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Subject: Premiership Lads part 16: Jack the Lad Part Sixteen: Jack the Lad Ben Chilwell pulled the visor of his American baseball cap down low and hugged his big thick jacket about him, an easy touch of anonymity as he made his way through the crowded spaces of Birmingham New Street station on his first Sunday off in ages. It was a chance for the Leicester lads to recover from the intense Christmas week, and the freedom from both family commitment and professional life felt incredibly liberating to the 23-year-old, who’d barely been able to celebrate his own birthday amongst all the festive madness. And so here he was, intending to spend one of the final days of 2019 with one of his closest mates. Jack Grealish was in the same `uniform’ of low-profile backgrounding, a beanie pulled low and the collar of his coat turned up to `disappear’ as effectively as was possible for Premiership footballers in the post-Christmas retail crowds. But he was easily spotted by Ben, picking his way through the station, since the two lads had exchanged joking selfies of their `disguises’ whilst Chilwell travelled the short train journey into town. The two greeted, as always, with an immediate tight hug, no shyness between them after a good few years’ friendship. `Chilly,’ the local Brummie lad cooed excitedly, `the birthday fucking boy.’ `Jack the Lad,’ returned Ben eagerly, squeezing his slighter pal tightly, then letting go. `Great to see you, matey, merry Christmas and all that shite.’ A quiet pint in a nearby pub was top of the two lads’ agenda. The two had bonded whilst playing in the England Under 21s not too long ago, though Ben had made the jump to the senior team last year unlike Jack, who had spent much of his younger years using his Irish claim instead. The two didn’t get to see each other often but when they did, it always as if they went back much further, like old school pals or something. Those formative trips in the Young Lions had been a bonding time for the pair. There was a bit of chat about their teams’ recent highs and lows, both lads typically passionate about the sport and league, but there was an odd new dynamic for them since Aston Villa’s promotion. It had only been in the last few months that the friends were actual rivals in the same league, and they’d found it an amusing challenge facing each other for the first time at the start of this month. Whilst Ben was on a high from Leicester’s win yesterday, Jack was clearly a little but sullen at his own side’s defeat. `I’m hearing quite a few transfer rumours about you, pal,’ Ben said after they’d got a second round in. The beers were tasting great, but both athletic young blokes knew this was probably their limit on a Sunday, with intense training schedules waiting for them both tomorrow morning. Ben was aching from the last few tough games himself, and he suspected Grealish would be feeling it too. `Oh, ignore them,’ Jack said vaguely. `My agent is always in talks with someone, mate. You know I love it at Villa. Been a true fan of them my whole life, haven’t I.’ `Yeah but… big fish, little pond,’ Ben quipped playfully. `I know what you mean though. My agent has been on to me about a few offers too.’ He saw Jack’s surprised expression and shrugged. `I can’t say anything yet. I don’t know. Leicester has been fucking good to me. Great crowd. Even since my mate big Harry left.’ Jack nodded his understanding. They both took long slow sips on their pints and, almost in sync, wiped away froth moustaches, then laughed at one another. Like brothers, they always liked to joke, so close and similar were they. `Been banging the hottest model lately,’ Jack said suddenly. A bit of dirty talk on their antics had always been there in the pair’s banter, as two very good-looking-and-they-knew-it lads hitting their prime together in England shirts on the Under 21s team. Ben was a lot more cautious and polite in how he covered such matters, but he enjoyed Jack’s laddish frankness. `Oh yeh?’ he said, raising an eyebrow. `Anyone I’d have heard of?’ `Nah, doubt it,’ Jack said dismissively. `But fucking lovely tits. She’s a French lass. Don’t think it’ll get serious, but I’m seeing her again soon hopefully.’ He grinned like a wicked imp and drank more beer. `How about you, chief?’ Ben’s nervous grin at this gave something away, surely. He couldn’t help but smile, thinking about how erm, interesting things had become for him of late. Actually, it was unlike him not to have some good pussy stories for Grealish around this time of year, but in reality his only action in the past few weeks had happened with Harry and Jamie, which was funny and sleazy and embarrassing all at once. He looked at Jack’s curious impish features, and just shrugged. The other lad laughed and Chilwell knew such vagueness was not going to stand. `What does that mean?’ Grealish demanded playfully, taking another swig. `This and that!’ Ben said evasively. `Busy time of year.’ `What are you hiding, Chilly?’ Jack chuckled thoughtfully, stroking his thin goatee. `Nothing, nothing,’ Ben told him clumsily, sitting back a bit and glancing about the quiet old man pub they frequented on these meet-ups, where they seemed to go very much unrecognised in their generic, laddish streetwear. He looked back at Jack, and his arched brows, and gave it some thought. Of course he’d considered a bit of openness: as soon as Jacko had texted him to organise this quick meet, in fact even before that, he’d wondered what he could share with Grealish. They had this track record of sharing dirty exploits, and comparing success rates, and generally being a filthy pair of shaggers, and yet… This was obviously different. It had been a real shock for Ben to find big Harry so weirdly experimental, and then for Vardy to have been so open-minded in his behaviour, but he could hardly take that as a guarantee his good mate would be quite so casual! He could easily imagine the Irish Catholic lad reacting VERY differently. `You are being a real secretive fuck, aren’t ya!’ Jack exclaimed in a stage whisper, giving him a punch in the arm. `Come on. We’re in the most discreet corner of the most discreet pub in the centre of Birmingham, for fuck’s sake.’ Okay, okay, thought Ben. A bit of truth was okay. And there was one thing playing on his mind more than everything else anyway, that would be good to… discuss. `Well,’ he said, slowly, `there’s nobody special at the moment, no supermodel of mine to show off against yours! I’ve had a tiny bit of action though, just a couple of… slags.’ Jack nodded eagerly, as he often did when these chats got going. There was something very similar about him to Vardy, now Ben thought about it. A self-confident streak of sexual awareness that burned in their eyes, as if they were constantly on the lookout, and evaluating every female that passed them. And in Vardy’s case, Ben now thought, perhaps not just every female? `And I did have quite a freaky night with one of them, the other night,’ Ben said, after an uncertain pause, waving his hands about in a gesture of bewilderment. `Got up to some… new stuff.’ `New stuff,’ Grealish almost cackled. `What the fuck does that mean? What “new stuff” do you discover at 23, birthday boy? Fuck, I meant to bring you a present. Sorry pal. I’ll get lunch.’ Ben grinned and blushed and accepted the offer and hesitated to take the topic any further, but he could tell by Jack’s face that more detail was demanded. He leaned in, across the small wooden table in the shady corner, and put it into words. `You ever been rimmed, Jacko?’ he asked in a curious murmur. Jack, as he half-expected, looked startled, and jerked his head back for a moment before any response. `Does that mean what I think it means?’ the Villa player hissed back uncertainly. `Er, depends what you think it means, I guess!’ Ben laughed cautiously. Was he going to regret admitting this, even as a half-truth?! He tried to measure Jack’s reaction, which looked somewhere mersin escort between disgust and intrigue, as he might have guessed, and distracted himself with a long gulp of beer, almost spilling it down his dark green hoody as he did. He shuffled in his seat, giggled nervously, and fiddled with his baseball cap for a moment. `Well that is new,’ Jack conceded, after a pause. `If it’s what I think it is. You dirty bugger. How the fuck did that come about?’ `Oh she just did it,’ Ben half-lied, at least in pronoun terms. `I mean, it was just a quick sesh back at mine, I’d met her… er, out for a drink with Vardy.’ Again, there was just about enough truth in that sentence, right? `You look horrified. Sorry!’ `No, no, we always share,’ Jack laughed back, scratching his neck with visible discomfort. `I’m just… Well. I guess I’m impressed,’ he said, though he didn’t sound convinced by his own words. The admission seemed to have derailed his own sexual boasting about this model he was getting with, and he looked on the verge of a dozen questions. Ben was enjoying it a bit, feeling some surge of superiority. He was a year and a bit younger than Jack, a difference which had seemed to matter more when they became friends at 18 and 19, and he’d always felt more or less the vanilla one, the prude, the less assured player, in their little private league of fucking around and scoring with increasingly hot women. In the past, he’d been amazed by Jack’s luck with hot older ladies, for example, or some of the bizarrely public places Grealish had got his dick wet: now, he seemed to have the upper hand. He’d done something new and actually kinda freaked the other lad out with it, which… sounded weird, but felt like something of an achievement now they were sat here face to face. `Well then,’ Jack muttered. `How was it?’ This was the tricky bit, in a way. But honesty had to prevail. `It was really fucking good,’ Ben confessed very quietly. `Mate, I can’t even describe… Like such a weird new pleasure, but… God, she had some skills back there. Hah. You got to try it, Jacko. Seriously.’ Grealish gave a slow nod, and let out a little whistle. `Perhaps. You dirty freak.’ He raised his half-empty glass. `Well, cheers to your adventures, Chilly, you bloody legend.’ They both burst out laughing, and clinked their glasses with grins on their faces: Ben’s one of smug pride, Jack’s one of confused judgement or envy, it was hard to say. They were disturbed a minute later by an elderly gentleman at the bar recognising first Jack, and then Ben, and there was a quick round of greetings and selfies for grandsons, and they took it as a strong cue to move on. Both felt but didn’t express their gratitude that the celeb-spotting hadn’t happened just a minute earlier, though their chat had hardly got graphic. They headed on to a small expensive restaurant Jack knew, nothing fancy, but somewhere they could feel less bothered, and ate a small lunch with sporadic chat, asking after mutual friends and each other’s family and generally keeping it clean after the conversational detour in the pub. It was only towards the end of the afternoon, as they strolled down a canalside path, vaguely on the way back to the station for Ben, that Jack brought the topic back up. `So rimming,’ he said in a low, almost academic voice, `is when someone like… tongues your arsehole, right?’ Ben gave him a grin at the topic change and nodded his head, sticking his hands in his coat pockets and traipsing along the path. `Yeah. Spot on. I know it sounds fucking weird, but…’ `I’ve heard some lads talk about doing it,’ Jack continued thoughtfully, `you know � like before they do anal � but I’ve never heard anyone mention… like… receiving it.’ He gave Ben a really quizzical look that again was hard to read. `Well, I dunno, maybe anyone who has is too embarrassed,’ Chilwell commented. `Maybe they don’t have an open-minded mate like you that they can compare notes with, eh? Hah!’ Jack chuckled at this. `Fair point,’ he added with a shrug. `But… Mate, that is some kinky stuff. I can’t believe you banged a bird who would do that to you.’ `She’s a real dirty sort,’ Ben said accurately, picturing the drunken look on Vardy’s face as they lolled about on that sofa-bed, `celebrating’ his birthday late in the night. `You really ought to try it.’ `And would you do it to a girl, you reckon?’ Jack asked him then. They looked at each other, both a bit hesitant, turning the corner down the quiet canal path, the busier station area opening up ahead of them, and Chilwell’s journey back to Leicester awaiting. `I know in theory it isn’t THAT different to eating out cunt,’ Jack said quietly, `but still… it IS, you know?’ `Sure,’ Ben murmured, `but…’ He settled on immature humour, what had always connected them. `Any hole is still a goal though, hey?’ He laughed, and Jack laughed too, and he realised they were both blushing. `I guess what I’m saying,’ Ben concluded, `is yeah… I would try it. I mean… I’ve never fucked a girl in the arse, after all. I’m not as experienced as you.’ It was partly compliment, partly humble-brag: this had always been true, until now. Jack’s experiences taking girls from behind, and describing it to him in detail, had been a cornerstone of the Villa star’s sexual prowess between them. It wasn’t a position Ben had achieved with any of his lovers. `God, you’ve got my mind going mad,’ Jack admitted, flustered. `Sorry, pal…’ `No, no. Don’t be sorry. It’s cool, like I said. I really am impressed. I’m just… curious, now! I guess.’ `That’s fair,’ Ben told him, trying not to sound patronising. `I’m sure you’ll talk some dirty bitch into giving you a try with it, though, if you want it! And hey, next time we chat, we can compare it: you might have tried getting rimmed, and I might have tried rimming. Eh? Haha.’ They both laughed at this open filth between them, and shook their heads in disbelief. Imagine if somebody overheard. They hovered about at the junction. Ben’s departure suddenly seemed so ill-timed and the afternoon had disappeared away too quickly. `Well, so long as the two aren’t the same thing, haha!’ Grealish said, rolling his eyes and checking the time on his expensive rolex. Ben laughed, but he stared thoughtfully at his old international squad pal, and pictured Grealish in his kit. The slightly older lad was fairly short and slight in build, but his developed muscles bulged in his limbs in a way that revealed his power, and he really was a handsome fucking thing. Ben’s grin lingered on his lips but his laughter faded as Jack caught his expression and gave him a tense look. `Hah, that would be a bit much,’ Ben muttered jokily, `I know we’re close, but…’ `It was a joke,’ Jack instantly protested, `I defo wasn’t suggesting…’ `You sure?’ Ben prodded playfully. `You seem so fucking jealous of what I’ve been up to, like you can hardly wait to try it!’ `I’m not so hard-pressed for fanny round here that I need one of my best mates helping me out,’ Jack groaned, colour flushing in his cute cheeks, shaking his head again, and looking totally flustered as he had when Ben first revealed his antics. `And I’m sure you wanna try this stupid stuff out on a GIRL’S booty, not… not… mine…’ `Well you do have a nice one,’ Ben joked instantly, letting out a laddish chuckle and patting his friend on the upper back safely. `Like I said… a hole is a goal. Haha.’ Jack squinted at him, shivering a bit in the cold twilight. `I WAS kidding,’ he repeated. `Yeah, yeah, I know,’ Ben assured him. `Just seems like a convenient solution, in a way!’ Jack stared at him, clearly trying to work out how far this last comment was just another laddish joke, or even weighing up the possibility himself. `Two birds, one stone,’ Ben said through his laughter, letting his ambiguous teasing settle in the air between them. `You’re a mad one, you,’ Jack grumbled. `I better let you catch your train.’ Ben escort mersin nodded regretfully. From the comment, it sounded final, silly conversation over. But he watched Grealish’s blazing red cheeks, his shifty eyes, and he knew a seed had been planted. He glanced back down the path, where it joined the more crowded street, and beyond it, he could see the very busy station entrances waiting for him. But what was the hurry, really? He turned back to Jack, gave him a friendly smile. `You okay, pal?’ he said quietly. `Of course I am,’ Grealish snapped at him. Then, still harsh in tone, `You were fucking kidding there, right?’ `I don’t even know,’ Ben said with full honesty. `Just thinking aloud. I mean, we both wanna try new things. I know there ain’t another bloke in my life I’d be this honest with, about what dodgy stuff I’ve been trying out, that’s for sure!’ He gave Jack an affectionate smirk, and shrugged his shoulders at him. `Like you said, though. I should go catch my train. It’s been fucking cool hanging out, bro, I wish we could see each other more often. Perhaps we need our useless fucking agents to start talking to the same club, haha?’ Jack didn’t say anything, just glowered at him, deep in thought. Ben lingered there. Was he really pushing for this to happen? Was this a fucking terrible idea? Did he even really WANT to try this…? He let out a nervous, squeaky giggle, and they both went to speak, then stopped, then laughed a bit, then looked at one another. `There’s a taxi rank over there,’ Ben said, trying to sound calm and assured. `Wouldn’t be far to your place from here, I guess?’ Still no clear response from Jack, not for a long moment or two. `Come on,’ he said, finally, `I’ll hail one down.’ And no more than that, nothing more explicit or affirmative. But the two mates were strolling on down the path at some pace, and mounting the steps onto street level and pacing through the crowded taxi rank. Ben felt like he might explode with excitement. He caught Jack’s eye again, for a moment, as the local lad hailed their cab. Nothing was said, but the two footballers gave one another an intense, anxious look, and then broke the gaze. Into the taxi. Grealish lived in converted warehouse not far away through the sprawling city, though the taxi journey felt awkwardly long in the weekend traffic. The taxi driver recognised them instantly and tried to get chat going, but neither Jack nor Ben were really up for