for his
blushing, embarrassed cheeks to really show.

`Yeh, all started with you,' Jack went on. He grasped at the expensive
print tshirt and pulled it up, off and away, baring the toned lithe body
beneath and throwing it noisily aside so it accidentally tipped the single
lamp from its perch and darkened the space around them more. `Fuckin' perv,
wanting to lick my bum bum, ha ha...'

`Jack,' Ben breathed warningly, lingering beside him and the bed, irked by
this. `You need to get some rest before you...' He sighed. `Before you say
summat you regret, mate.' He began to back off, but suddenly Jack's fingers
were grabbing the front of his Leicester shirt, again a little
aggressively.

`Stay with me,' Jack begged, and his tone was different again. First the
manic cheerfulness out on the pavement, then the gruff hostility of his
homophobia, now... The desperate neediness was a little frightening but,
somehow, irresistible. Ben cared far too much about this lad to back off
now, and he reached one hand to stroke and pat a shoulder.

`Jack, what is it?' he asked very gently. `Of course I'll stay, but...'

`Get into bed with me,' Grealish said in a clumsy rush, pulling more firmly
and stretching the nylon of the training shirt. He took his hands away and
tugged ineffectively at the belt holding up his overpriced black jeans and,
partly as a result of this effort, stumbled clumsily back onto the double
bed. Ben huffed nervously, leant forward, and reached to help him out,
nimble fingers undoing the belt and flies and pulling the black jeans down
and off Jack's kicking legs. Dimly evident in the dark of the room, Ben saw
his close friend stripped to black underwear and socks sprawled across his
own bed, muttering something to himself. Forgetting Jack's needy request,
he began to back off, intent on finding a quieter sleep elsewhere in the
big house, but then...

`Stay,' Grealish asked again, in a self-conscious little voice.

`Okay,' Chilwell responded in an equally small murmur.

He pulled the Leicester shirt up and off, dropping it to the floor to
mingle with Jack's things, but left the glossy shorts on as he climbed
forward onto the bed, lifting one knee at a time and sliding his body under
the warmth of the covers, nudging Jack until he shifted across a little to
make space. Ben climbed in, perched awkwardly on his side, and let his eyes
adjust to the lack of light.

`I didn't mean what I said,' Jack said suddenly, their eyes meeting with a
glint. He sounded sullen.

`What started with me?' Ben asked patiently. `What's been happening,
bud...?'

Just a faraway groan from Jack, and hands reaching over under the
duvet. Ben felt cool fingers brush one of his biceps and scoop under his
waist, pulling his stockier frame forward. The Leicester defender relented
and curled into his friend's hold, nervous of this erratic mood and
whatever drunken angst had driven the other lad across the Midlands to this
house. It occurred to him that Grealish had only visited this place for
parties a couple of times last summer; odd almost that he would even
remember the way here. Or cute.

One of Jack's hands found his, and pulled on it. Ben let his hand be
dragged slowly, inch by inch, across mattress and onto the lean muscle of
Jack's abs. On, over his hip, and onto the back of his black boxer
briefs. Ben sighed and reached forward to squeeze one cheek gently. `Mate,'
he moaned quietly into the inches of darkness between their faces, `I dunno
if we should... you're not... you're not right, tonight, pal, and...'

`Don't you want me?' snapped Jack, a little more fully
awake-sounding. `Don't you fancy me?'

`Fuck's sake, Jack,' Ben mumbled, affronted by the bluntness and arrogance.

But then Jack was moving with more urgency and force, pulling over towards
him and pressing his body down into the mattress. His mouth, suddenly, was
on Ben's neck, a tickling kiss to the side of the throat, while one heavy
muscular thigh straddled his own legs and pinned him down. Ben let out a
slow gasp of reluctant delight, holding his hands to Jack's body, squeezing
that tight glute more firmly. He moaned, or thought he moaned, some vague
protest, but he didn't mean it. Of course he wanted this. Fuck's sake.

Jack nuzzled gently into his neck and brought his hands up to his firm
young pecs and strong shoulders. Ben squeezed that strong arse with one
hand and let his other run up and down the man's spine, letting their
bodies grind together warmingly under the sheets. Still his visiting friend
stunk of perfume and lager, and his movements were jerky, erratic – this
wasn't quite right, but it certainly didn't feel wrong.

`Is this what you came here for?' he asked challengingly in the intimacy of
the dark.

`Shut up,' retorted Jack bluntly, kissing his jawline. `Shut up and rim me
again. Please.'

