Part 188: Villa Victorious
He needed to get his head in the game, prepare himself to lead his troops into an underdog battle against last year's Premiership winners. But it was hard. All his brain cells wanted to was rattle backwards to last night's little almost-spat and the fitful night it had ushered in for him. The 25-year-old winger adjusted the undersized fit of his white shorts and tucked his tight lycra under-shirt more firmly into their tight narrow waistband before picking up his Aston Villa Number 10 shirt and wriggling inside it so he could, for a moment, hide his surly and nervous facial expressions from the expectant eyes of his teammates.
After the phone call, there had been a bit of back-and-forth with Chilwell, a sulky non-dialogue between the football studs; he hadn't meant to be so snappy and petulant but his disappointment and envy had leaked through in every terse message, every dismissive emoji, his refusal to send a selfie or a dick pick when jokily pushed. He'd behaved like a real bitch, he knew, snapping at Benjamin just cos he'd enjoyed himself a little bit -- but he'd meant it, felt it, he'd been really pissed off by the way the new Chelsea defender just casually tossed the fact of his independent sex life at him over the telephone after he'd spent twenty minutes bigging up his favourite left-back...!
The last message he'd received from the younger sportsman, which he had been too angry and self-righteous to actually respond to, had been a surly one from Chilwell: ok, be lyk that, gunna go this party for Tammy then n have even more fun -- wiv ppl who kno how to chill!!111!' He could hardly believe Ben had messaged him that, he must have been drunk at that point, right? And the party... even Jack, from what he'd heard from Ben and others, knew it was likely to spill over the rule of 6'. He'd felt no shock but plenty of distant upset when he saw the leaked pictures today and heard of the rouble Chilwell was skirting with already, pictured at the small but illegal `surprise' gathering for his celebrating Chelsea teammate.
Today, gripped with a mixture of pious indignation and inarticulate embarrassment, the Villa captain had held off calling or messaging -- initially assuming that Ben would get in touch with him to apologise or complain or seek comfort. But no contact from the defender came, even as the pictures of his party leaked and the press smeared his name as yet another lockdown troublemaker -- a burn Grealish obviously knew too well from his own early quarantine mistake. The mistake that, in its own weird way, had really taken him into Chilwell's bed for the first time...
Into his bed and now stuck in his head. Jack slicked a hand back along his hair as he straightened up his posture and glanced about the busy Home changing rooms of Villa Park, trying to stop wondering if Ben was okay and then ricocheting to thoughts like hope he chokes on Timo's stupid German cock' or if only the stupid tabloids knew the worst of his misbehaviour yesterday!' He knew he was being unreasonable, knew there was a special laddish hypocrisy to his annoyance after the way he'd carried on at times this year, and yet...
`Come on, time,' came the barking voice of Dean Smith's assistant manager, taking up his usual duties of revving up the lads and clapping aggressively as he moved between them, hurrying the final stages of kitting up so that they could file out onto the home pitch and face off against the reigning Liverpudlian champions.
Grealish bit back his emotions, annoyed at himself for being so irritable and distracted, rolling his shoulders and jerking his neck from side to side. He caught the eyes of one then another player, nodding encouragingly to the team newbies nearby, and to experienced allies like massive Ming and grinning McGinn. Come on Jack, he told himself angrily, get over it, don't be such a little bitch -- you've got a team to lead and a game to win.
Ross Barkley shot an intense look down the row at the fidgeting, energetic figure of his 25-year-old new captain, a far more charismatic and dynamic figure than he was used to with Chelsea's seasoned Spanish skipper -- it was strange, he thought, for someone as boyish and exuberant as young Jack to strap that armband about the bicep of his shirt, but he obviously had a lot of respect for Grealish. Who didn't? Local boy done good, a true hero to his supporters -- Barkley dared to wonder if he might have acquired a similar cult status if he'd hung on at Everton for longer rather than trying his luck on the pitches of London.
Nah, nah... this chilly Sunday night was not the time to dwell on that!
The Villa debutant picked up the fresh new footy shirt, Number 20, and unfolded it in the shaky strength of his bruised hands. His beady eyes roved the busy room as their assistant manager barked on, and he tried to read how confident or sure the different guys here were feeling. There was a surprisingly buoyant mood for lads about to face the opposite end of last season's table! A team that had scraped past relegation about to host the `Unbeatables'. Barkley's own sense of Scouse rivalry added extra intensity to the knowledge of this unlikely shot at 3pts.
Nah, he couldn't be getting caught up in his own wistful regrets or his simmering resentment of being farmed out like this at almost zero notice from moody old Lampard.
Ross stretched out the new shirt, its contrasting colours still feeling jarring and weird below his eyes as he thrust his muscular upper arms inside it and dragged it down onto his body, covering the tight claret lycra that enclosed his chest and trunk. Below the hem of the top he was still just in the tight dark red sports briefs he'd pulled on, and he turned his back on the room to unfold the new shorts too, glad they were a bit more comfortably sized than those preferred by certain notable teammates at his new squad...! Ross could never get away with anything below XL in his footy shorts, acutely aware of certain assets that made grounded him on the pitch but caused all sorts of nuisance when it came to his wardrobe, his big northern arse.
Ross stepped one and then the other leg into the white shorts, dragging them up and realising that yep, they were still pretty tight across the protruding muscles of his rear, but not uncomfortably so -- and was he really so shy of that chunky backside now as he'd been a year or two ago...? Things had, erm, shifted a little in the past twelve months...
