Part 257: Four Quarters (3 of 4)
For such a private call, he'd found himself a quiet seat in the lush green grounds of the Portuguese hotel, the air still a little warm even late at night -- a little taste of the summer ahead compared to the up-and-down spring temperatures back in London this month. The seat was angled carefully into a boxy corner of dark green plants so that Ben Chilwell could feel comfortably alone, iPad propped up in his lap where he curled comfortably, a single earphone slotted in on one side and his handsome brown eyes flashing cautiously across the lamplit gardens below the hotel -- on the rectangular screen, Jack Grealish was spread lazily over a bed in skimpy shorts and an oversized tshirt, the smallest of his dogs curling in against his chest to be stroked and spoiled while the long-distance boyfriends caught up.
I dunno what came over me,' Ben Chilwell admitted, his late winner in the night's Quarter Final resurfacing in the conversation for the third time, you know me, I don't get to practise the finishing that much, so... just went for it and somehow it bloody worked, haha...' The 24-year-old Chelsea player gurned self-consciously at the other lad, both fiercely proud and cautiously humbly about his surprising contribution to the 2-0 win over Porto.
Instinct,' came the burring Brummie voice of his man, grinning very approvingly at him through the internet connection, stifling another yawn. You just did what you had to do and of course it went in, those feet of yours. Brilliant.' Jack's face glowed with his approving smile, shifting to make himself more comfortable on his lonely king-size bed, glancing up and down from the pup to the webcam. `Whole team must be right fucking chuffed with you, Benj.'
`Seems like it,' Chilwell admitted with a little laugh, not wanting to dwell on his achievement too much but enjoying Grealish's strong approval and confidence in him -- finding a whole new warm buzz in discussing the strike with Jack after already being toasted and congratulated by so many fellow Chelsea fellas since finishing the game.
You and lil Mase, burning it up,' Jack continued cheerily. And looking dangerously cute in your selfie!'
Oh, you saw that,' Ben chuckled back, happy with the posing pic he and his young ally had both posted from the corner of the changing rooms in their garishly striped away kits, excited for themselves and each other. Standard upload, right?' the left-back asked breezily, wondering if it had been a bit too egotistical or, worse, a bit too cosy-looking with his Chelsea and England teammate. `Had to be done, had to be done.'
For sure,' Grealish agreed readily, you both shone tonight, and fuck, you look pretty together.'
`Oh, fuck off...!'
`What, I can't think my boyfriend is handsome as fuck?' demanded the Villa captain.
And you think that about Mase too, then?' joked Ben with a sulky air that he couldn't maintain for more than a few seconds before laughing again. Don't be daft, just two brothers celebrating each other's goals...!'
Cute together though,' the 25-year-old back in England pushed teasingly, winking into the cam. He is a very good-looking lad, I think we both agree on that, Chilly!'
Well, he's alright,' the former Leicester defender mumbled with an awkwardness he didn't often show in the company of his closest friends, unsure what was the okay or uncontroversial response to such remarks from his lover. I don't really think about him like that, you know, it's different when you're teammates and stuff...' His voice trailed off and he grunted away the discomfort of the topic, enjoying the playful smirk on Jack's face and the lazy way he shifted positions on a bed that they both wished they were sharing tonight. It felt so difficult and infrequent for them to meet now, Grealish still injured out of play and their local restrictions making every meet-up a military operation.
`Oh come on, you're rooming with him tonight, aren't you?' prodded Grealish.
`What's that supposed to mean?'
Jack blew raspberries with his lips. `Give him my love, then, right up the bum.'
`Jack!' Ben chortled uncomfortably back. It wasn't that he hadn't played around at all with Mason Mount, but just some mild forays when he was new to Chelsea, mixed in with Pulisic and Werner -- but what struck Ben in his memories of these antics was that his Midlands man had been far from impressed. Some casual messing about at Stamford Bridge had triggered their worst rows and temporary split, and yet now Grealish could joke and tease about it.
Oh, come on,' mumbled the drawling Birmingham accent again, we're pretty open, we do what we need to do. You know I won't mind if you have a little roll about with the twink prince of Chelsea, man.' A relatively sleazy chuckle from the Aston Villa hero. `I'll jerk off later thinking about it, if I'm honest. If anything does happen, just send me a picture, you dirty dogs.' A bright flashy smile and a wink -- again Ben thought about the contrast to the scratchy jealousy that had marred their contact towards the end of last year, only bridged by his dramatic proposal that they should be more official.
Chilwell shifted about in his curled-up posture on the seat, adjusting the iPad as it slid across his lap. I've told you, I'm just excited to try and get up your way soon once I've got a day off from Chelsea training, okay? I don't need nothing else going on until then, J. Stop messing.' Jack smiled at him but didn't say anything, releasing the wriggling pooch from his arms and then stretching out, yawning more openly. You look tired,' Ben said sweetly.