`God, Jack,' Ben moaned, `are you sure...?' A stronger, rasping kiss to his
throat and a squeeze of his biceps was enough assurance from the other
guy. He braced himself, torn between uncertainty of what was going on, and
a long-held desire to revisit that wintry experiment between them, when all
this had seemed so much more new and terrifying. Not that he didn't still
feel pretty fucking lost now!

Chilwell scrabbled under the covers, losing himself in the sickly scent of
his pal's aftershave and binge-drinking, positioning himself on his knees
and finding his bearings. He pressed his mouth to somewhere around the
six-pack and kissed Grealish gently on the thin trail of hair there, then
pulled himself further down the bed beneath the weight of the duvet. He let
his fingers find the waistband of those warm, crumpled boxer briefs, and
pull. Jack was moaning and writhing as if he was doing far more than simply
unwrapping the present right now.

The underpants were soon off, and Ben was momentarily sad that the dark
room and the canopy of his own duvet meant he couldn't appreciate the
beautiful sight of the naked stud... but touch was more than enough. He
stroked at the hairy mass of those sturdy thighs, the strongest part of
Jack's body, but he avoided reaching for the prize of his crotch, lifting
the legs instead and diving down towards what lay beneath. His nervousness
was gone, his fears for his friend's state pushed aside... lust was taking
over. Chilwell pressed his face between the surprisingly smooth globed
buttocks, and flicked his tongue in against the crack. Jack groaned
instantly, and it was louder than he would have liked, but he didn't stop
him. The house had pretty dense walls, right?

He pushed up further on those legs, lifted and parting them, and angling
his own strong neck more so he could get a better angle to kiss and lick at
the sweaty arse-crack between Jack's big strong glutes. He'd wanted to give
this another go when they were together in Dubai, but their Chelsea
encounter had turned it all to a rushed blur. He'd got to suck on Grealish,
which had been exciting enough, but he had wanted to revisit THIS,
really. He went mad for it now, picking up where he had left off in the
quiet of winter, that first time they'd touched. Grealish was at least
making SOME effort to stifle his whimpers of pleasure, stretched back
against the pillows and tensing up his wiry body, panting Ben's name into
the darkness.

This muffled encouragement made Chilwell hungrier for this and he buried
his face in his mate's arse, running hands up and down both thick thighs,
letting the feet rest on his own bare back muscles. His nose nudged up
against the weight of a sweaty ball-sack and he allowed one of his hands to
scoop down Jack's inner thigh and take his chunky erection in
hand. Grealish gasped and twisted against the bedding.

Ben couldn't remain hidden down here any longer, too excited. He ran his
tongue the length of the crack once more and pulled away, sliding up the
mattress to kiss that tight six-pack once more, then pulling up for air
side-by-side with the groaning Brummie scally. He found their faces close
together, eyes meeting once more. His hand was still on Jack's cock, where
it stroked gently back and forth.

`Was that good?' he asked in a shaky voice.

`What do you think?' panted Jack coyly. He groaned again, and pulled a
cuddling arm about Ben's slightly broader shoulders. `You... you're so much
better than...' A nervous laugh. `Well, the other lad who's been down
there...'

`Shush, don't start making me jealous,' Ben chirped jokingly, then he
questioned himself: was it a joke? Hadn't he really felt quite envious at
sharing his friend with others on the beach in Dubai, or at the vague
suggestions Jack had been having his own fun at Aston Villa...? His
self-questioning was interrupted as Jack's hand brushed the front of his
own footy shorts – oh, hello. This was a bit different. `You know what
you're doing down there?' he teased.

`I do now,' Jack muttered, `I've been... trying things out...' He kissed
Ben on the neck again, seeming for a moment like he was coming for the
lips, but swerving aside. `Your turn to make too much noise, buddy.' And
down, suddenly, he disappeared, slipping beneath the duvets and leaving Ben
lying awkwardly on his side. He gasped in surprise as his shorts were
pulled roughly down and his thick semi was freed. He heard Jack's voice
escaping from beneath the covers: `Fucking hell, what have you been hidin'
down here...?' And then no more talk, but those lips and tongue were being
pressed against Chilwell's big and growing nob. He pressed his elbows back
into the mattress and lay his head to the pillow and closed his eyes. Oh
my...

With a clumsy greed that took him by surprise, Jack was slipping his mouth
around his thickness. Ben reached under the covers and rubbed
appreciatively at tensed shoulder muscles as he felt his stiffening dick
carefully attended to, and his balls licked and kissed. `Oh, buddy,' he
gasped, arching his back, reaching his hands from shoulders to neck to
stroke that long greasy hair. `Oh...'