But that was behind him, he resolved adamantly, oblivious to his mental pun. New start here, new kit, new lads. He stretched out his thick furry thighs and adjusted the crotch of his shorts before turning round and fixing the determined warlike expression on his face, matching the defiant and ambitious mood of the room as one by one the lads began to file out at Terry's command, the boss himself out in the dug-out already whilst his 39-year-old assistant saw the squad members out into the tunnel, one at a time; he barked aggressively in their faces as they passed and slapped them hard on the upper back, thrusting a fighting spirit into them as they headed out their to the Sunday night game. Ross looked him in the eye and nodded with his jaw set in a tight grimace of preparation, glad of the firm blast of the assistant gaffer's hand on his nape.
`Let's win this,' the Scouse attacking midfielder barked confidently at one of his most senior new coaches, squaring his thick shoulders and clapping his hands roughly together in subconscious imitation of the East London fella's encouraging style.
`Let's fucking get it,' the Barking lad and Chelsea legend growled at him, hurrying him on out into the tunnel and turning to grab roughly and encouragingly at the next Villa player in the tunnel.
The muscle of the prime athlete's upper back felt hard and hot beneath the glossy layers of his kit, and John Terry let his hand linger there a fraction of a second too long, enjoying the feel of it beneath his slapping palm and fingers then pushing the Scouse kid onwards into the tunnel, dismissing him with the same furied energy as each other young lad. He enjoyed this, being the more warlike assistant to the calmer tactician of Smith, here to hype up the aggressive Villa players as they moved out towards the pitch.
And yet, for a moment, his mind was distracted again from the job at hand, glancing out into the tunnel after the club's new loan star, Ross Barkley -- looking at the way those fresh white shorts hug his broad hips and the strong curves of his rear, so pronounced and held by the pale nylon as he strutted on down the passage whilst flexing each limb in turn and winding his torso in a private warm-up. Sure, his new shorts weren't so indecently brief as those of the young skipper -- Terry's eyes skimmed ahead to the front of the line just as loveable Grealish burst out into the floodlights in the lead, his short legs already riding up the tanned gold of his fluffy thighs and bunching between the peachy cheeks there.
And John's eyes snapped urgently back to the lad at his side, correcting himself from his view, but starting a little as he found it was John McGinn beside him now, grinning eagerly in his slightly goofy youthful manner -- the ex-Chelsea defensive beast couldn't help but snarl bitterly at the cheeky Scotsman, hating him for the memory of his tight delicious hole closing about his own thick baton. He gripped him by the shoulder, locking eyes and daring him to grin any more winsomely or meaningfully at him, digging the tips of his fingers and thumbs angrily into the muscle beneath the Villa shirt. Get out there,' he barked dismissively at him, and stop fuckin' grinning like a fool, Glasgow.' And he pushed him roughly out there into the tunnel, not wanting to meet his bright eyes for a second longer, reminded of the way he'd dominated the little midfield bitch in summer, the way he'd fucked him to tears on the meeting table with the help of several others, the way he'd SHARED him with his oldest and closest wingman!
`I'm so fucking buzzing,' chirped another youthful voice to his left and JT looked grimly over at the next player, one of the final few emerging from the lockerrooms and bracing themselves for what almost seemed an unwinnable game. It was another of the new faces, he realised, young Matty Cash, and behind him Olly Watkins -- two lads who had been lifted from the lower leagues to enter the Premiership rat race in Villa's ranks, and the novelty of the transfer brimmed in their confident smiles and eagerness to prove their mettle.
Terry clapped his hand firmly to first Cash's and then Watkin's shoulders, slapping the two hardworking youths out into the tunnel and following them a pace later, unable to find meaningful words to say to the two buggers but awash with aged admiration for their efforts. But again, his eyes slid down, as he took slow stomping steps down the tunnel with them, fixing not just on the names and numbers on the backs of their shirts, but the tight round buttocks enclosed in glossy white -- in a corner of his oversexed brain, the 39-year-old married man was still remembering how tight and intense McGinn had felt back there when he ploughed him once, twice... how many times in total, in the final weeks of the protracted season, before reaching desperate abstinence in the break...?
It had been that night in London, confronted by needy confused Frank. He pictured that brief but bloodied meeting between the two old comrades on the streets of the capital, the way they'd grabbed and thumped at each other in the aftermath of discovering a shared penchant for throwing their dicks into the wrong team. Horrified by Lampard's presumptuous advances, Terry had seen his own dangerous lust reflected in a contemporary, and shied away from what it really meant for him. When he'd ended things with Hazard and left Chelsea for good, he'd known then that this was wrong and destructive for him -- it was bad enough that he couldn't stop fucking other women, never mind lads...!
He was a changed man, a good married fella, a loyal hubby... a manager in training, big ambitions on his senior horizons now that his playing career was properly over. Too much was at stake here as he helped to steer Villa through another safe season in the Premier League. This was his test and his opportunity! So the last thing he needed was to be drooling over the pert buttocks of smug little tits like Cash and Watkins and Grealish and... Barkley...
Seven goals later, they were all back in those same rooms, clamouring with disbelief and gloating with the thrill of their win over Liverpool. Presumably the visitors were already hurrying out of the grounds, the game having finished almost an hour ago, but no sooner had the Villa players got back here into their changing rooms than the boss himself had dragged several coolers of beer out of nowhere and called it a party.
