premiership-lads-187

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 187: Chilly at Chelsea Part 187: Chilly at Chelsea He dragged his bare feet up onto one of the big unopened boxes that scattered and dominated the main lounge of the sizeable South London townhouse, pushing his sore body back into the curving comfort of the new designer sofa that gave a scrap of homeliness to the largely unpacked den. He’d rushed to buy the new pad in the days after the ink dried on his Chelsea contract, but Ben had yet to really feel settled in his new digs; it had been such a busy rush of recovery, training and media work since he exited Leicester and arrived here in his new role as a defender for Lampard’s team. The only other item properly unpacked in the townhouse’s big living room was the massive television, currently sat astride a couple more boxes like the one he was using as a footrest, and glowing with the bright green and darting coloured kits of another Premiership game on show, Manchester City currently drawing 1-1 with Premiership new boys Leeds; but the volume was off and the game struggled on in silence, so that his phone call wasn’t interrupted by the commentary. He had a shallow bowl of crisps poised on the arm of the sofa to enable shovelling handfuls, and a small craft beer bottle in his right hand — the phone itself was propped on his aching abdomen just below the jut of his strong chest, switched to speakerphone as he reclined and let his body recover properly from the day’s efforts. `So amazin’, babe,’ came the low Brummie voice of his boyfriend over the speaker, continuing to praise his Premiership debut for the London team, marked by his debut goal for them as well. `Honestly, was so fuckin’ made up to see that, almost embarrassed myself by cheering too much in front of the lads, huh…!’ Chilwell chuckled fondly at this. `I should think so,’ he joked, his own soft laughter mixing with Jack’s, his eyes idly tracking the City-Leeds game on screen while he chomped on the cheap crisps and enjoyed the sound of the Brummie lad’s slightly nervous laughter. `Aw, cheers Jacko, you’re just being too kind there, matey…’ He stuffed more crisps into his mouth. `It’s always a fucking buzz managing a goal though when you’re a defender, you know that… Felt good, felt good.’ `Yeah,’ Grealish mumbled along supportively, `that’s so cool. Well done. It was a corker too,’ he said, for the third time, just too unbearably cute with his gushing enthusiasm for Ben’s performance today and his contribution to the Chelsea win over London rivals Crystal Palace. If Ben didn’t know the warm-hearted midfielder so well by now, he’d think him insincere and excessive, but he knew he meant it all and it gave him a warm buzz of his own in his exhausted euphoria. `You’ll bag a couple tomorrow,’ he told his football stud lover more quietly, able to hear the little judders of nervousness in Jack’s voice tonight as they spoke over the phone. `Easy does it. This time tomorrow you’ll be just about to smack it to Liverpool haha, show them the table’s gonna look pretty different this season, eh…’ He too felt a certain pressure to be extravagantly supportive and positive, having been so involved in comforting Jack through the tough choice of staying at Villa and rejecting a string of offers to move up the league — he loved the slightly older lad’s loyalty almost more than his peachy arse, and he’d felt so proud of him renewing his contract with his boyhood club. Now he worried that Grealish was having second thoughts and he had to keep him convinced he was doing the right thing. `Must have been weird for Ross,’ he pointed out, switching the topic when Jack sounded a bit anxious about the game tomorrow night. `I mean watching the Chelsea game with you all after training…! You know I didn’t even hear about his move `til I saw it on my Instagram…! Bloody madness…’ `Yeah,’ Jack agreed, on safer territory here, `but he’s settlin’ in nicely, y’know, he’s gonna be great here… Nice lad, ain’t he, and…’ `Nice and many other things,’ Ben interrupted suggestively. `Don’t you go getting any ideas there, J. Hehe. Just messin’. Remember Dubai…’ A lusty little snigger from his man. `Ah, well, those were funny times,’ he agreed, `but we’ve all come a long way since that naughty beach… I bet Mason is missing him.’ `I told ya,’ Ben murmured secretively, though he was fully alone in the curve of the sofa, `Mase is seeing Dec Rice, they’re pretty serious. It’s way too fucking cute. They make us look like a casual thing, ha ha…’ He paused at his own joke, hearing the vague uncertain discomfort in his own and Jack’s laugh, the pair of them continuing to evade any more serious long-term discussion of what was happening between them, just enjoying the magic of it while it lasted. `But they all miss him,’ he added thoughtfully, `he’s a big presence and the lads are all sad to see him loaned out. But if it means he gets more play and it helps the Villa stay up then, good times, good times… plus he gets to be captained by YOU, so…’ `I wish you were here,’ Grealish interrupted him wistfully. `What, in a hotel full of Villa players?’ Chilwell teased back, picturing the quiet hotel car park where his lover boy would be sitting for privacy, hugging his knees to him and pulling a beanie hat down over his long slick of hair, stroking his little goatee and working up to heading indoors. `I’d rather you were HERE, J…’ `Now that DOES sound good,’ the young captain smirked back down the line. `Hope you haven’t been having too much fun without me, Benji, haha…’ `Well,’ the new Chelsea left-back sighed luxuriously, stretching his aching muscular legs out across the unpacked boxes and sliding further back against the soft plush texture of the couch, `now that you mention it, J…’ He’d been developing quite a lot of banter with Werner over the early weeks of the season, gently pranking the stern-faced German player and poking fun at his stiffly formal English or making playful boasts about being the more exciting purchase compared to himself or Kai Havertz. This jest had taken off in the past week or so in particular, a friendly rivalry between some of the new men in blue, shared by Hakim Ziyech too and met with great enjoyment by the more established members of the squad. It had rang between them earlier that day, warming up at Stamford Bridge under an onslaught of British rain. Ben, having only made his few cup appearances after a gradual injury recovery from the end of his final Leicester season, was jokily making big claims about his proper Premier League debut for his new side. `Gonna make the triple,’ he said, hopping about the damp grass and stretching out his athletic limbs, `clean sheet, assist, goal, boom.’ `What, as well as all of the goal I will be scoring?’ answered Timo Werner, the 24-year-old Stuttgart man peering confrontationally at him from beneath the brim of his pulled-down Chelsea hat. `Then it will be a fine day for our manager, hah…!’ `Yeah, maybe he’ll break a smile,’ chipped in the other German newbie, tall gangly Havertz, shifting from foot to foot beside the handsome blond striker and blinking rainwater out of his eyes. `Quite a big maybe,’ young Pulisic muttered between them, hugging his arms over his chest and doing some light keep-ups of the ball from knee to knee before tapping it back to Ben and grinning at his boastful aims for the game. `Hope you get all of those, Ben, really do,’ the 22-year-old American said earnestly. `We need to smash Palace today — for Ross, a goodbye to him.’ `He’s not dead, he’s just moved to Birmingham,’ Werner pointed out with a dry laugh. `Same thing, from what I hear,’ Kai chuckled cynically. Christian coloured a little and fiddled with the zip at the top of his training jacket. `Yeah, I know, just saying guys,’ he mumbled back. `It’s so weird how quickly he left, isn’t it, like Lampard just got rid of him or something, or…’ He shrugged, falling uncomfortably quiet, the shortest and youngest of the four of them in this wet warm-up huddle. `Palace don’t stand a chance,’ the former Leicester defender said firmly, grinning quite excitedly at three of his new teammates, everything here still feeling fresh and invigorating; he’d been nervous about making a move after such a successful run at Leicester and his first promising forays into playing for England, but it had all felt just as he’d hoped mersin escort so far. New, brimming with possibility, a really refreshing atmosphere and culture, even if the boss did seem to be the moodiest and most unpredictable figure he’d worked under — this was not the relatable young Frank Lampard who had courted his interest over the last year, as many of the other players remarked, he had seemed troubled since the re-start months, all summer… But even that didn’t dampen any of Ben’s love for his first weeks at Chelsea. No, it was only the upheaval of moving from Leicester to London that had caused him any bother lately and, more than anything else, the sudden distance and difficulty around his meet-ups with Grealish. After all, they had almost been neighbours in the Midlands, and in the summer they had been able to share so much of each other; now that the Premiership workload was a reality again, with the increased physical distance, the two young bucks were finding it difficult. Ben hadn’t been able to see Jack properly for about a fortnight at this point, and a few lingering late-night phone wanks were hardly ticking that box. Sometimes when he was knocking about the unhomely emptiness of his new South London townhouse, he was mentally