More surprise and awe from Grealish. `Seriously, Chilly... what the fuck?'
He had given up trying to suck it now and was just pulling on it. Ben
pushed the duvet back and aside and stared down his muscular frame, finding
it utterly surreal to see Jack the Lad hunched between his thighs, drooling
over his impressive erection. Ben had almost forgot how blessed he actually
was: he seemed to spend more time servicing other dude's dicks than his
own, since he'd become more or less Jamie Vardy's bitch! He laughed off
Jack's praise and just stroked his friend's hair more.

`It's okay, you don't have to suck it,' he whispered.

`Yeh, I do,' Jack insisted, and tried again.

Again, Ben lay back, and loved the sensitivity of it, the awkwardness of
his friend and lover's touch. He could feel Jack open wide and gag a
little, splutter, try again... The tentative licks and strokes. He couldn't
help but let out a light laugh of fondness, not wanting to patronise, but
becoming increasingly certain that his dick was too big for Jack to easily
service with his inexpert mouth. He grabbed him by the shoulders and
dragged him up towards him so they were sliding back into the same
side-by-side position once more, each reaching for the other's meat.

`You have been busy trying things out, haven't you?' Chilwell
murmured. `Who did you suck off?'

`You wouldn't believe me if I told you.'

`Try me.'

`Forget them,' Jack murmured, `other lads don't matter now. Not next to
you.'

Ben paused, a little taken aback by the sentiment of this. He lay there,
pulling slowly in the mutual handjob, and struggled for words. This
was... well, this was certainly different. He had gone from daring sex
games with Harry Maguire to feeling deliciously used by Jamie Vardy's
incessant appetite, but this... He could feel his cheeks colouring again,
the blush spreading over his pale chest muscles. Could Jack really have
such strong feelings for him...?

Of course, relatively experienced as he now was, Ben wanted to push things
even further. `And have you fucked anyone yet?' he asked, an excited little
tremor in his voice. Whilst one of his hands pulled off Jack's thick boner,
his other reached up and stroked a fluffy cheek until his thumb played
against the lad's bottom lip; Jack kissed it before he answered the
question.

`Yeah... just the other week... huh... it were... good fun...'

`Yeh?' Ben couldn't help but giggle flirtatiously back.

`It felt good...'

`I bet it did!'

`Mmm...'

`Well,' Ben said, leaning in and kissing Jack gently on the neck in the
same way he had received, `I've tried it a bit myself, you know... I didn't
wanna admit it when we were in Dubai, but...' He suddenly wanted nothing
more than to confess every detail of his gay sex life so far, but it didn't
seem like the time to admit how much he had felt like Vardy's property at
various points this year; like Jack said, other lads didn't matter right
now. `Getting fucked is... pretty hot,' was all he confessed, excited to
even hear himself say it out loud.

`Is it?' Jack asked. The tension in his voice and body suddenly alerted Ben
to a shift in the dynamic that it took him a few moments to appreciate. But
as he stopped mouthing his friend's jawline and throat and lifted his face
a little, he could see it in Jack's eyes: a burning curiosity that awoke a
parallel hunger in himself. The Villa lad had stopped fumbling with his
monster cock down below the covers and was just looking questioningly up at
him where they lay.

In all honesty, it hadn't really occurred to Ben that he might reverse the
roles. The bulk of his guy-on-guy experimentation had been with Vardy,
whose boundaries and preferences were adamantine. But here and now, it
suddenly felt like all he wanted to try. He leant in, and kissed Jack
softly on the lips, seeing the alarm this caused, but doing it a second and
third time, until those soft lips began to respond properly.

`Turn around,' Chilwell commanded very gently, and Jack nodded.

Shakily, Grealish rolled over, and Ben spooned him carefully, planting soft
kisses to the back of his neck, cuddling him and letting his dick slap
against his backside a few times, promising what lay ahead. Then he pulled
one hand up away from that tight sexy body, and licked two fingers,
spitting onto them for lube, and reached down to push them between those
strong tanned buttocks. Jack grunted and whimpered immediately, and Ben
began to finger the hole he had been rimming, exploring that tight
twitching hole. He kissed and nuzzled at Jack's neck as he did so, trying
his best to relax and soothe him, holding the slimmer 5'9 midfielder in his
slightly bulkier frame, easing into the task and realising his own dominant
strength.

