Subject: Premiership Lads Part 169: The Mykonos Trilogy I Part 169: The Mykonos Trilogy I A final run under the Greek heat and he was done for the day, done for the week. Sweat coursed over his bare shoulders, chest, six-pack, down his thick hairy legs below the short cut of his white running shorts. He held his head back, gasping into the sunshine, as he walked slowly to meet his Personal Trainer at the other end of the training ground, hands holding his hips where his muscle throbbed with exhaustion and heat. `Jesus,’ murmured his coach for the week, a guy in his late 30s, an ex-pro player at some Championship club in England, like most of the guys who worked at this elite fitness camp that had cost him so much money. `You don’t cut yourself any slack, do you, Grealish…? Well done, mate… what a last session…!’ Jack Grealish had booked the fitness camp for a number of reasons, but his own physical readiness for the new season was probably the least pressing. It was as much a distraction and a release, a good way of buying himself thinking time while he waited for the crunch meetings with the Villa management next week about his contract and future. And apart from anything else, a discreet and helpful excuse to stay in Mykonos for this last chunk of his summer break, which was perhaps more privately important than anything else. He gladly took the towel offered to him and wiped down his face and neck, knowing he’d be just as sweaty again when he cycled home through the curling island roads. He picked up and sipped on water and listened to more chatter from the friendly bloke who had been putting him through his paces all week in this one-to-one pre-season fitness camp — a mixture of generic motivational platitudes and more sincere friendly appraisal. The fella was a big Villa fan, seemingly, and had really relished the chance to put Grealish through his paces. The two men strolled off the sun-scorched grass and onto the hot spongy tarmac strip. Jack sipped more water then threw some over his blotchy red face, little it trickle over his furry chin and trying to seem friendly and grateful to his coach even though he just wanted to get on the move. `What you got planned for your last night on the island then, eh?’ the other Midlands bloke asked, while Jack grabbed his sweat-sodden vest from where it hung on the fence, pulling it over his wiry muscular torso and pulling back his long swoop of highlighted brown hair. `Mm, nothing much,’ Jack said vaguely. `You’ll have to have a little taste of the nightlife,’ the older guy pushed. `I know you’re here for your fitness, but… it’s Mykonis, innit, it’s legendary…’ `Mm? Nah, I dunno, pretty tired out obviously, and the flight is early tomorrow, so…’ `Fair few other footy blokes in the town at the minute, I’m hearing,’ the other guy said pleasantly, following him through a couple of gates through the coastal sports complex and its sparkling views into the Med. Jack half-listened, still towelling at his sweaty neck and shaking his throbbing thighs to let his body relax and recover. `According to local gossip and horrible British tabloids, anyway…’ `Oh. Right. Yeah.’ `Or like if you were at a loose end, me and a few mates of mine are gonna be out,’ the guy offered, no longer the cool composed sports coach but an unashamed football fan, all matey grins and hopeful body language, `you could join us and…’ `I reckon it’ll be a quiet one,’ Jack told him a little more firmly, passing through the blast of cool air-con and out onto the pavement where his borrowed holiday bicycle was tied up. He saw the flicker of disappointment on the guy’s face then the recovery into shrugs and laughs and a sweaty clasping handshake between them. He was a nice bloke, really, and it would have been decent to let him show off his new celeb pal for his mates in whatever beach bar he had in mind; but Grealish was not on Mykonos for its glamorous party scene at all. He thanked the man as effusively as his mumbling Brummie manners could offer and shook his hand again, then got his bike into gear and zipped away from the Mykonos Performance sports complex onto the quiet dusty road, the gentle repetitive cycling soothing rather than aggravating the ache of his well-trained body. On the twenty-minute bike ride to his accommodation, he thought ahead to tomorrow’s flight and his return to Birmingham. He would have to face up to the hopeful demands of Aston Villa and the more ambitious machinations of his sports agency. It was easy fending off their calls and emails when you were out on the beaches of Ibiza or here in Mykonos, but pre-season training would start properly for his treasured club