back in their Mykonos villa. These pangs — not just for the handsome Jack the Lad busy in Birmingham, but for his other friends and for his family who had all moved to Leicestershire to support him, and were yet to head south since the transfer — were only an issue in privacy and isolation. At every training session or meeting or in his handful of team appearances, the 23-year-old was utterly consumed by his exciting new post. Like everyone else there, he wanted to win big, wanted to REALLY make a name for himself; the same ambitions that had driven his good friend Maguire away from Leicester City a year earlier, he supposed. And so he threw his all into the day’s match, a damp affair at Stamford Bridge — he played extremely well, was utterly delighted with himself, and he knew it was a sterling team performance overall. The first half was a dull struggle but the second was a massacre: his own strong goal sparked off a string of successes until Chelsea were storming off the pitch victorious at 4-0. He assisted another and the defensive clean sheet completed his triple of aspirations for the afternoon, bringing a glowing grin to his sleek features as he punched the air and dripped off the pitch with everyone else, heading indoors on a wave of Premiership achievement. The stellar performance that Jack would coo and mumble over down the phone later that night, having insisted on watching it in the training ground bar with his Villa teammates. Lampard’s praise was brief and intense, confirming Chilwell’s suspicions that something was up with the moody young-ish manager, who darted about them with his congratulatory remarks but seemed to vanish and resist much time with the hungry press; Ben found himself lapping it up, cheesy handsome grins for the cameras and lots of earnest thank yous to his new brotherhood of players. He didn’t want to over-egg it and risk implying how bored and frustrated he’d become at Leicester last season but he loved being able to express his new passion here. The 23-year-old lingered with the reporters, soaking up the attention and hype, outstaying his new friend Jorginho who had scored twice and really secured the victory for them. He took his time marching on away the press area, his blue shirt stuck to his body and his shorts riding up between his cheeks. He wanted to ring Jack immediately now and share his euphoria but that would have to wait, they had all these little rules about not drawing too much attention to their closeness and wotnot; not like adorable Mase who had quietly gushed to him after training with the full story of his Declan Rice love affair, the sweet goofy kid. Ben was late to the showers: there was always more of a rush after a home win where `socially distanced beers’ would be provided for them upstairs before they were ushered offsite to their disparate corners of the capital. He could tell he’d missed most of the lads from the lack of echoing noise, but he was still surprised when there were only two blokes left in the Home changing rooms at that point. Sitting fresh-faced from his shower, Pulisic looked up instantly and hollered a deeply accented welcome to him; drying off beside him was the tall figure of Havertz, looking over his shoulder and joining the American in booming congratulations on a powerful debut. Ben grinned at them, performing a quick mock bow and a mimed acceptance speech before hurling one boot after the other off into the box of dirties and taking a spot opposite them to sit and deal with his damp mucky socks. `Thanks lads, thanks,’ he chuckled happily. `Here he is,’ chipped a third voice, making him look across to the left as Werner emerged from the showers to join them, towel slung low about his waist. `He achieved all three of his aims — excellent.’ That wide but almost sinister smile of approval from the sharp-featured Stuttgart man, hovering in the broad shower entrance and giving him a little nod. `Our hero,’ he said, looking at the other two, with a mixture of genuine admiration and friendly mockery. `Amazing out there,’ Christian told him warmly, clearly buzzed from making his own post-injury return in a short substitution. `Club is lucky to have you, Ben, seriously.’ `And so annoyingly handsome too!’ piped Timo with a tinkling laugh, bypassing Christian and Kai to return to his things; he was so fresh from a long shower that steam roiled from his toned back and well-muscled upper arms. Ben laughed modestly at his change of tack but felt, for a moment, that Christian was staring at him even more thoughtfully and seriously because of this reminder. He removed his numbered Chelsea shirt and tugged at the stretchy long-sleeved undergarment, catching the American lad’s eye for a moment so that he blushed and looked away, still sat in just his towel with his lithe body and tattooed arm out on show beside the casually naked form of the dark-haired German winger. `And that six pack,’ whistled the other German, still shirtless and steaming a little further down the row, as Ben peeled the tight blue lycra across his abs and chest and then, with a little tussle of difficulty, over his head. He laughed some more but caught something leering and suggestive in Werner’s expression there, enough to get him curious and excited. `Timo!’ sighed Kai in an exasperated tone. `Just marry him already, hah!’ For a moment, the 6ft2 attacking midfielder was completely naked and dried, his long cock swinging from a thick dark bush, causing Christian glance awkwardly aside and Ben to appreciatively weigh up how well-proportioned the seemingly gangly German really was, if not so conventionally handsome as others. `Oh yes he is marriage material,’ Werner chuckled happily, lost in his own humour, as Havertz pulled on some fresh underpants with a twang and made half-joking tutting noises at the homoerotic turn of conversation; Pulisic just stayed sitting down, something of a rabbit in the headlights about his posture and expression now that the talk was shifting. `What does he keep in those?’ the blond striker demanded in an almost singsong voice as Ben continued to undress, sliding the tight blue Chelsea shorts over his hips and disentangling them from his thick thighs, down now to only his simple black sports briefs which sagged so promisingly at the front with the weight of his privates. `Well the Foxes lads did used to call me Bulging Ben,’ he said with a mixture of pride and embarrassment, unsure if this was going anywhere but liking the exhibitionism and the tension. `Thanks for noticing, Tiny Timo, haha…’ `He’s hardly tiny-` No sooner had the 22-year-old member of their little gathering spoken than he was swallowing the words back in and regretting the obvious implications of saying anything; next to him, Kai broke into throaty laughter and Timo just smirked his smirk. `I mean — he’s — taller than me so — I didn’t mean he’s…’ `I was just playing,’ Ben said, laughing over his fumbling backtracking, taking a proud step forward to show off his bared body and bulging briefs even more, trying to gauge if Pulisic was as interested as he seemed. `Don’t worry, mate.’ `You men are escort mersin funny,’ muttered Kai, dragging on his shirt and doing up two buttons, then shaking his head towards Timo, `but you play around too much for me — I see your pranks, you two…! Nobody is putting their fingers in my mashed potato…’ He meant it literally, but the innuendo of the anecdote provoked easing laughter from them all and made Ben drift closer so he could stand ostentatiously in Christian’s eyeline. `Oh, Kai,’ chuckled Werner patronisingly, `you are such a baby at 21.’ He too was edging closer, folding his lean arms over his perfectly smooth chest; the towel was tied loosely and hung a little lower than it should, well below the adonis belt of his toned midriff and showing the edge of his trimmed pubes as he sidled closer. Haverts finished buttoning his shirt and pushed leg after leg into slim blue jeans. `I was very proud of you this day, Benjamin, but I not in love with your massive bulge like these two!’ He sounded a bit touchy and awkward even as he joked then barked out more laughter. Ben just grinned foolishly at him then stepped back as the tall youngster hurried away in the middle of pulling on shoes; Christian was giggling awkwardly and Timo braying more confidently. `Does the young lady protest too much?’ the Stuttgart striker remarked dryly. `You were winding him up,’ pushed Chilwell, curiously examining the confident 5ft11 forward who seemed keen to show off his own physique as he moved closer to them, then reached over a little and toyed his damp fingers through the short fluffy crop of Christian’s air, making him squirm and grin and blush more. `Pulisic here knows you got a big bulge,’ Timo said, ignoring the half-question in Ben’s voice. `He has been staring at it all this time, hey?’ `Guys,’ the 22-year-old Pennsylvania farmboy muttered shyly. `It’s okay if you have,’ Ben told him in a warm murmur, the comment as much to appease the American’s awkwardness as to toy with and investigate Timo’s apparent openness. He was getting turned on, knew the already laden bulge was stretching. `Well everybody must have seen it during that wet game,’ Timo laughed, one of his hands suddenly closing on Ben’s right shoulder, `bouncing and bouncing… hah…’ Christian, still sitting looked between them, holding his breath. `Yeh,’ he mumbled in his deep Penn accent, relaxing his shoulders a little and leaning forward. He lifted one hand and seemed to look cautiously up so that Ben gave him a gentle jerking nod — and then he