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Subject: Premiership Lads part 120: The Picnic Part 120: The Picnic The `car park’ turned out to be nothing but a scruffy layby off a B-road, a few battered signs standing on the grassy verge that divided it from the intermittent buzz of traffic. The day was mild, the sky streaked by ambivalent cloud, hints of a sunnier day leaking between them now and then. Pushing the door of his car shut, he hesitated at whether he was dressed right for the day, but then, what the hell was right for this… occasion? He hovered there at the car door for a minute, looking down the skid of parking space that oozed off the road, just one more vehicle parked there. Of course, he’d recognised it instantly from the road, as he knew it was. He wasn’t detail-obsessed enough to claim he knew the license plate, he didn’t have a head for numbers; but he recognised the model and colour and, more intimately, he could see the dents and scratches at one side from a story he knew too well. One careful owner, except when he wasn’t. Ben Chilwell smiled a little at that thought and took a couple of damp steps to tug open a back door and grab the small Nike backpack off the backseat, throwing it over one shoulder. A thick plaid shirt hung open over his tshirt, and denim shorts reached down to just above the knees. He locked the car and habitually checked his hair in the cloudy reflection of a window, fingering at the parted flop of his dark hair and wondering if he should have shaved this morning, after all. Giving up on this vain rigmarole, the 23-year-old man backed away from the car and tried to keep his steps remotely dainty, mildly irked by the muddy streaks threatening his fresh new trainers as he moved through the layby. As per the instructions on the text message, there was a public footpath branching away between the trees, though just as described, the faded signpost marking it out was more or less screened by fresh summer foliage. This gave the path an oddly secret air, the entrance to a mystery world; that, he supposed, was the point. Ben felt a faint nervousness as he made his way down the gently sloping path, tugging a little on the single bagstrap and fumbling at a loose button on his shirt with the fingers of his other hand. His trainers quickly stopped their quiet squelches against the mud, moving onto the soft undergrowth that had invaded the path. Its slope sharpened and he picked his way a little more carefully — after all, being a Premiership footballer was a bit like being an expensive racehorse. Careless footing on a casual outing could be crippling. There was a cheerful backing track of birdsong and, after a few minutes’ walk, it was undercut by the most gentle hint of water. It was another few minutes before he saw it, the odd sparkle or flutter of running water, between the tree trunks. The path had faded a little into more open space, the trees thinning out, the ground sloping quite steeply. Thick roots created rough platforms on which he stepped one at a time. Soon, the narrow but noisy river broke open in front of him, and the path seemed to reform, following the steep banks away upstream. And just ahead, sitting against a sloping trunk with his eyes firmly on the passing water, was his… date. Ben smiled automatically, an almost shy and boyish little grin, before treading carefully over some more whorled roots and down onto the riverside path. His feet crunched quietly at fallen leaves and twigs and the noises evoked a little jolt of awakening from the waiting lad at the tree trunk. Jack Grealish looked up from his silent thoughts and his reaction was less instantly warm than Ben’s unseen one: his eyes bulged, his lips flickered between smile and frown, he glanced up and down the path repeatedly, then got up to his feet. `You found it then,’ coughed the Aston Villa captain, a backpack slung over both shoulders and his Puma tracksuit top open over a low-scooping neon vest. His shorts, Ben noted, were as undersized and close fitting in leisure as the ones he opted for in the game. Plenty of tanned, hairy leg muscle was on show in the dappled light of the riverside. `Sure did,’ Ben said, hurrying the last few steps towards him, reaching out one arm. `Your directions were pretty… detailed.’ A nervously affectionate laugh. He pulled his arm about Jack’s shoulders, felt him stiffen up a little, considered more, resisted. `Good to see you, man,’ the Leicester left-back told him quietly, patting him in the middle of the back. `Yeah, yeah, and you,’ Grealish agreed with a ready nod. `Erm, it’s just a bit further up this way though, the place I meant.’ He pulled his shaggy blond-tipped hair from his eyes and nodded upstream, his eyes darting back between the trees as if fearful for privacy. `Sorry. I thought I’d wait here, make sure you knew which way to go, but it isn’t far, promise.’ `Why are you sorry?’ Ben asked gently, patting his back again, just above the droop of his rucksack, letting his fingers trace one strap up to those firm shoulders. He looked at the scraggy beard of mousy brown that currently occupied Jack the lad’s handsome features, felt he’d been right not to bother shaving. `So,’ he said, as they began walking on, `how’d you know about this odd old place, eh…?’ `Uh, long time ago,’ Jack mumbled in his thick Birmingham tones, `used to come fishin’ round here with my grandpa back in the day, you know.’ He looked embarrassed by this explanation but Ben felt inexplicably warmed by it. He followed close by, picking his steps carefully on the narrow riverside path. Jack asked him about the drive over from Leicester and he fed him the dull filler conversation it demanded: roadworks, traffic, oddities. It wasn’t what either of them wanted to talk about, was it? But not far ahead, the path broadened again and the space by the river flattened out. Rather than steep verges and looming trees, a small but open space had hollowed out against the waterway, and Ben could just picture a young Jacko poised at its edge with an encouraging grandfather, hoping for a big catch from the glimmering midlands water. `It’s a nice spot,’ he said honestly, stopping to admire it. `It’ll do,’ Jack said less certainly. `I know it ain’t best, but — well, like you said, nowhere’s open, is it, and so-` He was rambling, a broken sentence that seemed liable to go on forever. Ben grinned at him and reached over a hand. He slid it against Jack’s and let their fingers brush then interlock, just for a moment. Grealish shut up his mumbled monologue, lifted his eyes beneath a messy curtain of hair, met Ben’s gaze. `It’s perfect, mate,’ Chilwell told him, squeezed his palm, let their hands fall apart. `Perfect spot for a picnic, yeah. I’ve been looking forward to this all week.’ Jack chomped on the neatly made sandwiches he’d brought along, sat cross-legged on the grass. He felt a bit self-conscious about his bulging cheeks and the crumbs in his shaggy goatee beard, so he looked out to the river rather than at Ben, concentrating on an armada of ducks and ducklings gibbering past them. `It’s not exactly normal yet,’ Ben was saying, `but it’s starting to be… Well, when you’re in there, it almost feels like nothing is going on, you know?’ Jack glanced his way with a little nod. `I dunno about at Villa but the Foxes mood is good. Really good.’ Jack finished his mouthful. `Same,’ he said, as monosyllabic as he’d been since they met. He was aware of himself clamming up, and aware of how clumsy and daft what he said was. He was suddenly fixated on the idea that Chilwell must think him a right idiot. At least the weather was getting better, the clouds above thinning out and a golden tint reaching their little riverside patch, full of fond memories for the young captain. `These are nice,’ Ben said mildly, picking a mini sausage roll from one of the small Tupperware boxes taken from Jack’s bag. `Mom made them,’ Jack said, and felt a hot blush come to his rounded little cheeks, seeing the almost teasing grin on the other player’s face. `What?’ he said with a self-conscious laugh. `Where did you tell her you were going?’ Chilwell demanded, giving him a loose shove in the arm across their little flat patch of riverbank, sitting sideways with his shirt falling wide open. He grinned handsomely from behind his light stubble and the floppy but somehow maintained curtains of his dark hair. There was always a look of alertness about Ben, sometimes mischievous, sometimes determined; right now he looked both. `Visiting a friend,’ Grealish said. `Which I am.’ He heard how this might sound: defensive, resistant, in denial. He glowered apologetically at the other lad from behind the tangles of his own loose hair, then put down the crusts of his mother’s lovingly made sandwiches on a plastic lid between them. He wiped any stray crumbs from his unkempt facial hair. `Well, it isn’t a lie,’ he added after what was definitely too long a pause, `um, we are meeting up, as friends.’ Ben nodded quietly. `Yeah. We are.’ He reached over again but it wasn’t a playground shove, it was a light touch of Jack’s upper arm, fingers brushing the nylon of his tracksuit top, which prickled warmly at his bare arms and shoulders. `Good to meet as friends,’ Chilwell said pointedly, `just in case next time we meet it’s Leicester sending Villa back to the Championship, you know…?’ `Ha bloody ha,’ Jack intoned. He poked at the other picnic food between them, mostly provided by him. Ben had contributed a slightly stale looking baguette and some lukewarm garlicky cheese, whilst Jack had left the house with his mother forcing homemade cupcakes into his bag as if he was half his age of 24. He picked one up now, admiring it with a fond little smile, then saw Ben watching, and rolled his eyes. `You’ve met her. You know what she’s like.’ Ben just smiled quietly and scoffed another of the miniature sausage rolls. `You heard any more from United, then?’ he asked gently. `Hmm? Oh. Er — no, not lately. I think my people are talking to them but… I dunno, Ben, I dunno what I should do. There’s talk of some big sums, and it’s a dream, you know, but Villa is Villa, so…’ He paused in the act of peeling down the paper casing on the little cake, amused by the delicacy of it while he discussed his manly athletic career. `It’s Man United, ain’t it…?’ he said almost gloomily, looking Ben’s way for some shred of guidance. In their long phone calls, they’d both discussed their transfer prospects and confidential talks with other clubs, trusting in the intimacy of their connection, but Ben was reserved in advising Jack on this tough call. Jack, on the other hand, had waxed lyrical about why Ben should move to London and take Chelsea’s offer, though he couldn’t mersin escort help but fearfully imagine the distance between them if these two transfers actually took place, Manchester to London, London to Manchester. `You’ll do the right thing when you know what it is,’ Chilwell said with frustratingly calm wisdom, as he’d said a couple of times before on recent calls. He pulled a hand back through his hair and lounged on his side a little, stretching his legs against the grass. Jack watched the inevitable tickle of grass and leg hair and the bulging curve of calf muscle there. `If you say that one more time,’ Jack threatened ominously, and he took a bite of the cupcake, the sickly sweet pink of the icing and the moist beige of the sponge. When he looked up from it, Ben, on his side, was laughing loudly, discretion forgotten. Jack furrowed his brows, annoyed that his close pal would find anything entertaining in the biggest dilemma of his career, pursuing ambition at a top club or staying on to battle with his hometown… He was about to say something, snap back at the smugly calm Leicester player, when Ben lifted up off his side and leant over the picnic food towards him. He reached for Jack’s face and scooped a finger beside his mouth, lifting a wad of pink icing off his beard and holding it up between them. `You daft lad,’ Chilwell murmured. Affectionately. `Oh.’ Jack wanted to burst out laughing too, at his misunderstanding, but he could still feel the sensitive tingle of Ben’s finger on his beard. And sat there, hunched towards him, the 23-year-old was sliding his finger into his mouth and sucking off the smear of sugary topping. `Tasty.’ `Er, I’ll tell my mom, so…’ `Wait.’ As told, Jack sat very still, cross-legged like a buddha on the flat grass. Ben leaned into him, resting one hand on one shoulder, and then pulled their faces close. Jack felt himself tense up at what he knew was coming, but then it didn’t: no kiss, not on the lips anyway. Ben held his mouth close and unfurled his broad tongue and ran it over the tip of Jack’s nose, then licked his lips. `Just a bit more icing,’ he explained, that cheeky look in his eyes. Jack realised he had been holding his breath, let it out in a giddy sigh. They locked eyes. Interruption: phone call. The generic dingaling of the iPhone. Both lads pulled back a few inches and reached for pockets. Jack’s palm closed about his own device in the zip pocket of his top, calm and still. Ben was pulling a phone from the tight rear of his denim shorts. `Oh shit, my agent,’ he chirped, and hopped up onto his feet. He only went a few feet away to take the call, but he felt suddenly distant. The slow mounting intimacy of the picnic seemed shattered now. Jack realised his face was burning red. He yanked the tracksuit top off, down to his vest to cool, and shuffled his arse cheeks round to look into the river, instead of watching Ben pace back and forth and talk animatedly on the phone. He pulled a fist up to rub at his mouth, nose, chin. No more icing. Ben had got it all. He glared at the half-eaten cupcake beside him, sugary intruder making a fool of him on this… this… this… He couldn’t use the word `date’, but he couldn’t think of a better alternative. He turned his head to look longingly at Ben. It just felt so good to see him. Really comforting. So many phone conversations, but it wasn’t really the same. It had taken a lot of careful suggestions and coaxing on both their parts to make today happen; whenever one of them brought it up, the other seemed to get cautious and unsure. And then somehow, they’d fixed a date. Date. There it was, although it had many meanings. This was a date. The conversation on the phone was short, but Jack’s thoughts ran hot and quick while he crouched there waiting. The sun was getting hotter against his tanned arms, the back of his neck, the lengthy exposure of his folded legs. The birdsong around them seemed loud enough to drown out the real world, the nearby road; that was what was so great about this spot, it was so entirely screened from anyone but waterfowl. `Sorry,’ said Ben in a slow singsong, returning to his side. `More bartering — seriously, you can tell these guys work for commission…!’ The left-back folded down onto his bare knees, staring at his phone screen as if replaying the quick convo. `It’s pretty much at terms and conditions now…’ `So,’ Jack said, `it’s happening.’ Ben nodded distantly. `Looks that way. Chelsea, here I come…?’ Again, Jack felt distance, kinda felt he’d lost him. He hated Chilwell’s agent for calling him with the secretive update now. He knew from his own current experience that this was a long, wearying process, probably there was very little to say — just another slick fucker in a suit earning his %, or pretending to. He resented the twat for calling now, interrupting them, pulling Ben’s mind away from the picnic. He was staring at a message or an email on his phone, looked entirely preoccupied, none of the easy grace with which he’d emerged from the trees and greeted him, not long ago. Jack scowled away at a nearby moorhen and picked up the rest of the cupcake; they were messy, but they WERE good. He pushed it at his mouth and ate it greedily. Comfort in sugar. After a minute, he realised Ben was looking at him. `Come on,’ Chilwell said in a little murmur, `now you’re just playing with me.’ Jack paused, realising how quickly and messily he’d devoured the treat, knowing he’d made the same dirty error and smeared his beard — he wasn’t used to so much growth on his normally boyish face, so- His thoughts were broken by the kiss. Ben leaning forward and coming at him from an angle, holding the side of his neck gently while their lips clashed. He melted into it, lifting both crumby hands up to grab the thick lapels of that plaid shirt, tugging them down at him. Ben’s tongue slid into his mouths, more confident and assertive than the dim memory he had of their gentle hidden kisses. He’d been so drunk then, he wished he could remember every second of his visit to Ben’s bedroom. He opened his lips more, gasping into that warm wet mouth, giving in to the moment… yep, he was on a date. Ben broke the kiss with a little rush of satisfaction. He’d worried that Jack might be less tacile, given that he was pissed as fuck when last they did anything. He cradled his hand against that hairy jaw and sniggered into his face. `You need a fucking shave, mate,’ he giggle, then kissed him again, roughly and on the lips. He lounged backwards and pulled Grealish with him, enjoying the warm drag of the lad’s hands under his shirt and against his tshirt. Just like last time, Jack was shifting his kisses against the rough stubble of his cheeks and onto his neck. He pulled at the back of Jack’s head with one hand and slid the other down the back of that loose vest, stroking the smooth warm muscle there. `Oh mate,’ he moaned to the riverside, then dragged Jack’s face up so they could kiss properly again, mouth to mouth, tongue to tongue. It went on minute after minute. Every now and then, Ben would feel the need to pull back, gasp and breathe properly, but then he would look at Jack’s deeply tanned face, his dark little eyes, and just need to snog him again. Though it didn’t quite suit him, Jack’s little beard felt quite pleasingly soft on his face, better than stubble anyway. He pulled a hand under his vest and rubbed his knuckles up his tight little six-pack, then back down, circling his thumb around the lad’s waist until he was reaching for a cheeky squeeze of bum. Oh, those tight shorts, thank god for them. `There’s somewhere we can go,’ Jack muttered suddenly, breathy and close. `Oh yeah?’ Ben said with a smirk. `Somewhere better than this?’ A nervous little scoff and a laugh. `We’re out by a river,’ Jack protested, `we can’t-` `I was kidding,’ Ben said, pulling his strong shoulders up to kiss again. He rolled over a bit and realised how much they’d squashed and scattered the picnic food. Oops. But it didn’t matter. His cock was stirring in the tight prison of his denim shorts. He squeezed one of Jack’s cheeks again, reached around and fond his sizeable bulge, cupping and squeezing it. `But I don’t really care about much other than kissing you right now, Captain Jack.’ `There’s a barn, not far,’ Grealish whispered. `Sounds perfect.’ Ben could feel him tremble a bit, see the anxiety in his eyes. He pulled upwards, back onto his knees, cuddling Jack’s body to his food-smeared shirt, which he began to shrug from his shoulders, shedding it to the grass. `Hey,’ he said, slipping an arm about Jack’s waist, `let’s not rush anything.’ He nuzzled quietly in, not properly kissing but just letting their noses and cheeks rub and their foreheads rest together. `We can just kiss, or whatever.’ `No,’ Jack said hotly. `Not just that.’ `You sure?’ Ben demanded caringly. He looked at him seriously. `I know last time we tried to… er, you know, go quite far, but you were pretty wasted, buddy, and…’ `I wanna try it again,’ Grealish hissed. He looked ashamed, which was sad, but his ashamed face was a really fucking cute face. Ben kissed it, on the cheek, then the lips, rubbed the tips of their noses and then pulled away. `If you would still wanna do it,’ the Villa player whispered uncertainly. `You can fuck me, if you want,’ Ben offered. `That’s fine, you know. I can take it. I… well, I’ve been fucked a few times this year, you see, so…’ Jack shook his head. `I want you to take me,’ he murmured. He was stone cold sober now, but he was saying it with the same furtive desperation as Ben had heard it before, sprawled near-naked in his bed in the middle of the night, stinking of booze and aftershave. It was a moment Chilwell had given a lot of excited thought to, usually when having a wank, but had slowly convinced himself might not be repeated. He had to stop himself ripping Jack’s shorts down right now. Instead, he just stood slowly and dragged his mate up with him. `Where’s this barn?’ he asked, playfully impatient. `Come on, Jack.’ They scooped up their things in a rush. Grealish shoved unfinished food into his rucksack with no worry for mess. Ben discarded his grass- and food-stained shirt into his, tossed his barely touched baguette into the river. Soon they were hurrying further upstream, following the path where it veered away from the water and inland, between the trees. Beneath that cover, Ben reached ahead and grabbed Jack by the hand again, squeezing it, pulling him to sporadic halts so he could plant kisses on his neck and cheek. Grealish just murmured greedily at these, then hurried on, dragging and chuckling weakly. Ahead, Ben could see the trees come to a stop escort mersin and a rickety old wooden structure rise up ahead of the fields. It was clearly disused, though he felt a second’s hesitation at it: it looked like it would collapse on them at the slightest reason! `Ben,’ muttered Jack, this time initiating the pause in their quick walk, `I need to tell you stuff.’ Chilwell held his bag-strap with one hand and slid the other about Jack’s slim waist. They were close in height and he was about a year younger, but he was broader and heavier in build, and Jack seemed to become so boyish and gentle with him. `What is it?’ the Leicester defender asked with gruff affection. `What’s wrong? I told you, we can go real slow, we can just go back and finish the grub if you-` `I was such a twat to you, turning up like that,’ Jack began, apologetic eyes, `I should never have broken lockdown and risked you with…’ `It doesn’t matter, it was fine,’ Ben told him soothingly. `I’ve been so confused,’ Grealish admitted. `Haven’t we all…? It doesn’t matter, we’re good…’ `I fucked McGinn, twice,’ Jack burst out. `With other guys. I sucked off two lads at City when we lost to them, let Tyrone play a bit with my hole, and…’ It was all rushing out. `I had Danny Drinkwater lick my arse so that I’d put a good word in for him, I er, I’ve seen John Terry go and-` `Mate,’ Ben laughed, struggling to follow this rush of secret information, `why are you telling me any of this?’ He squeezed his waist more, kissed him once on the lips. `What do these guys have to do with anything? It’s just us two here, yeah, so let’s just…’ Jack pulled back, almost falling into a twisted tree trunk at the fringe of the wooded riverside. He looked weirdly anguished and it stabbed at Ben a bit to see his pal so conflicted, just like when he’d rolled up on his drunken lockdown mission. He stepped after him and held both his hands in his, giving him a look of stern hopefulness. `Jacko,’ he whispered. `I’ve just been so mixed up — I didn’t expect any of this. I thought I could just… dick about, throw myself around, captain fantastic — I thought I could use lads, just find a bit of no-strings fun and it’d all be cool, but…’ He looked up; was that the sparkle of dears in his chestnut brown eyes? Ben pulled in closer, shifting hands to his hips and holding him in place. `I didn’t expect to have these fucking feelings for you,’ sniffed Grealish. `I didn’t know it would be like this. And then… and then all I’ve gone and done is… throw my cock around and… let guys do stuff, and…’ Those were definitely tears. To shut up his sniffling, Ben kissed him roughly on the lips, almost biting. `Jack,’ he said, quiet and tough. `Do you think I give a shit?’ Not quite getting the point, Grealish squinted at him. `But…?’ `You think I give a shit about what you’ve done, who you’ve touched, what you did for kicks?’ Chilwell felt a little like he was hearing his own thoughts for the first time, he’d been so careful with what he dared to hope for. `I don’t give a shit who you sucked off, where you put your beautiful nob, you bell-end.’ He slid one hand up the front of that vest, a little stroke at the hardness of Jack’s wiry torso, then up to his neck and against the furry jut of his jaw. `I only care about you, boyo. That’s all. None of that stuff matters. You can do what you want, nobody owns you. I just want you to be okay and to be happy. And to be… you know. With me.’ Ben stared hard at him and they remained just like that, pressed against the tree, fingers playing against the fabric of each other’s clothes, breathing suddenly seeming deafeningly loud against the quiet countryside. Ben took a deep breath. `You wanna know about me?’ he asked. `I’m no less confused than you, G. For real. You think I knew what I was doing when I came up to Birmingham and put my tongue in your bum? Fuck no! We’re both just figuring things out, but… We both know there’s summat here, yeah?’ He pulled Jack’s hand against his own chest, the firm chunkiness of one pec. `We can tell each other everything, bit by bit. No secrets, if that helps. I’ve nothing to hide from you.’ Jack led the way into the barn, pulling Ben along a little. His own palm felt sweaty against Ben’s, but he gripped on tight. In the moment, he felt like if he let go, this beautiful moment would crash away. It was too good to be true, too sweet and right. He was rescuing Persephone from the underworld and if he looked back, she’d be gone. He looked back. Ben grinned at him, a foolhardy and bold grin, the same one Premiership attackers saw before a crunching tackle ended their run. Inside the barn was dark but their eyes adjusted quickly. Jack unhooked his backpack from his shoulders and tossed it against the nearest wall, where the strewn hay and plant life collected into soft drifts. Then Ben was upon him, grabbing and pulling at his vest and chuckling that deep laugh. Jack allowed himself to be pulled around then asserted some control, tugging up and up on Chilwell’s tshirt until he’d stripped it away and his hands on that body. There was always something surprising about the dense, well-defined muscles of Ben’s torso, casually hidden beneath footy kits and baggy designer gear. Jack would have loved to pile on a bit of weight and get so ripped, but he knew it would ruin his speed. But Ben’s muscles felt so good beneath his hands, and his touch was making the younger lad growl in pleasure. He found and tweaked his hard dark nipples, felt the Leicester