premiership-lads-276

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 276 Part 276: The Flight to San Marino He grinned his greeting at the flight staff who stiffly occupied the entrance to the cabin, mirroring the soft formality of his teammates as they boarded one by one with limited hand luggage and matching comfy tracksuits clinging to their lithe footballers’ bodies. With his natural charm and good manners, the Chelsea defender gave a final little nod at the attractive stewardesses serving the flight and progressed into the main cabin of the England squad’s chartered plane, following the slow procession of bantering and laughing men to their seats. The atmosphere on the flight was upbeat and expectant, everybody still basking in the 5-0 Albanian victory that had brought them into the weekend — the men juddered with cheerful optimism about the next game in the international period, World Cup qualification so comfortably within their grasp, and all so excited to be reunited in this context after the summer’s tournament near-triumph. Chilwell was a little less rosy when he looked back on their almost dominance of the Euros, the tournament remaining something of a sore point for the 24 year-old who had trained hard only to sit on the side-lines — at the same time as crashing out of his secret romance with one of the most celebrated members of the England squad. Ben saw him now, their eyes meeting at a lengthy diagonal across the spacious flight cabin. It made Ben pause in the middle of slotting his backpack into an overheard compartment, looking across to the other side and far end, where City’s big signing of the year was doing the same, both young men in the same upwards posture and distracted from the tidy action as their eyes locked. Shutting the compartment and relaxing his posture, Ben lifted one hand in a slightly pathetic little wave towards Jack Grealish, self-conscious and thoughtful, and to his relief it was met with a kinda ironic half-smile from the other player, who rested loosely with both arms up to the overhead, stretching himself and flicking his hair to the side with a twitch of his handsome head. The locked eyes lasted a wistful moment turned lifetime, and then Grealish was turning, distracted by his seating and rooming partner at that end of the cabin, and the little tremor of hope in Ben’s chest had to fade away again. His own neighbour for the flight and their hotel arrangements was chattering cheerily at him, unheard for a few moments, and Chilly sank down into his luxury seat to try and fix that by smiling earnestly at Tammy Abraham and figuring out what his former club-mate was saying — but all Ben could really think about was how cute and strong his Jack looked in his kit this international break, all the more primed and athletic for a few months in a high-performance club like Manchester City. Things between them were `fine’, of course. They had worked hard to be amicable when things went wrong in summer, and England duty plus mutual friends had led to a few relatively relaxed reunions as 2021 wore on… But for Ben, the `fine’ was very superficial. Even as he’d entered a run of excellent form at Chelsea and won much praise professionally, he still felt haunted by his summer mistakes and the loneliness of his West London double bed. Chilwell sighed away this self-destructive thinking and pointless fixation on the past, finding a comfortable position in his plane seat and chuckling along with Abraham’s banter about some of their ex-teammates before the other 24-year-old had made his Italian move. But inevitably, Tammy’s banter turned to a particular clip on his phone, and the black lad was sniggering and slapping his thigh as he leaned over to share the repeated footage with Ben. `Hah, still great,’ Ben said in a thin voice, dimpling his cheeks with a false smile as they watched the clip of Mason Mount, high on novocaine from the dentist, chatting shit to his mum in the back of a cab, an objectively hilarious bit of exposure for their mutual pal. `What a tit,’ Ben joked weakly, looking guiltily at the innocently handsome footballer in the video, the pretty boy he’d thrown it all away for. At his side, Tammy cackled and jibed at their doped-up pal, and Ben shifted gently away, slumping in the other direction and burying his chin against one hard fist. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, and stop wanting to peek into the gap between seats and check if Jack might possibly be looking this way. At that moment, the plane passing through the rigmarole of take-off, Jack was not looking this way; but in a different row away to the other side, Declan Rice was, and his thoughts were not a million miles away from the same topic. He had been alerted by the loud laughing and mention of his boyfriend’s name, before realising it was just another moment of the lads ripping Mason Mount for uploading videos of himself so off his face on anaesthesia. The West Ham star drummed the arm of his seat and looked at the limited view of Ben’s glossy dark hair and jutting shoulder, trying his best not to continue resenting and disliking the slick lad, having repeatedly assured Mase that he was over it and everything was FINE. Easier said than done, though, when the good-looking Chelsea heartthrob had cuckolded him in however many hotel rooms with happy-go-lucky Mase, and strutted around looking so fucking pretty all the time; and the idiot lad had already been hooked up with a complete Premiership hottie of his own even before he decided to stamp all over Declan’s relationship. Twat. He chided himself for these aggressive thoughts and looked away from the glimpse of Chilly, who he’d been painfully civil to all through this international camp, over-compensating for all of the painful memories of that side to the summer. It wasn’t like it had actually done anything to derail the rampant fucking and romantic development of he and Mount’s life together in a London flat, but there were insecurities and questions that the West Ham captain would probably never QUITE put aside when his boyfriend went to train and play every day with… him. `Ugh, I hate take-off too,’ announced the lad sharing this little side-aisle with him, a single empty seat separating