Well, you'll be the knackered one,' Jack retorted. Playing that intense game like you did, and then pounding Mount senseless when you get up to the room...'
Bloody hell,' Chilwell muttered with a mixture of amusement and annoyance, get over that idea, will you...! Look, I'll let you get to bed, handsome, and we'll chat proper soon, okay...'
As soon as we can,' sighed Grealish wistfully, blinking sleepily and beginning to fiddle with the laptop that was broadcasting him from his bed to this Portuguese night. If you can't make it up soon then I'll be straight down to yours, I need me some lurve. Miss you, babes.'
`Miss you more. Sleep tight.'
`Don't let the bedbugs bite.'
For a moment, Christian Pulisic paused at the windows to the hotel room before lowering the blinds, noticing with fond eyes the sight of the team's heroic young defender strolling back up the paved swirls between the planted patches and decorative water features, vanishing then from view under the rear porches as he returned to the building of their team hotel. Then the American fiddled with the cords and brought the blinds down, blocking out the faint lights of the city and making the shared suite instantly a little more cosy and complete.
The 22-year-old backed off from the windows, blinking sleepy eyes, and listening to the faint drone of rap music lifting from a Bluetooth speaker on the table between the beds. Pulisic had not played a huge portion of the night's first leg game, subbed on for Mount in the second half, but it had been a fraught and physical confrontation and the international travel had left the whole squad a little dazed -- he was glad that the hotel beds looked especially soft and comfortable, and that their London flight in the morning was not too obnoxiously early.
Dressed in just a loose black vest and some thin pyjama pants, the American soccer player moved across the room to go and brush his teeth in the bathroom, and he paused to stare at his roommate -- a man that in earlier months he would have given his left foot to share a room with, well more than a room ideally, but now he felt a sort of dull distance from. On the floor between the room's two double beds, the German was, ridiculously, executing a flurry of needless pre-bed push-ups to the beat of the music, grunting gently as he lifted up and down against the pale blue carpet. Christian stopped for just a moment to gawk at this excessive behaviour, given the intricate and relentless fitness regime they were both already on, then padded through into the en suite to get ready for bed.
He'd been smitten with Timo Werner for quite some time, he supposed, almost from the moment the highly-rated German landed in London -- he could remember with pornographic vitality the time he had spied on Werner fucking a female physio through the smoked glass window in the treatment room door, a voyeuristic moment that had filled many of his late-night moments on his own. The crush on the sharply handsome Stuttgart man had been very distracting in the first half of this season, and only burned brighter as a result of some limited sexual contact with him -- initiating fumbles with him, Ben and Mase, or their lurid `goodbye' to their former manager. It had become quickly obvious to Christian that Timo was far more interested in the distinctly unavailable Chilwell, or perhaps more accurately, was just far more interested in himself.
On cue, Werner was at the bathroom door, hovering impatiently there whilst Pulisic brushed at his teeth -- of course, the nocturnal press-ups had to be done shirtless, so that the 5ft11 striker had his pale pecs and abs on show as he loomed there, a slight sheen of sweat on the smooth definition of his lean upper body and frowning face. It wasn't so much that Christian's smouldering crush had slipped to antipathy and resentment, but he was annoyed with how much this close proximity had wasted so much of his energy in 2020 fantasies, fruitless and dissatisfying. The 22-year-old Pennsylvanian had slowly adjusted to accepting his lust for men, but for him it had been paired with nothing but annoyance at the men around him failing to reciprocate -- he had turned out to be nothing but a plaything to Barkley before the big Scouser vanished away to Birmingham, and even after, and his fixation on the fluidly promiscuous Werner had been of teenage-style frustrations.
`Can I brush mine too?' Timo demanded in his barking voice.
`Sure,' Christian conceded, shuffling left to make space as he brushed thoroughly away. An inner voice laughed bitterly at the intense closeness, Timo joining him at the sink and matching his efforts at dental hygiene so that their arms brushed and bumped in awkward moments, their grimacing faces and contrasting physiques repeated in the mirror.
Still, the shorter player reminded himself, it was good that he'd now relaxed in his attitude -- his yearning for the aloof Leipzig transfer had been almost painful to bear at points late last year and really taken his mind off his football at points! The bland apathy that had replaced the burn was a more convenient outcome, especially when the decisions of their new manager occasionally chucked them together in hotel rooms like this for away games, where Pulisic might previously have spent the night wide awake and rock-solid in his undies.
He stared critically at 25-year-old man's face in the mirror as he swilled and gargled and then leant indelicately forward to spit out in the sink, tensing all of his bare supple muscle as he did; pfft, Christian told himself, what's even to be attracted to? Tall but not quite 6ft, handsome but very sharp-edged and intense-looking, very muscular and lean but not so impressively physical as some other men he'd had to shower tantalisingly close to in recent years! He wasn't such a big deal. Even his much-hyped talents had been notoriously incognito for much of his first Chelsea season, presumably the trigger for vain behaviour like a fifty sit-ups and fifty press-ups at this time of night, making their supposedly relaxing room feel like a gym...
