Part 201: Fresh Starts
Jack Grealish woke with the usual fuzzy uncertainty of the early morning, winking open one eye at a time and then blinking them both with sleepy fury. His body felt incredibly relaxed, weightless in fact, like he was waking up from a luxurious dream that he couldn't quite remember. He was stretched out at a slight angle in the spacious white folds of his hotel bed, and he became only slowly conscious of not being alone; the physical awareness of the man beside him dawning on him just like the watery light sneaking under the curtains and in through the half-open bathroom door.
He turned his head a little against the cool fabric of the pillow, realising how chilly the bedroom had actually become. Beside him, a foot or so away, was another face, pressed in at the pillows at an awkward angle with this usually slicked hair fuzzy and loose. A contented smile between Ben Chilwell's short dark stubble seemed to reflect Jack's own mood back at him, and a flash of pale shoulder and chest muscle remained on show where the edge of the blanket fell short of his hunched dozy body. His breathing was heavy and slow, not quite snoring but somewhere close.
With a little sigh, Grealish half-rolled that way, then stopped himself. His left arm jutted beneath the muscular weight of Chilwell's upper body and their legs overlapped a little somewhere beneath the tangle of sheets. It was difficult for the sleepy 25-year-old to move without disturbing the nestled comfort of the slightly younger footballer, and Jack held back from reaching out to stroke his shoulder or his cheek or ducking into angle his vacant face for a good morning kiss. Let him sleep, he thought, remembering how tired out Ben must have been from his game last night before he came trekking up here to North London to...
Jack turned his head a little, shaking it to dislodge long strands of his hair out of his eyes, and looked down his angled body at where his loosened arm lay over the covers. His eyes fixed on the chunky little outline of the sovereign ring on his little finger, burnished gold glinting in the half-light. The memory of that moment took his breath away and made him feel almost uncomfortable and stressed with the deep excitement of it -- a notion that had been so powerful and right in the middle of the night when it was a shared idea, but suddenly terrifying and unlikely in the lonely dawn.
The Birmingham lad separated himself from his bedfellow with care, not wanting to disturb the deep laddish peace of the Chelsea player -- he dragged his arm out from beneath him very gently and rolled his leg away as stiffly as he could, making on the quietest rustle of sheets as he got out of their shared bed and onto his feet, momentarily embarrassed by his own nudity as he slid out into the cool air. He dragged his hair out of his face with both hands, yawned, and moved over to the windows, briefly dislodging the heavy patterned curtains to shut a window and block out the breeze; paused only for a few seconds to scan the grey London skyline then drag the curtains more fully shut again and back off. He could remember them opening this window in the early hours of the night: the room had become far too hot and steamy after their time together and they'd needed the air!
Jack's bottom stung with the happy memory of it, and a seedy little smile played on his lips -- the passion with which the both of them had ricocheted around the room and grasped at each other seemed to well up in his body again, making his low-hanging balls and loose curved cock tingle and the pain in his hole feel so beautifully worth it. Ben had fucked him for so long in the bed and he'd struggled to take it again after such a break in their intimacy, but obviously his man had just been so tender and slow with it to make it work.
You really do have the most beautiful arse in the world.' Ben's voice tutted into his thoughts, quiet and sleepy and instantly making the smile on his lips turn into a full beaming glow. He tensed his rounded bare buttocks then looked over his shoulder, seeing Ben's one open eye fixed on him across the murky room. Chilly shifted in bed, but only a little, and lazily lifted one arm to make a gentle beckoning gesture with a couple of fingers. Come back, babe...'
Grealish paused for a short moment then hurried to the side of the bed and literally lunged in, scrabbling back under the warmth of the covers and wriggling his body across towards the other lad, unable to stop a dirty giggle from his lips. He reached across at the heat of Ben's waist and stomach and then, irresistibly, slipped his hand lower and reached for the dormant weight of his cock and balls, making Chilwell titter and sigh and spread his body out with languor.
