Part 368: England Camp, Day Seven
Alright, sexy lad,' drawled the familiarly rich tones of his mate's voice as he answered the call, and he couldn't help but giggle stupidly at the playful greeting from his club teammate; the jokey affection slipped quickly to the more casually abusive banter that defined such laddish friendships, but also an earnest gratitude when he got to the point of the call. Happy birthday mate,' he said seriously, `I hope you're having a fuckin' class day, y'know? Sorry you aren't up here with us to celebrate.'
Up here, right now, was the outskirts of Glasgow, the England squad's new base - following the Ukraine draw, there had been a fairly early journey back into UK airspace, touching down north of the border and settling in for a day's prep work at the Rangers FC training ground. More specifically, up here was the humid foliage of a hotel garden, where the 27-year-old Leeds lad had strolled out on his own to try and get in touch with an absent friend.
Aww, thanks pal,' droned the deep Brummie voice of his superstar pal, and Kalvin Phillips grinned with the usual face-splitting grin that was his default, sat on a bench beneath a sweaty night sky. You're a real good pal,' he was complimented firmly by an at least tipsy Jack Grealish, who had stepped away from the noise of a family party after the first difficult minute of the call. `Thanks for taking the time to call me, I really appreciate that, I do. Top class, matey.'
The two of them chatted on - it had been one of Kalvin's defining friendships of his much-criticised time at Manchester City, and he was genuinely sad that Jack had been ruled out of this England camp before it had got going. The loss of him as a roommate was a definite dent in the experience, even apart from his bubbly presence in training and on the journeys between venues. And Phillips, being the kind-hearted Yorkshire lad that he was, had vaguely worried that the absence might be even harder on Grealish than anyone here, given the Brummie lad's fierce passion for international footy - but by the sound of his merry state and the background noise of family shenanigans, he'd coped well. Now Kal was just glad that his pal was able to celebrate his 28th in a way that their Scotland fixture might not have allowed, and he almost wished he was there in outer Birmingham too, joining the Grealish clan who had been very good to him on their visits to Manchester.
The defensive midfielder quickly drew the call to an end after five minutes or so, conscious that Jack should get back to his mates and family, and also feeling a big urge to crack open a beer, hearing the drunken edge to Jack's effusive cheer and affection, just a magnification of his everyday charisma. Get back to your party,' Kalvin insisted down the line, and stop letting me distract you. Enjoy, fella.'
Yeah, yeah,' Grealo agreed. Say hi to all the lads for me, hope they're doing well - hope Kylie isn't being too fucking big-headed about that overdue goal, you know! And say hi to-' There was an awkward pause there, Jack's tipsy voice faltering on the line, making Kalvin only momentarily curious about who Jack was about to make special mention of, then thinking better... Lil Phil, he supposed, hyper-conscious of how much young Foden hero-worshipped their boisterous mutual pal. Couldn't really be anyone else, could it? But Jack had murmured on as if there was no awkward pause: `Smash it up in training tomorrow, sexy, and get yourself fucking picked for Tuesday, yeh?' A raucous laugh as they said their goodbyes and his mate disappeared into the ether, back to birthday cake and beer, leaving Kalvin sat in his shorts and tee in the Scottish humidity. It was cooler here than England or Poland, but the air felt thick and sticky, and a sheen of sweat glowed on his arms and legs, even just sitting her chuckling away with the birthday boy.
Phillips remained where he was, hands draped between open thighs with phone in grasp, a lingering smile breaking up his boyish features, and Jack's stupid pet names hovering momentarily in his mind - `sexy lad', what a dick-head! Kalvin wasn't the one with Instagram accounts dedicated to his fucking calves, was he? Jesus, the lad was bonkers. He chuckled and shook his head, and thought...
There was, he had to admit, a slightly more specific pang of regret to missing Grealish, as a teammate and a roomie. The reason made his dimpled cheeks colour and him scratch awkwardly at the back of his neck, then pull at the sticky chest of his patterned t-shirt. The thing about being pals with a lad like Jack, Jack the lad, was that... stuff happened, didn't it? Jack was dynamic, always the centre of the fun. Even that was euphemistic. Kalvin was thinking about Qatar - no, further back than that, his senior England debut trips, where he and Jack had pulled and shared a couple of stunners in the hotel bar, and fucked them side-by-side several floors above. The thrill ride of friendship with Grealish had began then, long before... he cringed, and scratched his chin, and pictured them in Doha, taking turns on squealing Dan James, fucking the lad's big peachy arse like it was nothing, like the Welsh dude was just another stunning slag from the bar.
It had seemed to mean little or nothing to Jack, the transgression, whilst Kal himself had been mentally beaten up by a previous blowie from DJ for months! That night in the Croydon strip club, sucked off by smiling Daniel, he'd really struggled with the shock of it; and then in Jack's electric company he'd just embraced it, fucking first Dan's mouth and then his generous backside, relishing the tightness of his hole and those big booty cheeks, a greater arse than any of his girlfriends!