next week, and so would serious contract discussions. Young Jack was a man in demand and the novelty of this status had long given way to neurotic uncertainty over whether club loyalty or personal ambition should win out. In Ibiza, he’d been able to drink and party away these anxieties. Dele Alli had invited him to a huge holiday home he owned there, and the vaguely sleazy Spurs star seemed so well-connected on the Spanish party isle that they’d been straight into all the coolest bars and parties for the whole week he spent there. Jack had become slowly suspicious that something more intimate was going on between Alli and James Maddison, but it was hard to be sure; he’d been pissed off his face almost the entire time he was there, lolling about by pools and bars and beaches, stuffing his face with tapas and seafood and burning his soft skin with careless inattention to lotion. And getting up to worse things, he thought guiltily. This week had been so good to cure all that earlier summer excess. He’d put in long hard shifts in the gyms and pitches of the training company he’d thrown money at and now he actually felt more ripped and strong than he had before, quite proud of the slow swelling of his lean chest and the slight thickening of his browned arms. His legs were in tip-top shape but… they always were. By the time his bike slowed over the gravel of the holiday villa’s driveway, spitting little stones at his chunky hairy calves, he was just as sweaty as he’d been at the end of the late afternoon session, and he had to hover on the bike saddle for a minute, panting and dripping. The squat white bulk of the villa rose up ahead of him as he tried to recover, gave up, dismounted. He leaned the bike against some wall-climbing plants at the door and then headed around the back rather than unlocking the main door, yanking off his trainers and ankle socks and slapping bare feet over the smooth stone patios into the garden and pool area with its narcotic sea view. Instantly, Jack’s worried overworking brain was melted by the barbecue scents of the garden, rich scents of spice and meat wafting over the pool and into his flaring nostrils. Up and off came the damp sweaty vest, tossed carelessly onto a deckchair as he patted his feet along the stony surface along the edge of the blue pool towards the barbecue. `Smells good,’ he called mersin escort over its crackle and hiss and the pounding R still, it did surprise him just how unworried he was by Jack’s drunken antics out there. Equally, he couldn’t quite believe his own chaste behaviour while here in Mykonos with a gaggle of his best blokey mates, playing the sensible chaperone and host while encouraging them to shag any girl that looked twice. In his earlier hetero relationships, Ben had often been disappointed by both his own petty jealousy and his tendency to let his massive cock lead his way. Now he was… changed? Tomorrow the pair of them would fly separately back to the UK, arousing no interest or suspicion in their closeness — Jack to Birmingham and his Villa duties, Ben to Heathrow and to some potentially career-changing negotiations at Stamford Bridge. And the week of paradise would be over, a week both delicately short and seemingly endless. He hummed contentedly to himself, still tasting Jack’s seed in his mouth, and finished prepping their mixed grill. He busied himself with serving salads and opening some wine, then laying the little white table out on the far side of the pool. He grinned at the set-up and the romantic view beyond it and laughed at himself: what the hell have you become, Ben Chilwell…?! One handjob in Harry Maguire’s garage and then fast-forward nine months… Romeo eat your heart out. He was much more relaxed and accepting of the way things had developed than Jack was, that was for sure, but every now and then it still hit him like a steam train, moments like this where he was staring at his surroundings and wondering if he even wanted to go back to the UK and the Premiership. Leicester, Chelsea… what did any of it matter compared to being here with his Jack the Lad? And there he was, emerging from the villa: an almost translucent white linen shirt of Ben’s pulled over him and buttoned halfway up, a pair of chino shorts skin-tight over his thighs. His hair still wet and slicked carefully back. The look of nervous apology still in his eyes and smile as he navigated the terrace steps and pool boundaries and joining Ben out here by their outdoor dining area. Seeing him fresh and dressed up for dinner, Chilwell thought about going indoors and changing, but had a better idea. He loosened the tied front of his red baggy swim shorts and, smiling dismissively, stripped them down and off, letting his cock and balls slap loose against one thigh and then sliding into his chair. `Ben?’ asked Jack dumbly. `What are you…?’ He kept up an air of casual normality and picked up his cutlery. `Just making myself comfortable for dinner,’ he said, pretending not to see Jack’s hungry eyes travel his full bared body, then easing his legs and privates beneath the tablecloth and finishing plating up their food. Jack gawped at him for a minute more, then grinned and chuckled, and took the seat opposite, pretending to accept his nudism as a minor distraction over dinner. Ben lifted his cool white wine and clinked their glasses, relaxing his bare body back against the wicker of the chair and looking from his beautiful boy to the beautiful view, then back at the superior of the two. `To our last night in Mykonos,’ he said, trying to play down the note of wistful sadness. `And to a summer well-spent.’ `Nah, you’ve been working all day, all WEEK in fact…’ That’s what Chilly had said when Jack insisted on doing the tidying up and the dishes, conscious that his lack of domestic skills had made him a pretty useless housemate for their shared week in the villa, barely managing to burn their toast every other morning and only realising how messy and slobbish he was when he’d seen Ben stare at his clutter a few dozen times. But he soon realised that Ben’s polite insistence tonight was not just his homely nature, well-drilled good manners, or some tender desire to look after the Villa captain; no, it was all one big fucking tease. As the golden glow behind them began to fade into evening, Jack was forced to sit rigidly in his chair in the neat clean clothes he’d thought he should pull on, and watch as Ben stripped the table one or two items at a time, slowly departing with a single white plate so that the 24-year-old just had to watch the bouncing shifting globes of Ben’s pale bottom as he walked away… and then the loose generous swing of his soft prick and low-hanging balls each time he returned. Chilly whistled like a bored waiter, performing all casual nonchalance in his domestic routine, eventually taking real care to lean in close when he collected Jack’s used plate and glass, his gorgeous-smelling body leaning in close and his private drooping against bare thigh for a flash. Jack wanted to reach out and grab his arse then and there, but he understood the unspoken game and resisted, gripping the arms of his seat and just devouring him with his eyes. And then when the table was almost entirely cleared and Jack had been sitting on his own for a couple of minutes, knuckles white from holding the seat so tightly, eyes fixated on the splendid Mykonos horizon, he heard his name called, siren-like, from the patio doors. `Jack… you not coming for dessert…?’ He looked over, saw Ben hover in the doorway, still naked as the day he was born; Grealish was out of his seat and haring around the pool as quick as his slippered feet would let him, bursting into the cool dark downstairs of the luxury home. Chilwell was resting on hands and knees on the inside dining table, a huge thick wooden thing that could easily take a man’s weight, with that big beautiful arse hoisted over the thick thighs. Grealish scampered hungrily towards it, slipping his chino-clad arse into the end seat of the table, and leaning instantly in. He pushed his face up between Ben’s cheeks and pushed his tongue in there, tasting the clean soft skin. He shocked himself with his animal lust, doing for Ben what the beautiful bloke had once done for him in his first ever taste of alternative sex; imagine if he hadn’t trusted Ben to show him that, he often wondered, would he ever have known what he was missing…? He leaned in off his seat, squeezing at the tight leg muscles, and lapping his tongue up and down Ben’s crack, letting his own facial hair tickle at the cheeks and soft smooth skin. He prodded at his ring, that hole that he’d fucked so many times now, but this week especially, always careful at first out of affection, then wild and frantic once the mood took over. Like now, the horny mood of the night just making him gasp and gurgle as he licked and kissed at his boyfriend’s behind, a more than perfect dessert for their barbecued dinner. Ben made wet little gasps and laughs, seeming as amused by his own sluttish position as the ticklish sensations between his glutes. He wanted to get a finger in there and better yet, his increasingly stiff dick, already starting to feel ready even though he’d enjoyed a rapid and gorgeous blowie the instant he cycled home! But… no… He stopped escort mersin