premiership-lads-300

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Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 300 Part 300: The New Face of English Football They were at the airport remarkably quickly after the game, and it felt quite surreal to be unloading from the coach and entering their VIP departure lounge, when barely an hour ago they had been on the pitch at the Puskas Arena Park on the other side of Budapest. But there was no reason to hang around, and it wasn’t as if any of the England team were keen to prolong their unsuccessful visit to Hungary. The chartered flight would whip them swiftly back to Gatwick and back to their basecamp, just a couple of days’ preparation separating them from the Germany game that was up next. Jack Grealish was as frustrated as anyone by the night’s lacklustre game against the Hungarians, full of rueful thoughts on his mindset going into the game and the missed opportunities that had plagued him once he was substituted on midway. Inevitably, he also had his own private reservations and accusations about who had let them down, but the culture under Southgate was training him to suppress these recriminations, just as everyone else did. This felt very different to life at his new club, he reflected, where criticism and blame were very open, and not just from Pep Guardiola. On to the next one, he supposed, buying into the general sentiment around him as he hoisted his weekend bag over his shoulder and chest and swaggered on over the tarmac, in through the sliding doors and into the fortress of glass and chrome that would host them whilst their flight was readied. The handsome Brummie yawned widely and tucked strands of highlighted hair behind his ears, tottering along with the generally subdued procession of his fellow footballers. Some of the blokes went immediately to the rows of cushioned seating, totally wiped out by the full 90 minutes they’d put in: Kane looked particularly worn down by both the game and the outcome, though young Bellingham seemed just as shattered, joining him in slumped postures along the row. The night’s debutants were a lot more lively, Bowen and Justin seeming to still be wired with the novelty and thrill of their first England cap – the pair of them were stood to one side, deep in conversation about it, and Jack grinned almost enviously, thinking back to his own debut performance for the Three Lions, knowing how it felt to get the shot a little later than hoped. Most of the others were in varying states of quiet isolation, looking a bit lost in their phone screens, and it left Grealish to dump his bag by the seating and wander along the windows with his hands pushed into the pockets of his England sweatpants, trying to stare out at the runways but mostly catching his own battle-weary reflection in the glass. He knew he’d been somewhat distracted by Foden’s absence on the short trip. Jack was a little bit worried about his young City pal, who had been too `ill’ to join the squad and find a place in Southgate’s starting line-up. Grealish felt hesitantly suspicious about this, unsure quite what was wrong with his roommate back at the main camp – Foden had been a little off with him since the start of the week, and it was hard to pin down the problem. He’d worried that things at the end-of-season party had gone too far, but he was sure that Phil had been very up for what happened there, at the time at least. If anything, his younger mate had seemed fidgety over the Argentina-Italy game happening in London, with Messi’s side winning the `Finalissima’ – Jack suspected that Phil had some big crush on the Argentine football legend, and that he was just annoyed he couldn’t attend Wembley that night. Well, which footballer of their generations didn’t idolise the Barcelona hero?! He had lots of these little speculations, but he was worried about his buddy in a vague way. Foden seemed down and worried, and he wasn’t convinced it was an entirely physical issue that had kept him from joining the squad out here in Hungary. Jack was a naturally caring guy and he hadn’t liked to leave his roomie behind like that, and he was keen to check up on him when they eventually made it back tonight, though not without some flashes of a slightly different anxiety. As dopey as he was, Jack was not totally oblivious: he had his suspicions about the extent to which their playful nights together might have started to mean more to Foden than they did to him, and it was a half-acknowledged worry that gnawed gradually at his reckless enjoyment. He’d noticed Phil staring at him during team talks and training sessions, or on coaches and flights, and he could feel more than just mindless rutting in the way the young scally submitted to him in the bedroom – all the more willingly and desperately since the one-off where had Jack had offered up his arse to him to spice it up. Thinking about it now in the quiet but echoey departure hall, Jack felt a grim knowledge that he was starting to lead on and take advantage of the starry-eyed 21-year-old. He’d been blocking the thought for a while now, but it settled clearly in his mind: he’d have to break off their little fuck buddy arrangement soon, before things got any more serious or he really gave his little sidekick the wrong idea and broke his naive heart. Summer break, he reminded himself, and then a new season. The perfect time for fresh starts. He could reframe their laddish relationship to something a bit more… brotherly. Less sweaty satisfaction. Which, he thought, would be a shame, because their bodies worked well together, and Phil was the perfect pocket-sized sex toy for him. But if he was right, the City youngster was starting to fall for him, and it was unfair to make use of him in that case. The 26-year-old winger let out a sulky sigh, having avoided confronting these thoughts for a good couple of months now, letting them slowly take shape in the corner of his sight. Now they seemed inescapably obvious, and