Part 316: A Case of the Ex
Day 3 of England camp, and Ben Chilwell was really getting into it; there was such good banter and atmosphere between the guys here, a very different one to life in club football. Chelsea hadn't exactly been a barrel of laughs for the handsome 25-year-old, though his own performances since returning from injury had been strong - underwhelming results and a sharp change in management had put a dampener on the previously upbeat squad, and there was a general air of worry that this would not be a season to remember. Here at St George's Park, the left-back felt liberated from that pressure, and from the tension of his unhappy teammates, and he was genuinely thrilled to be playing with so much English talent - and utterly determined that if he got picked for the upcoming World Cup, it wouldn't be a wasted trip spent on the sidelines, like the Euros of last summer, from which it had taken him months to psychologically recover.
There was, of course, one major stumbling block for Ben in his training regime here: he was just so fucking horny.
This Thursday morning was no different. He'd woken up with an absolute rager in his pants, and had to severely delay getting out of bed because he couldn't bear the potential look of embarrassed horror on Reece James' face if he strutted around their shared room with that tentpole in his grey Diesel underpants. Sure, the two Chelsea defenders had quietly wanked off in the same bedroom on Tuesday night, but the London boy was still one of the more prudish and sensible blokes in the England roster, and Ben had no intentions of returning to West London with that close friendship in tatters.
Finally, he'd slipped into the shower whilst Reec was playing on his phone, using a folded hoody to hide his prominent crotch, and then in the shower he had tried to jerk off, but his cock had felt almost so stiff as to be NUMB. Frustrated, he'd given up and focused instead on washing his toned body and slick hair, and been relieved when the throbbing hard-on subsided before he stepped out to dry himself.
But at breakfast Ben had found himself almost instantly chubby in his tight training shorts all over again, slurping on healthy muesli whilst some of the other lads turned up to his dining room table without having properly dressed. The Milton Keynes boy had been forced to munch politely through his breakfast whilst Luke Shaw reclined in the opposite seat in a frankly skimpy white vest, unusually exhibitionist with his newly defined arms and shoulders, and Raheem Sterling had perched at the next seat with his casual sweatpants sagging so low down his rounded backside that almost the whole cheeks were on show through flimsy white underwear. On the other side of this table had been Arsenal goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale, who had come down to breakfast in an open shirt, his strong pale torso on display as he sipped strong coffee, and Conor Coady next to him sat during the whole early meal with his t-shirt pulled halfway up his extravagant six-pack, which he rubbed loosely with one hand whilst the other poked a fork at his scrambled eggs.
Ben was hardly unused to being surrounded by strong athletic guys, but the breakfast scene felt like some lurid strip-show just for his benefit, the other five guys stretching and flexing and baring patches of skin so unnecessarily, and then when Trent Alexander-Arnold, just passing by, plonked a fresh banana heavily on the side of his tray and told him to add more fruit to his cereal, Ben had just stared at the thick curving yellow and felt like he was going to scream out his lust. And then, of course, he'd pinched himself and decided this was all a bit melodramatic - and besides, Luke was pulling a sweater over his thick upper body, and Conor was putting his six-pack away, and Ramsdale and Sterling had wandered off to check out the cooked breakfast options. This left Chilwell to run both hands back through his lustrous hair, and take a few deep breaths: calm down!
It was all very well being sensible and rational, but this was a matter of testosterone and heavy bollocks, and the morning mood continued, a kind of frisky restlessness that made him quick and eager in the training drills, but tetchy and impatient when they moved indoors to the gym suites... not least because he went from passing work with his fellow defenders to sharing a set of weights machines with his closer pals, surrounded by the flirty machismo of Mount and Rice, but also the laconic charisma of his ex-boyfriend.
He and Jack were getting on well this week. Ben was embarrassed to think of his resentment and frustration on Tuesday night, annoyed to be sat next to his long-time pal, the lad he'd been side-by-side with from his very first England youth trip, but it had all been a bit overwhelming for him. Yesterday, they'd spent a lot of time in each other's company, including a long walk on the grounds between training and dinner, and he was rediscovering just why they'd always been such buddies: apart from all the in-jokes and shared experiences, they just liked all the same things and understood each other quickly and easily, disagreeing on almost nothing. Ben would hate to think of Jack reading his thoughts and knowing that on Tuesday night, he'd lusted for him so hard that he'd almost hated him, tugging his prick into the bedding and wishing they'd never met.