Here in the sporting venue, the strict rules on gatherings were blurred by their professional work, but they all knew they were pushing those lines. But this wasn't a party or a night out at some bar, this was a few (half a dozen already in some cases) cooled bottles of Bud in the changing rooms and shower facilities, a secretive behind-the-scenes celebration from a management team that just could not get their head around what had happened out there.
Several of the lads had hushed the chants, songs and yapping of the excited Villa squad and played live footage of pundits and fans reacting to their 7-2 win over the Scousers, provoking more madness and unadulterated joy amongst the sweat-drenched Birmingham team in their own private quarters. The exiting Liverpool athletes must have heard their celebrations loud and clear on their way past and out, but who could resent them their horseplay now? They knew they were one of several Premiership upsets this weekend, but what could compare to their surprising victory?!
Nobody in those rooms could appreciate the moment more than their captain, surely. Jack Grealish, having whipped in two out of seven of the goals himself, moved through the busy gathering of his teammates as if he was walking on air -- it felt sacrilegious to even think it but this moment felt more important and affirming than the last win in the summer that had guaranteed their top-flight safety and protected them from relegation to the lower leagues. This win, tonight, against the champions, felt like complete and utter validation of his strange choice to stay put and tie his future to a team at the bottom of the League.
The Brummie lad couldn't wipe the thick smile from his chapped lips, sweat beading on his high plump cheeks and his tanned brow, his hair slicked tightly back and another of the warming beer bottles clutched in his hand as he knocked elbows and grabbed fists with lad after lad, keen to be the perfect captain on this big night, and really acknowledge this as a whole-team performance.
In the dying moments of the game, when Grealish had watched the astounded Liverpool players begin to slink back to their horrified manager, and the empty stands had seemed to silently scream with the intensity of the missing fans, only one sliver of thought had bothered Jack the lad: he wanted to know whether Ben had sat and watched it, what he thought. He wanted to speak to Chilly and shout his success down the phone at him, share the raw boyish joy in his chest with the most important fella in his adult life... but nah. He'd checked his phone rapidly while slugging back his first beer, provoking some mockery from the other lads who assumed he was checking social media or wanting to post a handsome selfie -- he could hardly admit he was looking for a congrats text from his boyfriend, then utterly winded when his inbox was genuinely empty.
So he'd knocked back his beer and then another had been pushed into his hand by Targett and a third tossed at him by brash Irishman Hourihane; by that point Jack had been bolshy and drunk enough to crack the lid off dangerously with his teeth and now, teetering half-dressed about the locker-room and straining his vocal chords to join in with another round of singsong, he was knocking back his sixth. His shirt and boots off, shorts and socks sticking to his thick buttocks, thighs and calves, the muscular young England debutant strolled like a proud cockerel and grinned between the ecstatic faces of the boys.
The problem, swirling about his insides with too much beer, was that his pang to speak to or hear from Chilwell just stoked the fire of his jealous resentment and indignation. It made him want to throw himself into this even more: the way some of the lads slung bare arms at each other and danced on the spot, swearing and blasting into video calls to friends and family; the way even the boss and his assistant were being heckled and grabbed into the partying, beer poured all over Dean Smith's silver hair and down John Terry's tight tracksuit; the way every single fucker in this room called him Captain and acted like the win was HIS and not EVERYONE'S.
Jack the lad was drunk not just on the team's seven goals, but on his own importance, the status and authority he'd clung to when he signed his new Villa contract at the end of the summer. He loved it, to be so young but so respected and admired, to be so celebrated as Birmingham's finest son!
Even now, he noticed, Ty Ming and John McGinn were hollering for him, waving him over towards the final contents of the cooler boxes, insisting that he grab another Budweiser and down it for their entertainment; the tall black lad towered there with the rock-hard sculpture of his torso on show for all, finely tattooed, shaking a fist in the air and chanting for his skipper -- and next to him, the littler Scotsman staring this way with a lovesick expression that made Jack feel a small twist of guilt, and a bigger twist of selfish lust.
He could have either of those lads tonight if he wanted, or both, he thought. It wouldn't even take a word to get John McG back to his city apartment, it would just take the right look or tilt of his handsome head, that silly Scottish fucker was still as mad for him as he'd been all along, right? And big Ming, the defensive giant that he was, well he was way more curious than he let on, for sure, had been very keen to reach out a helping hand when the lot of them were playing under JT's supervision that afternoon... he glanced to the right now, finishing the beer in his hand, and spotted the assistant manager himself, sat in a corner with the other coaches, a little red-faced with drinking and laughing heavily at some in-joke. Grealish wondered with a greedy smugness whether he could just as easily secure a bit of one-on-one time with the second-in-command, draw the erratic and intimidating Cockney out of his married shell -- he'd watched him fuck McGinn to pieces and heard from the excited Glaswegian that it happened several more times after that. Maybe terrifying and exciting Terry would want to fuck HIM?
That would show that smug handsome prick, his bitter inner voice told him, if I gave my peach to that arrogant tosser, or to Ty or John or...
But then he spotted another lad lurching across his vision, following after Hourihane and cackling in his raspy Merseyside way at the drinking song the 29-year-old Irishman was booming out. Like Jack, Ross had his shirt off and his shorts still on, the pale brown core of his body on show and glistening with the sweat left behind by their stripped kit tops. Jack looked at his 6ft2 athletic frame, this Chelsea import who had also contributed to their stellar win, and he thought about how shocked he'd been that stupidly drunk night on the sand in Dubai at the start of this year. He'd been fumbling madly in the dark with Chilwell and Madders, but Ross and Mason, wow...