himself, panting and licking his lips, patting and stroking Ben’s cheeks and holding himself back. It took a while for Chilly to awkwardly ask if everything was okay back there. Jack gripped on Ben’s thighs more firmly and pulled back, guiding and edging him back over the smooth surface of the largely unused dining table (they ate every meal outside, rarely wearing much, sometimes feeding each other fruit and laughing as they spilled juice on each other’s bodies) until the naked stud was slipping back and falling into his lap, heavy over him in his seat. Jack hugged his waist and kissed up his back and shoulders, cuddling him. `I think it’s your turn, don’t you?’ the Brummie lad murmured quietly. `Mmm… oh Jack… I don’t mind, y’know, I love the way you do me…’ `I know, I know, but… it ain’t fair, is it… so…’ `You struggle,’ Ben whispered, grinding his arse back over his crotch, `I know you do… it’s really not a big deal, Jacko, we can just keep…’ `No,’ Jack hissed in his ear, more insistently, `I want you to fuck me, Benj, I want it so much, baby.’ The windows, all facing out onto their private sea view, were thrown wide open to let in what cool air they could, white hangings billowing gently every time a tiny breeze came inland. On the huge master bed of the villa meant for more occupants than one intimate couple, Jack lay on his back, legs in the air, and Ben thrust two fingers repeatedly into his uber-tight entrance, using up as much of the lube as he possibly could. With each thrust of his knuckles, he got a sexy raspy groan from the 24-year-old beneath him, whose sides he stroked and pinched with his other hand, knees pressing into the bed below his arse cheeks. Jack writhed and gasped and reached out, stroking Ben’s firm arms with each hand, desperate to signal his readiness and acceptance of this rare inversion. It was Ben who had cooled off topping after the first few times, worried by his own girth and length and the way Jack would whimper during and limp after. He had convinced himself that he didn’t really need to be the giver, that he was so deeply satisfied with riding Jack’s cock, and the one-way dynamic was enough; he’d also convinced himself that Jack just didn’t want it, had only ever tolerated the loss of his arse virginity to please him. But right now, he could see the desperate lust in his lover’s red face, the greed of it as they’d tumbled through the downstairs snogging and wanking at each other, crashing into walls and surfaces on their way up here. Ben felt like they were back in the barn that first proper time, when everything had seemed possible; but he was determined to make it good for Jacko, absolutely determined. So he took his time, one finger then two, now broaching a third, making sure his arse was as wet and loose and slippery as he could, trying to resist wanking on his own huge prick. He’d never expected to feel guilty or embarrassed about how well-hung he was, but he did now. Poor Jack! Well, he told himself, guys managed to take Big Harry’s, so… Next, he turned Grealish on his side, lying down beside him and cuddling him with fervent little kisses on his neck and in the whipping tumble of his hair. He slid one hand down Jack’s abs, which did feel firmer and sharper for his week’s efforts, and stroked his cock too, impressed by how rigid and strong it was though he’d sucked it to completion just over an hour ago. Mmm. How frustrated he’d been, lying in this master bedroom of the villa, fantasising about doing just this, when he’d been staying here with his straight mates and trying to just relax with them. Every time he’d come close to bringing some hot club girl back here for a shag, he’d stopped himself, wanting to preserve the big white bedroom for Jack’s arrival further down the line, settling for sweaty nights of quiet masturbation as he anticipated his REAL holiday. He let go of Jack’s dick and stroked his big thighs instead, loving the hairiness of that tanned muscle, but slowly lifting the left one to open his access, and guiding his cock in. Very slowly, he cuddled and kissed him sideways but edged his cock a bit more firmly between the perfect curves of his backside, finding his slick wet hole and teasing it. He’d always been to excited for this slow prep in the past, but he needed to make this work, needed to totally pleasure him. Soon, his slowness and teasing had Jack wordlessly begging, pushing back with his butt and sucking on his fingers and thumb as he cuddled around his neck. And who was Ben to refuse? He pushed inch by inch inside him, wrapping arms about his strong lean torso, guiding himself inside and then just stopping, rather than fucking