But now he was sat on a bench working his biceps and Grealish was right in front of him, doing a series of moves with a kettle bell, and rotating so conveniently to show off different angles and assets that Chilwell found it hard to believe it was all coincidence: one moment he was treated to the full round beauty of Jack's arse as he bent forward or squatted, and then side-on he was witnessing those mega calves in action - the next Jack was hoisting the kettle bell high and pushing forward with his hips so that his well-packed crotch was inescapable as it protruded forward through blue nylon.
Had it got even bigger since the days when they were lovers?
Ben was still chiding himself for that question when they were being driven by coach to a small private corner of Gatwick, ready for the flight to Milan - and he was still stupidly horny, the dull throb of the bus engine testing his resistance as his cock and balls vibrated between his thighs, glad that some lingering Covid protocol meant he had two seats all to himself, and nobody else could see the growing mound in his England tracksuit.
In the departure lounge of the airport, he listened to a deliberately dull podcast on his headphones, and did some financial chores on phone apps, anything to kill the exciting tingle in the crotch of his Calvins, the super-tight briefs he often opted for to keep his large junk fully in check when in football mode. In his free time, Chilwell deliberately opted for the most baggy of fits, happy that it would mask the package that had once earned him the moniker Bulging Ben in his early Leicester days, and in his once-strong friendship with Harry Maguire, who was sat nearby on a bench staring so miserably out of the window that Ben wanted a time machine to take them both back to the Walkers Stadium and simpler times.
Ben strolled to a vending machine in one corner of the large hall, surveying its contents idly, and reminding himself that there would be any manner of snack or refreshment available on the chartered flight to Italy - and yet tempted all the same, flinching in shock as someone did seem to read his mind aloud right then: `Tempted, pal?'
It was Jack's voice, slow and heavy and unmistakable, and so close to his ear that Ben almost jumped out of his skin, turning and shooting a moody look at the other player out of embarrassment. Instantly, Grealish was emitting one of his low, sleazy chuckles, and just moving in closer, throwing his arms about his biceps and cuddling him form behind in a way that would be publicly inappropriate if it wasn't for the tactile banter of sporty lads everywhere. The 27-year-old Brummie rocked him side to side in the hug, still laughing, and then more compassionately, `Stop shaking, ya dafty, it's only me.' His voice was low and sweet and reminded Ben of a different vibe between them.
Fuck's sake,' the Chelsea defender laughed awkwardly, you absolute wanker.' He shrugged the lithe winger away from his back, shaking his head, and punching at some vending buttons just to calm himself down, selecting a small bag of M&Ms as if it would solve the sexual frustration in his briefs.
Aaaw,' cooed Man City's expensive toy, massaging at one of his shoulders and staying close at his back, a very warm presence against him in their matching England leisurewear, did I scare ya...? Forgot you were such a wimp, Chilly boy...' He let out a fond sigh there, another sound of a different era, the pleasant indulgence of pillow talk. `My poor Benny...'
The 25-year-old was charmed, aroused, and irritated, all at once, and he snatched his retrieved chocolate snack from the little hatch at the bottom of the machine - but to do so, he had to bend over, and as he did, he felt a firm hand not just pat him on the bottom, but slide down the back of his tracksuit pants, caught between their nylon rustle and the elasticated cotton of his black briefs, cupping one cheek. He shot upright, the hand still tucked there, and he elbowed Jack irritably in the six-pack before jerking away from him, cheeks turning red, and cock twitching unbearably.
Jack was laughing loudly and hugging him at one shoulder, but even through his droopy smirk of flirtation, there was an air of apology to him as he leaned in and pouted. `Sorry, that was a bit much,' he admitted, to Ben's slight reassurance, patting him on the back.
`It was.'
`Bit of a snack for the plane?' the Brummie man asked quietly, for a moment free of twinkle and suggestion, and just pure friendly.
`Yeah,' Ben replied shortly, stating the obvious, and clutching the barely-wanted snack in one hand, electrified by Jack's touch against his back through the thin England jumper, feeling so close and private with him hear at the vending machine, even though they were mere yards from the clusters of their national teammates.
Summat to pop in yer mouth during take-off and landing,' Jack added, his voice now arch and his minor crows-feet wrinkling as his smile dimpled, and Ben started to laugh in spite of himself, picking up on the unsubtle innuendo. He began to shush the other player, but Jack's hand pressed a little more firmly at his back, and suddenly the City winger was murmuring, We never did join that mile high club, did we bro...?' There was a breathy edge to his quiet voice that filled Chilwell with excitement, and he found himself staring dumbly at the other player, the lad who'd taken him under his wing when he was just a nervous little kid on the same Young Lions trial.