Suddenly, the drunken winning football captain knew exactly what he needed to exorcise his so-called lover's misbehaviour and dismissive attitude. Grealish was a fucking winner tonight and he deserved anything he wanted, and what he wanted was stomping across the changing room with sweat dripping from every muscle, and his shorts tight around his huge white buttocks.
Barkley laughed with reckless abandon into the fold of his bare arm, shaking his head at Hourihane's impression of Frank Lampard and backing off from the banter of the fellas, totally in love with his key part in a winning new team, but not quite ready to treat the team that owned him with total ridicule like the rest of these underdogs; he'd been well up for the anti-Liverpool banter, but now they were laying into Chelsea and City and United, he felt silly and hypocritical. He'd quit his home team for those big money bell-ends, he couldn't pretend not to be a Premiership sell-out!
Drunk like the others but not quite so inebriated -- he was a big guy who could take a lot of booze, and he still had a certain level of newcomer caution holding him back from being as messy and loud as some of the more established lads in the room -- Ross fell back against a wall, pressing his overheated muscles into the cool flat tiles and steadying himself from the dancing and chanting and shirt-whipping antics of the winners.
A fresh cool bottle, one of the last going around, was suddenly pressed into the outside of his arm, its firm cold surface rolling against his tricep and shoulder muscle in a ticklish gesture; he looked to the right and saw the equally tall broad figure of the assistant manager leaning his way, giving him the same intensely warlike look that he'd received on his way out of the changing rooms moments before kick-off. `You made your mark,' JT remarked, his gruff voice a little quiet beneath the roar of the room.
`I tried,' Ross said, trying to sound humble but unable to hold back the boastful smile. It had felt great to play a full game and to take such a prominent role in the formation -- he'd been a second-half spare for more months than he remembered at Chelsea, even after using his physicality to secure the interest of his gaffer.
You're gonna be great here,' muttered Terry at him. You might just be here for a loan, fella, but this might be the making of you --and then, with a knowing leer that could have meant one of a million things, he suddenly hissed,Frank Lampard doesn't know what he's let go of does he, the dumb cunt...?' It was just for a second, but Ross could have sworn there was a dark glitter in the ex-defender's eyes and grin then, something lewd and suggestive; but nah, that was just his own guilty paranoia at the ways he'd degraded himself for attention and career prospects at Stamford Bridge... wasn't it?
`He was a good boss,' Ross mumbled evasively.
`He didn't play you enough.'
`It's a crowded squad.'
He let you slip away-
`And you guys are benefiting.'
He'll regret loaning you out,' Terry said darkly, and there it was again, or was it? Ross just stared at him back, still beaming with a victory smile, but uneasy with the closeness of the assistant manager and the way he still pressed this freshly opened beer bottle into his arm, then thrust it into his hands, rubbing his fingers over his bulging knuckles for a second before pulling back. You're one of us now, Barks,' grunted JT strangely, and he jerked away at some call of his initials from the proper boss or somebody, disappearing into the throng and leaving Barkley stood holding the beer to his bare chest, gladder of its cool touch than its potential sour taste.
And then contact to the left, now, but not another cool bottle, a hot grasping hand reached over his shoulder and to his thick neck. Ross the Boss, Ross the Boss,' chanted his new captain, hugging in against him in a laddish gesture, distinctly shorter than him but reaching on his socked tiptoes to stand neck and neck as he grabbed him again. Quality work brother, QUAL-IT-TEEEEE.' He squeezed at his neck and belched near his face, then clashed a near-empty bottle against the full one in Barkley's hands, making its mouth fizz and overflow with beery froth. You have well and truly fuckin' arrived,' the bold Brummie informed him. Can't fuckin' wait to have you playin' at my side all season long, Barks, really mate...!'
Instantly, Barkley forgot that darkness in Terry's eyes, dismissing it as stupid paranoia, wary but respectful of the team's deputy leader. Instead, he was fixating on this sweaty lad beside him, gripping at his side and slurring out his compliments and epithets -- he'd been tactile and congratulatory with him throughout the 90 minute masterclass, but was he just excited about that goal, or...?
Yeah,' he purred thoughtfully, pushing the bottle to his lips and spilling some of its brown liquid contents over his lip and chin as he slugged it back, eyes fixing on the impish goatee and wide brown eyes of the skipper. Ross the Boss,' he said, echoing the Brummie bloke's words, `and Jack the lad.'
A sort of loud drunken gulping noise from Grealish, pawing at his upper back and pulling his face close enough to whisper. `You wanna get out of here for a minute, pal...?'
John Terry was doing his best, he really was: stop checking out the lads in here, stop objectifying them like this, stop thinking with your fat sweaty cock, you middle-aged dog! There was so much to celebrate here and it was brilliant to let his hair down with the other senior coaching staff, it really was, but he was excited and tipsy and testosterone was pounding through his thickset body like a drug. Now especially, as the small beer supply finally ran out, and more and more of the lads started taking long-delayed showers.
He was stood in the centre of the dressing room now, clutching an empty glass bottle in one hand and a battery-dead tablet device in the other, beer-warm enough to openly stare around him at the sprawl of his team's manly players.
