Part 372: International Again, Monday
Another England camp in their rural base, and another burst of unseasonal heatwave: the corridors of the attractive country hotel were a stuffy labyrinth, and the late afternoon kickabout in the neighbouring sports complex had been one soaked in a sheen of summery sweat. In the many shared suites of the senior men's team occupants, inefficient air conditioning units whirred into life, and in one room towards the side of the now-familiar venue, a frustrated occupant slid open a sash window in the hope of letting some cooler night air in.
He paused, his sweaty hands splayed out on the sill, and looked down into the gently lit gravel entranceway just visible around the corner - a cluster of their attendant staff were out there, and the last senior player was making his arrival. The tall manly figure of Bundesliga export Harry Kane was strolling in towards the hotel, case in tow, and shaking hands with the assortment of hotel and FA figures who were managing their stay. For a moment, he considered whistling or hollering a greeting down to the national caption on his way into the hotel foyer, perhaps throwing some vague abuse his way for being the last arrival of the 26-man squad who Southgate had selected. But he pictured himself going unheard and laughed vaguely to himself, folding his elbows against the sill instead and staring thoughtfully out into the cool night, glad of the soft breeze on his face.
At the sound of the door behind him, Jack Grealish retracted from leaning out of the window, and turned his attention across the room; it was just his chosen roomie for the trip, emerging from a piss and swiftly tying the cord at the waist of his baggy shorts, then offering him a casual salute. `Opening the window, do you wanna get a load of bugs in here?' James Maddison demanded instantly, lifting a hand to scratch at his thin brown beard.
It's October,' Jack protested, pausing dumbly to wonder if that made a difference, then just shrugging. Let the bugs in,' he told his friend obnoxiously, and they can bite what they want, as long as they give me a good suck.' The renowned City player chuckled gruffly and gave a lewd wink to his bro, leaning comfortably back by the window and tugging on the front of his own more close-fitting England shorts. James was chuckling softly and returning to the task of unpacking his case of neatly folded clothes, and Jack threw further banter his way: It's these weird hot nights, innit,' he mumbled suggestively. `They really get ya horned up and desperate for some relief, don't they?'
Apart from a vague smile to himself and a slow nod, Madders pretty much ignored this provocation, busy with unpacking and organising his personal effects. Watching him from the window, Jack let out a huffy breath and pulled the curtains of highlighted hair away from his brows. Suit yerself, he thought.
The 28-year-old winger had been pleased to secure his good party pal as a roommate for the week, especially since his dear Lil Phil was pretty frigid nowadays - he didn't know what had changed to make his younger buddy so seemingly immune to his charms, but he'd totally failed to get any fun out of Foden in months now, though the other attacking player still seemed to look up to him and hang on his every word during training. It was almost like Philip was totally faithful to his missus or some bullshit, and it made Jack bored to think about. Little prude!
Madders, though, was a more fun prospect. After all, they'd been pals for years, and when he had first begun to explore his sexuality at the encouragement of Benji, his then-teammate at Leicester had quickly joined them as a playmate - Jack could even remember the three of them driving up to Luke Shaw's `birthday party' at Maguire's invite, part of a big dirty fumble in the cottage garden to celebrate the Man Utd hunk. That felt like an eternity ago, and Jack paused only briefly on the rose-tinted memory, thinking about how wild and free he and Chilly had felt in those honeymoon months - he wasn't sure when things had got heavy and serious between them, but it had quickly crushed their young love, and now he just missed his Chelsea prince something rotten.
As was his way, the Brummie lad brushed away the bigger feelings, and tugged lazily at the bulge in his shorts. You're so OCD,' he criticised, watching Madders sort his stuff, and glaring almost accusingly at his own messy heap at the foot of his double bed. We're not fucking moving in here, fella.'
The Tottenham Hotspur signing laughed distractedly, not even looking his way, and so not noticing how much he was fidgeting with the contents of his shorts, or lifting up the front of his clingy t-shirt to scratch the faint trail of pubic hair above his waist. We're here about a week,' he was reminded. No away trips, remember, just the two Wembley fixtures.'