`No,' was all the Chelsea defender could mutter back, before a shouted demand from some member of their entourage was calling players to ready for boarding; suddenly Jack was apart from him and slinking away, hands in pockets, but looking over his shoulder and winking, and Ben's heart skipped a beat.
The problem, he told himself on the short walk to the plane, was that he'd been focused so hard on NOT being attracted to Grealish, and NOT dwelling on the sweet and lusty memories they shared, that he'd entirely missed the Man City stud starting to flirt encouragingly with HIM. And suddenly all Chilwell could think about was that night earlier in the year when an exhausted and low-energy Grealish had turned up at his London home and insisted on staying the night, before quietly and intensely fucking him at his kitchen counter in the morning, almost caught in the act by Ben's cleaning lady. He's bored up there, Ben thought in a flash of hot sweat, AND HE MISSES ME.
On the flight, he'd already been placed in a row of seats with James, Bellingham, and Abraham, and he fidgeted in his seat, making a little fuss over swapping places to be on the end of the row. During take-off, he munched his M&Ms and composed himself, and then as soon as the signal flickered on, he was up in the aisle, loudly telling the other three that he needed a wee - he'd caught sight of Jack's distinctive hair several rows in front, getting up and disappearing forward up the cabin, so now he followed, steadying himself against headrests and nodding quiet greeting to several other players on the way. He passed through a light curtain into the next section and then darted left, moving towards one of the on-board lavatories - they were not quite so ridiculously claustrophobic as standard airlines, but only a little roomier. His heart was thumping and the bulge in his briefs was adamantium, and he slipped his hand against the thin lever to open it and let himself in and-
Yep, Jack was there, but he was NOT alone.
The two bodies took up the entire slim cabinet of a toilet, briefly exposed by the opened door: Jack himself occupying the centre of the space, with his shirt pulled up and more-or-less tucked about his armpits, torso on show - and his hands gripping at the slimmer arms of his companion, whose top was on but his tracksuit was down about his knees, like Jack's. The tight underpants that clung to both lower bodies connected where their bulges rubbed, just as their faces had connected in a playful snog before that moment, both jerking this way and staring with awkward frightened flashes of panic - whilst Phil Foden's remained on his face, a mask of dismay, Jack's quickly transfigured to an inviting grin, biting his lip at one side, and then hissing: `Shut the door - are you coming in?!'
If his expectations weren't as sky-high as the flight, Ben might have stumbled in and accepted the invitation, though it was hard to imagine a third compact body in the cubicle of space - as it was, he slid the door quickly shut and stepped back as if he'd been electrocuted, blinking rapidly as some of his floppy dark fringe fell against his eyes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You idiot, he told himself, you complete fucking idiot.
`What's up?' remarked a dry male voice somewhere to his left, and he glanced sharply to one side, annoyed that someone else was strolling to the loos and might have seen him so shaken and uncomposed. Blinking furiously and trying not to turn scarlet, he turned and stared at the sweatpants and hoody-clad stature of 6ft2 Eric Dier, loping this way. Ben was horrified and heartbroken by the misleading flirtation with his ex, but he wasn't a cunt.
Out of order,' he said quickly and bluntly, and nodded across the other side of this short cabin. You'll have to use the other one.' Thankfully, there was no clank or creak or groan from inside the closed toilet in front of him, presumably because the two City playmates had heard the voices and were being faintly discreet.
Dier looked mildly bewildered, staring at the closed door and its clear unlocked' sign, and then back at him, but he shrugged those powerful shoulders and brushed past him towards the other side. You're not waiting?' the Tottenham player and returning England star asked mildly, and Ben realised how silly he must look standing here. Nah,' he said with a show of flippancy, I was just stretching my legs.' And he stretched his smile, wide and weak, as Eric briefly stared him down before moving to the other toilet door, and disappearing from view. Ben did not stay still long enough to risk hearing a snigger or bump from the nearest toilet, staggering back through the curtain and into the aisle, hsi face hot and red, and his briefs straining at their contents. Prick-teased by the ex, he thought, and as gullible and spineless as ever.
Pissing in the opposite toilet, the 28-year-old defensive midfielder might have stopped and analysed Chilly's odd behaviour - but he'd had a frustrating day of his own, and there was nothing implausible about an out-of-order lavatory on a small airbus.