`What time is it?' he asked hesitantly.
`I don't even wanna know.'
`Same, same.'
`Give us a kiss, mate...'
Jack leant over and tasted the stale morning breath of his lover, cuddling in next to him with his hand still gently toying with his clammy privates and thinking about last night. He sighed happily and brought his other hand up to roll the covers further up their chests, closing them in the warm nest of bedding and their strong young bodies. Now that his fist was up near them, he saw the light catch the ring again, and the sight of it made him paranoid; the gesture seemed more trivial and daft now, the melodrama of last night replaced by the hot masculine lust that always pulled them together.
`Good job that fits,' muttered Ben sleepily at his side.
`Uh yeah,' Jack responded, realising he wasn't the only staring at it.
Belonged to my grandpa, that,' Ben said in a faraway voice as if he was drifting back to sleep. Best look after it, matey.' One of his hands crawled over Jack's smooth chest, teasing a nipple an just hugging across his torso so he could really cuddle into him beneath the covers.
`You're sure it's okay for me to have it then?' Jack blurted back, his anxieties loosed in his voice.
Yeh -- as long as you actually want it?' Ben reopened his eyes, propping his head up at the pillow, close by. You don't have to wear it,' he added in a smaller voice, sounding worryingly hurt.
No, I do,' Jack told him quickly, pulling him closer. I just... I mean...' Nervous laugh. I wasn't sure if you meant it, y'know, now we've... I mean, when we... well...' He laughed again more awkwardly. Fuck, I ruin any conversation don't I?' he asked in his broad Brummie accent, staring wearily into Ben's grey-blue eyes.
Course I meant it, daft lad,' Chilly told him quietly, reaching down his abdomen and finding his loose semi, stroking it comfortingly as he spoke. Why do you always doubt everything, you plonker? I meant it when I asked you. I mean... I don't know when or fuckin' where, or how we ever tell anyone, but... yeah. I meant it.' His handsome features looked nervous and shy suddenly, none of the laddish bluster that normally shone there. `I think I wanna marry you, you absolute spanner.' He squeezed and tickled his chubby balls and made Jack's dick twitch and stretch with a sigh.
`It's just so mad hearing you say it,' Jack chuckled back sensitively.
Ben was choosing not to say any more now, he was just leaning in and kissing the front of his left shoulder and then across to his chest; Jack lifted his arms in a loose embrace over the guy's back, pulling him in as he kissed and licked at the sparse faint hairs across his chest, making him shudder and sigh. Before he knew it, Chilly was slipping down, disappearing under the covers; he paused after kissing the centre of Grealish's tummy and gave him a cheeky look from his cape of duvet, the fire back in his grin and eyes. Then he was gone into the musty nest and Jack could feel his lips and stubble creep down his pubes and onto his privates, nuzzling then taking in his hard-on and making him push back into the mattress with a deep groan.
Ben, who had seemed barely awake a minute ago, was quick but tender in his attempts to reassure and satisfy, and Jack just lay there and gasped into the cool air, both lost in the moment and reminiscing about last night's lovemaking, the heat and eagerness with which they'd taken each other after their silly regretful separation of sulks and envy. Last night Jack had felt a strong urge to please and serve the 23-year-old, fully blaming himself for his overreaction -- now it all felt equalised and he was reminded that he'd never before known this kinda submissive and needy love. A handsome football star from a young age, he had been very used to girls desperate to please him; and even when he'd first experimented with Ben here and a couple of the Villa lads, he'd been full of his captain's prerogative! The selfless ache to pleasure Benjamin was new, startling, liberating.
But not right now! No, right now he was just stuck on his back with Chilwell eagerly fellating his sweaty morning wood beneath the covers, reaching up for his hands, interlocking their clammy fingers, lips and tongue rolling back and forward over his thick prick. He relaxed entirely, letting go of his mixed guilt and self-consciousness, just enjoying the purity of it.