He cringed and blushed and got up from the bench. The path of his thoughts was telling him that he wished Jack the Lad was here on the squad so that the rakish playboy could initiate something weird and kinky of that nature, and it made the confused Leeds bloke feel ashamed and uncomfortable. He thought further back, remembering a brief handjob from a Leeds teammate in a chilly hotel, and judged his own failure to cut off these naughty encounters - he'd been allowing boundaries to slip before he could blame Jack's explosive personality for a drunken mishap, hadn't he?
And here was Jack calling him `sexy' down the phone from his birthday bash, soft and jokey, but stirring more awkwardness and ambiguous yearning in Kalvin's heat-addled brain; what WOULD he have got up to this week if the winger was in attendance...?
Upstairs, he let himself into his hotel room quietly, guessing correctly that his replacement roomie would be asleep. For much of the week, Kalvin had actually had a suite at their main base to himself, as he'd been scheduled to room with Jack; someone in charge had amended that as they arrived in Poland on Friday night and now here he was with the young superstar, and he had... mixed feelings.
Phillips moved slowly into the room, sliding off his trainers and padding ankle socks across the carpet, but pausing midway to his own bed to glance again at the nearer double and its occupant, confirming that Jude Bellingham was indeed asleep and gently snoring.
Jude was, of course, a good lad - impossible not to like. And so he made for a good roommate, with a great balance of healthy professionalism and light-hearted chat, a pretty high-quality roomie by all standards! And yet...
The thing about the 20-year-old from Stourbridge was... well, he was just Mr fucking Perfect, wasn't he? Kalvin paused and looked at him with this on his mind. He knew the sad truth of it: he was just projecting his own insecurities. He couldn't be blind and deaf to the flak Southgate was getting for selecting the likes of him, Maguire, Henderson. And really he was used to it, because he got plenty of that criticism for his role at City in general, collecting the club's accolades with fairly minimal game-time contributions of his own. Kalvin still didn't know how to feel about the big money career glow-up that had taken him from club hero of his boyhood city to spare training fodder at a mega-club who were snaffling up trophies like nobody's business. He'd felt deeply uncomfortable throughout the `Treble' celebrations of the summer, carried along in the wake of Jack's beery bender, but ashamed to hoist silverware that he'd not properly earned.
And here, spread out on the other double bed in front of him, was this prodigious 20-year-old, who was now the toast of La Liga - rightly, Bellingham had been welcomed to the camp as a hero and a legend, constantly praised and fawned over by players and staff alike, and... yeah, he was sweet and humble and every bit of it was well-deserved, but it was tough stuff to swallow when you were in Kalvin's position. The kid was barely out of school and he was already conquering his second European league and a sure-thing member of the England senior line-up, with some corners of the squad muttering about a captaincy when Kane's retirement starts to loom.
`King Jude,' the 27-year-old muttered to himself, standing at the corner of his pal's bed, and examining the stretched height of the youngster, who had almost entirely discarded his duvet because the room was too hot; there was air-conditioning, but neither of them had quite figured out how to work it without it making a terrible racket. And so the 6ft1 fellow mixed-race youth was stretched out on his back, a thin shaft of outer light cutting past a blind and glimmering across one thigh, his taut grey underpants, and the firmly-defined muscles of his slim long torso. Kalvin was only rooming with the wunderkind because of some odd mix-up anyway, something about Trent Alexander-Arnold requesting a room swap away from Hendo right before his minor injury had him sent home - the outcome had been that Phillips and Bellingham were the two spare parts, enjoying solo rooms for the whole of last week, and now bunched together for the last few nights.
Huh, boy wonder, now man of the moment... Kalvin tried hard not to resent him,and failed. He let out a quiet little sigh, his face frowning and unhappy in a way that few ever saw, and he lingered there a moment too long. This was the moment he should have fumbled onto his own bed and climbed in, probably ending up as uncovered as this lad, because the Glaswegian hotel was as stuffy as hell. That's what he should have done, but he stayed where he was a moment too long, and his thoughts... wandered.
Look at the length of them legs, like the kid was designed in a football laboratory; look how bloody ripped his stomach is! Kalvin thought he probably still had a bit of puppy fat when he was turning 20, not that washboard. Jesus, he then thought, look at how he fills his fucking under-crackers too, for God's sake, he's even- He stopped himself, blanching, as he began to chastise himself for not being quite so well-endowed as the younger Englishman, and now he felt very silly and petty. And... something else, but the word escaped him.