defender shiver a bit. Jack was stumbling backwards and Ben pushed him a bit, not too roughly; his arse was on the soft drift of vegetation, his back sprawling up it until his head and shoulders knocked gently at the old brickwork. His hair would be full of leaves and straw, haha. He couldn’t give a fuck. Ben was tugging his tight little shorts down, the ones he’d picked out deliberately, hoping they might catch Chilwell’s eye; down they came, revealing his black Hugo Boss undies, the thick obvious angle of his hard-on prominent in the front. They came down too, pulled to his ankles by Ben, who immediately took hold of his rigid nob and stroked some life into it. Jack looked at the shirtless hunk over him, watching as he eased his hand up to the base and back down over the tip. `Do you remember when I first touched it?’ Chilwell was asking, demanding and excited. `You remember me licking it a bit, how freaked you were…?’ `I was so scared,’ Jack admitted. `You scared now?’ `No. No, just really… horny!’ It was a blowjob like nothing Jack had experienced. Poor McGinn, he thought, didn’t have a clue what he was doing, not compared to this. Or was it more about who was doing the sucking? Ben’s tongue felt like an enormous muscle, specially trained to pleasure just him. His bristly cheeks felt good on Jack’s inner thighs and the trimmed lawn of his pubes. Those lips just felt full and wet, like only a whole lotta botox could do for a girl. In this silent, isolated barn, disused and peaceful, he let out rapturous groans that echoed up to the rafters above. `That’s good?’ Ben asked victoriously, slurping off him and wanking instead. `So good,’ Jack assured him, `just SO good…’ Ben was back down against his cock, licking it and tonguing his balls. Even when he stopped this, moved up to kiss Jack’s naval, lifting his vest to expose his thinly defined abs, it felt as good as a blowjob. Chilwell’s kisses were shudderingly tender in here, even more than out in the bright sunshine and nature. `Let’s get that vest off you,’ he was laughing, and Jack agreed. He clambered up and grabbed at Ben’s thickened upper arms for help. They staggered further into the barn, Jack pulling at his lower legs, wrenching his socks and trainers up through the shed shorts, while his vest was pulled up and off him. Now he was naked but for his footwear, following Ben into the cool shadows and deeper beds of crushed haybale. He caught hold of Ben and wrestled with the button fly of those denim shorts, impossibly tight and containing on his perfect compact buttocks and thick thighs. He got them open, interrupted frequently in his efforts by kisses, Ben’s lips tasting a little salty with his own precum. But then Ben was helping, pushing down his own shorts and briefs, joining him in this socked/trainered nakedness, pulling their firm bodies together. The two young Premiership stars collapsed against each other into the rise and fall of the barn floor, between beams and rafters. It was much cooler in here, but their body heats did everything. Scraps of dead plants clung to the softly tanned skin and smooth muscles, and caught in their overlong hair. Unnoticed. Jack found himself flat on his back, trembling at what he knew he wanted but was still scared to try. Last time, he thought, even Ben had looked scared to try it. He was just so well-hung, that was the thing; massive down there, really. Bulging Ben, he’d heard they called him, and it hardly did him justice. But he’d almost took it, completely drunk and deranged with lockdown loneliness; only just about, he wasn’t really sure how far it had gone. Would he manage it now? Ben seemed to read his fear. `I have lube,’ he whispered, and disappeared momentarily from sight. When he was back, he hung over Jack, his handsome features and draping hair silhouetted against the soft brown shadows above. His fingers were slippy with Vaseline or similar as he jerked Jack’s thick, average length erection, fumbled at his bollocks, tickled at his gooch. Jack kept waiting for his fingers to explore further, to go between the rock-hard muscle of his cheeks, but no — Ben was true to his word, he was taking things so slowly. Jack stretched out his arms to the sides, relaxing his shoulders and back into the soft but uneven bedding. He began to tense and part his footballer’s thighs, anticipating- No, this wasn’t what he’d expected — Ben was moving forward a bit, hovering over him but closer, his firm pecs in eyeline, nipples like bullets, six-pack like a little mountain range, and… The feel of it was gorgeous, pure pleasure. Ben’s body was rising up over him in a more straight line, and he was so dizzied by the angle that he took several ecstatic moments to connect the two: the tight, intense pleasure on his cock and the shifting of Ben’s body. Chilwell was slowly sitting on his rod, squatting over his crotch. He had rested his hands on Jack’s own chest, tweaking and thumbing his nipples. Then, grinning madly, he began to bob gently, his hair flopping. That was Ben’s tight but confident arsehole he could feel gripping his meat, shifting and grinding over it. And all Jack could do was lie there, mersin escort bayan not even making a noise now, just the silent gasping motions of what felt like a scream! `Fair’s fair,’ Ben muttered hoarsely, `but don’t worry… you’ll get yours.’ There were slight twitches to that determined expression; Chilwell was not so experienced or accomplished that this wasn’t uncomfortable for him, but he took it, riding Grealish like a pro. Jack worried that he might explode inside him, which might be too much, and that it might stop him letting his lad top him. He struggled to stammer out a warning but his expressions were maybe enough. After long minutes of this heaven, Ben began to lift off him — even that felt incredible — and lean fully forward to snog him instead. Their hard dicks brushed like crossed swords. Chilwell felt the vague throb in his hole but it had been worth it, even with minimal lube; it was just what he’d needed to relax this sexy bag of nerves crawling against him. Jack was an aggressive little fucker, barely able to register how much he wanted this to be inverted — Ben was no psychologist but he could see and understand it. By giving up his own hole, broken in over those early months of the year by Jamie Vardy, he’d won something here, and was ready to go for what they both really wanted. No words, just panting, he pulled up on Jack, cuddling and kissing him, then flipping him like a pancake. Jack was wiry and tightly muscled, but light enough, and more than compliant. Soon he was on hands and knees, doggy-style, and Ben was digging about him for the little tube of lubricant. Found it. Fresh spurt on fingers. Fingers between Jack’s arse cheeks, so oddly smooth compared to his thighs. The dark crack between those tanned cheeks. The quiver of that demi-vierge hole. `Ben,’ moaned Jack. `Tell me if it hurts too much,’ he insisted. `Just fuck me,’ Grealish begged. `You know I’m big-` `Just do it!’ Well, they were both wearing Nike socks. Ben pressed forward, slicking more lube in between those pink-brown globes, then some on his long thick erection, the tool he’d proudly compared with might Harry Maguire’s. He really wasn’t sure this would work, but his fingers were really beginning to work at Jack’s tight little rosebud. The pained quality to Jack’s moans faded. He was so horn and lusty right now, absolutely begging for it. `Fuck me hard,’ Grealish whimpered into the back of one of his arms. Chilwell was strong and confident enough to know that there was a middle ground here; Jack simply wasn’t ready for the wild ragging he begged for. But if Ben was as careful as he wanted to be, they’d get nowhere. So he aimed for somewhere in between. The real wild buckaroo that this sexy Brummie cunt wanted would happen eventually, but he’d need breaking in first. Ben’s cock began that, breaking between the cheeks, the fat head pressing against that twitching entrance. He placed his greasy hands on the middle of his back and shifted his own thighs forward to give him more strength. Jack made a pained howl then contradicted himself, `OH YES, FUCK ME BEN, FUCK ME!’ The loudness in here was amazing. The echo, the freedom. The sense of trespass without actual fear. They were both so lost in the moment that any old farmer could have wandered in, to be fair, but Ben trusted Jack’s local knowledge, his reccy of the area. And with that trust, he inched his cock forward, teasing his way inside him. He remembered this, remembered this resistance, trying to fuck Jack in his own bed at his parents’ place. Jack was still the only guy he’d tried to mount, with Jamie he’d only ever been on the other end — and Vardy’s cock was about half the dimensions of his! `Say when I need to stop,’ Chilwell asked. `Never stop,’ grunted Jack. `I love you, buddy.’ `I love you so much.’ It felt laddish and rough rather than romantic, but Ben knew there was meaning beneath both of their panting there. He felt his cock force its way inside, felt that tiny loosening of acceptance from his lad’s body. He began to pull back gently then ride forward, fucking Jack with about half of his dick maximum. Slow, easy strokes, each one prodding into the Villa winger and earning yelps and squeals of pleasure. Ben let his hands moved around his sweaty back then over his sides to stroke his tummy, to find his nipples, to poke at his naval. Then down to his cock: wanking it and stroking his balls, all slippy with lube, as he nudged his cock a tiny bit deeper with every stroke. Jack’s arse was on fire but he had never felt so wanted, no needed, in all his life, in any sexual encounter. He rested his face in the rough mess of bedding, arms folded and bearing his weight, shoulders hunched tight. His knees dug deeper into the soft fuzz and parted a little with each slow powerful thrust from behind. His cock throbbed to Ben’s touch and he knew he would soon release. `Oh… Ben… oh baby… yess… oh god… oh MORE…’ Every time he thought his arse was full and could take no more, this machine behind him seemed to go deeper. `I’m gonna cum,’ he heard Chilwell growl, `where shall I…?’ `Inside me,’ Jack insisted. `Cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Please.’ `Fuck…! Okay…!’ Ben was going harder now, both hands on his lower back, so Jack reached one arm under his body to play with himself. His cock needed the attention and it helped to keep his arsehole a tiny bit more relaxed against the force of it. He came in seconds, sputtering cum onto the strands of grass and hay and whitened leaves tangled beneath their bodies. His orgasm seemed to last for minutes, waves of pleasure up and down his cock even when the last fleck of his seed had soaked into the matted drift below. Then he could hear Ben’s peak, his growling yell, his almost painful gasps. And he could feel it, inside him. An indistinct wetness that meant he really belonged to this beautiful man. Chilwell thrust slowly on a few more times and Jack’s arse felt more sore than when the fucking had began. He tried not to show it in his whimpering groans, but there was a strange relief as Ben pulled out and he felt his hole recover. He remained in position while Ben rubbed and patted at his back and his buttocks and kissed somewhere near the bottom of his spine. Then those strong arms were about his waist and moving upwards. Jack rose on his knees and slid back against Ben’s body, half-turning. `I’m okay,’ he assured, seeing the panicky look on Chilly’s face. `You’re sure? You’re sure I didn’t hurt you?’ Ben was kissing his neck, licking it. `Just hold me?’ It sounded pathetic, perhaps, but it was all he wanted (needed?), and Ben obliged. They fell more than moved, just allowing their satisfied bodies to roll down the rise of vegetation and onto harder floor. Jack found himself big spoon, clinging onto Ben’s broader chest and lifting one clammy leg over his, their meaty thighs connecting. His dick squashed limp and sticky somewhere above Ben’s right buttock. Then, echoing through the barn with an alarming sense of the outside world invading, came the phone call. Generic iPhone dingaling. After a short private heart attack each, the men squeezed closer together and laughed. Jack chuckled deeply into the firmness of Ben’s right shoulder. `Yours or mine?’ he asked. `Who knows…’ `Who fucking cares,’ Ben responded happily, but then after a pause, `it could be either of our agents. I don’t mind if you want to check.’ `Erm… I don’t, really… unless you do?’ `No. Not at all. I don’t wanna move from here.’ `Me neither. But if it’s Chelsea for you, then…’ `And if it’s United for you!’ `I don’t care. Fuck United. Fuck them all. I just want you.’ The ringing stopped as if on cue. The men hugged each other contentedly. They parted a little from the tight, sweaty spoon, backs to the floor and Ben’s arm curling beneath Jack’s neck in a little half-cuddle. As one, they stared up into the rafters and shadows of the roof, their bodies numb against the prickles and scratches of the barn floor. `Ben, tell me what to do,’ Jack whispered. `About the transfer.’ `You know I can’t do that,’ Ben told him gently. `I won’t tell you what to do. You have to decide. If you want to stick it out at Villa, you can. You know how much everyone will respect you for it. You have so much there. But if you want a change, then you should go for it, you’ll be great anywhere. I’m sorry, baby. I won’t make this call for you.’ Jack nodded, silent but understanding. `I think I’m scared. Of the new. I love that at Villa, I’m like… I’m top dog, I guess? And I’m loved, really loved. Being somewhere new, new guys, new fans… It’ll be so fucking scary, Ben.’ `At United?’ There was a wistful, musing chuckle in Chilwell’s voice. `I have a friend there who’ll look after you, I think. You don’t need to worry. And if I got to Chelsea…’ Jack turned his head to look at him, but Ben didn’t seem to dare meeting it, still staring up. `We’ll be far apart,’ Chilwell said knowingly, `so I won’t expect you to…’ `I’d wait for you anywhere,’ Grealish insisted. `I wouldn’t touch anybody.’ `I told you,’ Ben murmured, `I really don’t care. All I want is you to be safe and happy. But if you… if you meant what you… said, before, then…’ Now, Ben did look at him. They lay close side by side and turned their worried eyes at one another, sharing the moments of discovery. `I love you, buddy,’ Ben Chilwell repeated, sweat dripping from a loose strand of hair that curled over one eye. `I love you so much,’ Jack returned, a cool draught tickling his leg hair and shuddering up his body. This time, he could hear them say it so clearly, and he could see Ben say it with his eyes too. They both meant it, and he felt pretty sure then: nothing else mattered. They walked back through the woods quietly, not quite holding hands but letting their fingers brush occasionally and shooting each other meaningful little looks and grins of secret closeness. They both slowed to notice the flattened grass and lingering crumbs that signalled their picnic and its climactic snog, then moved on down the narrow river path and onto the slope towards the main road. Just before they neared the layby, Jack grabbed and kissed Ben, more assertive and confident than the nervous wreck who had waited here for his `friend’. Ben returned it passionately and they took their time to say goodbye here in the shadows, reluctantly separating to walk out into the sun and their separate cars, to drive in opposite directions, to play for different teams. But once in the drivers’ seats, they shared a last look via rear-view mirrors, and grinned in the knowledge that this could be their little spot, whenever they needed it… **120 FEELS LIKE ANOTHER MILESTONE, BUT I’M NOT SURE WHY… THANK YOU FOR READING, HOPE THE STORIES ARE GETTING YOU EXCITED FOR THE SEASON TO RE-START NEXT WEEK. I’M SURE IT WILL HAVE ALL THE GUYS RARING TO GO AND FULL OF ENERGY… 😉 LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE!**

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