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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 273 Part 273: The £100 Million Man The camera flashed over and over, and he did his best to keep up a coolly confident grin of triumph as he was directed into a series of relaxed poses in the big tan leather armchair, the glossy baby blue of his new kit slippery against it as he shifted his legs and torsos into new positions. The grin on his face felt a little unnatural; if honesty was winning out, Jack Grealish would be wearing a much more nervous and hesitant expression on his lean handsome face, something closer to a young stag in headlights, rather than the composed young star he was supposed to be, basking in his record-breaking deal here at Manchester City. Adjusting his socks down one meaty calf with a little wink for the camera, Grealish finished off this part of the media shoot, making a thumbs up for the photographer as he was released from the camera’s piercing gaze for a few moments. Up on his feet, his smile slipped, and he padded sweaty palms against the fresh blue kit, feeling shaky and restless with the nervous energy of this momentous week. The decision that he’d grappled with all summer felt no easier or more solid now it was made, his goodbyes said at Villa and the ink drying on his massive new contract. Yesterday’s medicals had been intense and surreal, but today’s media frenzy and formalities felt even more strange and unreal. It’s not that Jack was actually experiencing specific regrets about the life-changing move he was underlining today, but the whole thing was a lot, and after almost two decades at his boyhood club, it felt strange and uncomfortable to be going through this rigmarole without any of the familiar faces that usually punctuated his club football — even with his recent experience in the England line-up, Grealish found it unnerving to be here in footballer mode surrounded by new faces and away from the lifetime familiarity of Aston Villa. This is what you wanted, he reminded himself. New challenges. New motivation. New ambition. He was glad he’d been able to return to Villa training for a couple of days before all of this, once the big painful decision had been made and he was able to say his proper goodbyes to the lads there. Not just the players, but the many coaches and staff members who’d featured so largely in his life since he was just a bolshy kid. A lot of emotional goodbye-for-nows with so many important people. He could particularly picture how difficult that last chat had been with wee John McGinn, the rugged little Scot bursting into tears on his shoulder and trying to kiss and grope him as they parted ways, begging him for a goodbye fuck to remember him by — it had become an embarrassing scene in a not-so-discreet corner of the Villa training facility and he’d had to push his Villa bestie away quite roughly to make his point. Things had been fine after that, with a more matey goodbye and no more professions of love from McGinn, but the sexually charged clinch with his close mate had really captured the tension and uncertainty of his Villa exit. More photography and posing to come, and Grealish beamed a winning smile for the press release images that would mark his arrival here in Manchester blue. The rest of the media session passed in a blur, and the 25-year-old could not help but sag a little with relief. Suddenly, the young Brummie went from the star attraction to a spare part, wandering about these rooms of the Etihad in unfamiliar kit, surrounded by the vague blur of action of club staff who were overseeing the day. Popping a strip of gum in to chew, Grealish moved aside, chewing at his lip and checking on the slicked-back style of his hair. He ran through the day’s itinerary and checklist in his head with some difficulty, the whole circus of it becoming a bit blurred and confusing already. He felt simultaneously like he’d only arrived here five minutes ago, and like he’d been in these photoshoots for a whole week. What was next? Left unsupervised for a moment, Jack strutted away across the hospitality suite turned photo studio, to where his smart suit from earlier was draped over the back of one big chair, and his designer backpack was nestled beside it. He stooped to unzip it and retrieve his phone, feeling like a distracted schoolboy to open it up and flick through his personal things in a moment’s escape from the day’s pressures. He paused with the device in his palm, feeling the little jolt of vibration to inform him of a single missed call among the multitudinous social media notifications and updates from a dozen group chats: `1 missed call, Ben C’. Jack frowned at his phone with mixed emotions. And then his name was being called, a weirdly formal `Mister Grealish?’ from a suited exec type, and he was stuffing his phone away guiltily back into his backpack, swallowing his gum and trying to look like a highly-focused £100 million footballer again. `Mr Guardiola will see you now,’ the suited man was announcing with a flashy smile, grabbing him by the shoulder. `Time for your first proper meeting. How exciting.’ `Yup,’ Jack agreed thickly, his mind still picturing the little photo icon of Ben and he on a previous beach holiday, posing together in sunglasses, that had grinned at him from beside the missed call icon on his phone. He was rattled by the unsurprising communication that he’d seen there, and he felt even more sweaty and restless than he had two minutes ago. `Yeah, great,’ he blurted more enthusiastically at the Manchester City exec, wiping his palms on his shirt and rolling his shoulders, `show me the way, boss.’ It was not quite Jack’s first meeting with Pep Guardiola, and it was really just an extension of the photoshoot — him sat in the flashy white office in full City kit, the notorious Spanish manager smiling warmly at him from behind a laptop and offering little more than small talk and a roll-call of the men who would be Jack’s new colleagues from tomorrow. They had met a couple of times early in the negotiation process, and had several intense conversations yesterday while the deal was finalised; but this was their first official interaction, in front of the camera, and Jack realised it was just another bit of promo to present his arrival to the jealous footballing world. Grealish felt uncomfortable and inarticulate in the chat. He found Guardiola’s accented English difficult to follow, and then even harder to follow when the Spaniard dropped in phrases of his own language on some assumption that he might understand. Jack found that after a good twenty minutes in the showroom of an office, he’d barely done more than nod, mumble `yeah’, and force out a few awkward laughs. Guardiola, perhaps sensing some of his nervousness, was emphasising now how many City players he was already on good terms with. The City manager was heaping praise on his Raheem Sterling, on Kyle Walker and John Stones. `And little Philly,’ Jack broke in, unintentionally dismissing the young starlet with the diminutive nickname he’d developed for him on England duty. He coughed, corrected himself. `Phil Foden,’ he said, after a beat, `he’s a great little lad is Phil.’ He saw the oddest flicker of disapproval in his new manager’s face, as if his way of referring to `little Philly’ was somehow disrespectful or inappropriate for a player so clearly favoured here… But then Guardiola was laughing warmly. `Yes, our Filipe,’ he said, pronouncing the simple English name with full Iberian purr, `I believe Foden thinks very highly of you too.’ `They’re all good guys,’ Grealish muttered honestly, thinking of the key England teammates he would be linking up with here in the new team. `Can’t wait to get stuck in with them all.’ Guardiola paused to give him a long quiet smile, again something odd in his expression. Just a moment’s quiet between the new signing and the established manager, one that perhaps should have been very comfortable and celebratory, but for some reason felt a bit intense and inscrutable. Under the edge of the desk, Jack rubbed his palms against his bare knees, feeling both the weight of his price-tag and the ignored missed call somewhere in his backpack. Across the table from him, Pep was beginning to speak, but Jack cut him off impulsively. `The charity shield,’ he demanded fiercely, driven in the moment by a need to show his enthusiasm and commitment, after sitting here in a dull daze for most of the conversation. `I hope I’ll be playing on Saturday,’ he insisted with more self-assurance than he currently felt. Guardiola looked taken aback by the idea, or by his tone, or just by the shift in his manner. Jack rubbed his stubbled chin a little and leaned back in his seat, trying to exude the confidence and talent of his status here, the club’s most expensive purchase and the most valuable English footballer ever. `Right?’ he pushed. `That’ll be my big debut, won’t it?’ A measured smile from the new gaffer. `That would be only one day of training with your new…’ `You know I’m ready. It’s what you paid for.’ Jack knew he sounded conceited, and was a little surprised by the sound of his own voice. He could even hear himself trying to suppress the fug of his Birmingham accent. He smiled, trying to lighten the tone of his demanding little outburst. `But whatever you think is best, gaffer,’ he said, softening his voice more naturally, and marvelling at how bluntly he’d spoken to the league-winning tactician. Guardiola smiled back, fixing him with a probing look, and spreading his hands on the desk. `We’ll see,’ he said thoughtfully. `We’ll see.’ The apartment was in a tall dark block only three streets from the City stadium, spacious but corporate; it was to be Jack’s digs here in his new town until he sorted something more permanent for himself, and it felt a world away from the Birmingham pad he’d bought in his late teens, or the big Grealish family home that he’d furnished on his beloved parents and siblings. He’d need to get his own place sorted soon, he told himself, he couldn’t spend long in this charmless show-home box. Jack dropped his bag to the sleek laminate floor a few steps in from the door, pulling off his damp suit jacket and crossing the open-plan club-owned apartment in skinny-fit dark trousers and the tieless white shirt. Large bags and boxes on the dining table told him that Sasha had enjoyed a busy first day as a Manchester WAG, and a scribbled note pinned to the fridge door detailed that she was already out for the dinner with pals that he was supposed to follow her to. The 25-year-old read the note in a daze, shaking off the effects of the heavy Mancunian rain that he’d briefly endured between chauffeur-driven car and apartment building, fiddling with the top button of his white shirt and letting the curtains of