Christian, rinsing his toothbrush and wiping the back of one forearm over his short dark beard, found he was getting quite heated and frantic in his internal analysis of Timo's flaws, working hard to reassure himself that the crush was long over and he could be comfortable around the laconic German forward after all. He'd wasted enough time being a lovesick loser, confused and insecure, and it was about time he started to make things happen for himself-
At that moment, he realised that Timo was looking at him in the mirror too, just as he had momentarily examined the taller man. Timo's crisp hazel eyes seemed to have fixed on him, and he held the stare, bringing the brush back up to pop in his mouth and scrub at his neat white teeth, his strong gaze not flickering once in the time it took him to finish brushing; even as he stooped to spit, he only lowered his eyes for a second, then straightened back up at Christian's right-hand side, a good few inches taller and markedly broader in the shoulders.
I dunno why you need to do extra exercises before bed,' Pulisic found himself muttering stupidly, putting his brush down on the porcelain with a little clink. Not with that six-pack you already got.' The shy young American found it was him flickering his eyes away, unable to maintain the strong gaze of his teammate in the large wall mirror ahead of them.
After the slightest pause, `You like my six-pack, yes?'
Inside, Pulisic groaned at the question, his eyes drawn inevitably down the reflection to admire what he could see of Werner's body above the waist of his bed-shorts. He pulled a face and looked away, unhappy at the idea of stoking the older lad's ego with any response to this silly question -- but unable to offer a convincing rejection of the truth. He just splashed his hands under the tap and then brought their cool dampness against his blazing cheeks, while Timo finally stopped staring at him in the mirror and turned to face him more directly.
If you do,' purred the German accent, then...' He stared awkwardly at him, the close confines of the hotel bathroom making their athletic bodies feel extraordinarily close. `...why don't you touch it?' The striker's eyes twinkled and his grin stretched, and Christian's heart skipped a beat.
`Your six-pack is unreal.'
Ben just rolled his eyes and laughed at the casually thrown compliment. His Chelsea roommate had been as giggly and high-spirited on his return to their room as all night -- Mason was too charming and sweet to be labelled arrogant, but he was so clearly revelling in the limelight of another game where he had surpassed the club's expensive Germans and shone through. The 22-year-old Portsmouth lad had been hyper and insatiable about it in the changing rooms, with Ben trying to calm him long enough to pose for a selfie and then being the sensible one reminding him not to rub his success too much in the faces of Werner, Kavertz and others.
As soon as he was back in the hotel room from his call out in the night-time garden, Ben had dragged off his hooded top and tshirt, keen to trim back his stubble already before bed. He certainly hadn't meant to give a little strip show to his younger roomie, but that's how it was being taken -- Mase was lounged on the nearer of the two beds, flicking through a Portuguese magazine he surely couldn't read, and now grinning goofily over in enjoyment as Ben wandered by, shirtless and idle.
`Has Jack been putting you up to this?' the left-back remarked jovially, expressing just a hint of his cynicism through a raised eyebrow and the lilt of his smile.
`What? Bugger off, nobody needs to tell me to notice how ripped you are, Benny! Silly git.'
`Huh. Well. Not exactly lacking in that region yourself, bud.'
`Why thank you, Mr C, such a flirt.'
`I wasn't flirting,' Ben returned awkwardly. He stared at Mason's casual smile for a moment then turned away and moved into their bathroom, unhappy with his own sensitivity there and thinking on Jack's silly teasing over the video call. In the bathroom, he briefly clocked how accurate Mase's praise genuinely was, the hard-packed stomach muscles flexing back at him in the tall mirror, then fussed about with his toilet bag, spunking foam into his palms and proceeding to shave the tiny glimmer of stubble creeping onto his chiselled jawline.
He started slightly to find that Mount had come to watch, almost nicking his skin with the razor. He eyed his friend questioningly in their reflection and then carried on with the quick task. `Everything okay, boss?' the sweet young midfielder asked quietly, temporarily calmed from his giddy and boyish enjoyment of their goals tonight. Between them, the two young Englishmen had put Chelsea well ahead to progress to the Semis.
Fine, fine,' Ben muttered, rinsing his razor and beginning to wash spare flecks of white foam from around his face, a little embarrassed that anything in his reserved muttering had alarmed the other player. Well, not alarmed, but... alerted. Suddenly Mason was by him and bringing a little hand-towel to his face -- Here, let me, you oaf!' -- and they were squashed together side-by-side at the sink, two compact 5ft10 athletes.
`Thanks,' Chilwell said with slight reluctance.
You should let it grow in though,' Mount said lightly. You'd look well sexy with a bit of beard.'