them on the row of three. Misunderstanding Dec’s frown and tension, the younger guy went on. `Makes me clench every time, heh,’ murmured Phil Foden from the window seat, looking earnestly at him, and then seeming to blush a bit at the mention of his own buttocks, perhaps thinking of some shared intimate nights with Dec and Mase earlier in the year — at least THIS cute player had been INVITED into their relationship in that sense, Declan thought fondly, grateful for Phil’s misplaced but kindly comments. He just laughed and nodded and allowed himself a moment’s recall of how fun it had been to include the chavvy northerner in his and Mason’s bed before. `I’m fine,’ Rice assured the lad, although quite happy for Foden to believe he was a nervous flyer and not just a possessive boyfriend. `Fine,’ he repeated dozily, fiddling with the collar of his hoodie and fixing his attention on the in-flight entertainment, wondering what comedy he might find to watch whilst the short flight carried them over the Channel. `Scuse me, actually,’ Phil muttered now, sliding this way. `Might nip to the loo, now we’re up in the air!’ He grimaced apologetically, seeming to shuffle uncomfortably between the seats, and mildly annoying Dec, since they’d barely set off — but he lifted his long muscular legs up onto the seat with him to clear space for the 21-year-old footballer to inch past. Even in this retracted posture to make space, Dec had the pert butt of the forward brush against his clothen shins, making him think again of toying with the guy in those delightful three-way moments… he allowed himself a moment of appreciating Phil’s slim but developing physique as the awkward lad shuffled out into the aisle and away from him, but then stopped watching his bum in his clingy sweatpants, because such treats were off the menu when his real love was at home recovering from major dental surgery. Dec calmed himself loyally, stretching his legs back out and forgetting the feel of Phil’s butt muscles against his legs, dropping the moment of attraction with relative ease: all he really wanted was to have Mase here, cuddled next to him, and to be looking after him in his vulnerable state, rather than ditching him with the boisterous big Mount family for so many days. He sighed longingly and let his eyes fall half-shut, picturing the reunion fun that would happen as soon as he was off-duty from Southgate’s England team. The toilet cubicles of a private flight like this were bigger and better than the claustrophobic boxes of an ordinary airline, but they were still pretty cramped and awkward spaces, making the delicate job all the more awkward: Phil felt gangly and disjointed as he yanked his boxer briefs down to join his sweatpants at his bruised knees and hoisted his jumper and vest halfway up his toned torso, bending forward a bit and reaching behind himself. Guardiola had insisted on it during a bout of early morning phone sex, huskily ordering it down the quiet connection as Foden hid in a hotel bathroom and jerked himself silly for his Papi. `Of course,’ he’d said in breathy promises, no hesitation. But an exciting and kinky command from his head coach had turned to inconvenience and discomfort now he was faced with the reality of actually sitting through a flight like this and trying not to spring a constant boner in his skinny-fit bottoms, surrounded by so many other blokes! Out it came with a little fleshy pop, the bulging butt-plug that he’d inserted before they set off from North London, making him gasp a little `O’ with his pink lips and his hole, feeling the toy leave his body and hook against his finger — his balls tingled and his cock threatened to lift, and he made a little frustrated whine, unable to resist pushing the point of the plug back against his sphincter and teasing himself fruitlessly. `Wear it all the way,’ Pep had hissed greedily at him in the throes of orgasm, `and imagine that it will soon be my cock again, Filipe.’ It wasn’t that Phil couldn’t cope with the small toy in him, but he was just too damned frisky and thirsty! He needed to remove it and break his promise to his boss in order to maintain some dignity and professionalism, or he’d be begging Declan Rice to pummel him in the aisle before they’d left Blighty. With some force of willpower, Foden pulled the plasticky thing away from his crack, shuddering with need, and tossed it into the little white sink to his left — but then he couldn’t help rub two greasy digits against his twitching hole, pushing them in to take its place and wind himself up further, a series of little moans leaving his pursed lips and some beads of sweat forming on the neat-shaven sides of his neck. Phil’s cock, weighty and disproportionate as it was, flopped back and forth as a tantalising semi, and he allowed himself a few strokes and tugs on it while he tickled his ring, closing his eyes and picturing the sleepy embrace he’d last shared with Guardiola before setting off for the south and international duty, away from the luxurious comforts of his Manchester life as Papi’s Golden Boy. Here in the Three Lions, surrounded by interesting temptation and alpha males whose sexual power was exuded like chemical warfare on a horny Stockport chav who knew he had to behave himself! At least Sancho wasn’t here right now, he told himself, very aware of the little incident between the two youths at the start of the season, when he’d really believed things with Guardiola might actually be over; he’d never confessed it to Pep, and been a good loyal boy to the Spanish DILF every week since, spreading his legs for nobody but that olive-skinned older stud. Knuckles rapped sharply on the thin toilet door and Phil paused, suddenly terrified at the possible volume of his little private moans, reverie broken. `Oi, you gonna be long?’ called the familiar voice of one England teammate, and Phil straightened up his short lean body instantly, yelping a fumbled `All done!’ through the paper-thin barrier. Up came his boxer briefs and up came the slim joggers, his hands ducking under a rush of soap and hot water to clean not just them, but the arse-tainted plastic of the butt-plug that would now need secreting in his jumper until it could be returned to the depths