it, and they avoided engaging with him as far as possible without being rude. They were just two good mates popping round to one of their places to hang out, ultimately, but sitting in the backseat of the taxi together with what had been suggested already felt like some incredible taboo that must be screaming out at the outside world. Upstairs, things were not much less tense. Jack let them in, and went to get two beers from the fridge, and Dan looked about the immaculate showhome-like flat on his own, tensing up. He’d been much more relaxed in his banter with Harry, and half-cut during his encounter with Vardy. Now he felt worryingly sober and on edge, perhaps mostly because HE had been the one to really initiate it, HE was making this happen… if it really happened. Jack came back in. He’d taken off his hoody and was just in a tight-fitting designer tshirt and dark skinny jeans, both of which hugged his lithe figure well. His face looked set in an almost angry expression, similar to the determined grit that settled on him in the throes of a difficult football match. Ben took his beer, and clinked it gently with his. `We can just have a drink,’ he said lightly. `What we talked about earlier, it doesn’t have to…’ `It’s what we came up here for, though,’ Jack mumbled. `Isn’t it?’ Ben looked at him levelly, and tried a smile. `It is,’ he agreed. `But… You seem… Tense.’ Jack grunted a laugh at this, took a swig from his bottle, and spoke without meeting his eyes. `Are you sure you are up for this? I mean � it’s a bit much, right? Even for… even for a dirty fucker like you, haha. I don’t want you to…’ `If you’re worrying about me,’ Ben said softly, `you need to chill. I wouldn’t have… you know, suggested anything, if I wasn’t… down. An arse is an arse, right? I just wanna try something out. Fuck knows if I’ll like it.’ Jack, red-faced, nodded his theoretical agreement with this, and they both stood there in the pristine lounge for a few minutes, sipping beer from bottles. After a while, Ben put his down, to tug off his sweatshirt, also stripping down to tshirt and jeans. He thought through what was, in theory, to come. `Do you want to take a shower, pal?’ he suggested gently. `I mean, so you’re… really clean?’ Jack’s eyes bulged for a moment, but then he nodded his head furiously, and looked almost angry he hadn’t thought of this himself. `Of course,’ he said quickly. `I’ll… yeah, I’ll get myself really clean. You sure about this? Umm. Why don’t you… I dunno. Just chill. I’ll shower. I’ll be quick.’ He was speaking at 100mph. Ben grabbed him by the forearm, and clinked their bottles. `Take it easy, Jacko,’ he said encouragingly. `This will be… fun.’ Grealish disappeared through into the master bedroom of the small but luxurious flat. Ben hovered about for a while, but once he heard the watery rush of a shower, he followed Jack through, into his buddy’s bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed. The door to the en suite was ajar, and through it he could hear a nervous humming mingled with the roar of the showerhead, as his buddy prepped himself for their daring experiment. Ben smirked at the beer in his hand: it was doing nothing for him. Was there a right amount of beer to get you drunk enough to try licking your friend on the arse? Jamie had done it, he rationalised, and he’d seemed to enjoy it, hadn’t he? The shower noise stopped, and so did the humming. Ben looked about the room. Like the rest of the flat, it was slick but bland. Jack had clearly paid an interior designer to sort it all out, make it look cool. But it just looked lifeless and dull. It really really didn’t look like the right place for what they were about to do. He got up and turned off the harsh main light fixture, and flicked on a couple of small lamps instead: was he doing this to relax Jack, or himself? And then there he was, at the en suite door, clad in just a short beige towel, his lean ripped body gleaming a tiny bit with hot water in the lamplight. There was only an inch in their height, but silhouetted in the door, Jack did look quite small and innocent, though Ben supposed he had the advantage here in all ways, after his recent exploits. Jack took a few steps into the dimly lit bedroom, and toyed with his dangling strands of messy hair, pulling the blonde and brown streaks back behind his ears and over his head. Ben smiled at him, but he wasn’t sure how visible that was in this light. `Mate,’ he said cautiously, `you ready?’ Jack just gave him a slightly sullen nod. `Okay,’ Chilwell said, trying not to let his voice tremble with the nerves he felt, `why don’t you… get on the bed?’ Jack made to step past him, but he let out a gentle laugh, and brushed the other lad’s waist a little with his hand. `You’ll need to lose the towel,’ he prompted with the same strained calm. Grealish looked away, reached down, undid the knot, let his towel fall away, and climbed up onto the kingsize on hands and knees, and Ben’s eyes followed, honing on the prize. The crouching body of the midfielder was beautifully framed now by the two soft lamps and the dim twilight creeping beneath the curtains, a shadowy form of tanned flesh and muscular curve. Ben approached the bed and fixed his eyes on the beautiful round globes of Jack’s behind. He wondered, vainly, how this compared with his own rear view, what Vardy had seen that night: well, he was definitely a bit hairier back there than the surprisingly smooth backside in front of him. `Here we go,’ he said aloud. mersin escort bayan He thought he might break some tension, but it probably did the opposite. The bed creaked under his knees as he climbed onto it, and Jack moved forward a bit to make space, doggy style ready for him. Ben leaned in, and rested a hand on each smooth, perky cheek, gave them a light rub and squeeze, pulled them apart a little bit, and wondered how the fuck to get started on it. Jack’s head turned to look over his shoulder a bit, and he looked absolutely terrified. `Buddy,’ he whispered, as if they weren’t so entirely alone, `I dunno about this…’ Ben massaged the firm muscular cheeks for a moment, meeting Jack’s eyes in the half-light, and wondering what he could say: he was every inch as uncertain as the other lad. But Jack was looking pleading, as if needing him to be a bit more certain. He decided words were not the answer. He leant in, and planted his lips at the base of the other bloke’s spine, and kissed him softly, just above the top of his crack. He felt his stubble brush and scratch Jack’s smoother skin, and the body beneath and in front of him tense up even more. Then, he moved his lips, and planted three similarly soft, scuffing kisses first down the left cheek, then the right cheek, and then let out a nervous giggle, he just couldn’t help himself. `You having fun back there?’ Grealish let out in a voice of strained humour. There was a bit more of the usual Jack the lad in it: challenging, playful, a hint of his normal confidence there. Did Grealish know what a fucking beautiful behind he had? `I’m just getting started,’ Ben said, and with his teeth, he gently nipped the soft skin, and then kissed the same spot, and then with his warming hands, he parted the cheeks again, and pressed his tongue into the freshly cleaned flesh of the man’s gooch, and licked upwards. Jack shuddered and moaned immediately, and Ben felt that thrill he’d been after, just as when he’d wrapped his fingers around Harry’s big meat. Pleasure given, pleasure felt. This was… this was okay. This really wasn’t all that different to licking a girl out. He gripped and pulled on the strong cheeks and let his tongue flick nervously over the lightly haired space between, feeling each stroke earn a fresh moan of surprise from excitable Jack Grealish. Now, the hole… He pressed his face further in, again feeling his stubbled cheeks rubbing on the other cheeks, knowing each touch must be so sensitive down here where Jack had never been explored before. He licked and kissed and spat into the warm flesh. Jack’s moans became groans became yelps. `Fucking hell,’ came Grealish’s heavy voice, `buddy…’ `Is it okay?’ Ben panted, lifting his head, spitting down into the crack again, kissing a butt cheek. `It’s… it’s so good,’ Jack gasped. `It’s weird, but… Wow…’ Ben didn’t need to hear more to encourage him. Back to work. Wow. He let his fingers roam about the strong glutes, and experimented with his tongue on Jack’s tight, sensitive arsehole, and he felt his own excitement hardening and throbbing in his jeans. He was going to have to sort it out. `Buddy,’ Jack breathed at that same moment, `do you mind if I…?’ `No,’ Ben mumbled into his buttock, `you do what you need to do, Jacko…’ He planted another kiss on one of those perfect cheeks, and reached down to undo his flies, and get out his big thick cock, the one that had surprised and impressed that fucking giant Maguire so much. He pulled lazily on it with one hand whilst planting his tongue once more against Jack’s crack and running it over his twitching hole. In front of him, he could see Grealish reaching under his taut young body and wanking himself � he caught flashes of a heavy ball bag between the cheeks and thighs, wow. When he’d been with Jamie the other night, he’d been pretty scared: there was that wildness with Vardy, a chaotic energy you never knew how to handle. With his good mate Jack, he felt… well all he wanted to do was please. He lowered his body, slid round onto his back, and came at Jack’s gooch from below instead. The muscled footy hunk yelped in surprised delight as Ben’s tongue slid down and onto his ballbag, and then Ben’s mouth was reaching for more, and he felt hard cock on his lips. `Fuck, Ben,’ he heard Jack say in a wild voice of shock, but he just got on with it. He clung one hand to each buttock and pulled his head up, opening wide to let Jack’s hard-on into his mouth, feeling himself want to gag like he had on Vardy, but trying to resist it. `OH SHIT,’ he heard Grealish roar in clear pleasure. Ben gasped for breath and lapped his tongue about the cock, which felt thick and long like his own. But again, he couldn’t handle it for long, and he let his head flop back against the bedding, position between those mighty thighs of Jack’s. `Sit on my face,’ he barked urgently, and Jack greedily complied. Ben lay there, reaching down to his open jeans to furiously wank himself off, as Jack’s cheeks squatted over his face, and he reached his tongue up for the crack between, aware that Jack must be jerking off with the same frenzied excitement. A few more beautiful minutes of this, and soon it was time to peak. He felt his whole body writhe in the orgasm, still pretty much fully clothed on the bed, but big dick out, and there it was, the crashing waves of ecstasy, the release. He slurped his tongue up Jack’s gooch once more and took one swollen bollock in his mouth hungrily as he teased the last drops of cum out of his own tool. And then Jack was wriggling about above him, lowering his arse onto the chest of Ben’s tshirt instead, so their eyes could meet for the first time since this had began. Jack was staring down the length of his muscular defined torso, eyes wild with pleasure, and his hand was jerking up and down his shaft with all his energy and stamina. Ben lay there staring up, watching the sweeping curtains of his pal’s messed up hair, dangling over a glossy, red-cheeked face. Ben reached his hands up and down tensed thighs, and back around to squeeze the butt cheeks again, and then he stuck out his own hungry tongue, and met Grealish’s intense gaze. `Holy shit,’ gasped Jack in his moment of climax. Ben closed his eyes, stuck his tongue out as far as he could, and let it hit him. A spray of salty goodness dripping onto his tongue and chin. He licked uncertainly at it, and listened to the gruff grunts and pants above. Drop after drop speckled his cheeks, quickly cooling. Suddenly Jack felt heavy and crushing on him, and he patted at the big thighs to get him off. Grealish sat up and flopped aside in a gasping heap, and Ben rolled the other way, licking more spunk off his stubble and catching his breath. They lay like that for quite a while, Ben’s head swimming, and his lips sticky with his pal’s seed. After about five minutes, he looked over at Jack’s naked form, then slowly got up off the bed. He went into the bathroom, and looked himself in the mirror in bewilderment: who was that dirty cock-hungry lad he saw? It was like looking at someone else. Someone who’d come into existence in Harry Maguire’s garage! He splashed hot water and soap on his face, and then spent a few minutes trying to wash a few flecks of cum out of the shoulders of his expensive tshirt. Then he furiously dried at his face with a fluffy towel, and risked padding back into the bedroom. Jack was sitting on the bed, a towel over his crotch, looking totally dazed and startled. Ben stood there, and realised his heavy flaccid dick was hanging out of his jeans, and that Jack was staring at it. In surprise, in envy, in desire? Who fucking knew. He stuffed it away, did up his button fly. Fucking hell. He flexed his arms and shoulders and twisted his neck a bit, sore from the positions he’d been pulling to try and pleasure the beautiful lad in front of him. `Shall we play some FIFA?’ Grealish grunted unexpectedly. His expression was inscrutably bland and indifferent, despite the fact he was sat bollock naked on the bed and had just shot his load all over his best mate’s face. `Uh, yeah,’ was all Ben could find to say. `Go set it up,’ Jack said slowly. `I’ll… erm. Get dressed.’ And that was that.

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