Ben knew how to please him and it did not take long. Jack wanted to hold back, avoid the selfishness of cumming already, but Ben was insistent, gripping his fists and sucking him almost furiously. He softly cried his name in full as he shot his load, spilling it against the licks of the stud's tongue. He continued to gasp for long moments before Ben was emerging, his lips and chin sticky with goo, climbing on top of him and chuckling triumphantly.
`My turn,' Grealish whined loyally, but Ben shook his head quietly and kissed him once on the cheek.
`If I get caught here, you're screwed,' he said simply, rolling aside and hopping out of the bed in the direction of the bathroom, giving Jack an inverted view of his own window posing; the rippling smoothness of Chilwell's strong back and the round muscular bulge of his peachy cheeks.
He was just so fucking gorgeous, wasn't he? Jack thought about the casual player he had always been in his love life, not just when he was sticking it to every half-attractive girl in Birmingham, but when he was getting his first fuck in a cubicle with little McGinn or opening his cheeks for Drinkwater's tongue by the recovery pool -- messing around in the sun this summer with Alli and co and tumbling to Chilwell full of shame and regret. Here was a guy who just accepted and adored him whatever he did and whoever he was, it didn't even matter about the football or the captaincy, because how impressive were those things to a player of Ben's calibre...?
That gorgeous arse and the gently smirking face attached to it equalled a fresh start for Jack Grealish, and he smiled loyally across at him. He noticed his cock was pleasingly stiff from the enjoyment of giving oral as he strutted to the bathroom door, Jack sitting up and mooning disappointedly after him, wanting so badly to return the favour instantly. But,' Ben pointed out, patting his flat tummy and lingering in the door of the en suite, just cos I need to be away before the team is up... that doesn't mean your fiancé has to shower alone, does it...?'
In the same silvery dawn light, Frank Lampard slipped out of his 4x4 and into the damp concrete of the Stamford Bridge car park. He had little need to be at work today, never mind at such an insanely early time on the morning after a big game, yesterday's home match to Sheffield still echoing in the stands as the Chelsea manager arrived through the autumn mists.
Between the car and the building, he limped a little. He couldn't actually believe how much it smarted, had struggled to find a comfortable position in bed for it; he hadn't really been able to deflect some amorous advances from his freshly bathed wife, but he had been tame and lazy in his efforts with her and frigged her into a sluttish coma of delight, leaving him to lie awake in agitated discomfort, hurting his butt every time he lay on it.
The 43-year-old club manager approached the blocky rise of the football stadium through this eerie mist, glad at least to be out of the house. He'd left bed early after brief snatches of sleep, pacing downstairs and finding himself in the French windows with a black coffee in one hand. He'd examined the little smears on the panels of glass, the handprints and the other little stains, the ghostly confirmation that last night had really happened. And he'd quietly gone outside and wiped it clean, staring guiltily up at the dark windows, finding the garden haunted by the knowledge of his submission to a man, proper submission, so much further than he'd gone with his toying Chelsea players or with his smug cousin. He had opened himself up for John Terry and given up all of his power out here.
Soon after that he'd got in the car and left. There were plenty of excuses -- he did have things to do, stuff that could easily be done in the townhouse study, but there was an alluring safety about the big desk and presitigous office here in the grounds. He rarely used it in reality, being based more commonly in their Surrey suburb training facility, but he liked the pomp and status of his office suite here in the stadium itself. And with all of the restrictions at the moment, the place was near empty, he could sneak in and hide out in that room for as much of his Sunday as he liked; Christine would complain, but he would blame stress and pressure, unfinished contracts, scouting reports, email trails with important links and media representatives. There were a dozen real things on his managerial to-do list that could be blamed even if he ended up spending the morning here just brooding and looking back at old photographs of his playing days, he and Terry arm in arm in their blue kits.
And then he was here.
Lampard was halfway between the vehicle and the doors, jangling a key from the pocket of his puffer jacket, when the manly silhouette formed in the mist and he realised someone was waiting for him by those doors. For a moment he thought it was a member of the site security who would probably still be around, but the height and breadth of the man become obvious and then they were close and he knew exactly who was waiting for him here at this odd time of the morning. Someone who should also still be in bed getting his rest.