`Huh. How'd Deccers feel hearing you say that?'
Lighten up,' Mase told him, returning to the youthful sniggers of their back-room celebrations and nudging him in the arm with his knuckles. You think Dec doesn't fancy you too, buddy...? I think we both remember THAT night, yeah... So he can hardly blame me for wanting a bit of Bulging Ben.' With one of those goofy-but-gorgeous grins covering his thin face, Mason leaned closer and threw an arm about Ben's bare shoulders to hug him as he laughed -- flirtatious but matey at once.
`You're just horny from the game.'
`What, and you're not...?'
Oh, mate...' He looked down, finding Mason's other hand on the crotch of his loose joggers, giving him the gentlest feel through them while his butter-wouldn't-melt grin fixed him face-to-face. Ben let out a huffy indecisive breath, holding his strong defender's body still, peering cautiously back at the cute 22-year-old colleague. This is happening, then,' he said in a wary voice.
Sure is,' chirped Mason with an infuriatingly relaxed air, squeezing him softly through the material, and stooping to kiss him once on the muscle of his shoulder. Come on, Chill, it's what we both deserve after tonight... isn't it?'
From the bathroom, the two Chelsea players drifted smoothly through into the bedchamber; Timo held lightly onto one of his hands, with the same soft but guiding grip that he had just led him in a slow few minutes' stroking of his honed six-pack and flat broad chest muscles, no more words spoken between them since that authoritative suggestion.
The squeeze of the German's hand grew a little tighter about Christian's, and he followed breathlessly to the furthest of the two beds, dignity and decisiveness abandoned now -- who was he kidding? He still wanted nothing more than a night with the lithe continental striker, and his dick was already swelling in the front of his clingy PJs.
Werner pulled firmly but not aggressively on his arm, dragging then pushing him into a seated position on the side of the bed, and standing authoritatively in front of him. Christian's shoulders trembled a little in the vest as they were patted and stroked by those commanding hands, and he sat there, his face level with the sculpted midriff of the topless bloke.
`Touch it some more,' Timo ordered or suggested, and Christian gladly complied. He reached for and stroked the hard sides of the pale torso, tingling when his little finger on each hand brushed at the cotton waistband of the shorts then darted back upwards, waiting to be given permission to explore those light black shorts that hung about muscular thighs. He daren't look up for the 25-year-old's expression, unsure he would like the aloof and sneering expressions that tended to hang there on the chiselled face when they spoke. He had realised early on that Timo didn't think much of him or consider him of the same footballing status -- just an American novelty.
Then Timo's hands were again on his, clamping them just below his nipples, and dragging excitingly downwards until they were being rubbed at the front of the shorts, his fingers dragged across the hard skin below and the very obvious outline of what hung in the middle. He remembered to breathe, heard it suck in and out with ragged enthusiasm. Finally, he looked upwards, and just saw an ambiguous smirk directed at him.
I am so horny,' Werner announced simply. You want to help?'
Dumb with desire, Pulisic just nodded, putting aside months of recovery and self-discipline, dragging at the thin material until it was falling away and the long slim erection was rising up to meet his lips, the foreskin curling back about the narrow pink head. He held its thicker base, let his tongue curl out over the head, kissing it full-on, making Werner begin to groan, then took it fully into his mouth, letting it go deep and resisting the immediate urge to gag.
Ben moved slowly and passively, grinning back at the flirty murmurings from the attractive younger Chelsea player; he allowed himself to be guided through their room, past the beds, onto the short sofa by the windows, where he sat with his legs spread and Mason close at his side, reaching between them to stroke and manhandle the growing rod in there, cooing about its impressive size as if he hadn't been well aware of those proportions already. Ben sighed with a mixture of desire, resignation, reservation -- was it really okay for he and Jack the lad to keep their relationship quite this open? Was it a key to healthy survival between the distanced lovebirds, or was it just... dangerous?
`How's that?' Mount asked, perhaps sensing his indecision.
Feeling good,' Chilwell assured him, patting and stroking his back through the thin England t-shirt he wore, besotted with his national duty even on a Chelsea away mission. You sure you want to play like this tonight, bro...?'
The 22-year-old Pompey just laughed at this, taking Ben's hand off his shoulder and pushing it into the crotch of his slim-fit trackies, inviting him to reciprocate and feel his growing stiffness as confirmation. Both lads just leered at each other and relaxed in the sofa, giving lazy handjobs through pants and underpants, their lips breaking with the same chummy giggles as when they had sat and taken selfies in the away suites of Porto's stadium; both of them exuding an air of masculine innocence despite the secrets they shared, protected, indulged.
`Here, let's get your whopper out,' urged Mase quietly, reaching into the joggers and the clingy black trunks beneath, fingering the girthy thing until it was out in the open, Ben's massive manhood that he'd learned to be so proud of in the past 18 months -- it was a genuinely huge dong, exaggerated against his medium stature and Mason's quite delicate fingers. He closed his eyes and groans as it was dragged back and forth, then spat on, then... mmm, sucked.