was reaching to give it a little stroke, touching the lightly damp mound of the front of his briefs, fingers outstretched. Ben felt Timo’s hand squeeze his shoulder a little more firmly and the German was chuckling again. `Go on, give it a squeeze,’ he urged Pulisic, and he winked in Chilwell’s direction. `Yeah, I really don’t mind,’ Ben told the younger player gruffly, feeling a real thrill at the limelight on his physique and his manhood. He felt chilly and damp but heated by his own arousal, aware he was grubby and sweaty whereas these two were rosy-cheeked with the freshness of the showers. He looked down as Christian’s fingers pulled anxiously away from the front of his briefs and the 22-year-old giggled nervously at his own boldness. Then Werner was giving him a solid pat to the side, then reaching down with his other hand and taking over; to Ben’s delighted surprise, the tall German striker leaned in close and fully squeezed his package, as if demonstrating its proportions properly for Pulisic. `Phworr,’ Timo announced for them all, `you really are packing…!’ Ben saw Christian breath in sharply and bite his lip, excited by this and staring lustily at the towel-clad stud, who was just chuckling so casually that it was really hard to tell if any of this flirtation was erotic or banter. As he’d pranked and joked with the intense forward over the past few weeks, he had wondered if he caught the hint of chemistry, but he’d been sure the Leipzig transfer was just charming and keen to make friends — now… Pulisic sat forward on the wooden bench, towel tightening about his legs, and reached both hands, one for the front of Ben’s briefs, feeling the growing bulk there, and the other stroking daringly over the front of Timo’s towel… which was rather rapidly loosened, falling away to the floor about his furry ankles, so that his limp but rising prick and soft mousy pubes were clearly visible. Ben started excitingly, glanced over his other shoulder, then nodded his head to the showers and the potential privacy of that communal block. `Guys?’ he muttered hopefully. A big sleazy grin from Werner. `You are the hero of the match, my friend,’ he said quietly and firmly, reaching down to stroke his own loose cock for a moment before leading the way — he moved with his bow-legged swagger, giving them both a good view of his pert lightly haired buttocks as he strutted back into the swirling steam of the showers. Christian got up, his towel almost falling away immediately, looking excited but nervous. Ben patted him on the back, felt himself up through his briefs, and guided him after Werner into the steam. In there, he stripped the undies off swiftly, pulling on their tight waistband and tugging their damp fabric over the chunky muscle of his thighs until he was as bollock naked as Timo, his hardening prick and low balls swinging free. He saw Pulisic glance each way, from his meaty package to Timo’s bottom, and he was untangling and rejecting his own towel so that all three young Chelsea hunks were nude and reaching arousal. `Christian, why don’t you suck on him?’ Timo suggested suddenly, turning to face them and pulling gently on his decent-sized nob, tensing the lean muscles of his front and fixing his foxy grin on the American, whose crush on him was so blatant. Ben grinned his approval of this plan, stepping into the centre of the shower block, feeling the hot damp air against his dirty body, and catching Christian’s eyes — in he came, down to his knees, nodding… Ben grabbed warmly at his shoulder and stroked his fluffy hair just as Timo had, and guided him in to plant his mouth against his own very generous endowment. Timo was pulling close, the three of them huddled now in the centre of the hot shower space… Ben feeling rightly adored for his efforts, making a quiet moan as Pulisic — clearly not his first mouthful! — took his dick between his lips and nuzzled hungrily at it until it was rock hard and stretching out to its epic length. Timo joined Ben in stroking his hair encouragingly, but with his other hand he rubbed at Ben’s shoulder, eyeing him playfully over the third lad’s head, that troublemaker grin splitting his face in two. `Uh,’ groaned Chilly, enjoying the soft hungry attention so much, and also the feel of Werner’s stern hand on him, `uhhhh lads…’ `That’s it,’ encouraged the German very quietly, `suck him good, Pulisic…’ Ben groaned and grinned and watched as Christian opened wide so he could really take more of the Chilwell bone into his gob, struggling and gagging a little for a moment — Ben wanted to know where he’d practised this, he was doing far too well for a complete newbie! — and also watched Timo stroke and pull at his own erection, sizeable but no match for his own, pushing it close so that its pink tip smeared over