For Eric, it had also started with morning glory: his thick veiny member pushing out of the leg of his loose-fitting black boxers, rubbed unconsciously in his sleep until a little smear of pre-cum tickled the fluffy hair of his inner thigh. And then waking up, to find himself stared at across the divide of their beds, with the other 6ft2 football star looking contemplative, and one hand rather busy under the covers. Eric stared at him and blinked a few times, confirming that yes, Harry Kane was watching him in his sleep, and having an early-morning tug. `For fuck's sake,' was all the defensive midfielder could think to say to his friend, teammate, and ex-boyfriend.
He calmed down whilst showering, willing away his semi, and trying to remind himself how far he and Kane had come since the Jeremy Edgar' days of heartache, when their affair had been part-discovered by Mrs K, and he tossed to the side by the prolific striker. The dumping might have been bearable, a sort of brave romantic tragedy, if his Harry had remained some chaste hetero loner afterwards - but Eric had spent part of his last international outing untying Kane from some mild bondage in a communal shower, his ex whimpering about how hard he'd been fucked by two other players, Maguire and bloody Winks. And that had just been ONE of the times he'd been called upon to rescue' his love, relied upon unfairly by the gormless hunk, yet never good enough to be his real partner. It had taken so long for them to re-establish proper friendship, and the last six months ago had actually been great: they were both on form and enjoying themselves at Spurs, and Eric had even started to attend family events at the Kane house again, gladly greeted by a wife who had no idea what she'd once done to him.
Dier chatted warmly to Kane once he was out of the shower, and put the morning incident behind them. At breakfast, they sat with Harry Maguire and the two City brutes, Stones and Walker, and Eric resisted the urge to make quiet jibes at his ex about how he was pretty sure all three big buggers had enjoyed his own sloppy seconds. He could tell how much the striker still fancied the other burly defensive players, and though it only mildly irritated him, it made it much worse when he felt Harry's hand brush his thigh under the table. A warning glance, and that was over.
But it hadn't quite stopped there: they'd been separated by the morning's training sessions, grouped by their very different playing positions, and then distant in the gym because Harry simply wasn't into the upper body work that kept Eric's chest and arms so pronounced. But in the showers...
Eric's resolve had been chipped away since Tuesday night and those first murmurs of interest from his old boyfriend, and it was harder for him to spurn the quiet advances of the England skipper. In a quiet end of the shower block, he'd done nothing to stop Kane's wandering hand on his crotch, massaging at his dormant cock, or the other hand, massaging at one of his thick sore shoulders - he'd even allowed the kisses, wandering down his thick neck, and onto his pecs, until he was sucked at the teat by Kane's sluttish mouth. For a few steamy moments, he'd felt like he was on an inexorable path to bending the striker over and mounting him in the showers, public risk be damned - everything in the 29-year-old's manner had screamed for his dominance, and Dier found the 6ft2 Walthamstow oaf as irresistible as he had in Russia all those summers ago. Kane hadn't been his first male fun, but he'd been the first man he craved, the first man he LOVED.
Loyalty to Ross, tested by their recent arguments, had jolted back to him just in time, and he'd stepped sharply away from the other man. He'd glared at him and shook his head as if it didn't take two to tango, blaming the close encounter purely on Kane's selfishness and hypocrisy, and hissing in his ear: `I never go backwards, mate, I've got better things in my life now, y'know?' Almost spitting at him as they separated, pointing his self-loathing towards his sneaky friend, and knowing that it was worth risking this Tottenham alliance to maintain his faithfulness to his boyfriend in France, his big beautiful Barkley.
It was this that occupied Dier's mind as he washed his hands in the aeroplane cubicle, not any awkwardness on the face of Ben Chilwell, or a broken toilet that he'd been warned against using - it was the frustration of sharing hotel rooms with an ex, and then being squashed next to him on a flight, pretending not to feel the shudder of icy silence between them once again.
Ben couldn't bring himself to wank off in the same room as Reece James again tonight. He was pretty sure the wholesome 22-year-old had been off with him all day Wednesday and today, and the only explanation had been their mildly risque bedtime antics on opposite sides of the hotel suite. And yet he ALSO couldn't bear a night in the warmer Italian air, trying not to touch himself, or waiting for the other Chelsea player to snore.
So instead, he was down here, fiddling on his laptop in a cafe area of their Milanese hotel, waiting for it to get even quieter, and keeping his eyes on a nearby disabled loo, where he was pretty sure he could empty his balls in a few minutes' peace, trying not to think about the sight of Jack and Phil in the mile high club.