Those two excited youngsters were spilling by him right now. Matty Cash, stripped down to a pair of skimpy black briefs, his body lean and ripped as he writhed past with a towel in one hand, his blond-brown hair flopping about in lank sweaty curtains. He took his grey towel and flicked it venomously against the bare brown bottom of Olly Watkins, making the 24-year-old striker giggle stupidly and scamper ahead, naked with his balls swinging visibly, into the entrance to the communal showers. Cash peeled away his briefs before hurrying to follow, towel pulled lazily shut about his waist but at an angle that left his pert red cheeks on show for a horribly enticing few seconds.
And just as those two hot new Premiership talents, snatched out of Championship obscurity, disappeared into the hot steam, another player emerged, young Brazilian lad Douglas Luiz emerging with his folded towel still dangled over one broad shoulder and rivulets of water coursing from his short fuzzy hair and thick neck down over his sculpted caramel muscles about his bare privates as he emerged to dry off and dress.
Terry, unable to stop himself, moved closer to the showers and stood there by the entrance, while behind him a few towel-clad players started singing another chant that they'd seen on a social media video by fans: `We want eight! We want eight! We want eight!' The seasoned football legend hovered at the thick arched entrance of the showers, pressing one hand to it, and stared into the murky steam of the team showers, spotting again the firm rears of Matty and Olly, flicking hot soapy water at each other and making echoing chuckles of laddish mirth.
With a dizzy rush to the head -- and a dizzier rush of blood to the crotch of his tight dark tracksuit bottoms, where his cock and balls were squashed into place by loose grey boxer shorts -- the assistant manager backed away from the view of the scattered lads in the showers, but behind him he seemed to be offered a literal row of bare back muscles and chunky arse cheeks, a whole menu of bottoms that he wanted to pin to the wall and-
Air, he needed air! Sickened by the clammy heat of the locker-rooms, John launched himself towards the exit doors and the draughty cool of the tunnel, needing to separate himself and the three beers he'd drunk from the macho atmosphere and bare slipper bodies of the party-turned-showers...
Jack looked blearily at him, tugging on his arm, leading him further into the quiet private space; through the empty Away changing rooms where the Liverpool lads must have scowled and sulked and swore, through them and beyond, into the little network of recovery and treatment rooms that the defeated visitors probably hadn't even bothered to use tonight, desperate as they were to pile into their coach and get out of Villa Park.
Grealish tittered at the naughtiness of this, sneaking into the abandoned Away quarters when he should be showering with his teammates and making the most of the celebratory mood. But his cock was stiffening in his briefs, pulling his undersized white shorts even more tightly around his lower body, and Barkley's arm felt hot and strong in his grip as he tugged him around another corner and into this quiet spot where a black leather massage bed dominated one side of the alcove.
Ross the Boss,' he sniggered again, too drunk and excited to speak much sense. Fuckin' hell Ross, get in here... get here...' He turned his back to the bed and wrapped his hands at the bigger lad's hips, feeling the size and strength of his body loom up against him and leaning in to kiss him somewhere in the centre of the chest, tasting his salty goodness on the skin, tinged with spilled beer.
He'd always wondered if what he'd seen under the moonlight in Dubai that night was a one-off, an inebriated experiment -- clearly not, the way Ross had leered clumsily at him and followed him out of the changing rooms and away from the eyes and ears of the other Villa guys, sneaking away with Captain...
He licked his chest a little more and dipped lower, to the right, finding a hard nipple with his lips and swirling the tip of his tongue over it in arcs that made deep moaning laughs shake out of the other lad, whose hands were in his hair and on his neck and his shoulders, moving with a roughness that Grealish hadn't really experienced since he was dominated by those City defenders way back in the early days of his experimenting.
`Fuck,' drawled Barkley above and beside his head, grabbing even more roughly, almost too roughly, at his head and his shoulders, pulling him this way and that, dragging his lips and tongue away from his nipple and pushed him back, not at the comfortable black leather of the treatment bed, but into the hard boards of the wall.
The 6ft2 attacking midfielder pressed against him but didn't come face to face, denying him the kiss he wanted, but he played his lips against the bottom of his thick neck and across one bulging shoulder, then back down onto that gently curving pec to suck on the teat of his bullet hard nipple, and then over... pushing his bicep up so he could dip his lips and nose into the strong manly cave of his armpit, then sliding down more, sliding his back and arse down the wall, onto the floor... grabbing and pulling at the shorts right down past his knees, releasing those loaded dark briefs that he'd ogled for a few distracted seconds as they dressed before the game...
Get it out,' the Villa captain gasped greedily, get that thing out for your captain...'
`Say please,' came Ross's throaty chuckle, all power and strength.
Jack did not comply, he just grabbed for what he wanted, snatching at the tight fabric of the undies, so damp with sweat still, and wrenching down the same way he'd pulled on the shorts. Barkley's cock and balls were loosened with a tiny drip of sweat against his patient thin face, and he reached up and forward to kiss the dick immediately, glad of its size. It was easily as thick as Ben's, maybe thicker, but maybe not so long -- stop thinking about Ben, that dick deserves this, he's been a real cunt this weekend, so...!
Barkley was taking more control now, pressing one palm down on top of his head to hold his face in position as he pushed his stiffening prick in, its thick head finding its way between his half-open lips and the girthy rod pressing into the hot wet hunger of his mouth. He sighed and gurgled and opened wider, taking the hot thick prick inside his mouth, rolling his tongue against the head and foreskin, tasting an even more intense flavour of what he'd licked from chest and nipple and pit.