him properly, just lying there with his huge dong inside him, cuddling interlocked and kissing slowly, lovingly. Ben felt like bursting out laughing again, thinking of Jack’s confessions and apologies. John McfuckingGinn, he thought, that poor lovesick lad… James Maddison, his own sleazy teammate… and Dele Alli, him too maybe, lusting over his Jack? Perhaps… and `girls’, whoever they were… Ben couldn’t give a fuck. This lad was his and he knew it. He’d never been so sure of anything in his life. He felt like Grealish could fuck every player in the top five leagues of English football and come home to him afterwards and he’d still cuddle up him and do whatever he wanted. They’d been close friends for years and now they were… well, something so much more. When he was sure Jack was ready, he pushed deeper, and pulled back, and so on. A slow gentle fucking, both still on their sides, bodies pulled tight, kissing lips and necks and cheeks and ears. Jack kept trying to wank himself but Ben would reach down and pull his hands back to stop him, dragging them down their legs or up their tummies or yanking them right up and just sucking on his fingers instead, forcing him to relish each slow internal thrust. No words were said, no loved-up promises or porn-skewed dirty talk, just the body language of the steamy fuck. Chilwell found himself fixating on a new ambition, and he worked towards it with every bit of tenderness and delicacy he could. He kept Jack’s and his own hands away from that twitching Brummie hard-on, just impaling his own member deep inside the Villa captain and experimenting with different strokes and angles, vaguely sure this was a physical possibility… yeah, it had to be, sure it was, you could definitely make a guy cum without even… yep, defo… come on, just a bit more, don’t touch it, no…. mmm… And eventually the handsome Leicester defender proved himself right, pushing so deep and hard into his tantalised lover that Jack made a surprised and strangled noise, and blew his load. They both stared down at the leak of spunk, smaller and thinner for his recent orgasm, marvelling at this hands-free climax achieved by Ben’s big tool alone. Jack just gawped and whined and Ben laughed into the crook of his neck, kissing mersin escort bayan every hair on his chin. Jack sucked lovingly on it, the massive thing that had filled him, desperate to reciprocate and bring Ben off. He sprawled over the sweaty white sheets, head resting in the warmth of the other man’s crotch, doing as much as he could to his massive meat, running one hand up his washboard abs and massaging a thigh with the other. His arse ached, but it didn’t sting or burn as it had in the past, in fact much of his body felt like it had just had an incredible massage. All he wanted was to return that physical love, but he knew he was too spent and dehydrated to get hard again and fuck Ben now, this blowie was the best he could give, and the occasional detour of his tongue over his balls and into his arse crack. Lain up the bed and limbs outstretched, Chilly just kept muttering his name over and over in between hot gasps and little sucking intakes of breath, biting and licking his lips. He seemed constantly on the edge of orgasm, driving Grealish mad, desperate to achieve his goal. He thought how unsatisfying it had been lying in his clammy bed in Ibiza and letting McGinn or Madders go down on him, enjoying it but unwilling to return the favour, always wracked with guilt at what Ben might say or do when he (inevitably) told him of these indiscretions. He thought of the time Dele had sneaked into his room and wanked him too while he thought he was asleep, how exciting but unfulfilling it had been. Jack guiltily knew that his lust was too strong for him to be faithful, but he still couldn’t quite believe how accepting and dismissive Chilwell really was. You wouldn’t get this with no girlfriend! Just when he begin to think Benji had gone numb and would never climax, it happened; he was in the middle of licking at the base of his shaft, so the molten manliness oozed onto his cheek and his nose and narrowly missed his eyes. He opened his mouth wide, tilting his head to take drops of it on his tongue, then licking upwards to scoop it off the helmet. More gasps from Ben, more `Jaaaaack, oh Jack’. He swallowed what he could, gasping for air, feeling it trickle over his goatee and down his veiny neck, his whole body wiped out by the week of exercise and lovemaking. In the quiet airport, Ben still felt himself glow with the deep internal satisfaction of last night (and a cheeky quick fuck after breakfast on the sofa), unable to keep a smutty grin