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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!’ mersin escort 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 escort mersin 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 mersin escort bayan 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!*

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