There'd been apologies at the other end of the flight, of course: Grealish tugging him aside after the conference room team talk, pulling him away from the group and murmuring questions at him... You okay, bruv...? Did you not know Philly and me were...? You don't think he's like my new boyfriend or anything though, do ya...? You aren't annoyed at me, man, are ya...?!' Okay, not exactly apologies. Grealish had looked mystified that Ben might feel even slightly hurt or confused, and so Chilwell had felt no choice but to match that. Looked fun,' he'd quipped as brightly as he could, shaking Jack's hand, and suppressing any sarcasm as he added, `Glad you're keeping yourself entertained in Manchester, buddy. Very glad.'
It was his own fault, really. Daft to read into Jack being horny and inappropriate. Daft to still cling to that broken relationship, especially when his own wandering interests had killed it off, chasing Mason Mount and almost ruining that love affair at the same time. Ben was pretty heavy on the self-blame, and nobody was rushing in to correct him or offer an alternative. So, he thought at his cafe table, I'll just be the sad wanker in the disabled loo, and Jack is probably pumping Guardiola's Golden Boy four floors above my head. For fuck's sake. Grealish was just one of those blokes, wasn't he? The kind who fell on his feet, and for whom others just fell to their knees - now he thought about it, Ben found it hard to believe that young Foden was the only gimp at City who was chasing after their £100 million man. And how many lovers and devotees had tasted him at Villa, too...?
With a long huffing sigh, the 25-year-old pushed shut his laptop and moved it away from him on the tabletop, mildly soothed by quiet Euro-pop on the radio and the quick Italian chatter of the hotel cafe's few customers. He wasn't really meant to be down here, with another curfew set by the boss, but it seemed a fairly minor crime, working on an online course he'd enrolled on, writing the latest assignment, and now... pausing that to sneak into an accessible toilet and wank himself silly.
`Benjamin James Chilwell!' came the quiet exclamation of an interrupting voice, just as he pushed back his chair and got up from the table. Ben turned, jumping a little as he had at the vending machine, but it wasn't his ex this time - it was Eric Dier again, a thin khaki jacket pulled over his sporty t-shirt and baggy sweats, clutching a small deli bag in one hand and his hotel keycard in another. The slight pink flush of his cheeks, as well as the evidence of shopping, revealed that Ben wasn't the only man breaking curfew.
Guilty,' the 28-year-old murmured pleasantly, as if the accusation had come out loud. But I just can't come to Milan without visiting a certain couple of shops, you know? Have you been much? It's such a fucking great city.' The handsomely bearded blond man smiled broadly, and Ben had to remind himself that Eric didn't know what he'd been about to sneak off and do.
Instantly, the 6ft2 defensive warrior was swinging himself into a spare leather chair at the same table, and Ben was drooping back into his own, reopening his laptop. `You want another?' Eric darted at him, as he waved down one of the Milanese waitresses and ordered his cappuccino. In a moment, two fresh coffees were on their way, and Eric was laughing about how silly the drinks were at this time of night, but how he could never get enough of real Italian coffee once he was in the country - and he was showing Ben the contents of his deli bag, boasting about the best meat products in Northern Italy, and pointing out that footballers were never encouraged to soak up much culture despite all of their visits to international cities.
Ben was so startled at being caught out in the cafe that he had little to say, though the slightly older defender was one of the most charming and easy to chat to on their squad - he'd been as glad as anyone to see Dier back in the fold, though he also feared the competition of such a powerful figure in the midfield and left-wing, wondering if his chances of World Cup action were reducing by the day.
And what's this?' Dier asked him, a little moustache of cappucino foam joining his viking facial hair. I didn't know you were into history.'
The Chelsea player shrugged and jerked awkwardly in his chair. It's just an Open University course I signed up for. I dunno. I probably won't complete it. I just-' He cut himself off: he hardly wanted to explain to a bloke as cultured as Dier how annoying it was to always feel lost in the conversation of his uni-educated mates, or how much it secretly hurt him when his friends like Mase and Dec referred to him as the Milton Keynes himbo', the `pretty boy' who didn't need to think.