Terry gave him a simple nod of greeting, as if it was the most perfectly obvious thing in the world that he should be here at this time, waiting for him.
How did you know?' Frank asked hollowly. How'd you know I'd...?' He heard the faltering weakness in his own voice after last night, the loss of manhood in front of his old pal.
Not many work harder,' John grunted simply, then in a softer voice, I couldn't be sure.'
The Chelsea manager carried on past him in his slow slightly limping gait, undoing the padlock and letting them in through the discreet side-entrance here. Inside, he turned and stared more at JT, saw the ghost of sleeplessness in his face too -- Lampard pictured him returning to the Villa team hotel, tossing and turning over what they'd done together. But, he told himself, that wasn't owt new for big John here, was it? He knew Terry had fucked lads, he'd literally watched him. So...
`Let's go to yer office,' the Aston Villa deputy said to him in a brittle, detached voice.
They walked up there in silence. Gladly, the football stadium was as empty as Lampard had expected. A few clocks on walls reminded him of how obscenely early it was to be here, how strange his departure from bed might be when his wife woke up and wondered at his absence; but also how odd and intense it was for Terry to have come here looking for him. At least he hadn't looked for him at home, causing trouble and raising suspicions of scandal. Frank unlocked and let them into his inner sanctum, the manager's office, and he stared at the desk setup remembering how he'd nervously left it last night to travel to Regent's Park for their unsuccessful confrontation.
Fuck,' muttered the other former player, walking slowly along the long window side, as if you're really sat in here, top fuckin' dog. Funny how things turn out, innit.' He was in a tight-fitting Villa tracksuit now as if already dressed up for his team's Arsenal match this evening. It clung to his broad shoulders and the slight curve of his rear, taut over those long defender's legs. He seemed intensely thoughtful and Lampard wondered what he was really here for. Quietly, he ignored the nostalgic talk and moved to the desk, slipping off his jacket and dumping it on the back of his chair.
Terry was looking this way now. That's it,' he said in a rough little bark, get your kit off.'
`Huh?'
`You heard me. Get it all off.'
Frank paused where he was, momentarily bewildered and then quickly excited. He loved the little East London rasp in Terry's voice and the casual firmness of his commands. He didn't hesitate for long. He reached up to his neck and undid the few buttons of his polo shirt collar, pulled the blue garment up and off himself. He felt unusually self-conscious before Terry's consuming gaze, but he knew he had a very good body for his age, if not as lean and ripped as when they would shower together, share hotel rooms, share women.
`And the rest,' JT said.
Lampard reached down to undo the little drawstring on his Adidas trackies and began stepping out of his soft old trainers, peeling the nylon down his thick hairy legs until he was stood there in just loose grey boxer briefs and mismatched colourful socks. He took long breaths and kept his gaze locked on Terry's mean eyes. Terry remained fully dressed and relaxed in posture, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jersey and legs set apart in a manly pose. `All of it?' Lampard asked, sounding a bit more himself now the game was afoot.
`You heard me, buddy,' said Terry coolly.
Frank did a sock at a time and then pulled off the underpants, stepping away from the desk so that he was stark naked in the centre of his own office, willingly degraded by the casual instruction of his best mate. Terry gave him an appraising look that made his balls tingle and his pulse quicken. Then the other coach was coming over, standing in front of him, and Frank reached out to touch him through his tracksuit; but Terry caught and held his hands in place, teasing and provoking him with the delayed pleasure of proper contact. `Good lad,' sighed the ex-defender with surprising softness.
Fuck,' murmured Frank excitedly, I'm so turned on already, JT...'
John bit his lip and his weathered face seemed conflicted as he replied. `I can feel that. Now turn around. You are my girl, aren't ya?'