Jack shrugged disinterestedly, only half-aware of the scheduled matches. He couldn't help but look at England work as little more than a glorified lads' holiday with a bit of footy, a chance to muck about with many of his best buds, and to feel smug-as-fuck with the Three Lions on his chest. He sighed frustratedly and pushed both hands inside the front of his shorts, pointlessly, dawdling to the side whilst James deposited some rolled t-shirts in a draw by his bed.
`I mean, does your missus pack this for you, or are you the neat freak?' Grealish asked him.
Maddison laughed but ignored the question. Sort your own shit out,' he suggested. God, you're like a little kid - do I need to give you an iPad to go and play with?'
True to the joking insult, Jack scowled petulantly, twanging the waistband of his shorts, and running fingers through his hair. Dickhead,' he quipped, then in a playful growl, You could gimme something else to play with, fella.'
Again, the Spurs 26-year-old seemed to hardly hear the flirtatious remark, and he brushed past, going to hang up a couple of nicer shirts in their shared wardrobe, whistling to himself. Jack frowned unhappily and kicked the corner of the bed with socked toes. Man, I should have just got a room with Kal,' he grumbled, half to himself, and picked up the heavy crime thrillers that sat amongst James' things. When did YOU start reading?' he demanded crossly, bored in advance at the prospect of his roommate burying his face in these boring books all night like some old git.
Oh, I learned at school,' mused Madders quietly from the wardrobe. Has City not found a tutor to teach you any basic literacy yet...?'
Jack chuckled but with a note of insecurity, calling his pal a Daft cunt', and sloping back across the room to flop down on his bed in a mild sulk. He rubbed his toned tummy, t-shirt halfway up his tummy, now not even trying to catch James' impossible attention, just bored and frustrated for real. He stared at the ceiling as Madders passed by, finding a place for everything, and really making himself at home in the shared suite, making a few further jokes about Jack's stupidity - I'll read you a bedtime story if you like, I'm getting good at these days' and `I should have brought you one of the little lad's picture books!' - whilst Grealish tried to shift the dirty appetite that had followed him down on the drive from Manchester to Surrey.
And then, just as 28-year-old Jack the Lad was accepting a dull first night of England duty, a week where perhaps he'd actually have to be as professional as he was under Pep's management, he found that James was stood at the side of his bed, tattooed arms folded over his suddenly bare chest, and a big grin splitting his bearded face. Jack tilted his head on the pillow and frowned at James' expectant features. `Er, wha'?'
Maddison shrugged impatiently. Get your cock out you daft twat,' the midfield ace told him brightly. You've droppe enough hints!' The new Londoner sniggered and slapped his hands together, rubbing them excitedly, stood there in just baggy basketballer shorts - and Jack laughed delightedly, realising that his roomie had just been teasing him with the ignorance and wait, and was now leaping onto the bed by his hairy tanned legs, licking his lips - oh yes, this was more like it!
Like the excitable overgrown schoolboy he was, Jack grabbed and fought with the rustling nylon of his shorts, helped quickly by the grasping hands of the ot her football player - and down the shorts went, over his meaty thighs and then past his almost equally meaty calves, flung aside once they were past his white-socked feet. Fuck,' growled Maddison, I dunno if there are sexier legs than these in England.'
England?' Jack barked, lounged on his back, flexing the muscular limbs. Try the world, you horny prick!' He grabbed and shook the bulge in his silky black boxer briefs, his t-shirt still bunched up below his nips, most of his lithe body on show for his roomie. Momentarily, James stayed on his knees in front of him, licking his lips and rubbing his hands together eagerly, and then he pounced - falling forwards to plant kisses on the bottom of Jack's six-pack and then nuzzling the dark bulge, rubbing and gripping at the impossibly muscular thighs. And Jack groaned delightedly in response, very happy to get the attention he'd craved all day, all evening - desperate to get his dick wet and feel the lust and appetite of another horny man.