Christian was reluctant to stop sucking off the long pale meat, having shifted from position to position without letting up in his hungry attention -- first sat on the edge of the bed, mouthing in disbelief at it and having his shoulders gently stroked from above; then sliding off the bed and onto his knees so that he grab those strong white thighs and have his lips fucked a little by some gyration of strong hips; crawling back onto the bed, Timo propped back comfortably on pillows while he nestled between his open legs to slobber over his prick and lick at his balls, breathless and wanting to relish every second of contact he had craved for so long.
But Timo was pushing at his head now, guiding him back away, trailing spittle from his lips and beard hair, deprived of the long prick and gasping for air. The other Chelsea man just laughed lightly at the sight of his red-cheeked desperation, holding his face back and stroking fingertips over the short dark crop of his hair. `I think you like that,' Timo said smirkingly.
`I want to eat your cum,' the Hershey-born footballer gasped openly, not even ashamed to hear his own greed vocalised as he lay there on the bed, still in vest and pyjamas, his own dick straining at the material, his hands roving back and forth on the thighs, knees, shins, absorbing every second of physical closeness he was being allowed with this handsome rogue.
Werner made a slight tutting noise. We will get to that,' he informed him, but first...' He didn't say it, but Pulisic quickly and delightedly realised how far this would go, as their bodies were shuffled and pulled, and suddenly his attacking teammate was grappling with his PJs, pushing them down and slapping one hard palm against the small chub of his butt cheeks, making him whimper and nod wildly. He wrestled with the vest himself, and once it was up about his head and shoulders, the older player tweaked one of his nipples and toyed with the thick gold chain there.
When the vest was tossed away, his own fumbling motion aided by Timo's strong hands, he found himself face to face with that mercurial grin. Calm down,' the German told him, and he realised how frantic and silly his breathing was; he laughed uncomfortably at himself, reaching down to play with the cock that he'd sucked relentlessly, feeling it slick and wet with his own saliva. He mumbled a Sorry, dude' that just made Werner laugh more, and then his second attempt at apologising (for his own apology) was ended by a short peck of a kiss, nothing too tender or romantic, but a definite firm locking of their lips.
And then, oh god, it was happening -- he was being pushed onto his front and the 25-year-old striker, goalless and frustrated as he was, was mounting and controlling him, rubbing against him from behind and slapping more at his buttocks, spitting into his crack and rubbing the tip of his dick there against the wetness. Christian grabbed and hugged at the pillows, burying his face in them to hold in the screams of eagerness he wanted to emit, teased and toyed by the attention from behind, so fucking ready for it!
He pushed back with his rear, thrusting his chubby haired cheeks back towards the aim of Werner's cock, signalling his eagerness and readiness -- more laughter, barking and husky, and then physical agreement from Timo, who gripped his sides and angled his meat between those fuzzy mounds, pushing into him with little preparation or foreplay. Business-like, but so powerful and satisfying. Christian bit into a pillow to stifle the squeal of pain that would surely precede pleasure, doing his best to just relax and ease the act... and quickly rewarded by the confident stroke of that tool inside him, going a little deeper with each jolting push, making the bed squeak and rattle. Werner's breaths were soft focused grunts and his own were snarling gasps of joy.
Fuck me,' he hissed needily, fuck me harder, please... oh, fuck fuck fuck, yesss, fuck me dude...'
And with speed and strength, Timo did, holding his hips firmly and ramming him over and over, never saying a word, just delivering the longed-for smashing of his arse that had burned through his head ever since his cherry was popped by that surly Scouser.
`You're sure you're up to taking this?' Chilwell asked, still hesitant and cautious with their fun, lying on his side close to the other slim stud on one of the beds, both of them naked but for the white tube socks bunched about their sore feet, and the cheeky grin plastered over Mount's face. Two of the left-back's fingers were already brushing between the firm round muscles of his friend's arse, rubbing a little lube against the faint downy hairs and hungrily twitching entrance, the hard rod of his endowment thwacking gently on the side of a buttock as they lay in this position.
Oh, fuck yes,' insisted Mount, rubbing back against him, lifting up his face until their heads were very close, an inch or so of air separating their lips from a kiss that... well, Ben felt the need for it, he always enjoyed a good snog, but surely that would be a step too far, a symbolic act that broke something invisibly important? I haven't been fucked in way too long.'
`You said you got done by Dec before we flew out last night...'
`Yeah, over twenty-four hours! Way too long. Hehe.'