Jack's own dick throbbed in his shorts and he jerked it through the white, his peachy bottom squashed down at the floor of the treatment room, stretching his short torso upright so he could lick and suck at the Scouse hard-on, eyes squeezed shut and enjoying the deep manly noises of the Chelsea loan man as much as his sweaty rich flavour.
He was excited and submissive but he felt entitled to more, captain as he was! Ross was the newbie here, he was the skipper! He kissed and licked at the dick more but scrambled upwards, planting his lips to the tummy of the thick-bodied Scouser, clawing his flanks as he pulled his own body up and clung to Ross's strong figure. Your dick is beautiful,' he rasped at his new ally, the powerful attacker who had played so close to him all the way through that big win. You big fuckin' stud,' he trilled, clumsy with his accent and the beer.
`Yeah?' gasped Barkley, pushing roughly and tugging on some of his hair, yanking at his head and neck and manhandling him roughly into the wall then twistingly to the right, crashing against the bed as both men's hands wandered and dragged and slapped.
Yeh,' Grealish groaned, yeah so much... put it in me, Barks, put it inside me?! Fuck me -- fuck me -- fuck me like you fucked Mason...'
`Don't mention him,' snapped Ross oddly.
Okay, okay,' Jack whined, but FUCK ME, please...' And no sooner had he begged it than his body was losing control, those stronger hands of those powerful limbs were twisting and shoving him so his face and arms fell against the bed, dragged and shoved into place and his arse being squeezed so roughly through his shorts, taut over those perfect cheeks. He whimpered and gasped and felt his ring tighten and contract.
`You want it up ya, captain?' growled the newest Villa lad aggressively.
`Fuck me!' Grealish whimpered, and he felt like he was hearing himself saying it, on a different occasion in a very different setting. The memory was blurred with many others but he was picturing hay and undergrowth and rotting wood, the collapsed interior of an abandoned barn... he was on his back and his hole was throbbing and in his mouth he could tasty the minty cool breath of Benjamin, and...
He felt his shorts yanked back over the plump bulge of his bum, his briefs going with them, the bigger guy's hands grasping at each cheek now, parting them, the vague wet nudge of a cock somewhere on his thigh or hip or... he grasped at the leathery mattress of the treatment bed before him, his chest and chin shoved hard into its surface, but... the mental images flickered and swirled and he saw himself impaled on Ben's massive tool in that barn, fucked with such love and tenderness... and messy images of their riverside picnic and then... oh, fuck...
`No,' he muttered, and pushed back. He felt Ross's confusion and almost resistant grabbing of his body, but he pushed back and scrabbled with his hands until their bodies were falling apart and he was staggering aside. He heard Barkley's hot little gasps of confusion but he couldn't bring himself to turn and look at him; he felt the thrilling terror of knowing that turning and looking at his big strong body and his rock-hard boner would ruin his resolve, would overcome his guilt and love. He staggered weakly at the other end of the flat bed and then away from it to the wall, yanking up on his undies and shorts and covered his pink squashed arse cheeks.
`What?' demanded Ross -- his aggressive commanding voice sounded thin and reedy with panic now, as if scared he'd been too rough or done the wrong thing or got into trouble. Jack couldn't bear to look at him, wanted him so badly right now, but knew this was wrong; as much as he struggled giving up his tight little hole to Chilly, he wanted it to belong to him and only him, he didn't want to slut it around and submit to his new teammate here, not really...
Jack could hear the 26-year-old lad's mumbling scratchy Scouse voice but not the words or sentences, he just felt dizzy and drunk and angry. He staggered down the wall and into a corner, felt Ross draw closer and touch his bare shoulder for a moment; he was speaking rapidly and worriedly but Jack was too sozzled to understand. He shoved Ross away from him, leaned into the wall, and- with all the violent suddenness of any drunken 25-year-old in the gutters of a city centre, the Brummie football captain vomited against the wall.
JT stood for a few long moments in the tunnel mouth, staring out into the heavy rainfall of the empty stadium, even the final signs of media presence switching off and disappearing into faraway corners now. The rain was getting heavier and heavier, crashing down even worse than it had during the game now. The assistant manager stood half beneath the shelter of the entrance and half exposed to the lashing wet winds, glad of its cooling blast on his face and neck and on the fabric of his tight club tracksuit that followed the lines of his tall strong body very well.
A cold shower to calm his fiery hunger.
He stared for another moment at his hand, turning the wedding band around its traditional finger, and biting his lip. In his undies, his cock throbbed and twinged and cried out for his attention. He thought about all those bodies back there, all those hot young lads. For a wistful distant moment, he pictured one lad in particular, an alien presence inserted into his visual fantasy: stood in between Cash and Watkins and the other Villa players, he imagined it was Eden Hazard after all, the Belgian bun who had first triggered his appetite for arse-fucking in the quiet Chelsea showers, all those years ago...
And at that, the middle-aged Cockney had to turn back inside. He was almost hard in his pants now and the outline of his big laddish cock stood out in the dark blue fabric. He marched down the tunnel, glad that their long celebratory drinks had kept them here long after the media or site staff or any of the competition. Ahead of him stretched the tunnel and to the left was the door to the Villa Home rooms, from which he could still hear drunken singing... and to the right, the quiet door into the visitor quarters... aha...!
He needed to wank. John pushed his way through into these empty spaces, marching swiftly across the broad rectangular training room -- past the entrance to the communal shower and to the row of three smaller cubicles that lay beside it, the sort of random instalment included for the sake of the shyest or most diva-like players who wouldn't stoop to wash alongside real men. The ex-defender raced to these frosted glass doors and tugged on the central one, and- Fuck.