Frank paused at this but nodded, willing to be anything Terry wanted. But as he turned away from him and took the two steps back to the edge of the desk, he felt his big naked body tremble with a little flutter of fear. We can't do that again today,' he said in a mumbling tone of apology, it hurts too much man, you know that was my first time, mate, so...' In answer, John was grabbing and pulling at one of his fleshy buttocks, stepping up behind him.
`Hurt ya, did I?'
`Yeah, quite a bit...'
`Worth it, though?'
`Well, yeh, obviously...'
`So why you bitching?'
`John...!'
A harsh smack of that buttock and a lilting laugh. Suddenly Terry was leaning in, his lips and nose rubbing at the back of Lampard's neck. His dick twitched into life and his nipples went stiff. He reached both hand forward to rest on the edge of the desk, bending a little so his plump softly haired backside was pressing into the shapely front of those Villa tracksuit bottoms. His arse still stung and throbbed but would he really say no to second helpings, no matter how painful it might be...?
`All those times we fucked next to each other,' muttered JT with that same nostalgic tone.
Yeah,' Frank murmured, you always outdid me there, you beast.'
`Did I? Dunno. You were pretty wild once.'
He was patting and squeezing at his arse still while he held him from behind, not quite kissing the skin around the top of his spine but nuzzling it so that Frank couldn't stop shivering and his breaths became little excited gasps. `Are you gonna fuck me?' he asked weakly, both longing for and dreading the prospect of that forcefulness again like he'd experienced in his own back garden, fucked against the glass just beneath his dozing wife. He thought of all the girls and women he'd seen beneath Terry's powerful body, squealing at his strength and girth. He was just one of them now.
No,' replied Terry after the most tantalising pause. Not if you're in pain.' He said it bluntly and dismissively but somehow in the moment it felt very tender and caring and Frank was embarrassed by the way it made his balls throb and his chest ache. Then, There was summat else I thought of.' He squeezed really tightly at one buttock and, finally, kissed him on the nape of his neck. What I say you do to that goofy little fucker McGinn.'
Realisation shook Lampard's body with a heady thrill of surprise. `Really?' he asked, hoarsely.
Terry's voice, when he answered, betrayed some anxiety and hesitation beneath his burly alpha male persona, grasping Lampard's cheeks possessively and whispering near his ear. `Will you let me, mate?'
`I'm yours,' Lampard whimpered back, aware of how pathetic he sounded but glad when Terry's immediate response was to bite possessively at his shoulder muscle and squeeze even more tightly on each of his buns. And then the man was moving downwards, his tracksuit crinkling a little, his hands sliding aside and his mouth pecking in little kisses at the broad sweep of his back and down to the top of his crack. Again Frank thought of the scores of ladies: he'd seen Terry go down on a cunt for ages at a time, really to some extent learned his own craft from discreetly observing his younger yet more confident teammate in those seedy hotel room moments of the late 90s and early 00s.
And then, like one of those club rep sluts or cheap prostitutes or some other player's wife, he was getting that tongue; it must be John's first time trying this, he concluded, but wow... Frank's moans were loud and words blurred into each other, leaning forward over the desk and tensing his 6ft body, feeling the strong wet push of that dirty tongue in between his cheek's. At first it stung him where he ached from his lost virginity, but then it became really quite soothing, an itch scratched, just what his throbbing ring needed after being opened up and pounded by this fellow ex-Chelsea beast.
JT worked him from behind, on his knees, making breathy gasps and wet slobbering noises as he did it. Frank leaned further forward, pushing his arse back and lifting it a little, his dick rock-hard now. He reached for it but then one of John's hands was reaching around to stop him, preventing that satisfaction while he was so busy. His tongue felt so strong and supple as it worked around his crack and against his little hole. Frank's moans became almost cries, sobs of frustrated pleasure, a horny thrill he couldn't have imagined when he was waking up weak and agonised in his marriage bed. He gripped the desk and panted weakly into the office air, feeling his cheeks tugged more fully open and that tongue really go for it.