You're terrible,' Ben groaned, but with a glitter of lust in his blue eyes, his face cracking with the affectionate smile that his midfield companion always brought out in him. He rubbed a bit more firmly with his fingers, nudging them into the receptive ring that he had already fingered a little with one digit, and now stretched in preparation for the main event. He bit his lips to stop himself leaning forward and plucking that taboo kiss, instead nuzzling and pecking at Mason's neck and shoulders, making him shiver and giggle and groan, Oh Benji, you minx.' This campness always crept out in their banter and pranking at the training ground, and blurred into tonight's convenient intimacy -- it was something very different and fun for Ben, whose sex with Jack was often rather intense and brooding, full of both men's tensions and uncertainties. Mason, he thought, was a truly liberated young man, delighted with his willingness to fuck.
And Ben now put that willingness to the test, beginning to hump him side-on, taking it slow, holding him and kissing the top of his spine while edging his huge meat between those extraordinary cheeks until the thick head began to really prod at the teased hole. Ben had learned how to be very slow and careful with his weapon, cringing to remember how roughly he had tried it on virginal Jack in the early days of their relationship -- no wonder poor Grealish had been reluctant to take it for the first few months, always preferring to be top, until Chilwell had figured out how to prep him and really proceed with caution!
But as often happened with his beautiful Villa captain, it was a care and caution that could only last so long -- Mason grinding against him and groaning encouragement, there came a point where he inevitably thrusted his hips and broke more of his girthy meat into his hole, feeling that familiar tightness against his shaft and urging it in. But where he expected Mason to whimper and struggle, the lithe young man cried out happily, `Fuck yes, you are SO thick, Benjy!' In fact, he pushed back more with his arse, wanting even more of the whopper inside him, so that Ben couldn't do anything but grab him tighter and begin to gyrate his strong hips, clenching his six-pack and thigh muscles to really begin to pummel his target.
They shifted from this gentle side-by-side posture into a doggy position, Mason on hands and knees with his bubble butt slightly raised and Ben just pushing madly into it in quick awkward strokes that he had to control carefully and slow himself down, gasping out his enjoyment: Oh -- yes mate -- oh fuck, you're tight, maaaaan...' And taking his cock with delight and ease, Mason growled for him, Slam it in me you bastard!' He was surprisingly rough and dirty, as Ben had often suspected. When the four of them had played `wife swap' that night in London, they had tested out one another's handsome partner, but this was the first fuck to take place between them directly.
Ben leaned down, hugging him tighter as he jumped and grinded, kissing his spine and shoulder muscles in a hot flurry, teasing his nipples on the other side as he hugged his chest and then stroked down his six-pack, which really was impressive -- it was silly for the handsome little bugger to be throwing around compliments when he was packing this rig on his slim frame!
`I'm gonna cum soon,' Chilly found himself blurting, embarrassed by the speed of it, as sometimes happened with his Jack, but needing to warn the sexy lad -- surely seeding him like that would be an insult to Rice and his ownership of this prize rump!
On my face,' Mount insisted, cum on my face?!'
Oh, yes, fuck yes! Ben withdrew, returning to caution as he held the base and pulled inch after inch of himself from Mason's stretched ring, then jerking the lubed shaft in his right hand and helping Mase to flip over onto his back, gasping and beaming. Ben shuffled forward on his knees and brought them over the sides of his friend's torso `til he was kneeling over his nipples, wanking his big tool straight over that handsome face, bright-eyed and enthusiastic, mouth held open, lashes fluttering... god, had he always been quite so bloody handsome?!
Feed me,' Mase breathed, managing to be very sexy but still playful and exaggerated. He rubbed at the tense front of Ben's thighs, licking his own lips and then holding his mouth wide open again -- Ben's abs crunched as he hunched forward, now jerking himself with BOTH hands, pumping his cock like a machine until -- aaaargh -- he could watch the flickers of ooze jet out over Mason's handsome face, painting his lips and hooked nose with messy white. Oh, yesss... Mase licked at it through thick laughter, slapping at his thighs and moaning playfully. Lionel Messy!' he joked, sticking out his tongue and letting a sliver of cream roll back over it before he swallowed some of the Chilwell seed.
Ben always felt still intensely horny in the moments after ejaculation, a last burst of energy before the traditional exhaustion claimed him, and he knew Mase was yet to peak. He moved backwards, pushing his knees and his body back over the covers, sliding down Mason's prone form -- for a moment, he was going to plant his lips over his cock, which was always a bit bigger than he expected from the slight 22-year-old, but then he went further. He pushed his hands under his friend's legs and hoisted them before dropping his chest and chin to the covers so that he could plant his mouth in between the cheeks, tasting the minty-sour lubricant there as he rolled his tongue against the freshly-fucked hole.
OH,' came Mason's gasping approval, OH BEN!'