Ben took his time, aware both of Jack's virginity and his own intimidating
proportions. He fingered the tight hole slowly but surely, pausing every
now and then to check it was okay. `How does that feel?' he asked. `Am I
hurting you?' Jack never answered with clear words, just gasps and groans
and, after a while, by pushing back, pressing his arse firmly against Ben's
invading digits. Their bodies ground together, breaking into a hot sweat
despite the chilly night outside. Only when he was sure Jack was starting
to relax did Ben pull his fingers away and squeeze those beautiful glutes
apart, and begin nudging the fat tip of his hard-on exploratively between.

Jack's whimpers were a little more fearful now, and he caressed and stroked
at his upper body for a while, then reached to jerk him off, stroking the
Brummie bone in the same rhythm as his own faint thrusts, sliding his dick
between muscular cheeks and running its tip up and down that slick wet
crack... and eventually positioning it against the tight virginal
ring. `I'm gonna go for it,' he murmured cautiously, and somewhere about
their waists, he felt Jack's fingers nervously interlock with his.

Ben pushed in. Jack's body jerked and twisted but he held him close and
kissed his cheek and pushed more. Jack began to groan and he had to pull a
hand up over those lips. `Shh, please,' he whispered, `you can't wake
anyone... but if you want me to stop, I will... is this okay...? I don't
want to...'

`Just keep going,' Jack panted. `Please. God, Ben...'

`You're sure?' Ben asked, nervously, though at the same time he was forcing
the head of his cock forward and inside his best mate. He pulled his arms
more firmly about Jack's torso and pressed on, guiding his cock into the
slicked wet entrance until he felt its intense tightness around his
shaft. Oh dear god, this was... wow. No wonder Vardy went so mental when he
mounted him!!! Both lads let out muffled groans of ecstasy and braced
themselves against the tight intimacy of the act. Back down went Chilwell's
hand, and he wanked firmly in his reacharound. He pulled his hips back then
forward, fucking his friend with only the first couple of inches of his
rod. He wasn't sure he would get much more in, but as he tossed off Jack's
dick, the 24-year-old seemed to relax and loosen more, and his own
thickness pressed deeper. No more words were spoken, just grasping cuddles
and breathless kisses.

By the time Ben felt Jack's cum stain his fingers, he'd lost all sense of
time or any reality beyond their bodies. He had no idea if the orgasm had
came quickly or taken forever. All he knew was he needed to unload himself
as soon as possible. He pulled his cock back and heard Grealish give a
little gasp of relief, then roll into him. `Let me finish you,' came the
desperate Brummie grunt. Ben nodded, pushed their lips together, and kissed
him while he felt his huge cock tugged over and over. He groaned his climax
into his lover's lips, and emptied a massive load up Jack's six-pack,
shocked as wad after wad of his spunk splashed out.

`Oh fuck,' he panted. `Fuckin' hell... Jack...'

Now Grealish was shushing him. `Just... hold me...'

`Yes, definitely... Mmm...'

Ben pulled him closer, squeezing his body in his arms, and gave up with the
kisses, feeling sleep coming over his whole body. He couldn't remember the
last time he felt so comfortable, so satisfied, so needed.



Waking up, it took Ben several minutes to realise what was wrong. He was
hugging tightly onto a stray pillow, and that felt quite comforting, but it
wasn't the warm, toned body of his fellow Premier League hunk. He blinked
his sleepy eyes, let consciousness slowly return, and loosened his grip on
the pillow, poor substitute for Jack's body that it was.

He rolled over in bed, naked, and felt his soft cock slap from side to
side. He propped himself up on elbows and stared around the grey half-light
of the room. Nope, no Jack Grealish to be found. Chilwell pulled his body
out of bed, and picked his way across the room. He twitched the curtains
and stared out into the grey dawn. What time was it? 5am? He stared out
across the dull suburbia of the estate, and then let his eyes wander the
driveways and kerbside.

No white Range Rover.

Had it all been a very intense dream? He pulled the curtain back and looked
behind him. There was only one tangible sign of anything from last night: a
solitary coffee cup on the bookshelf, a little stained around the rim where
Jack had drunkenly slurped. He stared at it for a while, and felt a
creeping sadness overwhelm him. What had seemed so incredibly important and
urgent in the night now seemed... silly. Had he really fucked his drunk
buddy? God... A lingering, daring hope from the night-time wilted somewhere
in his panic.

Jack had gone. They'd had fun, and he'd gone. It couldn't mean anything.