off his handsome English features as he dragged his things through what counted for security by Greek standards. As he’d expected, he caught one last look at his Jack: though boarding different flights, the journeys to their gates ran side by side at one point and the pair were briefly divided only by a Perspex wall that made them both giggle and try to touch palms through the see-through divide before hurrying along, conscious of being spotted flirting. Still, Ben let himself enjoy the sight of it: the happy swagger of the 24-year-old midfielder, his arse bulging through his yellow tracksuit bottoms as he made his way down towards his flight, flashy sunglasses obscuring some of his tanned face as he shot back an affectionate final look. Ben gave him the slightest wave, watching him yank on his protective face mask and joined the distanced cue for the Birmingham flight, then trundling on towards the gate for his own London-bound plane. A London-bound plane that would take him into some tough meetings with his agent and the Chelsea people. Picturing this return to the question of his up-and-coming career, Ben found it very odd to suddenly be staring at someone in an almost identical position. Rounding the corner, lugging his case behind him after being based here on Mykonos for about three weeks now, he crunched to a halt and stared at the first seat in a low row down the side of the waiting room. There was Declan Rice, looking faintly sunburned in a basketball vest, suitcase resting between his knees. The West Ham hero who was being as excitedly connected to a Chelsea move as Chilwell himself — perhaps his competition for a defensive place on Lampard’s squad, even, though a lot of people seemed convinced the London club was keen to secure them both. A little taken aback to see his own predicament replicated in the tall West Ham defender, Ben paused, sure he should approach and speak to the sweet lad who he’d worked with on the England youth teams before, best pal to little Mason. But there was something vaguely wrong: Rice was slumped moodily forward over his case, chin on his arms, a sour frown on his long-chiselled face. He was scowling at an invisible enemy and paying no attention to Ben’s presence; he looked far from a guy who wanted to be disturbed and spoken to right now. What the hell was up with him? Deciding to let sleeping dogs lie, Ben strolled on, the wheels of his case squeaking a little, crossing the spacious waiting area where clusters of high-paying British tourists awaited their flight. Chilwell felt himself retreat unconsciously into his garish shirt and heavy shades, not keen on being recognised or approached by strangers. He just wanted some peace to think about his career decisions or, preferably, to fantasise about the days and nights he had shared with Grealish this week. But then, more absurdly, he spotted more familiar faces: a cluster of Chelsea players just ahead of him, dressed down in the same summery gear as himself, but still recognisable as key young members of Lampard’s squad. There was that much-celebrated young American, Christian Pulisic, and another of Ben’s youthful English comrades, Tammy Abraham, and with them Fikayo Tomori, the three of them stood between their resting luggage with weary smiles on their faces and a low undertone of banter flowing between them. And then, stood a short distance from the other three, another figure looking as miserable and reflective as Declan had back there in his seat: Mason Mount himself, head hanging, staring blindly at his phone screen, leaning heavily on his upright suitcase, while a tinny voice called out for their patience as the flight would soon begin boarding. Chilwell stared curiously at Mount’s sad face, registering that he and Rice were very public besties, and finding it odd that they should be looking so miserable at other ends of the same airport gate right now. But then Tammy was recognising him and the young striker was waving for his attention, recognising him despite his shades and face-mask, beckoning him over to join them. `Benjamin! The Chill-meister! What the fuck… you coming back to Chelsea with us, haha, or are the rumours a load of shit…? Come here…!’ Ben leaned their way with a last thoughtful look at the way Mason lurked a short distance from them, barely glancing up to acknowledge his arrival, but then bustled into the friendly chat of Abraham and the others, glad to catch up with the men who might soon be his teammates. Maybe flying home with them could help him decide what the hell to do about the massive contract he was being offered…! ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share