For the next few minutes, the left-back lost control. He pushed and spread at Mason's lifted legs and forgot about anything but the skills of his tongue as an agent for pleasure -- the skills he'd first learned from that senior filth-merchant, Vardy, and then used to induct his darling Grealish, and now... he rimmed forcefully and noisily between Mason's perfect cheeks, provoking wild yelps and strings of swear words from his fellow goal-scorer. He didn't realise Mount was wanking off quite so much until he felt the warm splashes of cum on his fringe and brow, and against the insides of his wrists, and heard the shift in his friend's tone -- `Yessss, Bennn...'
He pulled his face back, lifting up with his hands clasped about the lad's knees, staring wild-eyed past the drooling cock and tight six-pack, back to Mason's face, a few streaks of his cum still smeared across one side of it. He lunged forward, their spent cocks rubbing, and he kissed him on the lips, tasting a little of his own salt there, and letting the messy on his own brow and fringe rub briefly against the waxy tufts of Mount's own hair. The kiss didn't last long, but somehow about it punched him in the gut and made him breathless and awkward as he pulled away, nostrils full of the smell of sex, every tight muscle of his body suddenly wiped out. While he lurched back onto his knees and rolled his head awkwardly over his shoulders, dirty fringe rubbing at his eyebrows, Mason yelped with happy laughter in between gasps.
Oh, you dirty bastard,' he whined joyfully, that was just... oh my fucking god. I made Dec try it the other night but I think he's still pretty unsure, but that was... whoa... you absolute dirty beast! Awwwwwesome...' And one of his socked feet was kicking playfully at Ben's thigh while he rolled about on his back, eyes closed and hoots of pleasure still giggling from his messy lips.
But Ben was climbing back and off the bed, and snatching his boxers up off the floor, using them to first wipe cum from his hair and the top of his face, then dragging them over his massive dick to wipe it free of lube and lingering jizz. He spat some of his stale saliva at the floor, still tasting the lube a bit, backing off to his own bed and flopping onto it. Mason was talking, but half to himself -- God, I needed that... just you wait til I tell Dec, he'll cream his pants, mate... can we do that again before breakfast?' -- but Ben found himself unable to listen, or in fact even look over at the other bed, dragging himself under the covers and rolling onto his side, catching his breath but feeling a strange shake overcome his limbs. That was great,' Mason sighed to himself. Yes, Ben thought worriedly, yes it really was.
Soon after cumming, he supposed, he must have drifted off -- now he was waking, the pain in his rear the most pressing sensation, alongside the muggy-headed awesome awareness that he had finally been fucked by Timo Werner. He groaned groggily into pillow, lying on his front, in the very position he had collapsed into after emptying his balls against the bedsheets -- he could feel some of his dark beard hair slightly stuck to the cotton, remembering in a flash the way Timo had knelt there and spunked heavily down the side of his face, forcing him to lick hungrily for a few drops of the salty goodness. Oh, jesus christ.
Pulisic pushed up with his elbows, blinking rapidly, glancing to the left of him, where Timo's body was curled and sprawled the other way, his face disappearing into the gap between pillows, his shoulder muscles seeming tensed even in a sleepy posture. His back largely exposed, but bedsheets thrown carelessly across the pale flash of his own muscular rear. Beautiful, Christian thought, totally fucking beautiful. But alongside that joyous affirmation was the clunking reality of the situation -- the music was still playing quietly only a couple of feet from his head, must have been going on unheard for the whole duration of their shag. A few images slumped through Christian's mind, from Timo's showy press-ups to the aloof smirk in the mirror, and the months of disinterest leading up to tonight's sweaty Porto action: this was a one-off, he thought, and really their sex together had been one and the same as those press-ups. The physical lashing of a frustrated talent, failing to live up to his own promise after his big expensive transfer to Chelsea. My ass, the young American thought, was just the goal he'd failed to score in the Quarter Final.
With a quieter breath, Pulisic climbed out of bed, the pain in his rear seeming worse now he was beginning to reframe the hot sweaty action as something less magical and treasured than it had momentarily appeared, just basking in the snoozing beauty of the striker next to him. Naked, the Pennsylvanian tottered from the bed and reached over to turn off the speaker, irritated by the thumping rap music, and feeling a little surge of anger at himself: are you really so pathetic? So hung up? This guy don't give a damn about you, kid.
Pulisic looked about for his clothes but found they were tangled up in the bedding and he didn't want to disturb the way it knotted about Werner's limbs. Instead, he stalked into the bathroom and washed his face again in cold water, spotting the crimson blush of his shame there and on his smooth chest beneath the hang of his gold chain. He washed his cock and balls and his arse in a quiet sulk, feeling quite numbed by the return of strong feelings he had been suppressing quite badly. He'd really fallen for Timo at some point in the autumn, he knew -- not just an intense physical attraction, but a deep admiration for his reserved humour and resilience in the face of repeated disappointment.
You're a mug, his inner voice told him cruelly.