of his case. Fuck, he told mersin escort himself, get a grip on yourself and focus on your football, you’re not a teenager anymore! Jordan Henderson pushed the rickety door shut behind him, glad he’d sidled up here just in time to take it over from young Foden, and twisted the lock behind him; he needed to be fast, to avoid arousing any suspicion or question from the fellas he was next to near the back of the main cabin. You should know better than this, the experienced Liverpool skipper warned himself, you’re not some dumb teenager. But it was difficult, sharing personal space all the time with other men and never really having a moment alone, so the Sunderland-born midfield ace hadn’t been able to, ahem, sort himself out properly in a good few days now. And so the highly-sexed 31-year-old had been all to easily triggered by a little selfie message from another home countries football camp… an intimate shot of Wales’ surprise goal-scorer of last night, Neco Williams, napping in the afternoon with the bedsheets resting just above the waist. All loosened dark curls and sleepy pout as he lay there, knowingly provocative in the little message to his club captain from one national team base to another. Hendo pulled his cock out of his dark blue team sweatpants and used his other hand to load up the shot on his signal-dead smartphone. He propped it up on a narrow cistern shelf over the loo so that he could use both hands, rubbing and tickling at his own trimmed balls and beginning to attend to his insta-hard erection, the boner that had been threatening to show up in the blue cotton all the way through the airport, boarding, and take-off, and had been near impossible to hide as he made his way up the plane to this toilet. That’s why he’d knocked so impatiently on poor Phil, unable to risk moving about the deck to another cubicle. But he was in here now, more privately alone than in the rooms he was sharing with young Trent Alexander-Arnold, a sweet-natured teammate who got on very well with, but didn’t quite have the easy alliance with as in his Lallana days — there had been a time when the best pals had been able to comfortably announce to the other that they needed a wank and would require the room alone for half an hour, and it could be lightly laughed off between two married blokes who had yet to cross any dangerous lines together. Jordan wanked now with quiet fury, knowing the need for discretion and speed, spitting into his palm to lubricate the eager hand motion. He bit his lip and flared his nostrils and stared at the sexy selfie young Neco had sent. The attractive dark-haired Welsh lad glowered at him from the image, full of pride and confidence after scoring for his country last night in a parallel match. The intensity between Jordan and Neco had continued to burn strong through the summer and autumn after their lust was properly consummated earlier this year, only rendered sweeter by a brief phase where it had seemed Williams might get loaned away from Anfield to another club; private meetings between captain and defender were made rare by their professional and private worlds, but each fuck brought them secretly closer and closer, and drove Hendo wilder with the discovery of a whole different side to his sexuality. He widened his greedy eyes and drank in the details of the little rectangular photo, jerking his aching cock closer and closer to finish, balls sore with days of unspent load, body heating up beneath the layers of Three Lions tracksuit; it was all Jordan could do to hold in some urgent growls of desire as he pictured his young lover and pumped his fist up and down his veiny tool. Williams and Henderson weren’t the only British men whose international goal-scoring was helping to fuel their testosterone levels to such risky extents, Hendo being as driven by his own rare success as the triumph of his beloved young friend; elsewhere on the flight over France, it was giving a cheery warm buzz to another stalwart of the squad, leaning in by the window and looking out at the darkening clouds below. Harry Maguire gave a twisted yawn as he contemplated the brooding vista, adjusting his big heavy-set body in the seat and accidentally loosening the little headset from his ears through which he was failing to listen to a Marvel movie on the screen in front of him. The much-criticised United captain didn’t have to correct this slip himself; another man’s hand plucked the white earbud from the chest of his hooded sweatshirt and brought it back up to his ear, knuckles grazing his jawline and stubble. Harry tilted his head and met eyes with Luke, enjoying the intimacy and risk of the little gesture in a fairly public place; Shaw smirked slightly at him, leaning back over the one-seat space between them, the same film playing on his screen, perhaps equally ignored as on Harry’s. Harry moistened his lips without meaning to attract even more lust in Luke’s eyes, shifting himself in his seat, swollen with some of Friday night’s satisfaction — becoming quite literally swollen, his huge cock shifting inside the confines of his boxers and joggers. It had been fucking great to score at Wembley the other night, he kept thinking, even if his joyous celebration had attracted fresh criticism and swipes at his club performance of late. He didn’t care. Luke had massaged his ego and made him feel like a fucking winner, as had a conjugal visit from his fiancée last night; the 6ft4 beast of a centre-back was glad to temporarily forget how questionable things were at Old Trafford, glad to return to the international stage and play his part in this World Cup foray. And get so much safe time away with his Luke, of course. The two burly men stole knowing little glances for many minutes, neither paying attention to the endeavours of the superheroes on the entertainment system. When next earphones slid loose, neither bloke corrected it. The film was forgotten. Still, when Luke lifted the arms of his seat and slid into the empty seat that divided them, Harry was still surprised at his boldness — more surprised even when Luke unzipped the jersey he wore and, in a pantomime of carelessness, let it fall partly on Harry’s lap like an unnecessary comfy blanket. These movements were quiet but deliberate, and Maguire could not help but think cautiously of the nearest rows, even if the seating arrangements were carefully distanced in line with complicated pandemic rules for the sport. There was nobody in the seats directly in front or behind of them, but another pair of fellas occupied two of the three seats on the far side of the central aisle: two young rookie goalkeepers, Johnstone and Ramsdale, one nodding his head to music and the other slack-jawed and snoring. `Just close yer eyes,’ breathed Shaw’s gentle but manly voice, `and pretend you’ve dozed off watching the film. It’ll be easier that way.’ Harry Maguire didn’t have to ask WHAT would be easier, or doubt or question the other defensive player’s suggestion. He did exactly as he was told, which was a delicious change to the usual dynamic of the men’s secret passion. And so he let his eyes drift shut and fully slumped into his window seat with the brightly coloured Marvel action continuing on the screen in front of him — just as he felt Luke’s seemingly casual hand slide beneath the discarded jersey and find his thigh muscle. Eyes shut, Harry had to just imagine how coyly and carefully Luke would be sat next to him, not looking this way, just stroking his short beard and pretending to be interested in something else… all the while, reaching one hand this way under the dubious disguise of the `blanket’, stroking him on the thigh and letting his fingers edge closer to the waking bulge. Which job was more difficult? Sitting comfortably and naturally like Luke, pretending to listen to some music through the earbuds, while giving a hidden handie; or stretching comfortably into the corner like a big sleeping giant, and holding in the tremors and gasps of pleasure as his huge hard-on was fondled discreetly through two layers, making a sticky patch of pre-cum inside his loose boxers. `This is fuckin’ mad,’ Maguire allowed himself to grumble. `Shush,’ soothed Shaw. `Don’t even move a muscle.’ He almost let out a strong `Mmmm’ of enjoyment but harshly stopped himself, clenching his powerful body a bit and feeling the awkward angle of it, the tingling secret pleasure, his cock rubbed and jerked against his inner leg, Luke’s knowing touch doing all that was needed, probably without showing much disturbance in the bundled cover of that shed England jersey… but fuck this was risky, he thought, thinking of the two dozing goalkeepers who could turn and look this way, or the flight staff who might patrol the aisle… and yet, he was powerless to affectionately halt or disarm Luke’s touch, he really couldn’t bring himself to do anything to dissuade this rash moment’s pleasure. Luke inched closer, their thighs touching a little through layers of clothing, and the angle of that strong blokey arm became more controlled and forceful; Harry had to lift one fist to his sleepy mouth and bite the side of his hand to stop himself yelping or groaning, and he let his eyes flicker half-open as if he was looking at the movie, when really all he could see was a mental image of Luke’s fist about his monster cock, working him towards a very messy finish line. Emile Smith-Rowe was completely wired, there was no other way of putting it — he was still riding the undeniable high of his England cap debut at Wember-fucking-ley in front of loads of family and mates two nights ago, and every moment of this international excursion was a delirious thrill ride for the up-and-coming Arsenal lad, from his last-minute call-up to this senior squad to getting onto this fancy chartered flight on their way to San bloody Marino — completely fucking WIRED. No snoozing to an album or sitcom for Emile, no casual magazine-reading or pawing through his camera roll, not like his Gunners teammate a couple of places to the right: Bukayo Saka leaning the other way with his head lolling and his mouth drooling open in a sleep of delightful innocence. No, there was no chance of Smith-Rowe spending the journey in such a stupor, he was like a kid on Christmas Eve — rarely had the 21-year-old been quite so alert without a bit of white powder lingering on his thin blond `tache. That’s why he happened to be staring alertly into the gap between the seats ahead at that moment, rather than half-asleep or fixated on the book in his rucksack. And that’s why his eyes picked out the careful repetitive motion of the thick arm visible between the seats two rows in front, a pale muscular arm visible beneath the cut of a crisp white t-shirt sleave — reaching sideways and jerking back and forth in slow bursts of motion that could, he supposed, be the rummaging of a struggle with a safety belt or the retrieval of a lost snack, but really really looked like… something else. He could see the backs of their heads a bit too, of course, the two Manchester players being pretty tall: to one side, the outline of Luke’s close-trimmed golden brown hair, and more prominently to the other, the spikes of Harry’s dark mane, his head pressed in against the window side. And between them both, that flash of gently moving arm, glimpses of flexing muscle and shifting elbow. Nahhhh, the young Gunner thought, nah, don’t be daft. Then he saw some motion of Maguire’s big `Slabhead’, his posture shifting and his crown rising up, his head angled as if in a moment of climax. The arm, visible in the narrow window between two rows of seats, had jerked more firmly but now stopped. For a moment, the thin view changed — Emile could see a little of Luke’s profile in the gap, leering that way, and then, for a brief moment, thick long fingers patting at the side of his face. Then nothing visible in that gap except for a little flickering light and colour from film screens on either side. Smith-Rowe realised he had been awkwardly holding his breath, and he let out in a long reedy gasp of uncertainty and suspicion. Wow. Had that been what it looked like? Could it really be? But the 21-year-old was not innocent enough to fully question his own eyes. He was no stranger to a helping hand that mightn’t need to be shouted from the rooftops, exactly, or shared with your missus. A burly well-developed young player fighting upwards escort mersin in the youth ranks of his North London club, he’d never been one to ignore