Dick hard in his trackies, Terry stared furiously into the little cuboid space and the two bodies interlocked in its shadows. McGinn was pressed into one side, face buried between his forearms, his short pale body twisted into position with his freckled backside pushed far back. The tall stooping frame of Tyrone Ming was almost hunched over his colleague, pinning him there with his cock buried to the hilt in his doughy white cheeks. The tall Somerset sad had turned his head with a little shake of his short dreads, staring guiltily at the real alpha male of this football hierarchy, frozen still in the middle of pumping the Scottish sub. Terry stared back, a vein throbbing in his temple; he grabbed the glass door and shoved it loudly shut again, hiding the secret fuck once more from prying eyes, ready to pretend to himself and the world that he'd never found it.
Haunted by the pleasures of the male body, the Chelsea legend backed away from the shower cubicles, back into the centre of the changing room. His cock ached, fat and solid and tenting at his tracky bottoms where it forced away from his pelvis. He took long deep breaths and hoped Ming and McGinn didn't emerge shamefaced from their cubicle, he had no interest in their frantic begging or anxious defence. Behind the steamy Perspex, he heard a little fleshy thump and a couple of knocks then a deep gasp, and he knew they were back at it.
John pulled away, his whole 6ft2 body shaking with anger at himself and his instincts. But his path was blocked down, because from the other side of the square room, another surprising figure had stepped out of the mixed shadows, motion-sensor lights flickering into existence over their heads. Ross was shirtless and slicked with sweat and looked incredibly worried. But more crucially, he was in the same pose as John, insofar as the outline of his hard-on was fucking obvious inside his football shorts. The two macho men stared at each other, coach and player, old and young, north and south.
Terry didn't speak, he just lunged towards him, grabbed the front of his shorts, and felt it there, the big thick tool in his shorts. He squeezed onto it, checking its size and weight inside the fold of white, while he narrowed his eyes and bared his jagged teeth and glared face-to-face with the big brutish Merseysider, the well-travelled Everton boy. Ross opened his mouth in a silent gasp and just stood very still as Terry pushed down the front of his shorts, released his big bone, and pulled slowly back and forth of it five times in a row.
`He sent you for me?' John whispered in a wild breathy rush.
`What?' Ross murmured back, eyes widening and lips parting in pleasure as John squeezed and dragged on his reddened cock.
`You were his toy, and now you're mine...?' the centre-back demanded through his snarl.
`I'm not -- who -- what do you -- ohhhh...' The big lad looked totally baffled and ashamed but also deeply pleasured, and John couldn't stop tugging and yanking at his cock, having never really bothered to reciprocate the way he'd made submissive lads pleasure his own thick weapon. He stood there, staring into Barkley's beady eyes, controlling his massive manhood and enjoying the vulnerable whimper of his enjoyment.
`Lamps,' Terry hissed, and as soon as he'd said it out loud, he felt the regret, the strange exposure of it. He saw a flicker of recognition or knowledge or suspicion in the Scouser's eyes and he tensed up, his hand freezing still midway down the other fella's shaft. He thought about that message from Frank, that desperate effort to catch him and draw him back in... they'd shared one submissive slut between them and then suddenly his old best mate had been leaping at him like they were star-crossed fucking lovers!
Grunting in anger, John pulled his hand back and let go of the Scouse cock, then pressed both hands roughly into the lad's bare chest, toppling him backwards into the changing room walls, clattering against wooden benches and open lockers. Dick still hard and leaking pre-cum, the Villa assistant manager backed wildly away, haring into the tunnel and straight past the door to the Home changing rooms, away from the men and away from temptation.
While Terry raced dangerously home in his car, at least one beer over the driving limit, speeding towards his big modern mansion and the ego-asserting stand-up fuck of his wife against the kitchen counter, sweating all over her and cumming inside her twice in a row, making her scream and twitch and drip down her inner legs...
While Tyrone filled John's arse with his thick seed and then led him into the Liverpool showers to wash his body and hair with surprisingly tender hands, wanting to look after the goofy 25-year-old in return for the tight ecstasy of his arsehole...
While Jack Grealish remained on his own for a good twenty minutes longer, until he was absolutely sure he was alone in that dark quiet corner of the Away quarters, his hard-on wilting in his shorts and tears rolling down his sweaty cheekbones, long greasy strands of hair flopping down over his brows and tickling his nose, wishing he'd just picked up his phone straight after the game and rang up the only person he wanted to celebrate after all, instead of keeping up this dumb spat just because of his hurt hypocritical ego...
While all this went on, Ross Barkley walked home. He was too drunk to drive his car, too confused and overheated to face a hired taxi; besides, newly arrived in Birmingham, he was still living in a mid-range hotel half a mile from the stadium. The dark streets were wet and empty and the lash of rain on his hot skin was soothing.
Bewildered and distraught at two unexplained rejections in a row by men who had briefly seemed to want nothing more than his cock, the tall strong Scouser had skipped a shower and just pulled clean grey sweatpants and hoody over his match-weary form. The garments were already soaked through and clinging to his muscular torso, limbs and arse just as his soiled kit had a couple of hours ago.
Despite these conditions, a heavy kit bag slung over one shoulder, Ross had pulled his smartphone out and held it in both awkward drunk hands as he marched on down the empty wide roads of the retail estate, just about able to make out the twinkle of his hotel lights ahead of him in the stormy night. He blinked rainwater from his eyes as he strode on, opening up his phone screen and blinking at the message notification that had slid into life there.