Pulisic moved quietly and self-consciously back into the main room, and he was just about to start pulling back the covers of the other bed, too tired and drained to pull on any fresh bedclothes, when there was a slight creak and rustle from across the lamplit hotel suite. Timo's body shifted and twitched, and though he didn't look this way at all, his voice called out in crisp English: `What are you doing, Pulisic?'
The American hovered at the foot of his bed, his spent cock and balls dangling between his fluffy thighs, his chest rising and falling with awkward breaths. He opened his mouth but no words came out, he just felt an odd pang of confusion and nausea. Werner spoke again then, his voice muffled by pillows but still quite commanding: Come back to bed, idiot boy. Come let me cuddle you.' And Timo did shift then, rolling aside a bit and kicking clumsily at the covers, lifting them at the side -- an invitation Christian could not even hesitate at. With care not to trip and invite ridicule, he crossed the room again, hesitated, then slid into the warmed nest, dragging his body in under the covers and feeling one strong lean arm close about him until he was turned on his side and the taller man was pulling in against him, breathing heavily on his shoulder and gripping his bicep. That's better,' Werner was muttering in a dismissive, impatient sigh, cuddling into him with stiff tenderness, `now shut up and let me sleep.'
Christian lay there on his side, just staring dumbly into the shadows around them, his skin on fire at the enfolding touch at his back. He nodded silently to nobody in particular, very glad to obey this command and just lie there very still, his buttocks pressing into the soft warm piece that had earlier broken between them over and again. A hard sweaty fuck, and now... this.
You fucked him, then?' demanded the dry, cheery voice of the Brummie. Ben stared about the departure lounge, safely distant from his Chelsea colleagues for this conversation, but still finding himself dry-mouthed and uncomfortable as it dragged on. A low chuckle down the line from Jack Grealish, and he blinked his eyes furiously. Hope you gave it to him good, then. Could he really take it? I bet he didn't struggle like I do, ha ha.'
Ben strained to listen to that sweet voice -- was there just amusement there, or resentment? He felt hot and tired and confused. `It was okay,' he mumbled, about the fourth time he'd used the word on the phone to his boyfriend -- fiancé? -- since ringing him here ten minutes ago. There hadn't really been time for a call at the hotel, he'd slept in too long after a restless night staring at the ceiling.
Okay,' echoed Jack with that knowing laugh in his voice. You're such a poet, babe.'
Well,' Ben said back a little rattily, what do you want me to say?'
There was a loaded pause before a sweet quiet voice: `You need some sleep on the flight, Benjamin. Look, I'll let you get back to the lads. I'm just glad you had a good night, goal-scorer. See you soon?'
Ben allowed his own slow but less deliberate pause: `Yeah. I hope so. Love you.'
Jack said the same back to him almost instantly, and was still chuckling sleepily to himself as he hung up and left Ben to stand there alone, leaning on a luggage cart, watching the ambling idleness of the other players at the far end of the waiting room, beginning to line up with their things at some signal from the airport staff. His eyes picked out Mason himself, up near the front, bent over laughing at some private joke with Giroud and Azpilicueta. He hadn't seemed TOO offended when Ben suggested that they didn't sit together on the flight back to London, but he'd certainly raised his eyebrows and paused in his buoyant mood.
Chilwell's replacement flight neighbour was approaching him now, a wide grin on his often more serious bearded face. Yo,' the token American barked at him, playing with the straps of his backpack, are you staying put in Porto, or are you coming with the rest of us?' Pulisic beamed at him, coming to slap him on the arm and nodding in the direction of the queue. Ben took a moment to appreciate just how smugly happy the winger looked right now, but it was not a mystery he was going to give much thought to. Come on,' Christian urged him in his singsong voice of the day, leading him forward to take up the rear behind the others, and the American soccer' star began to go on about the team's next upcoming game with an enthusiasm that outshone his usual manner.
Stood at the back of the Chelsea queue in their matching blue tracksuits, Ben just stared ahead, his eyes following the bounce in Mason's step as he casually disappeared through the tunnel to board their chartered flight, only pausing for a flirty wink and joke with the air stewardess checking their documents. Fuck, Ben thought, fuck fuck fuck.
Playing about with his close teammate was one thing, a convenient entertainment for the two young athletes whose boyfriends were busy at rival football clubs -- but here he was, catching feelings and getting a bit too into it. He grimaced guiltily and shuffled on after the others, his brain painted with images of last night's fuck, and the sound of Mason's happy squeals...
LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING YOUR THOUGHTS ON THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE QUARTER FINALS... ONE MORE TO GO: WILL NEYMAR FIND AS MUCH FUN AT PSG AS HE DID BACK AT BARCELONA...?
I KNOW THERE'S A FEW GOOD STORYLINES LEFT HANGING, SO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE DEVELOPED SOON - OR IF THERE ARE STILL SOME MAJOR GUYS I AM MISSING OUT ON IN THE SERIES. IDEAS ALWAYS APPRECIATED!
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share