`Oh, mate, oh JT... fuckkk.... Ohhhh...' Finally, he couldn't stand it any more, reached for his cock again; this time, there was no intervention rom the alpha behind him. He tugged for a few moments at his rigid prick and then spilled his gooey load against his fingers, sobbing into the wood of his desk and wondering if this intense pleasure could literally go on forever. Even when Terry had stopped, pulled back, was just gasping behind him and slapping at his cheeks, he felt rocked by waves and waves of orgasmic intensity. His legs buckled and he went to his knees, still leaning at the wood of the desk, but lower down and half-turning so he could see big John getting up to his feet again. His arse still stung and throbbed but the pain was dulled by pleasure.
Terry was removing the impossibly thick weapon from his bottoms and wanking it over him, stood saying nothing but gasping deeply for breath, a madness in his eyes at the taboo he'd just conquered. Frank squatted dizzily below him, staring up at this powerful lad he'd always admired and cared for, but only recently realised what a sexual icon he'd always been in his imagination, his dirtier and more rampant partner in crime. Last night and this morning felt something straight out of that imagination, a fantasy come true. And the fantasy came, quite literally, all over his face. John's grunts were bestial and his load amazingly thick and full.
Lampard closed his eyes but kept his mouth open, face angled at the blast. Cum splashed on his nose and cheeks and brow, dripped off his chin and oozed around his jawline. He felt it will around his lips and tasted it on the edge of his tongue, so salty and musty. He sat there, lost in his own linger pleasure, listening to the deep gruff roar of the other man's.
`You filthy slut,' Terry wheezed.
`Yeah,' he answered gladly, agreeing -- he'd always been a slut, really, unable to keep his dick in his pants no matter the relationship or marriage he was in, was this anything new? Yes, of course it was new, the pleasures he'd tasted since first experimenting with Redknapp at Christmas...! But it had all been so dangerous, so problematic: his cousin! His players! The dynamic with that beautiful brute Barkley, who had been using who?! All of that was such a mess, like the spunky mess on his face, but this friendship with Terry, this was...
`Your MY filthy slut,' crooned the other Londoner.
Yes,' he gasped back, tasting more cum trickle into his mouth, yes I am...'
`My sexy girl...'
`Yeagh, yeh I am, JT, yeh...'
The spent cock was pushed into his mouth for him to lick clean and he did so, clinging to Terry's tight thighs and relishing the taste of his seed. THIS was new, he thought, this was a fresh start -- pleasure and excitement far away from the intense pressure of his job at Chelsea or in his own family. This was something new, the bond they already had and the role he'd found on his knees in front of a more powerful man. None of the desperation of asserting himself over Ross or Mason or Ruben. While he was in this moment and belonged entirely to JT, all of the other pressures in his busy life disappeared, and only the alpha's big dick existed, hot and stiff in his mouth.
The bed was as comfortable as he remembered and the room smelt faintly of scented candles, which had made him sneer a little bit last time in some weird judgement, but now made him grin with begrudging affection and just enjoy the cosy atmosphere it provided. The curtains weren't quite fully shut and there was a certain grey daylight creeping in, which told him he would need to drag himself out of bed very soon and make the quick journey. He would need to be back there soon, before breakfast was called and the day began; luckily, the Arsenal match was an evening game and their Sunday routine was not as tight as normal, he was pretty sure he could be back in that Islington hotel before anyone was concerned. Besides, Jack owed him, Jack would cover for him.
He stretched out his body in the expansive comfort of the bed, which seemed huge, what was bigger than kingsize? It did feel just a little lonely though, clearly meant for more than one tall body. Still, the soft sheets felt good against his own skin as he stretched out his thick bulky legs and his upper body, rolled his head against the masses of pillows, gazed blearily around the half-familiar contents of the suburban master bedroom.