He felt so hot and stressed and confused. Tonight had been incredible and he really felt new hope for this loan season, a real sense that it could be a renaissance for his Premiership career; he was already picturing himself storming Villa up the table or returning to Chelsea as a lauded first-team favourite; he saw Southgate picking up the phone and begging for him at the Euros next year. He'd felt so amazing, but his sordid encounters with Grealish and Terry had done much to deflate that sensation -- he didn't really understand what had gone on, but he knew he felt like shit. Unwanted by Chelsea or the men around him, not to mention his ex-girlfriend...!
Ross wiped a wet sleeve over his eyes so he could see better then squinted at the predictable name by the message.
Eric: `well done on that goal you legend, still cant believe u left Ldn tho lol x'
For a moment, Barkley tried to thumb in a reply, but the rainwater on the touchscreen made this impossible, it registered only half of the letters he pushed and he didn't know what words or sentiments he was trying to form anyway. He was drunk and dazed and confused -- and horny. His cock was still semi-hard in the wet layers of his briefs, footy shorts and sweatpants, tingling from Jack's mouth and John's hand. Ross gave up on replying to Eric's text and hit the little phone call icon instead, then brought it up to his ear.
`Huh... hey... Eric... y'alright...?'
`Ross, mate... heh, didn't expect this, erm...'
Well,' he slurred stupidly, you texted me.'
`Haha, I know, just... erm. Good to hear from you. You okay? Where are you? Sounds...'
`Jus' walkin' home, mate, erm...'
`Oh, right, cool. You're okay, yeh? Ross? You sound...'
`Bit drunk,' he chuckled foggily.
`Right.'
`And kinda horny. Haha.'
Oh. Right. Hah. Nice.' A pause on the phone line though the wind and rainfall made its own cacophony on the quiet Birmingham streets where he stomped along, in through the sliding glass doors and across the empty unmanned hotel reception. You're horny and you rang me?' asked Dier's quietened and hesitant voice on the end of the line, Ross holding the phone firmly to his damp face as he piled into the elevator and punched haphazardly at floor numbers until one took him in the right direction. And then, `Are you alone, Barks...?'
`Yeh,' he grunted, on the way down the corridor to his room.
`Oh, cool -- me too, haha. Just having a recovery night after our big win... best two teams in the League this weekend, right? Haha... Erm... you still feelin' horny, Ross...?'
Yeah. Yeah.' In his room, he dumped the phone on the bedside table and began to undress, tugging at the sodden materials on his body, tangling his way out of the bagstrap and hoody and out of those sweatpants. Yeah, really fuckin' horny... so many... erm, cockteases, and... heh... just daft wankers, y'know? So was... just... thinking `bout you an' how you erm... you know...' His wet white shorts around his ankles, Ross Barkley fell against the bed, his cool damp body almost naked against the warm clean sheets, his hands pushing into the front of his briefs and finding his semi and his big hairy balls, while Eric's voice came tinny and insistent from the speakerphone by the bed.
`You touching yourself, Barkley...?'
`Huh yeh...'
`Me too, actually, haha, isn't that a funny coincidence... it's so cool that you called, y'know...'
`Mmm... yeh... mm...' He groaned sleepily, pulling greedily at his own cock, collapsed back against the bed and listening to the smooth yet manly tone of the southern lad on the other end of the phone line, murmuring and chatting at him like an invisible friend sharing the hotel bed with him. He cupped one strong hand around his ball-sack and jerked on his cock, waking it back up and trying to finish what the Villa captain and assistant manager had started.
Over the speaker of his phone... `Go on, Ross, wank off for me, imagine it's me doing it again... yeah? That feel good, buddy...? Ross...? Mmm... I'm wanking so hard here, you know, fuck...'
Mmm,' he slurred dizzily, no longer sure if he was alone or if big gentle Eric was really next to him on the bed, holding him and wanking him off like he had at the Tottenham ground on his final Chelsea trip; he imagined his own hand around Eric's dick too, but he realised it was actually just kneading at his own heavy loaded balls after all, so... Mmm, Eric,' he purred needily into the silent dark of his hotel suite, and then with a crackle Dier's voice came back at him from the phone: `Cum for me, Ross mate, go on, let's shoot our loads together...!'
Flat out on his back, drunk and tired and frustrated, the Scouse lad shot a messy load all over himself, spurring glob after glob of thick white cum from his big tool, spotted down his bare thighs and up the rungs of his six-pack, dribbling over his knuckles and the back of his hand. He sighed and moaned and felt his voice mingle with the disembodied whispers and groans coming from the speaker of his smartphone, resting in a tangle of his belongings on the bedside table. He fell asleep moments later, tugging clumsily at what he thought was his lover's body, but discovered to be nothing but a mass of bedding, which he rolled about himself for warmth, not quite hearing the last few words from the phone before he drifted into his beer coma:
`God, that was hot... night, sexy... thank you for that... erm, are you there? Ross? You okay...? Erm. Okay. Good night, fella... er, text you tomorrow, maybe...? Bye.' Click.
SO MUCH GOING ON THERE I KNOW, BUT THOSE BIG WEEKENDS RESULTS NEEDED SOME BIG STORIES... HOPE EVERYONE IS ENJOYING THE NEW TWISTS AND TURNS FOR SOME FAVOURITE CHARACTERS. BUT NEXT... ANOTHER INTERNATIONAL BREAK... YUM