the flickers of inappropriate interest that came his way from other footballing lads — and in risqué moments of coke- or lager-fueled daring, it hadn’t always just been a hand that the Surrey chav allowed near his privates. Still, he’d rarely been so bold and blatant as the time he and two of his fellow Arsenal youth players had made a bitch of a Liverpool opponent in the stadium loos… it always made Em snigger now to see that cocky-faced Harvey Elliott celebrated up on Merseyside, having painted the other Surrey lad’s face with his spunk. These had been some dirty little deeds that, until seconds ago, Smith-Rowe had gritted his teeth against as teen missteps. Leave it behind, he’d told himself with a snarl and a shrug. Stupid horny stuff, that’s all. Now that he was rocketing up into the first-team so regularly, and making his big England debut like this, well he had to abandon such naughtiness and so many of his close ones were warning him about his drinking and so on… He knew he needed to be a serious, committed professional, that he could really make a name for himself in the next couple of seasons if he just FOCUSED. In the loose-fitting crotch of his dark blue England sweatpants, Emile’s youthful cock twitched a little against the front of his black briefs. Wow, he thought — senior players get up to that shit too, then? He huffed and smirked, putting the dynamics together in his head. Of course, big Slabhead was captain up there at Old Trafford, right? So someone like Luke Shaw, that fat fuck, had to help him out to earn his status in defence. Makes sense, he thought darkly, and turned his thoughts to his own team — he pictured himself wearing the Arsenal captain’s armband in a couple of season’s time, bossing about other fellas and getting a little bit of extra attention whenever he demanded it. The ambitious young player felt his dick stretch and push at the fabric of the CKs… And then his semi wilted, as another thought danced across the forefront of his mind: one day, he might be captain, but right now… He glanced about him, examining the confines of the airplane cabin and the men dotted around the surrounding rows. For now, he realised, I’m the rookie. Uh-oh. On the counter at the side of the staff-only vestibule, a few dishes and items began to clatter gently against the shiny metallic surface, until a manicured feminine hand pressed firmly against them to hold them in place and still the risky noise, just as she muted the gaspingly swallowed her sounds of mile-high pleasure. It was the kind of thing you might fantasise, the relished in her head, when knowing you’re gonna work on a flight like this! A bit of action with a fuckin’ Premiership footballer — god, just wait til she whispered it to her girlfriends back home, because she certainly wouldn’t be risking the indiscretion of telling anyone else in the crew. (If she let any noises escape this narrow curtained space right now, she wouldn’t NEED to tell them.) And yet the young woman couldn’t exactly bring herself to whisper `Stop’ or `Slow down’, or do anything to dissuade the frenetic energy of the ripped athlete balls-deep inside her right now! Quite the opposite, really — one of her hands slipped up his back, clawing her fake nails against his smooth skin and perhaps leaving scratches to be found by a suspicious girlfriend, that he’d have to explain away as the side-effects of some on-pitch tackle…! Her other hand grasped at the strong firm muscle of a downy arse cheek, feeling it clench and release as he ploughed her, that massive equipment filling her up and making the screams that couldn’t leave her chest. `Fuck me,’ she whispered needlessly, loving every pulsing movement as he entered her deeper and deeper, thrusting her whole body in against the counter and wall, threatening to rattle more kit or dislodge rickety shelves on either side of them. His hands gripped her and groped at her tits in the strained buttons of her blouse and his stubble scratched as he kissed her neck and cheeks, all heavy breathing and heavily Yorkshire accented mutters. But then they were swapping over again, and her excitement danced giddily higher! Back to the first of the two dicks, she thought eagerly, spreading her legs more and allowing the two men to shift positions in front of her — the long heavy prick of the white guy sliding away from her juicy cunt, shiny and wet with her enjoyment, and replaced by the shorter thicker pale brown tool of the other man. There was an odd moment there, she thought, with her legs splayed and up, skirt hitched high and fanny on show to these two Premier League lotharios. For a second, in the sweaty heat of this quick dangerous encounter, it almost seemed like the two guys — Man City players, she thought, although she didn’t 100% know or care — were more concerned with one another than her. It was just the changeover, she told herself, just the fumbling swap as the shorter and broader of the two England hunks made to mount and fuck her against the counter. She probably imagined the delicate way that this one, bulging with muscles under his sweaty t-shirt and leering from her to the other guy, stroked at the shoulder and neck of the taller guy — the slap on the arse definitely happened, because the fleshy sound of it made her panic, but horseplay like that was fair game between randy men like this! It was the brief look that she questioned, when she thought about it later, the second or so when the men, one with his cock sliding into her, and the other wanking himself against her thigh… a brief look where despite their different heights, the two muscle-bound fuckers were very close face-to-face over her, and grinning oddly. Later she would confess in a fit of giggles to her closest friends that it actually looked like the two Yorkshiremen might have kissed each other instead of her, haha, but then the burly mixed-race one was ploughing her good and hard and her eyes were closed and she was trying very hard to keep her orgasm silent. She did a better job of that than them, both of them gabbling and grunting as they jizzed — the stockier one inside her, and the taller better-looking one doing it on her thigh and skirt, the dickhead, giving her more stress over discretion once it