He closed his eyes again, so relaxed and tired that he wanted to slip back into sleep -- but aware of the risks he'd taken by being here and the need to snap out of it, to psych himself up for the day and a big important match against the Gunners later on. Another chance for Aston Villa to prove themselves as the League's intimidating underdogs, ready to shake up the table.
Ross Barkley moved with great reluctance, sliding one leg and then the other out from beneath the luxurious duvet and dropping his feet to the cool wooden floorboards then shifting them quickly to the furry touch of a rug. He stretched again on his feet, enjoying a glimpse of himself in a full-length mirror at one corner, the sturdy masculinity of his own form in just black boxer shorts, Calvin Klein.
When Grealish had returned to the room in a very different state of distress, his brattish sulk swapped for a feverish excitement, Barkley had been worried for him -- but then Chilwell had tumbled secretively in after him, and it hadn't taken him long to decide that the pair needed the room to themselves. Ross didn't quite know the ins and outs of their connection, but he knew they were close and had played together -- had seen it for himself in Dubai! -- and he realised why his new captain Jack had been in such a fucking state recently. Barkley had left them to their make-up sex, abandoning his own hotel room for the sake of whatever romantic melodrama had gone on. Jack deserved it, he told himself, pacing through the midnight hotel in a funny mood, torn between a chivalrous desire to do right by the other two, and the realisation that he might have to sleep on a couch in reception.
He'd already been texting Eric a little bit that night -- well, he found himself messaging him a little bit most nights, in all honesty, though he tried not to let it get too much and sometimes would leave his phone switched off for a whole day so that he didn't get caught in one of those long messaging conversations that made him feel like a lovesick teenager -- so he wasn't even hinting when he first outlined the problem to the Tottenham player. He'd just meant it as a bit of a joke, not willing to explain to his Spurs pal why he'd been ousted from his hotel room, just laughing about the prospect of napping in an armchair in the closed bar, sending a daft selfie of him trying to get comfortable. But Eric had been quick to offer a solution.
Ross looked quietly about the contents of his bedroom, the cosy scented warmth of it, and fixated on possession after possession: the couple of guitars that he doubted Dier ever played, the stupid big bookshelf (just for show, right, no footballers READ?) and the big framed photography of the Portuguese coast where he'd come of age. He circled the bed, avoiding the temptation to just crawl back in and set an alarm. Maybe he could even skip the hotel breakfast, how strict would the boss be this morning...?
Dier was elsewhere, Away with Spurs. The irony of it had made them both LOL as they messaged earlier in the week. As soon as Barkley had been reminded that Villa's next fixture was in North London, he'd briefly dared to imagine stealing over here for a second little visit, wondering if they could watch a game together and sink some beers and maybe Dier could cook for him -- but on the same Sunday that Villa were due in the capital, Tottenham were away to another Birmingham side, West Bromwich Albion. Typical. Ross and Eric were in each other's cities. And now Ross was in Eric's bedroom, alone.
It's empty, you may as well,' Eric had texted him in the small hours of the night. No point being uncomfortable there, m8. I'll tell u where the spare key is hid. Easy. So close to where you're staying, too. Go on. My pleasure xxx'
He loved a good three kisses end to a message, that one. It made Barkley blush but smile.
The 6ft2 attacking midfielder sat on the edge of the bed and this time he didn't just think about crawling under the duvet and risking another bout of sleep. He thought about his first visit to this bed, the way he'd been led excitingly in by his host, and then... well, it hadn't exactly gone as he'd expected, had it? Not the simple fleshy transaction he'd travelled down here for, but something more... equal? It still made his cheeks burn red and a little tremble of nausea, realising the lines he'd crossed and the newness he'd tried when he'd sucked off Eric Dier -- the shame was irresistible and private, so much more than allowing himself to be pawed and coveted by Mason Mount or Frank Lampard or anyone else. But had he enjoyed it? Ambiguously conflicted, he turned his thoughts instead to the glorious blowie he'd had in return when he... finished.