`That's fucking great,' Dier insisted, and his London rival was suddenly a fountain of questions. It seemed that the other footballer wanted to know everything about the modules he'd signed up for, how many years it might take him to earn a degree, whether he knew much about Italian history, and so on - Chilwell, who wasn't sure he'd even finish this assignment and dare send it to the tutor, deflected them with polite and bashful murmurs, somehow made more self-conscious rather than confident by his older friend's interest in the whole scheme. It did, however, have the advantage of putting Jack out of his head, and making him think about other things. He wished he had Dier's easy confidence, and that he'd gone out into the city for a stroll and a bit of late shopping, rather than hunched at a laptop in this cafe, barely straining the rules of their curfew. A small inner voice pointed out that it was hardly any wonder that Grealish wasn't interested in him, when he was so reserved and small-minded, so unworldly and naive.
He closed his laptop, as if pushing the silly course away form him, and was surprised then when one of Eric's large strong hands rested tenderly on his arm. It's really good what you're doing,' the 28-year-old told him quietly. I've got a lot of respect for it, mate. But I won't mention it to anyone if you're shy about it, don't worry. Just don't be afraid to ask for help if you need it, yeh? Not that I know a fucking thing about history, haha.' Such a kind and encouraging smile on his face, and he'd finally wiped away that cappuccino tash.
`I'll see how it goes,' he told him softly, staring briefly at the grazed knuckles of that heavy hand, and thinking how nice and supportive it felt on his arm. It stayed there for a couple of moments too long, and they exchanged a shy grin.
Once upon a time, Ben thought, they'd seen each other in action, in a country garden in the middle of England. Luke Shaw's birthday party, that had been, at Maguire's earnest invitation. Cake smeared on the grass beneath where their bodies had rolled and thrusted. He and Jack sharing sly giggles as they participated, still discovering each other, and just minor players in big Harry's celebration of his Man Utd pup.
What are you thinking about?' Eric asked him now, leaning to one side in his chair, looking supremely comfortable in himself. Yet again, Ben felt as if his inner thoughts must be broadcast to the world, there was such a bemused and suggestive look on the other player's face. It made him shift away in his seat, but laugh, and he struggled for a good answer. Just old times,' he said, and that seemed to make the Spurs man laugh.
`Right, old timer. What are you, 24?'
25,' he pointed out in a thin voice that made him sound terribly immature. He grinned and shrugged again and, when he started to pull his arm away, felt Eric's hand give it a tight little squeeze before letting go. His cock tautened the fabric of his briefs and he enjoyed the physical closeness of this powerful lad, tall and broad and manly. So attractive, in fact, that Chilly couldn't help himself: I was thinking about Luke's 25th,' he admitted. `We were both guests at that... event.' He smiled nervously at the other guy, measuring his reaction, which was mild and casual, as if that rural idyll orgy was only a dim memory.
Yep,' Dier said, after a significant pause. It was fun.'
The conversation had begun, and it felt like it was moving unstoppably forwards now - Ben was a little clammy under his t-shirt already. `I think you were pretty much Luke's gift from Harry,' he nudged, his voice becoming almost breathless.
`Hah... something like that. Weren't you too...?'
Well,' Ben mumbled quite coyly, it's you who was balls-deep in him, eh?' Dirty talk never suited him, everything sounding so prim from his lips, but he was excited, and getting rock hard in his briefs, almost painfully so. `But I think I had a... taste.'
You were too busy with Jack.' Eric couldn't really know how upsetting or diverting that comment was, but then his follow-up was strangely exciting: I think I gave him a good seeing to myself that day?'
With a slight gulp, Ben nodded. And Maddison was all over everyone,' he said, chewing at his lip, fiddling with the saucer of his coffee cup. Eric still looked calm, unfazed, utterly relaxed; a mountain puma taking its time before jumping in for the kill. Chilwell suddenly wanted him more than anything else, wanting to be back in that garden, and- You and me, though,' he whispered with a surge of quiet boldness, I feel like we barely touched, right?' Another gulp, eyes locking with Diers'. I was all over Jack, you were all over Luke, Harry was-'
No,' mused the Tottenham stud, I think you're kinda right.' A loaded pause, eyes fixed on each other. `Such a fucking shame, when you think about it.'
Yeah.' His voice shook with breathless excitement. I'm thinking about it now. Erm.'
A slow nod of Dier's head. `Yeah. Me too, to be honest.'
Finally, Chilly broke the intense stare between them, blinking and taking a long gulp of cooling coffee. He was about to speak again when one of Dier's thick legs brushed his, calf against calf. `You know what? I think I need a swim to wear off this caffeine before bed. The rooftop pool is 24-hours, I think?'