He lifted his hips to let the Hotspur help him out of his undies, which went the same way down his furry legs, tossed loosely away, so that James could spit down on his near-hard prick, and give it a good rub to full mast. Jack grinned and absorbed the quick dirty compliments about his length and girth, about how he was the horniest and dirtiest bastard in their sport - James knew how to stoke his ego, always had, although this thought took him vaguely back to old times, playing with both Leicester Foxes when they met up, he, James, and Ben... But Ben was an idiot, he thought, who was stuck in that messed-up London club, and had got himself all injured AGAIN, so couldn't be here...! Dumb git, he thought bitterly, blaming Chilwell for his own absence, and trying to put the past in the past.
The feel of Madders' mouth on his cock helped, and he sprawled luxuriantly back, enjoying the oral service, and thrusting sporadically upwards to feed his strong shaft into the soft wet mouth of the fellow Midlander. Maddison gobbled noisily on him and Grealish reached down, playing blunt fingers through his mate's thinning hair and down the back of his neck, so glad of the BJ that he kept cooing his gratitude, `Cheers mate, thanks for this, ah yeah...'
Only when he was worried about spurting too soon did he pull James off his crotch and clamber up to him, hugging their bodies together and going in for a kiss. Madders was a little hesitant, which surprised him, but he was assertive and needy, and he let their hot wet mouths go to town, until the slim-built younger fella was putty in his arms. Then he pulled down the guy's shorts and boxers and noshed him too, glad at how stiff James' smaller thinner prick was, and glad at its salty taste in his mouth. He remained seated with Maddison kneeling over him, clutching his hips whilst sucking greedily on his lollipop, and making him moan heavily above.
Jack felt a little hint of urge to bottom, having not had his meaty cheeks clapped in a while, but he just didn't feel like the Hotspur was the lad for the job, quite lean and lightweight, and he himself was too tired to top - he threw Madders down on the bed to the side, climbing into a position to suck him more comfortably, then scrambling up to lean over his chest and face, wanking his cock over the fella's grinning chops. Now Jack didn't feel the need to hold back or control himself, just spreading his big legs and positioning himself so that he could stare down his own strong lean body, and at his mighty appendage, balls swinging under it with each quick wet tug.
Fuck yeah,' James groaned. Gimme yer load.'
`All of it?' Jack wheezed.
`All on me face,' the midfielder panted.
`Every drop?' Grealish pushed through hot rasping breaths.
`Fuck yeah, all over me...!'
`Mmm, yes mate, YES!'
The heavy Brummie balls were emptied, Jack pulling hard on his length, and spilling streak after streak of off-white jizz on Madders' lightly haired chest, on the chestnut brown of his facial hair, on the freckled pale tan of his face, on the receding hairline. Kneeling over him, Jack panted and moaned, continuing to yank his sensitive cock even as the orgasm receded, and loving the glisten of his juices where it oozed on that grinning face. Exhausted and laughing, he whirled about, stooping low to lick the tip of his friend's cock - the lap of his sloppy tongue was enough to send Maddison over the edge, and Grealish clamped his lips around the Tottenham cock to swallow his load.
Five minutes later, the City winger was still lying near-naked on the bed, a fresh grime of sweat all over his tanned strong body, his t-shirt still uncomfortably tangled below his pits, whilst James cheerfully returned to the task of tidying and personalising his half of the room. Jack just grinned wearily and rubbed lazily at the flop of his soft cock and deflated bollocks, pleased with the immediate gratification and the prospect of room-sharing with a lad as chilled out and comfortable as Madders - no fucking drama or tension here, no way!
`That was great,' the Brummie murmured contentedly.
More banter from the other lad, who chucked a pack of tissues his way. `Yeah, but you STINK of cum now, you bell-end - get cleaned up or I'm not sucking that monster again all week. And tidy up your things, you pratt. Come on.' Jack just chuckled and assented, rolling off the bed and taking a tissue to his cum-smeared member - okay, okay, best to keep Maddison sweet, and make sure this week remained fun.
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