But look at it! The lad just splayed out like that with only a scrap of duvet under one arm, so that his full physique was on show to the night. The way the flimsy strip of external light fell, it really highlighted the space that lay below the resting thigh muscles and the washboard, and Kalvin found himself staring at it: the rising heap of presence in those grey trunks, with one of Jude's sleeping hands resting not far from it on his hip.
The 27-year-old football player was hardly conscious of himself moving forward, but here he was, closer to the bed, and stooping forward better, as if to better take in the sight of his sleeping teammate, his younger yet superior colleague - and his eyes were adjusting to the low light in a way that made Jude's 6ft1 physique all the clearer, all the more impressive. He stared at him and he let out his breath in a ragged sigh, and... again, he stared at how well the 20-year-old filled the front of his undies, and... damn it, before he knew what he was doing, he was also staring at his own hand as it reached out and, yep, gave it the gentlest of strokes. He didn't know why he'd done it. To check that the kid didn't shove a pair of socks down there before going to bed? Fuck's sake.
Kalvin froze where he was, aware that this was crazy. He'd lifted one bare knee to the edge of the bed, and was stooped forward, his hand cupped gently against the side of the large package. It was as if he'd had a blackout at the door to the room and then come to his senses in this mad position, looming over the sleeping younger lad, and staring down at the shape of a resting cock in those pants. So why now did he stroke it again, feeling the outline of it, the length and girth of it obvious through the material where it curled slightly on top of his balls. Lucky fucking lad.
He kept his breath quiet and hunched there, half on the bed, rubbing gently at the shape of Jude's cock, and lifting his eyes to stare up his six-pack and his expanding chest, taking in the angelic peacefulness of his tilted face - the slightest flicker of his full lashes, the hint of movement in his lips, but still surely asleep. Kalvin's hand rested a little more firmly on his bulge, and he had no idea what he was doing. With his other hand, resting forward on his elbows, he stroked one of those thighs, feeling the dormant power of it - then he stroked further, past the hip and tracing his finger close to the navel, playing over the muscular rows of the abdomen, before trailing back and teasing at the elasticated waistband of the Hugo Boss underwear.
The slight moan from Bellingham rose out of the darkness and for a moment chilled Phillips entirely, before he looked at his hand and supposed that his clumsy touch had elicited that sound of faraway pleasure. He repeated the motion, teasing fingertips across where the big head of it must be, and Jude moaned a little again. His heartbeat skipped and his mouth felt as dry as anything. Fuck - what the hell was he up to here?
The 6ft1 boy stirred very gently beneath his touch, the slightest adjustment of limbs, and Kalvin gave the outline a good stroke. It was getting bigger, firmer, even more apparent. He rubbed again across the shape of the head and he felt a stirring in his own loins. His face was descending close almost of its own volition, and by the time his lips brushed the cotton with a sensitive kiss, he knew he was rock-hard inside his shorts. On cue, a sleepy moan sounded from further up the bed, and he hovered there, aware that his muscular bulk on the mattress could disturb and wake even the heat-exhausted young midfielder; but he was in deep, and he wasn't sure how he could pull away without applying more pressure and probably waking Bellingham up...! It was mad logic, but it was a confused trap that he found himself in, and he nuzzled his lips a second time against the firm shape of the hardening dick, breathing in Jude's scent. Somehow the crotch of his underpants just smelt rich and sexy like some expensive aftershave - for fuck's sake, did this smug bastard have ANY flaws?
Poised there against him, stroking the sides of his thighs and reaching up to the hips and the waistband of the grey trunks, he pictured Jude's already trademark celebration at the Bernabeu, the self-assured way in which he presented himself to the Spanish crowds, a triumphant Madridista already. He thought about the young star's potency and he peeled the grey material away, revealing first the wire-wool growth and then the base of the shaft and then, inch by inch, the full majesty of it, flipped free and rising up to meet his shivering lips - long, thick, veined, pale brown shifting to pink. Kalvin hung over it with his mouth open, thinking about Dan James' eager little face - what was it like to feel a man's cock on your tongue, really? He posed the question to himself as if it was a matter of scientific experiment, and not ultimate taboo and secret scandal in the hot air of the room. He opened his lips wider and found out, closing his mouth about that pink tip, and tasting its goodness. No immediate moan from Jude, but maybe a slight stirring of his restive legs; Kalvin swirled his tongue about the head slowly, dragged his lips across it all, and then parted with it, gasping quietly, and averting his eyes to check that Jude's face remained at that peaceful angle, lids flickering as if deep in a dreamworld.
He licked his lips, slowly, and thought about it. The cock tasted almost like the pants smelled. Rich, luxurious, powerful. He darted out his tongue, rolling it across the head, and this time the sleeper did moan, a bit more firmly; this scared Kalvin, but it also electrified him. He grabbed the cock about its base and licked the end like a lollipop, proceeding to run his tongue down the sides and back up, his weight now pressing very firmly onto the bed, and his other hand caressing awkwardly against a bulging thigh muscle. He took the end of it in his mouth again, sucking gently on it, and thinking that there was just so much of it - he couldn't put all of it in his mouth, could he?