And now he was getting hard in his boxers, his fat dick pushing insistently up in the fabric and making him stroke it distractedly while he sat there, knowing he should grab his Villa trackies off the floor and hurry out of here. (After feeding the dogs though, he'd promised Eric that.) He tried to ignore his semi and got back off the bed, kneeled over and reached for the crumpled colours of his Aston Villa gear, then realised it had mixed in with the few bits of laundry left by his host. Eric was a very tidy fella, that much was obvious, so Ross found himself surmising that the defensive player had left in a bit of a hurry, to have dropped bits of clothing around the room on his way out, packing a bag for the overnight and hurrying to the Spurs training ground in the next suburb.
Ross hunkered there for a moment, his hand playing on the folds of his own tracksuit jersey, fondling the embossed Villa logo, but staring past it to the items of Eric's clothing dropped carelessly here on the rug. He reached for the creased white briefs he saw there, sports one branded with the simple tick of the London club's kit sponsor. Barkley took hold of them and pulled them off the ground in a slow half-conscious move. He stood back up and lifted them to look at, momentarily picturing his friend undressing and changing in this room yesterday afternoon as he prepared to meet his teammates and travel into the Midlands.
Driven by instinct of some kind, he hoisted the white undies and took an experimental breath (just checking if they're fresh or not, he told himself, just wondering if I could borrow them?) then, smelling the slightly sweaty contents, breathed in more deeply. Breathing in HIM.
In a moment, he was back on the bed, sitting at first, sniffing the white briefs clutched in one hand and with the other feeling himself in his own black pants. Then he was lying back, pressing his body down over the crumpled duvet still warm from his own sleep, and bringing the garment to his face while he pushed his fist inside his pants and played with his hardening prick. The pants smelled of manly sweat and fresh soap, somehow conjuring up the wholesome ruggedness of the England star -- moments ago, Barkley had been idly picturing him in this room, strumming that guitar or adjusting those photo frames or, hah, relaxing with a book, but now...
He pulled out his dick and stroked on it, thinking about how attentive and skilled Eric was as a lover, the best oral sex he could remember experiencing by far. But he thought also about his authority, his self-confidence, his refusal to be pushed around or simply used... it was as if Ross's belligerent sexuality had come up against a wall, and instead of annoying him, it made him crazed with lust. His cock was veiny and rock hard in his hand and he tugged on it; slowly, he slipped his other hand down that way and wrapped the used briefs about it, jerking himself through its fine white cotton with both hands, fucking into that soft material and its manly scents, groaning quietly where he lay. He thought about how sweet and kind Eric was, but also about how powerful and masculine and downright fucking handsome, he was... uh, there was that little shot of sickly shame or guilt again, that uncertainty about what he was doing or what he wanted, what he was allowing to develop... but it was superseded by primal instinct and he could not stop jerking his cock against the material, fucking these undies forcefully until his dick leaked precum against them, mixing his own fluids and scents with the traces of their owner.
When he came, he was panting loudly and almost mouthing the other lad's name, emptying his big balls into the handful of cotton and smearing their insides with his juice. He silenced himself, holding both hands at his heated crotch, eyes closed and mouth hanging open. Then he slowly relaxed back and let go, draping the soiled pants over his thigh and letting his tall cock waver in its slow satisfied descent.
He didn't know what to think about his attraction to this man, after so many months just getting used to the notion of his OWN attractiveness to men. He didn't know what to do with these burning up sensations in him or the fact that he felt comfortable lying here than he had in over a year. He didn't know how to feel about the cum-stained underpants drying against his skin, or what Dier might think if he found them so abused when he tidied up on returning home late tonight. There were a lot of things Ross Barkley didn't know, lying there in the afterglow of his early morning wank, but he knew that this safe room and its charming owner were a fresh start, and it gave him little butterflies inside to picture sharing this bed once more.
I SUPPOSE YOU KNEW I COULDN'T END THE SERIES AT CHAPTER 200... TOO MANY IDEAS LEFT TO EXPLORE! SO... WHAT DO YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE NEXT 99? HAHA... X