Ben took a long deep breath before answering. Oh? Right, yeah. I think I saw that. I always... enjoy a swim.' He was hot and sweaty and his fingers were drumming on his lap. I might have to join you, you know.'
Another nod from the man beside him, whose leg pressed even more firmly from his. `See you up there, Chilly.' He got up and went, calm as anything, and the 25-year-old rested both hands on the edge of the thin marble table, glancing furtively about; it dawned on him that they were far from alone in here, and though quiet, their conversation had been verging on explicit. Still, did anyone in here even speak English? Ordering coffees had been a nightmare. You're procrastinating, he told himself, and he started unzipping his laptop bag, and shuffling away from the table of dirty cups, his whole body tense and excited, and his briefs struggling to cope.
The resistance that had held Eric back earlier in the day was gone, dissolved by the romantic grandeur of Milan. Well, that, and the flurry of tense messages going back and forth between here and Nice. Barkley was being weird about his suggestion of catching a flight here for tomorrow night's game, acting as if he was super-busy on the Riviera, which was really so close to this northern corner of Italy! It was as if the Nice midfielder was scared to be around the England camp or something, and didn't want to be seen attending their away game - Eric thought it was a pretty perfect plan, and had become increasingly annoyed when his absent boyfriend pointed out reason after reason that it wouldn't work. Dier had even started to fantasise about how he'd lock Kane out of their shared room tomorrow night so that he could host his replacement bottom, and make his ex mad with jealousy by fucking Barkley in his bed, and-
This chaotic energy was pumping through him as he peeled off his clothing in the small shelter by the deserted rooftop pool, layer after layer leaving his body until he was naked, with no intention of finding swimming trunks. Beyond this small changing area was a daybed of sorts, screened by potted plants, and that was the only thing he was going to be diving for, not the cool blue of the pool.
He had to wait alone and nude for a couple of minutes, and it was almost enough to cool his horny anger, and make him regret his rash movements, but Chilly was arriving before he could reach that epiphany, and question this stupid venture of infidelity.
When Ben was there, in the changing shelter with him, the Chelsea player just stared at him with such wide-eyed wonder and hungry interest that any doubt or common sense flushed away. Eric grasped and cuddled the slighter man, holding his 5ft11 body in both arms, naked against him, and kissing him on both sides of his neck, making him moan. Then, hurried but tender, he ripped his clothes off him, sweatshirt and t-shirt, sock after sock, tracksuit bottoms to the floor - and then he nuzzled those loaded briefs, letting his beard tickle at the smooth insides of Ben's seemingly waxed thighs, tasting his hard cock through the black cotton. It was huge - he'd forgotten that, Ben being so unassuming and chilled, not your typical swaggering big-dicked alpha. He'd once watched the handsome lad fuck Jack Grealish into the lawn at Luke's birthday bash, and he'd always struggled to understand why other people thought Jack to be such a big deal, having taken his arse with such casual ease that afternoon in the pale sunshine, before he was quite so... coveted.
He'd fucked Jack that day, and Luke, and he thought perhaps Madders too... but not Ben, for some reason, he wasn't even sure they'd touched, other than brushing skin in passing. It's not as if Eric had been hungering for him ever since, but suddenly tonight, it was a past mistake to be rectified, a hole to be filled.
They were naked on the daybed, and he was sucking Ben off, mouthing up and down his impossibly long arc of meat, so impressed by it. He concluded that Chilly was better-hung than himself and he was more turned on than threatened by this. He wanked his own thick veiny monster as he fellated the Chelsea pretty boy, and then climbed back up to kiss him, letting their dicks rub and grind, and rolling side to side on the plasticky comfort.
He'd only ever seen Chilly be top, but he was sure the handsome 25-year-old would prove versatile - he could hardly have dated sleazy Grealish without taking it a few times, surely? Though Eric could remember distinctly how greedy and tight Jack the Lad had been with a dick in him, and he kinda wished he had them both, football's beautiful bromance, two perfect arses all to himself. He wasn't even drunk, but he was hyper and infuriated and deprived of sex, no action at all since his overnight stay in Nice.
Still, he took his time. Up on his knees, Chilly's head held to his crotch, letting those perfect lips caress his dick, and then swapping places again, then shifting into a clammy sixty-nine. As he rested on hands and knees over the slimmer lad, sucked from below and happily tonguing the tip of Ben's footlong, he also reached his hands around and gripped those pert cheeks, pushing and pulling at the before opening them up and slapping two fingers at the hungry little hole. Spit, slide, prod, enter. Ben's arse opened for him and he knew for sure that the gorgeous Chelsea prince was not an exclusive top.