Again, that stupid curiosity, that sense that this was fair game, a worthwhile experiment, JUST TO SEE - a heat madness was driving him forward, and he opened wide. He took one inch and then two inches and then three, and he tried not to graze the shaft with his teeth, bowing his head deep into the richly scented crotch, until... fingers brushing his topknot and rubbing the back of his head, soft for a moment, then VERY firm. His face was pushed down and held there and his throat was gagged with cock, and for many long seconds he was terrified to try and even breath. Not a word from Jude, but a grunting sleepy moan, and a tight grip of now BOTH hands, holding Kalvin's head there, cock pushing into his throat, so that he made a horrible awkward gurgling as he, at last, pulled back, drooling from his bottom lip. But Bellingham was STILL ASLEEP - he stared at his face, the expression different but the angle the same, and he stared at the cock, shiny with his saliva, and he felt the hands on the sides of his head, pulling him in. He didn't know who the 20-year-old was dreaming of - Dua Lipa? Margot Robbie? A pornstar? - but he knew that his mouth was fulfilling the role of someone else, and he panicked at the strength and control of the lad's hands, even as his cock throbbed and leaked and he rolled his tongue on its way down the thick veiny shaft.
He shifted his muscular weight forward slightly and rubbed his hands about the outsides of Jude's chunky thighs, glad when the hands softened and just toyed with the locs of his knot, perhaps mistaking it for a girl's ponytail - was he Ariana Grande or Beyonce in the youth's sex dream? - allowing him a bit more control as he played his lips and tongue about the flute of the prodigy's manhood. He didn't know what he was doing, but he did it, sucking happily on it and then gagging again when he went too far. One hand stroked down the back of his neck, keeping his face there at work, and he felt the other close over his own hand where it rested just below the hip. Jude moaned into the night and, like Jack Grealish when he was cumming inside the Welsh lad, even that abstract sound of pleasure seemed to have a soft Brummie lilt to it.
If Phillips' world was already on fire with newness, then there was one further detail that he had not been in the slightest prepared for: the almost metallic tang of the youth's juices when they hit first the roof of his mouth, and then his tongue. He might have been instantly repelled if there wasn't a strong sleepy hand on his head, and he held his mouth there, eating Jude Bellingham's cum before he knew it, and adjusting to the salty bitterness, and... trembling with every muscle of his body to know that he'd brought the midfielder to climax, and tasted the fluid of this La Liga hurricane.
Jude's body shook a little, and Kal felt yet more salty liquid on his tongue and dribbling over his lip. He pulled away, angling his head to escape the guiding hand, and he gasped in a few bursts of air, feeling warm goo on his chin, and struggling not to rush to the bathroom to find the Corsodyl. Instead he just hunched there, aware of the awkward throb of his own hard-on, and staring at the wet shiny head of Jude's big prick, pointing accusingly at him - it was beginning to dawn on him how wrong his actions must be.
Leaving the bed was an act of willpower, of precise awkward motions, trying to minimise the shifts in pressure as this elbow and that knee left the mattress. Jude though, he thought, seemed to be a deep sleeper, totally unconscious even with his mighty cock wavering and throbbing and drooling traces of jizz. Off the bed, bare feet to the carpet, and staggering the distance to his own double. Climbing into it as softly and quietly as he could, he grabbed the corner of his duvet and rubbed it over his mouth, his chin, tasting shame on his lips. He was shaking all over and fear had killed his erection, his dick limp and fat inside his shorts and undies. He lay over the covers, trembling, and wondered what utter madness had overtaken him in the past ten minutes.
And then, rising out of the dark like the moans of earlier, the soft Brummie accent - less broad and musical than Jack's Villa drawl, but still distinctively Birmingham. I knew Southgate brought you along for a reason,' came Jude's slow breathy murmur across the room, followed by an almost arrogant sleepy chuckle. And nothing more. Kalvin lay there, horrified, shaken, head-fucked: he'd been awake all along, he must have. He stayed still and silent and listened to the long indulgent breaths that sounded from the lad in the other bed, the faint smacking of lips, the rustle of a big wet cock being pushed inside undies that couldn't contain it, and the stretching of limbs. After a while, the voice added, Don't be weird about in the morning, mate,' with all the world-weary pragmatism of someone who had lived far more decades.
And Kalvin Phillips rolled over, away from the direction of the softly yawning figure in the dark, staring up at the windows and the hanging blinds, staring out through that thin gap at the vague lights of the Scottish city. He fell into an uncomfortable sleep with the taste of cum in his mouth, and what felt like a pube on his upper lip, and dreamed things that he would never admit to anyone when he woke up on Monday.
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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