was all over and the three of them were sated. Still, she told herself, desperately scrubbing the jizz-stain away and feeling cum cool inside her cunt, it had been worth the risk to be railed by two England players, whatever their names were. She’d check on Wikipedia later, if she could be bothered. Karl something and Jonny whatever, she thought, and they both played for City -or was it United? Pair of massive cocks, she concluded privately, adjusting her uniform and listening to the fading gruffness of their voices beyond the thin curtain that had lent them privacy in the mile-high club. They stomped this way, looks of mischief on their faces, and all he could do was meet their expressions with a mild frown of not-quite-innocent curiosity: it wasn’t easy for Harry Kane to give Kyle Walker an innocent look, when he’d been pressed down beneath that rugby-built 31-year-old squealing like a piglet. It was the same every time he locked eyes with Maguire or Mings, or even secretive Coady. It was a miracle that Kane could put on the performance of captaining this lot, when so many of them could make his knees wobble with a look, and several had already given him so much more than a look. `Wotcha,’ grunted Walker, patting him on the shoulder as he passed. The City right-back had a glossy sheen and a little pink glow to his cheeks as he went by, and both of them smelled a little of body odour, more like they were fresh from a training session than from exploring the plane. They brushed by him, Stonesy giving him a pat and a grin that were more boyish and mischievous than Walker, more bashful and less obnoxious. Kane was up on his feet. Having a stetch, ostensibly, although partly also escaping the nervy filler chat of his assigned neighbour, young Jude Bellingham. It made sense for him to be paired up with the German-based kid, it was a captain’s responsibility to look out for the youngest senior, of course, but Bellingham was actually a bit of a bore, asking questions for the sake of it and actually seeming a bit on edge without the familiar company of his former teammate Jadon Sancho here on the trip. So here Kane was, at the other end of the cabin, leaning his hands heavily on the edges of empty seats, and watching Kyle and John amble on down the aisle with a series of sniggers, back-slaps and backwards glances. A few moments passed by and then there was a prim `Excuse me’ and Harry had to shift his tall frame once more; the prettiest of the air stewardesses came past in a high-heeled trot, and Kane gently pieced together the explanation of what those two ratbags had been up to. His eyes, briefly occupied with the lady’s shapely rear, fixed on the smudged mark on the navy blue of the garment, and then he stared past her to the disappearing shapes of the two brutes swinging into their seats. Fuckin’ hell. Married family man and England captain as he was, Kane wished he could muster some moral outrage or professional disapproval. The problem was that now all he could do was try to picture what had happened, and envy that some preened bimbo had cum on her skirt from either Walker — brief, intense mental flashback to that tattooed bulk advancing on him in a crowded bedroom — or pretty-faced giant Stones, who… nah, Stones couldn’t be as dirty and bisexual as Kyle was, surely? The Tottenham player moved with gentle, discrete steps, leaving the snoozy quiet of the cabin backwards, edging towards and then through the hanging velvet curtain that cordoned off a little kitchen area beyond. He kept his long face very still and expressionless as he did so, scanning to check nobody watched him slip through, and then turning around to take in the presumed scene of their exploits. Like the desperate pervert he felt he’d become, Kane breathed in deeply, trying to taste the stale sex on the air, and really imagine what had taken place here. In front of him was a counter where it looked like things had been moved, slid to the sides. A few items on the lowest shelf seemed knocked or displaced. He stared at the smooth metallic countertop and could have sworn there were greasy handprints on it. He gulped with distressing eagerness, and let his eyes explore that surface, then downwards — down the lacquered cupboard doors to the linoleum floor of the vestibule, and the few damp specks there on the ground. Glistening little beads of some spilled liquid. Spilled from… He pictured Kyle’s cock, dared to imagine John’s. It could be anything, and yet here he was. Contemplating bending his long legs and sinking low to smear his finger in it and give it a lick. He trembled and felt his cheeks burn red. He thought about that sweaty look of triumph on Walker’s face, the leering grin beneath his hooked nose. Fuckkk. And Kane stopped himself, even as he began to lean forward and bend his knees. He pressed one hand against the metal worktop, accidentally feeling how the cool metal had been warmed by bare flesh only minutes ago. He closed his eyes, took a couple of slow breaths, and muttered out `You stupid cunt’ at himself. Two nights ago, he’d absolutely triumphed on the field at Wembley. A rapid hat-trick. He’d become England’s highest scorer in competitive matches. Like his fellow Harry here, he’d denounced the constant criticism about his performance for his troubled club. He’d shown what he was capable of and announced himself very much still in his prime. And here he was, creeping about an aeroplane, staring at specks of what may or may not be his teammates’ cum on the FLOOR. He groaned dismally and backed away from the counter, rubbing a large hand across his blushing face. For a moment, the England skipper dared to dwell on the thing that really had him so restless, so itchy and so unfulfilled. They’d all sat in the hotel bar last night and watched Wales win. There’d been loads of nationalist banter about the sheep-fucking dragons and their exciting night, but all Harry had been able to do was watch Bale bound about the pitch like some tribal warrior, thinking about the unanswered messages and calls mersin escort bayan to that Welsh god. Not a word from him since the day he’d exited Tottenham and returned to his Real Madrid exile. Not a word. `Oh, hello.’ The managing flight attendant who found him here was terribly polite about it, in no mood to insult or offend the beloved England captain, but Kane still found the little exchange deeply uncomfortable, half-murmuring his excuses and then seeing himself back through the curtain as if just lost — the last thing he heard as he exited the vestibule was a little tut from the attendant as they noticed a dirty mark on the floor that needed cleaning up. Grealish moved up the aisle, placing his hands on one headrest after another to steady himself as he moved — not quickly, as such, but determinedly. He’d had to really slide and clamber to get out of his little row of three without disturbing and waking Raheem Sterling, who was snoring his way through a kids’ movie with the volume up too loud on his headphones. And then, stumbling into the aisle, Jack had almost crashed into big Harry Kane, his national captain seeming oafish and uncomfortable as they manoeuvred around each other in the narrow path between seats. It had made the 26-year-old Brummie pause for a moment in his darting journey, steadying the both of them and holding the striker’s arm for a moment. `You alright, big man?’ he asked with strained joviality, looking up into Kane’s glassy eyes and dopey expression. `Yeah, yeah,’ the Spurs forward told him distractedly, squeezing him once on the shoulder and then muscling awkwardly past on his way back to his seat, presumably. Which left Jack to continue his quick and ungainly walk up the aisle like this. Shuffling past the next row, where Jordan Pickford was loudly teasing Tyrone Mings about beating him at a game of cards on one side, whilst the brash Leeds accent of Kalvin Phillips seemed to be berated Conor Coady on a similar incident to the other, this middle row of fellas seeming more awake than the rest. Apart from two of his own City compadres, who’d been the ones to barge past a minute or two ago and wake him from his own daydreams, just in time to… well, to… Ahead of him, down the aisle, he could just make out his silhouette, vanishing through the doorway out of the main cabin stretch. Jack was next to his aisle now, his seat in fact, empty to his right; beyond it, Tammy was stretched sideways in an unlikely position, seeming to read a magazine and watch TV at the same time in furtive glances. Jack paused here, staring mindlessly at Ben’s empty seat, and when he looked up there was no sign of Chilwell in that doorway any more. He’d moved instinctively himself, disturbed by Kyle and John, and then lifting his head just in time to spot Chilly clambering up and away. Jack adjusted his position, stuffing his mitts into his pockets. He moved on, clearing the last few rows and then passing the doors to the loos, moving through into an extra space which seemed to be where they’d boarded the plane. He took a few quick steps forward, rounding a corner into a seemingly pointless little passage here, thinking to find Ben alone and ready to talk, but- No, actually, he was just in a dingy space where a bunch of safety equipment was stacked up, nothing interesting at all, and nobody down here. Grealish paused and gave his chin and mouth a confused rub with one hand, the other still in his pocket. He thought blearily, questioning the urgent way he’d responded to seeing Ben move about the cabin, the way he’d hurried out of his row and shuffled up the aisle, past all of the others, following Chilly… why? Only to end up here at one end of the plane alone, dazed and unsure how much of the flight even remained. The 26-year-old footballer made to turn round, burying both hands in the tight pockets, and turning back towards the passage that would take him into the cabin, to trot past the other England players in their various states of relaxation or card-playing or whatever sniggering antics some of them had been up to. But just around the corner he heard the muffled flush sound of a toilet and then the clicks of a door — oh, so Ben hadn’t disappeared into thin air, just in for a piss… For a long stupid moment Jack paused at the corner, aware that the other young stud was just a couple of feet away out of sight, and he hesitated ridiculously over whether to make his presence known and follow him directly down there, or stay here hidden and pretend not to have followed Ben. But then, crashing into this stupid indecision, the Chelsea player was at the corner and facing him directly, the two of them stood silently at the end of the passage, screened and away from the bulk of the England seniors as their plane cruised over France. `You think I can’t recognise your breathing?’ Ben Chilwell asked in an uncertain but playful whisper, scratching his chin. `I’ve lain and listened to it enough times, huh.’ Jack made a dopey `huh’ noise, unsure what else to say, and feeling ridiculous down here at this quiet spot. A dozen plausible lines auditioned in his throat: he swapped them for a loaded silence, hands at his hips and tracksuit clinging to his tired body. Ben was giving him a long thoughtful look, a seriousness set in him that wasn’t often shown in public. The two men met each other’s eyes in the confined and odd space of the supply room, and then Ben was taking a step forward — it happened in slow motion, his approach, and Jack’s arms unfolded quite automatically. He was gently applying his hands to the younger fella’s wrists quite naturally and on autopilot, before he knew what was happening, and then pulling on them, bringing their fronts together more quickly. Their mouths clashed a little uncomfortably for a moment, as if both of them had slightly forgotten how to approach the other, but lips don’t forget these things, and neither do tongues. Jack held tightly to Ben’s forearms, closing his eyes and letting the kiss last seconds too long. Both of them let out their breath in a hot rush against the other’s face, but their bodies held close, each second feeling thunderous and dangerous in this ridiculous spot. `I miss you,’ Chilwell said quietly, so very quietly, and the three words seemed to speak so much more than just that simple sentiment. Jack didn’t say it back, or anything similar, because he just didn’t know what he could admit, what he could share, what he could bear to consider. But he did hug him, clasping his