his chestnut brown hair fall damply loose about his temples. With slow procrastinated mersin escort movements, Jack removed his mobile phone from his bag and sat his suit-clad arse on one of the high stools at the kitchen bar, the `missed call’ notification still atop the many messages on his busy home screen. For a moment more, Jack ignored it, not looking properly at the miniature photograph of he and his Ben, and opened his other messages — he found a new group chat at the top of things, a City first team one that Kyle Walker had just added him to. A short message from the defender welcomed him to the group, framed by beer and champagne emojis, informing him of a little team social tonight in a nearby bar. Jack grimaced at the prospect of refusing this kind and important gesture, having promised he would join Sasha and meet some of her friends who lived in the area, but his new friendships with the Man City squad paled next to his uncomfortable feelings about one relationship in particular. With a deep breath and a queasy gut, he tapped through his phone’s navigation and returned the call. At the other end of the line, Chilwell sounded a little breathless with relief or panic as he answered. `Hello? Jack? Hey?’ `Hey,’ he returned less energetically. `Um. Sorry — it’s been hectic. I couldn’t call back earlier.’ A long quiet from Ben before he replied, `Well, I guessed as much. So.’ Jack mirrored him with awkward quiet, holding the iPhone to his cheek and digging his elbows forward against the tabletop. `Ben,’ he said quietly and earnestly, `I really-` He wasn’t sure what the rest of that sentence was, there seemed to be several different versions in his head: `I really miss you’, `I really fucking hate you’, `I love you too much’, `I really don’t know what I’m doing here’, `I really wish I was at Villa…’ But none of these different scripts could play out, because Ben was interrupting him with a weight of tension in his voice. `So I have to find out you’ve signed your City contract through social fucking media,’ accused Chilwell. `That’s really where we’re at, is it?’ The bitterness of his boyfriend’s tone struck at him, and it took Jack a moment to reply. `You knew what I was thinking,’ he answered in glum quiet. `You knew more than anyone what I was going through making this decision.’ An uncomfortable pause, then adding, `And you know I couldn’t say for definite until I’d properly signed it, it’s like I said in those group chats, just…’ `You were up there yesterday,’ Chilly pointed out, and his voice sounded weak and emotional now rather than bitter or accusing. `Getting your medical and stuff. You didn’t think you might mention it to me when we were texting…?’ `Ben,’ he sighed. `Don’t Ben me. I thought we were making some progress on holiday. I thought… you’d forgiven me.’ Jack just grumbled uncomfortably in response to that, unsure what he could honestly say to that. He could hear the pain in his best mate’s voice, and it was just difficult goodbyes with lovestruck John McGinn all over again, except so much more complicated. `Please,’ he said, `I’m having such a mad week, we need to talk about this properly another time…’ `Well, that’s if you have time.’ Ben sounded bitter again now. `Cos I’m also finding out that you’re back with your ex.’ `You knew I was meeting up with her in Croatia…’ `Meeting up with. Moving to fucking Manchester with?!’ `Mate, this isn’t…’ `I’m trying so hard to be what you need, Jack, I really fucking am!’ Something in his tone, or the whole pushy direction of the conversation, made Grealish snap then. He was so full of nervous tension after each difficult step of transfer week, and Ben’s emotional jibes were not what he needed to hear. `Trying really hard with Mason’s mouth around your cock,’ he snapped back. `How many times have you fucked him since you got back into London, eh?’ he pushed furiously — there was an anger in the stupid question that he’d never actually let out in any of their dialogue in the Euros, always trying to hard to keep himself focused on the tournament. But now the dam was burst. `Don’t question me about my girlfriend when you can’t keep your big nob in your shorts, Chilly. Trying so hard, fuck’s sake.’ He realised he was shaking and frothing a little with spit. `This is stupid,’ he cursed bitterly, meaning everything they were saying. `Then I guess I’ll leave you to it,’ he heard the Chelsea player mumble, and he made to interrupt and correct him, to soften his words and confide in him, but there was a click and a flatness as the call abruptly ended. Isolated by that click, Grealish could only bemoan to the soulless apartment kitchen: `I need you here,’ he complained quietly and sadly, and then put the device down on the surface. Ben was gone, but the City group chat he’d left open before calling chimed with activity now in front of him, with several other players confirming they were free for a quiet drink at the bar Walker had named. Grealish stared unhappily at it, feeling a strange sense of alienation to look at these new names, the Etihad men he would be playing with this season. He knocked his thumbs against the screen and punched in his quick response. `Sure lads. See you there, thanks.’ Big thumbs up and smiling emoji, plans for the evening redirected. His missus could wait, he needed a pint with his new teammates. `So where is Little Phil?’ Jack blurted, casting his eyes curiously across the VIP section of the Manchester bar. He had kept on the skinny-fit suit in which he’d been inking contracts in the morning, and looked just a little bit over-dressed against the relaxed designer gear of the other blokes present, adding to the conspicuous sense of being the awkward new guy — it was a particularly alienating feeling for a guy who’d been made captain of his former club at such a young age, knowing he could hardly command that respect and attention among this collection of giants. Grealish could almost feel the appraisal in every look that came his way, questioning what the £100 million man was really bringing to City. `Oh, he’s still on his hols,’ his England ally Raheem Sterling informed him quite casually, stood beside him in a flashy short-sleeved shirt, sipping on some kinda cocktail. Jack had gravitated towards the young forward as a known friendly face and someone he’d picked up huge respect for in this summer’s international antics. `Got that dodgy foot now, innit — Pep will be fuming that his fave kid isn’t ready for the new season, y’know!’ Sterling sniggered a bit at this and Grealish gave him a briefly curious glance, thinking back to how oddly Guardiola had taken his friendly quip. Like Raheem, Phil was someone whose talents Jack greatly admired, and he’d particularly enjoyed teasing and winding up the Stockport prodigy during the past year’s Three Lions duty; Phil was so earnest and naïve and innocent, and it actually amused Jack to picture the slight youngster as a valued member of the elite around him. He looked forward to being reunited with the kid, though internally he felt a flare of competition — he knew the praise that Pep had heaped on him in the past, and he was sure he could prove himself the club’s real weapon, no offence to Little Phil. Jack ignored a little flare of missed calls on his phone. They were from both Sasha, fuming at his absence from a swanky dinner a few blocks away, and from Ben, either regretting or wanting to resume the snappish argument at the start of the evening. Grealish had no time for either of them. He switched the device to airplane mode and collected another drink for the bar, splashing some cash on a round of shots that he instructed the girl to deliver to all of his new teammates and their attractive female partners, the rather glamorous City crowd that made him feel out of his depth — as the football encyclopaedia he apparently was, it was difficult for the Brummie lad not to feel a total fanboy as he mingled with some of the big names. Few made him ogle and start like Kevin de Bruyne, and he enjoyed a rather stilted conversation with the mild-mannered Belgian and his ice-cool wife, repeatedly telling Kevin that he could not wait to get on a pitch with him and revealing to himself and the couple that the beers were already going to his head. He seemed to make a similar tit of himself when being properly introduced to the Portuguese likes of Ruben Dias and Joao Cancelo; these were prestigious players that until only a couple of season ago Jack had considered himself immensely privileged to even come up against, never mind out-price and join at this level. The guys here could make almost casual reference to the fact they were current Premier League champions, and even this was a bit jarring for Grealish. It’s what he was here for, the prospect of big wins and accolades, but his working-class humility made it difficult for him to accept being associated with the club’s current status — he wasn’t part of their 2021 league win, he knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the air of smugness that these lads projected until he’d scored the winner and taken them to the top of the table or a tournament like the Champions League. As it was, he could only mumble his response to the quite arrogant banter of his new teammates and feel himself spiral into nervous drunkenness in the chic industrial conversion of the bar’s VIP mezzanine. At some point in this swirl of inebriation, Grealish became particularly aware of the loudest and most vocally confident duo in the Man City set. Of course, he’d been reunited with both fellas at several points in the evening drinks, the only other two here who seemed to be knocking back the booze as if there was no training session tomorrow morning; both fellas were new England pals whom Jack had enjoyed the company of at Wembley and so on. But together, their booming laughs and rough manly gestures were something different, and could only be associated with the long-ignored encounter he had shared with them way before his England call-up. It was about eighteen months ago that he and Ty Mings had encountered the City defenders in the Wembley loos, losers to City in the final of the League Cup. When England duty had brought Jack into closer contact with Kyle Walker and John Stones, the memory of humiliation and submission had felt genuinely faint — he just wasn’t the same confused lad now that he’d been when he got on his knees in that cubicle for the cup-winning pair, not at all, his many months of intimacy with Ben Chilwell had matured him. When he had rarely given it some thought, he’d laughed to think of his seedy inexperience and the stupidity with which the two burly Yorkshire lads had tried to get one over him… but here in Manchester, a fish out of shallow water, Jack was suddenly reminded of how emotional and vulnerable he’d been that escort mersin Wembley night, and how much advantage these two coarse yobs had taken of his defeat. There was plenty of unrest and heartache going on for Grealish tonight, but seeing Walker and Stones loitering nearby and cackling at their own jokes, well that just lit a fire under it, and gave some direction to his overheated testosterone. He caught big John by the elbow as soon as the pair were briefly separated, leaning in and nudging the `great wall of England’ with a tipsy leer that matched the 27-year-old’s bright laddish grin. `Alright geezer,’ Jack chuckled at him with a mockney accent. `I think I might have had a few too many, what about you?’ With that special glazed effect to his eyes that only heavy beer drinkers can manage, Stones laughed this idea off and nudged him back. `Friday training is always chill, and it’s only the Charity fucking Shield, ain’t it. Not a real trophy like us lads win up here, Jacko, know what I mean?’ It was hard to tell if the big beaming grin on the Barnsley lad’s face was really a direct reference to the Cup win and aftermath that was stewing on Jack’s own mind right now, but he was drunk enough to take it as such, and he could hardly restrain the glare and snarl that it provoked in him. `Right,’ he responded through gritted teeth. `Big boy trophies only, yeh?’ `Summat like that,’ laughed John warmly. `Welcome to the thunderdome, Greals.’ Grealish smiled resentfully back and downed the rest of his beer. Was it his fifth or his sixth? He couldn’t tell, but he knew a few different hard shots had punctuated the pints. `Mate,’ he hissed with all the subtlety of a bulldozer, `you wanna slip away for a minute?’ John raised his neat brows and swayed on his heels for a moment. `What, you mean for a bit of sniff sniff?’ he said in the loudest stage whisper, leaning in closer with his impressive height and build; the plain dark shirt he wore strained with its buttons down his broad strong chest and at the cuffs on his wrists. He was patting one pocket of his skinny-fit pale denim jeans as if he had a packet on the go, but Jack wasn’t interested in this chemical distraction. `Nah,’ he muttered, fixing Stones with an intense stare, `for a bit of a laugh, you know?’ And with that, he gently licked his lower lip and pulled arrogantly on the lapels of his dark navy blazer, puffing out his chest and squaring up to the taller footballer. He wasn’t sure if he needed to be a bit more explicit or not, seeing the gormless uncertainty on big John’s face for a minute, but then there was a spark of excited recognition, and he just winked. He nodded past the big lad to where that other defensive stalwart was deep in conversation with both men’s fiancees and another couple of players — `Get Kyle too if ya like, mate, like old times huh?’ Grealish sauntered away. He was horny in spite of himself. When he’d been relaxing in Croatia, or trying to relax as he convinced himself he’d done the right thing in saying yes to Man City, and cosying up with his on-off ex-girlfriend, he’d made a little decision for himself: playing about with the lads was too dangerously distracting. He’d talked down his lofty feelings for Benji, convinced himself that it was all just too much testosterone and lust. He’d thrown himself at some vague commitment with Sasha, made quiet little promises to himself in the dark of night about the kind of seedy nonsense he wouldn’t get involved in once he made his big transfer… and yet here he was, sidling towards the quieter end of the VIP area, then slipping past their assigned bouncers, and making his way down a side-passage towards the loos. Hovering at the door to a roomy disabled bathroom with an intent little smirk on his tanned features, glancing over his shoulder and awaiting the inevitable — there they were, looking like a pair of burly bouncers themselves: Kyle’s muscles bulging beneath a crisp white tee and thigh-hugging chinos, whilst John’s long muscular arms swung at his sides and his eyes made shifty glances up and down the passage to check they were alone. In he went. Shuffling his shoes into the tiled floor of the disabled loo and leaving the door a few inches ajar, smugly pleased with his own attractiveness as it jolted again and the two established City players slid in after him. Walker did the honours, shoving it firmly shut behind them and yanking down the lock on the handle before rubbing a hand across his mouth and making seedy eyes at him at close distance. `Well well well,’ jeered the 31-year-old, the relative old man of the England squad that Jack had so proudly joined this past year. `Aye,’ murmured John, reaching to pat his arm; the bathroom was a roomy square but with three athletic men in, it felt immediately cramped. John was sliding the suspected packet of gear from his pockets, but Jack felt curiously uninterested in that. He just rubbed at the front of his suit trousers and eyed the two fellas up. `Just like old times, huh?’ he sighed at them with tense nostalgia. `Wasn’t sure you remembered that,’ growled Walker, rubbing his own bulge and looming close. `Sure I do…’ `You never mentioned it,’ Kyle said almost offendedly. `Hope we weren’t too… rough?’ murmured John quietly. Jack leered at him, enjoying the tone of guilty regret, squeezing his own semi through the fabric but then shifting his hand to John’s, finding the outline of his fat prick in the front of those pale skinny jeans; he saw Kyle’s immediate envy and did the same for him, rubbing the loaded front of his chinos while the two big defenders pressed close to him in the toilet room. `We were just winners, John-boy,’ muttered Kyle’s voice, pressing his crotch into Jack’s hand and bringing one big hand up against the side of his neck. `We needed to show this Aston Villa pussy what real footballers were like — and lovely stuff, here he is joining us at the grown-ups table at last…’ Grealish made a murmuring sigh of agreement to this and relaxed his body, feeling Kyle’s thick fingers slide under the collar of his blazer to begin removing it; John’s hand creeping in against his tummy, feeling his six-pack through the shirt and stubbing aimlessly against tight buttons. He shifted backwards, relaxing himself against the side of the room, the two strong men pawing at him, all heavy breathing and exuded heat. It was so fucking arousing, the obvious appetite of these two big buggers, two proper macho lads, just like it had been when he’d been more confused and vulnerable last spring… he was turned on, but he was also hot and resentful, and he knew things were a bit different now. He was going to get exactly what he wanted from these smug twats. Stones was pushing more purposefully at his buttons now, undoing the front of his shirt and releasing the tight toned meat beneath. Walker had his blazer over one shoulder and was angling at the other until the luxury tailoring was sliding back against the wall and then the grimy floor. Grealish grabbed firmly at one of Walker’s big exploring paws and pushed it down his front and against his crotch, encouraging the thickset bloke to feel and grab his hardness there, then letting out a deep Brummie moan of satisfaction as he melted into their grabbing holds. These two bullies thought they were summat special here, but neither of them could resist the £100 million meat of Jack Grealish… `Fuck,’ gasped John, giving away his tipsy eagerness, as Jack undid the single button of his jeans and slid his hand in against the silky undies below, taking a good handful of Barnsley chop. The 6ft2 defender leaned in as if going for a kiss, coming to nuzzle the side of his neck and seeming to breath in his rich odour. Jack felt both lads grab and stroke at his chest and tummy and relaxed more into the wall, groaning too. `Yes lads, oh yes,’ he sighed. In the tumble of grasping hands, Kyle was wrenched open the belt of his suit trousers and pushing his hand in, getting a real grip of his cock, feeling his straining erection in there. But his other hand was on Jack’s arse, feeling one meaty cheek through the two layers of fine material. Turning, Jack relaxed into the firmness of his muscles, pressing backwards against the stocky right-back — he could feel Kyle’s hands pull a bit at the waist of his pants, his hips, trying to encourage him to bend his knees and lower himself like he had once before in that cramped cubicle of drama. In front of him, he could see that John wanted the same — the centre-back, shirt stull buttoned tightly about his muscles, was shoving the clingy denim down his long thighs, and his silky boxer shorts with it, until his cock was rigidly to attention, the foreskin pulling back on a glistening wet tip. Really, Grealish might have sunk to his knees at the sight of it. Stones was so generously hung, long and thick and shapely. But he was fired up with the confusing sentiments of earlier, and he saw himself in a flashback, kneeling for one and both of these top-flight thugs, humiliated at Wembley. Nah, he wasn’t a small fish in a big new pond, he was still Captain Jack. Instead, he just leaned heavily back into Kyle’s grip, feeling his own weighty hard-on released and held, displayed generously before John’s lit-up eyes — he could see his own lust matched in the tall fella’s expression, saw the tables turn there. The redeemed England hero was practically drooling. `Fuck,’ Jack purred at him, `my cock is SO hard for you guys…’ Down Stones went. Bare knees to the floor tiles, hard prick bouncing between those thighs as he positioned himself. Grabbing Jack’s cock, knuckles rubbing at Kyle’s, and then pouting pink lips brought close until his hot breath tickled Jack’s head and then enveloped it. `Oh fuck,’ the Brummie moaned gratefully, and he slid his fingers into the tangled brown curls of the centre-back’s hair, whilst pushing back into Kyle, rubbing the rounded meat of his own rear in against the tangible form of Walker’s excitement. Kyle was breathing down his neck in rough pants, almost but not quite kissing the side of his throat and the nape at the collar of his open shirt; his hands were pushing down the back of the suit trousers and then the trunks below, rubbing that dark grey fabric over the smooth globes. Jack felt the hard wet tip of the right-back’s prick rub at one of his glutes. He sighed greedily but knew exactly what he wanted. He twisted his neck a little to face Kyle at an awkward angle, simultaneously pushing forward with his hips until his cock was really buried in John’s sloppy mouth, then he whispered pleadingly to his new teammate: `Go on, eat my arse,’ he huffed throatily, `lick my Villa cunt, you big bastard.’ He saw a little shock in Walker’s eyes, but he refused to believe the brutish letch hadn’t rimmed someone before. There mersin escort bayan was indecision in his expression, and perhaps he could feel the dynamic shifting — that Jack wasn’t their plaything in here like he’d been the last time they shared a toilet. But there was also great lust, and Grealish felt a great conceited certainty that he had one of the most irresistible rumps in the country. He muttered his dirty demands again — `Eat my Villa arse, you fuckin’ winner!’ — and sighed moodily, grabbing more firmly at John’s hair and ears and fucking his gob in a few eager strokes. Walker clearly couldn’t resist him. He felt his hands paw down his back, needling his toned body through the thin white shirt, then resting on the plump firm muscles of his cheeks. His suit trousers had stalled somewhere on the hairy expanse of his thighs, but his crotch and arse were bared for these two admirers, John’s face bobbing back and forth on his rod, and Kyle now breathing gently into the furrow between his cheeks, parted with stubby fingers… Jack moaned with indiscreet volume, thinking gloatingly of his own submission 18 months ago and the power his body now seemed to hold on these two lusty louts. Grealish just brought his hands up behind his head, cupping them about the grease of his hair, elbows jutting out the sides, his lean body upright but his knees ever-so-slightly bent to press back with his bum. With a wet noise, Kyle pushed his face between those cheeks and Jack felt his tongue visit his crack, swipe up and down it — fuckkk. One City defender slobbered at his cock and the other now pressed his stupidly large tongue against his hole, making it twitch, clench, loosen…. Mmmm. `That’s it,’ Jack gasped teasingly, `make me your bitch, eh?’ He held in the laugh at this ironic jibe, enjoying the dual pleasure and feeling his balls tingle and tighten. Kyle’s tongue swiped and pushed more ferociously in his arse crack and he struggled for a moment to keep his balance, legs weak with the enjoyment of blowjob and rimjob — then he caught sight of himself in the large square mirror, a seedy and dominant sight as he stood between the two hunched figures, catching a limited side-profile of Kyle’s face pressed in against his pale arse, the tan lines of his holiday so visible. Kyle’s tshirt was off and he could see the hulking tattooed strength of his upper body where it poised behind him, and he reached down to stroke and grasp more at John’s curls, hitting the back of his throat with the tip of his cock. `Yes lads,’ he whined, `fuck yes, mmm…’ He was not surprised by how quickly he approached climax, feeling the joint attention of these two on him like this, and almost as egotistically aroused by his own reflection here, the lad everybody wanted a piece of at the minute. In a moment of wild arrogance, he imagined that even Pep Guardiola had been looking him up and down as they met yesterday and today, the Spanish chief watching him sweat in his fitness assessments with a very faraway look in his eyes. Fuck, he thought wildly, who wouldn’t splash £100 mil for a piece of THIS? Knowing he was close, and driven closer by a strong jab of tongue to his arse-hole, Jack pushed back on John’s brow, edging the slurping oaf away from his cock for a moment. John’s bright eyes stared hungrily up at him and his mouth hung open for a moment before going to speak — he was grabbing his own massive equipment in one hand as he squatted there with his jeans about his ankles, opening his mouth to begin murmuring `My turn n-` But Grealish caught him entirely by surprise, having instantly grasped one hand to the base of his throbbing hard-on and giving it a series of sharp tugs — his load exploded across Stones’ gormless face, smearing pearlescent goo across his open lips and the long bridge of his Roman nose, flecks hitting the sweaty curls of his fringe. Jack gasped and pumped more jizz from his meat, firing it against John’s cheeks and neck and the crisp collar of his shirt. Behind him, he heard Walker gasp for breath then felt a single soft kiss of his lips at the very bottom of his spine, above the slick wetness of his arse-crack. `Bend over,’ growled the City brute, `I need to fuck this hole now!’ He could hear every bit of lust and desperation in the dominant fella’s voice, and all he could do was smirk to himself, his cock still dribbling cum and John’s surprised eyes fixed on him from below. Grealish stood between them and sighed to nobody in particular. He stepped aside, his cock swinging as he did, his sweaty chest heaving as he caught another glance of himself in the bathroom mirror. `Fuck! Thanks lads!’ he crowed, reaching immediately for the open front of his trousers and beginning to drag them and his undies up, staggering back from the crouching pair in the confined space. They both gawped at him on their knees, John’s face glistening with trails of his spunk, and Kyle’s lips and nose damp with his own slobber. Walker looked furious, his upper body bared and his hard-on so fully evident in the pale chinos between his meaty thighs. Up he came to his feet in one staggering jolt, grabbing his equipment. `Bend over,’ he barked needily, `I’ve rimmed you good and now…’ `I’m spent,’ Jack cut him off coolly, still panting, and struggling to push his finished cock back into his undies. He nodded dismissively at still crouching John. `That was awesome lads but I gotta go now.’ He could see the registering disappointment and irritation cross their faces in different ways, and he simply smirked back at them, re-buckling his belt tightly about his slim waist and then sorting out the loose strands of dark hair that snaked down the sides of his face. `Absolutely class welcome party though, fellas!’ He did up his buttons one at a time and the pair continued to gawp at him without saying anything — John looked really quite dismayed, holding his free erection and seeming to notice the flecks of cum that had landed on his outfit, Kyle leaning sideways at the sink and wiping the back of one hand across his damp stubble. `Pass my blazer, will ya?’ Grealish chimed as he did up the top button of his white shirt. Walker glowered at him, but grabbed it up and tossed it his way, and shot him a final look as he reached behind him for the door handle. Mostly, the right-back looked furious — it was obvious that he felt cheated here, and that this was far from the dominant three-way he’d expected from the pair’s previous toy. But thrilling at his own boldness and selfish pleasure, Jack thought he also picked up a note of mutual respect — he felt sure he’d pissed in the sand and marked some territory here, showing his fellow England players that he wasn’t the same vulnerable lad they’d messed about with in the past. He opened the door behind him and saw them both flinch, terrified in the moment of risk that the door could be thrown wide open and any passer-by might see them in this delicate moment; but Jack was in no hurry to completely ruin his friendships here, and he shoved the bathroom door firmly after him as he swaggered out into the quiet passage, quiet except for the boom and thud of music in the main bar below. Behind the closed disabled bathroom door, he heard the instant click of the lock being redone, and he imagined the guilty panic between the defensive pair, wondering even for a moment if they would finish each other off since he’d let them down. But he didn’t particularly care. He’d exorcised that particular memory and convinced himself he was no bloke’s plaything. Clammy and hot beneath his skinny suit, Grealish stepped out into the summer drizzle of the Manchester streets. He had not bothered to return to the City drinks, which were surely winding down now anyway, as most of those present remembered that they were due in training at 9am; besides, he needed to reaffirm to himself that he HAD moved on from being the homoerotic gimp in the playtime of brutes like Walker and Stones, so he was making a beeline for a late appearance at girlfriend with the missus. He’d chosen HER, he reminded himself, because playing about with guys had brought him nothing but fucking aggro. Jack’s deep heartache was pickled in beer, allowing him to look more callously at how he’d been messed around and played by Ben Chilwell. Inspired by this moment of seeming clarity, Grealish took out his phone as he paced the unfamiliar streets on the way to the bougie restaurant choice of his woman. He was glad when dialling Ben’s number brought up voicemail rather than a real response — it would be easier this way. He thought again of emptying his load across John’s big earnest face, and the desperate dirtiness of Kyle licking his hole for him, and reminded himself what a fucking stud he was and how these stupid dicks around him needed to respect that! Slurring his words, he opened his voicemail message in that direction — `Fuck’s sake Ben,’ he crowed, stomping down the damp pavement, `you need to respect me, okay? Look, mate, this isn’t working, it’s over, right? You’ve messed me about too much. I can’t — I don’t need it. I’m making big things happen here, this is my big break. Last thing I need is — is — is some Milton Keynes pretty boy pissing on my parade. So just do what you fucking want at Chelsea, right? I don’t care. I love you, bro. We’re best friends. I don’t want to lose that.’ His voice and his mood were softening as he spoke, but the cutting dismissal of his opening lines could not be taken back. `I love you, you’re my best mate, so let’s just be THAT,’ he said shakily, running out of steam. `It’s over, that thing we had, it’s OVER. You ruined it. So just let me be free up here, okay? Let me make it work. And… and… and you an’ me, Benj, we’ll just stay best mates, okay…? Yeah…? Right?’ For a moment he seemed to have forgotten the one-way dynamic of voicemail. He gurgled stupidly down the line and then rushed his goodbye. `Anyway, speak to you soon I hope, I really do love ya, but… but yeh… erm… BYE.’ The most expensive English footballer in history swayed down the last of the street in a daze, clinging to the phone in his hand and staring dead-eyed into the heavying rain, replaying a fuzzy version of what he’d just monologued down the line to his closest friend in the world. Well, that was that, he’d finally ended it. Shouldn’t he feel a bit more relieved? And then, stumbling into the small queue of the trendy joint, he was greeted by the cynical attention of bouncers asking if he was sober, and smartly dressed locals in the queue recognising him and going wild with attention, phones out wanting selfies or just taking videos of his drunken slur. Grealish stepped straight into the boozy stereotypes of his newfound status at the top of the league, and was ushered through into the safety of clinging to his forgiving girlfriend, cum-stained prick drying in his boxer briefs. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

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