The day passed slowly. Ben spent too long in the bath, washing away the
night's confusion, and then he tried several times to read or watch TV. His
parents made vague comments about thinking they heard someone coming or
going in the night, but he shrugged them off, disinterested and distant. He
fetched the football from the front garden and went out back to work on his
skills, but like the reading and viewing, he couldn't connect with it.

By lunchtime, he was slumped in a sofa in the big lounge room, staring idly
out of the window. And then his mum, in the middle of prepping some lunch,
poked her head in through the doorway and called to him.

`Oh Ben,' she said in a sad, disappointed voice, `have you seen any news?'

Chilwell sat up and looked her way. `Sorry, mum?'

`Oh dear,' she sighed, `it's so silly. Your lovely friend, Jack. Oh
dear. What a fool!' And she was gone, back to her kitchen, assuming he knew
what she was on about.

Ben pulled out his phone and brought up a football news site saved in his
browser and saw it immediately. The headlines, the criticism, the photo of
his friend looking shamefaced in a blue hoody (Ben's hoody, he realised,
nabbed from his bedroom in the early hours of the morning). Driving back
into Birmingham, probably still pissed, Jack had crashed his Range Rover
into a few neighbours' cars, and his night-time activities had been partly
exposed. Of course, the news stories didn't expose everything:
lockdown-breaking Saturday night drinks with his mates were discussed in
sneering, moralising detail, but nothing about a detour into
Leicestershire. Ben read it all and groaned in dismay.

He hopped off the sofa, needing to be out of earshot. He returned to the
back garden, picking his way across the lawn in the golden spring sunlight,
and listened impatiently to the dialling tone as he awaited Jack's
answer. When it came, his voice was hoarse and croaking, and sheepish with
the shame of his actions.

`Hi, man...'

`You fucking idiot, Jack. You total idiot!'

`Ben, I'm sorry...'

`You could have hurt yourself. You could have got seriously fucking hurt,
Jack, or you could have...'

`Look, I feel really shitty about it, and...'

`You should,' Ben cried down the phone, suddenly overwhelmed with
emotion. `Drunk driving? Seriously? And fucking about the city and country
during this crisis? What the hell?' Tears sprung up in his eyes and he
turned his back on the house in case anybody was looking out at him on his
private phone call. `For god's sake, Jack,' he railed. `What the hell were
you thinking last night?'

Silence, and then, `I just needed to see you, man.'

Ben choked back the threat of tears, bit his knuckles for a moment, then
breathed out. `You were too risky,' he accused. `You were so stupid going
out at all. Anything could have-`

`I know! I know, Ben. I'm sorry. I'm in deep shit now. Fines, public
apologies, they sound like they might take the captain's armband off me for
it... and my agent thinks Manchester United have lost interest because
of... Fuck... I'm so sorry, Chilly. I am.' Ben stood there, rubbing the
side of his head, wanting to throw the phone away into the hedge, hot with
emotion. `Don't be mad at me,' Jack continued in a quieter, more vulnerable
voice. `I've got enough crap to deal with today without you as well. I've
said I'm sorry.'

`Jack,' Ben said, forcing some calm into his voice, `you have to take care
of yourself.' He fought for the right words, kneading his face with his
knuckles and blinking tears from his eyes. `I love you too much to see you
get hurt,' he coughed awkwardly. `I love you, Jack.'

Silence down the phone. Ben took a ragged breath in and let it out.

`Did you hear me?' he demanded eventually.

`Yep.' A sigh from Jack.

`Right. Okay. I'll let you fuckin' go, then. Go do your public apology. You
fucking idiot.'

`Ben,' Jack said urgently, `don't hang up...' A long pause. `I love you
too,' he whispered.

Ben gulped, trembled, sniffed. `Okay,' he responded lamely. `I wish you'd
stayed here.'

`Me too. But... Look, I got to go, I have so much shit to sort out. Can I
ring you later? Please?'

Ben nodded, then realised a nod couldn't be heard. `Yes, any time,' he said
earnestly. There were some mumbles and coughs, neither of them said the
three magic words again, and the phone call was over. But Chilwell stood
out there in the bright cool midday, hugging his mobile phone to the chest
of his tshirt, struck senseless by the fragmented little conversation, and
the meaning that had passed between them.


*AGAIN, THE OUT-OF-SEASON FOOTBALL NEWS WAS MY INSPIRATION... SILLY JACK.
HOPE YOU ENJOY THE STORY I'VE MADE OUT OF HIS STUPIDITY!*