Christian’s cheek for a moment then clashes very briefly against the veiny rod of Ben’s own weapon. The American lad slobbered sluttishly at waist height and the two confident older athletes groaned eagerly. Ben thought he knew what would happen next, sensed the natural flow and dynamic of it; cute young Christian clearly had the hots for tough Timo and boy did the German striker know it! He waited for the lad’s head to leave his massive cock, or be guided aside, expected the lavish oral attention to switch to German sausage any moment. But Werner surprised him by sinking down into a crouch, side by side with Pulisic; he did guide Christian’s mouth away from the girthy rod, but not to claim as his own cocksucker. No, he leaned in, opened his lips, and took over the job. Both Ben and Christian gasped in obvious surprise and watched as, eyes closed, Werner opened wide and took the long hard cock into his mouth with apparent skill. `Oh — Werner — mate…’ The young defender steadied himself, taken aback — the nervous nuzzling mersin escort bayan of the winger had felt good but the firm decisive sucking of this second mouth felt amazing. He stretched back his sweaty frame, holding both hands up behind his head, and felt Christian’s hands pawing at his hip and then his side. He didn’t even realise that Pulisic was moving around behind him, not to start with, until he felt the soft kiss on one of his muscular fuzzy cheeks — oh! A second kiss, and a third, moving in towards his sweaty crack. Oh yes, this WAS a hero’s treatment… His second shock in as many minutes was the feeling of his round muscular behind being carefully parted and the next of those furtive kisses landing in his moist crack. His balls tingled and his hard-on throbbed in Timo’s mouth and he felt Christian’s tongue slip between his cheeks. `Ohhh… lads… seriously… oh…’ The new Chelsea signing gasped and whimpered in double pleasure, skilfully sucked at the front and gently, tentatively rimmed from behind, the lad’s long tongue prodding at his crack and running down the inside of his muscled cheeks. `Fuck,’ he swore, rolling his sore neck, loosening his tense arms, his entire body twitching to the throb of this stimulation. He thought about how novel and exciting it had felt being rimmed for the first time by sleazy Vardy on a drunken night in Leicester, ohhhh… he shuffled from foot to foot, trying to feed his cock forward into Timo’s tight lips and also push his rump back into Pulisic’s face… And then Werner was pulling back, slowly rolling his tongue over his bottom lip and holding his fist around the base of Ben’s big monster. `Well,’ he remarked in his distinctly detached manner, `that is quite a lot…’ And he was pulling casually back, giving the cock a couple more slow strokes, and then sliding his lips over the thick head once more. Ben groaned happily, grinning gratefully at him, pushing his arse more fully into the laps of Christian’s tongue for a moment, then reaching behind him to stroke his hair again… Ben reached his inevitable orgasm, so glad to be caught between these two eager lads. The wet tickle of his gooch and crack did as much as the tight lips around his shaft and he felt it convulse and explode; he pumped his goo forward onto the receptive tongue of the German hunk, who barely flinched or reacted in his neat blowjob… And then, rising neatly off his bare haunches and stroking his own prick once, Werner announced, with a dismissal as bizarre and surprising as his sudden oral, `I must go — I have a woman here I fuck when I need to.’ He said it so simply and matter-of-factly, twanging his erection almost distractedly and huffing out a breath, as if he hadn’t just spent a few minutes deftly pleasuring Chilwell’s rod. Ben thought he was kidding for a moment but saw that he was not, watching him neatly dab a white speck of cum form the corner of his mouth. `I shall leave you to it,’ Werner said very formally, once this telltale fleck was removed, and walked past, boner bouncing up and down, and Ben just staring comically after him. He felt Christian scrabble around beside him and stare at him go too, bewildered, but Chilwell just chuckled and hugged his arm about the younger guy’s shoulders. `He’s a funny one, ain’t he?’ Ben remarked, gasping out the lingering warm pleasure of his own orgasm. His cock sagged and drooped in front of him, relieved of his intense erection by the attention he’d received, but his eyes now catching the small firm hard-on rising up at a funny angle against Christian’s toned tummy. `Come on handsome,’ he told him pleasantly, `let me at that…’ And he pulled up on Pulisic’s arms with authoritative firmness, getting him to his feet and then guiding him quite firmly back to the wall. He grabbed his cock and pulled on it two or three times then shot down to his knees, spreading his thighs so he could get really low and close, and kissed his mouth to the circumcised American prick, short but chunky, and sucked urgently on him. Pulisic let out gasps and whines, so turned on clearly, and Ben rolled his tongue and lips around his member, knowing this wouldn’t take much time or effort. He pushed his palms up against the tight six-pack of the winger, pressing him into the clammy warm tiles of the wall, bobbing his handsome head back and forward, as determined to finish off this cute twink as he had been to splutter his own seed inside Werner’s filthy mouth. Soon he was swallowing his first taste of American cum, and tenderly rolling his lips about the head to tease out each drop, holding Christian in place as he finished him off, his own cock and balls still tingling happily, and his body aching for the hot splash of a shower and its relief. When he knew the cute American had fully finished, he pulled back, laughing softly, then using Christian’s legs and waist to drag himself up to his feet. `Fuck that was good,’ he informed him warmly, giving him his dimpled grin. Pulisic nodded rapidly. `Wow,’ he murmured, `that felt good… so good…’ `You’re a sweet one ain’t you?’ Chilwell chuckled charmingly, tweaking one of his stubbled cheeks then backing away from him, desperate to wash the sweat and mud from his naked body. `Now if you don’t mind, I better shower down, America… Why don’t you go see who Tiny Timo is fucking, eh? Don’t worry… I think maybe he likes you too…’ As Pulisic went to pass him, all glowing blushes and nervy smiles, he patted him comfortingly on his rounded ass, then moved over to the nearest showerhead, punching life into its switch and drenching himself in a rush of heat. `Right,’ said Grealish. `So you got noshed off by two lads and then you noshed one of `em.’ `Yeah,’ Ben said, after a pause. `What?’ `Nothing. Cool. Sounds fun.’ `Jack?’ `Yeah, cool, glad you’re making friends…’ `Jack, baby…’ He stopped watching the City-Leeds game on the screen and stared down at the saved profile pic of his grinning goateed Brummie boy on the screen of his Iphone where his tinny telephonic voice emerged. `Are you… jealous?’ `What? No. What? Nah, course not, I just-` `J, matey,’ Chilwell chuckled uncertainly down the line, sitting up a little and sipping his craft beer, `it was just a fun thing cos I’d done so well, y’know, it was just one of those moments, and…’ `Yeah, yeah, course,’ the Villa player said a little quietly and distantly, and Ben could hear the strain in his voice, the notes of annoyance and surprise having heard a little summary of what went on in the Home showers of Stamford Bridge. `I just didn’t think you were — I mean, I’m just surprised that…’ He trailed off and went quiet but Ben could hear his huffing breaths in the cold damp night. Ben took a moment to steady himself before saying more, but he could feel his own little private sting of annoyance. `Wait, what about summer?’ he asked with a little edge to his voice. `What about… you and your lads’ holiday, and…?’ He paused, stopping himself, not happy with how that was coming out, but then hearing Jack’s quick and petulant voice come back at him. `So what, tit for tat?’ the young captain barked down the line. `What? No — I just mean… are we… are we exclusive, I didn’t even…?’ `Well nah,’ Grealsih grunted, `we’re just friends ain’t we, nothing major, so…’ `Jack,’ Ben said in a testy tone, not really having the mood or energy for an argument or a deep-and-meaningful tonight, worn out and sliding towards sleep. `Look, it was just a bit of laugh with a couple of lads, I only told you cos I thought you’d…’ `Look Ben, I should probably go,’ Grealish huffed quietly, `it’s freezing out here and my balls are shrinking to acorns. I need to go see how the lads are doing and get to my room, big day tomorrow for us, so…’ `Yeah, yeah,’ Ben said uncertainly, then just as we was about to form an uncertain apology on his lips, the line cut out with a little beep and the speakerphone call was over; his Jack was gone to sulk, irritated at him and his behind-the-scenes antics, gone from gushing praise to petulant distance in a few moments of stupid storytelling. He sat there with the phone resting on his abdomen, mouth still half-open with the words he’d wanted to throw — both pleading apology and resentful counterargument. On screen, one of the best teams in Europe drew level with newly promoted underdogs, and he stared impassively at the outcome, no longer interested. He was thinking about how much fun he’d had in the showers earlier on, surprisingly serviced by strange aloof Werner and then playing more freely with cuddly Pulisic — so much fun, but… at what cost?

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