strong lean arms about the other guy, feeling the heat through their matching tracksuits, and then suddenly being seized by a bit more urgency and a much less sentimental neediness. Jack pressed him back, not at the corner and back into the passage, but against the wall, thudding Ben’s body very gently into it, and pressing a hand at each of his shoulders. He didn’t say anything but he communicated everything through a sharp look to Ben’s wide brown eyes, and with his hands, pressing down on him, guiding him so that his back could slide down that wall, sending the Chelsea defender to his knees while he remained standing and pressed his palms hard against the support. Jack leaned there, arms outstretched, and looked down in front of him to where Chilly now crouched, hands roving up the outsides of his legs and finding the waist of his sweatpants. Grealish looked up and away from this, at the corner carefully, as if doing so would prevent the scandal and horror of some air hostess teetering in now to check the supplies and catching them in the act. Jack felt his pants tugged down and felt his briefs eased halfway, felt his cock spring loose, semi-hard and growing, and instantly caressed by Ben’s breath. It was not the slow attentive passion the pair had once shared. Jack behaved crudely and impatiently, confused by himself — he lowered one hand from the wall and grabbed quite roughly at the slight curl of Ben’s hair, guiding and pushing on his head as he slapped his cock to his cheek, his lips, into his gob. There was frustration and bitterness as well as lust in the way Grealish moved his meat into Ben’s receptive mouth, fucking those plump lips in a series of pushy moves that made his ex gag and whimper a little. Jack stopped watching pointlessly for their protection and just squeezed his eyes bitterly shut, one hand to the wall and the other holding Chilly’s face in place as he buried his cock to the back of his throat uncomfortably. The kneeling lad gagged a bit much, prompting him to pull back, but only partly. Jack tore his hand from Ben’s dishevelled hair and squeezed and jerked at the base of his own cock while keeping much of the shaft in there, rubbing against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Grealish gave a long series of suppressed grunts, urging himself on with speed and neediness, and then — oh, fuck yes, yes — he emptied his low-hanging bollocks, experiencing one of the most strange and not-entirely-pleasurable orgasms of his adult life. It was a climax, and he gushed weeks of unused jizz, but it felt distant and unsatisfying, it felt wrong. Jack held himself in that position and clamped the hand over his face, panting, listening to the nervous and breathless gasps and whimpers of Ben pulling away from his crotch, choked and uncomfortable from the aggression in the encounter. Jack backed off, dick still swinging, and then Ben was up standing in front of him, red-faced and his eyes a little damp with the threat of tears. `Sorry,’ Grealish said weakly, feeling drained. `Don’t be,’ sniffled Ben, reaching to grab at his hands or arms, `I wanted to…’ `I shouldn’t have done that…’ `You were a bit rough, but I didn’t mind, I just miss you…’ `No, Ben, this isn’t happening, we’re over…’ `Are we? I thought so too, but then-` `I’m sorry,’ Jack protested uncertainly, but he found himself gripping at Ben’s sides as they pressed awkwardly together here in this small gloomy corner of the plane. He groaned unhappily, not sure what upset him more — their past together, the uncertainty of their present and future, or the slightly cruel way he had just claimed his mouth. Months at City had changed him, he thought, thinking about how he had marked his territory with Walker and Stones on arrival. He’d become a tougher guy up there, trying to mark his position in the elite world. And now in front of him with tears in his eyes was this sweet handsome lad who’d brought him out of himself, and he didn’t know what the hell to do. Ben was crying openly, not saying anything, but just grabbing at him and trying to kiss him. Jack squeezed him back out of confusion and terror, and thought about how much it had hurt to be cheated on and deceived by the person he trusted most in the world. But he also thought about that stupid signet ring with which the idiot had once proposed to him, and he thought about picnics by rivers and fucking in barns. `Can we try?’ Chilly whispered tentatively at him. `I don’t know,’ Grealish told him honestly. `I don’t know.’ They kissed, roughly and briefly, and then Jack pushed him away. He saw pain in Ben’s eyes, apart from the hot red cheeks and the tearyness of almost choking. But Grealish pulled stiffly away, pushing his cock and balls into his briefs and dragging his sweatpants up to the waist, tucking his tshirt into them and taking further steps to the corner. Ben lurched after him and grabbed the wall, but didn’t reach closer. His eyes were puffy, and he looked totally heartbroken. `I honestly don’t know,’ Jack told him in a desperate voice, and hurried away, around the corner and down the passage. He staggered into the aisle, briefly stared at by the nearest guys in the front row — a red-faced and strangely guilty looking Jordan Henderson to one side, clutching his smartphone to his chest — and then marching hurriedly back on down the row towards his own seat. Before he risked waking Sterling to squeeze by him, Jack looked back down the row and saw Ben traipsing in and to his place by Tammy, too scared or emotional to look this way. Jack barged past Raheem and flung himself into his window seat, pushing back into its cushions and structure with a grim expression. He stared out of the window, down into the cloudy swirl, and felt the cool tingle of his relaxing cock and balls, spent after a very dry month of sexless indifference. He closed his eyes and all he could see was Ben, hopeful and hurt, looking at him for the answer. A FEW DISCLAIMERS… 1. I KNOW IT’S BEEN FOREVER AND I APOLOGISE, 2. I KNOW THIS STORY IS JUST FULL OF TEASERS, AND I DON’T APOLOGISE AND 3. I ALSO KNOW SOME OF THESE PLAYERS ACTUALLY AREN’T ON THAT FLIGHT TO SAN MARINO, SO OOPS. ALL ASIDE… HOPE YOU ENJOY.

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