It was only once he was inside him that the doubts resurfaced, too late: a bit of him was mentally comparing the compact beauty of Ben's round backside to the bulging weight of Barkley's arse; he was conscious of how slim and almost delicate Ben's body felt underneath him, not so rugged or powerful as the men he'd often gone for; Ben's gasps were almost too feminine for him, though that sounded mean or dismissive. Cock buried to the hilt, Dier felt suddenly too conscious of what he was doing wrong, humping this gorgeous younger lad and breaking his trust with his true love. And yet... he didn't stop. He didn't pull out or push Ben's beautiful defined body away from him. He didn't throw himself into the chlorine of the swimming pool to wash away his sins. Nope, he slammed Chilly into the daybed, slapping his balls against his arse, and he grunted over him, sweaty hands holding his upper arms and picking up greater speed.
He came inside him, far quicker than usual, emptying a significant build-up of cum, and letting out hoarse battle cries as his hips and glutes continued to flex and release, smashing into the pert round peach, making the left-back quiver under his body and cry out for more, more, more. But Eric was spent, and dizzy with regret. When he closed his eyes he could see Ross on the stairs of his Nice apartments, holding the bannister and looking anxious, even abandoned. FUCK.
Eric continued in a sort of daze. Like a true gent, he turned the lad over, and wanked him to completion, staring slightly to the side and not meeting his eyes, just pulling off that massive cock until it was spurting cum on his wrist. He held Ben whilst the Chelsea lad convulsed and murmured, and then kissed him tenderly on the brow, and fetched him tissues to wipe down, then item by item of his discarded clothing, before bothering to start dressing himself. He was very used to looking after his Ross, tending to the wobbly emotions of the more repressed man, always staving off shame or doubt or insecurity - and now all he could think of was the prospect of either lying to Barkley, or giving him the brutal truth. His emotions must have started to show on his face, because Ben transitioned from a kind of giddy joy to a rueful shyness.
`Did I do something wrong...?' the former Leicester defender asked quietly as he tucked his t-shirt into the waist of his tracksuit bottoms.
`What? No, no, not at all.'
`Oh. Cool. Right.'
I just...' Eric squinted at him, unsure what the Chelsea lad knew: he'd been teammates with Ross, after all, though he wasn't sure if they'd ever shared a pitch, given one's fall from grace at the time of the other's purchase. And they had Mason in common, who knew everyone's fucking business. I'm with someone,' Eric muttered, sounding gruff and cross with himself, and worrying that he sounded accusing, as if it was Ben's fault.
I thought so,' Chilwell said dimly, giving nothing away, and Dier just turned away from him, pulling his top on and wishing his cock wasn't still a bit stiff, ready for more. It was suddenly as if the two twenty-somethings couldn't even look at one another. That felt good,' he was told by the younger lad, but he didn't reply or look at him, just busying himself with the laces of his retro trainers.
After a moment to compose himself, he got up and turned back towards the other guy, giving him a brisk nod and a pretty friendly grin. It did,' he assured him, patting him on the arm, but we should probably keep it quiet around the squad, hey?' He was already playing out a possible conversation in his head, in which he might try to confess his misdeeds to Ross over the telephone tomorrow morning - oh, fuck. There was a slightly forlorn expression about Ben's face, he thought, although it might just be the dishevelled curls of his dark brown hair on his brow. It struck Eric that of course the handsome bugger would know all about his relationship - he'd probably been dating Jack at the point the Villa skipper was instrumental in getting them together, after all that misunderstanding and awkwardness. They stared knowingly at each other, and Eric backed away slightly - he was judging himself, but also starting to feel as if wholesome Benjamin was judging him too, which didn't quite make sense.
It's cool,' Chilwell told him meekly, clearly attempting aloofness. I won't say a word.'
`Great,' Dier told him faintly, starting to feel the cool of the night air on his sweaty neck. He backed off further, piecing their overlapping sexual history together a little more, and realising that he wasn't even sure if Ben and Jack might still be an item. Had they both just cheated on long-term partners, or was he the only bastard in this scenario?
At a cool distance from one another, they both headed indoors, leaving the Milanese sky behind, and saying nothing to one another in the lift, where Eric just looked at his own guilty reflection in the tarnished gunmetal of the mirrored wall, a cheating scumbag, provoked by a case of the ex.