he wondered if Phil was even languishing in Surrey due to some heartache that he didn’t even know he’d caused him. No doubt this background issue had helped to put him in less than stellar form tonight, but Jack knew it had been a disappointing showing all round, and he tried again to stop himself from pointing mental fingers at certain teammates. He needed to think more positively, and enjoy the training that lay ahead of them, and earn a starting position against Germany, rather than a first half on the bench. Like every one of the lads, he had his eyes ahead of them on the World Cup, and knew this week was about cementing his role in the gaffer’s eyes before that strange winter opportunity, his second big tournament on the international stage. He wandered back across the shiny floor of the space, fiddling with the zip of his hoody, looking around to see if anyone was a bit more awake and up for banter, wanting to shake himself out of this melancholic reflection. But about half of the gang were slumped in seats looking halfway into naps, and others were hunched over mobile devices or just staring vacantly about, nobody seeming in any mood for a laugh. Even the more reliable buddies of Declan Rice and Mason Mount seemed sobre from here, lurking together at the end of the row of seats, saying little to each other; guys like Maguire seemed to exude an absolute aura of negativity, and his other City cronies Walker and Stones were amongst the half-asleep zombies on the seating. Jack sighed impatiently, needing someone to rouse him from his mood. He rocked on his heels and stretched his legs, grasping his chunky trainers one at a tip to pull against his glutes, rolling his neck against each shoulder over and over. A surge of restlessness as he thought about all the freshness and newness of next season and the winter Cup, not that this recently finished season hadn’t been pretty triumphant; Jack just felt a little distance from that win, which he thought probably explained why he’d thrown himself into the celebrations a little TOO fully. Next year, he promised himself, he’d be way more central to the accolades and achievements of his new club, and not just an expensive extra. To his relief, one of the England personnel who handled these complex travel schedules was appearing in a doorway and speaking with the boss, and things began to move. Jack took a few steps back to grab his bag up by the strap and follow the ragged queue of his teammates, chatting briefly to Arsenal’s Ramsdale and Saka, then pausing to grab and hug Bowen and congratulate him on his first outing in the shirt. Grealish found himself falling to the back of the group, his legs as heavy as concrete, and his phone pinging with a few messages from the girls he was currently dating. Among them, he saw, was a short emoji-filled message from Ben, one of several that his ex had sent him during the week’s build-up, mainly focused on wishing he was fit enough to be here on the squad. Jack had kept his responses tentative and brief, as he always seemed to these days, even less willing to engage with the Chelsea player after that one night and morning in London lately. He briefly re-read Chilwell’s message now before switching to the fresh communication from the attractive hangers-on who he’d scored with in recent months, all trying to make summer plans with him after international duty was over. The football stud left them all on read with casual disinterest, and put his phone away, now last in the line of players and staff who were approaching the security check that would take them out into the warm Hungarian night and aboard their ride. The first sign of anything going wrong was the whispered conference between an airport worker and Southgate, just beyond this desk – there were still a couple of lads in front of Jack, but he could see his manager and the airport security guy exchanging concerned looks and low dialogue. And then the two lads in front of Jack were cleared and through, and he was handing over his own UK passport. The guy who took it from him turned to the other staff member and then both of them turned expectantly to the apparently senior bloke who was still hunched in conversation with Southgate. Jack’s eyes darted from one to the other, stood awkwardly by the security desk, increasingly baffled by the brief delay – ahead, Aaron Ramsdale had paused, the tall young goalie looking uncertainly back at him. Grealish met eyes with the Arsenal player and he laughed. `Go on,’ he called, `see you on there.’ Ramsdale and Bukayo Saka disappeared out through sliding doors, joined by one of the coaches, and that left only Grealish himself and the gaffer, and now he could make out his manager’s voice. Words like `ridiculous’ and `embassy’ were being used, and the 26-year-old felt a little tremor of panic -oh bugger, what had he done? Grealish was so used to being in minor trouble for some misconduct or other that he quickly assumed he’d upset somebody or broke some rule, but then common sense reminded him that he’d barely been in the country for 24 hours and hardly any of that had been outside of a football stadium or a hotel room. He gawped dumbly from the gaffer to the three different members of airport personnel, politely hesitant before drawling, `What’s wrong, guys?’ and making a step forward as if to come through the security check. Instantly, one of the workers was blocking his path with a strong arm, making Jack hold his palms up defensively and let out a nervous laugh. `Seriously?’ the Brummie guy exclaimed. `Of course he’s on the list,’ Gareth Southgate was snapping loudly at the senior guy. `He’s coming on this flight, pal, there’s no question of that.’ `There is plenty question, sir,’ clipped back the cold voice of the Hungarian security manager. Jack’s jaw dropped and he stared at each of the stony-faced guards, then looked earnestly to the gaffer, who was giving him an uneasy stare. `Some issue with your documents,’ the England football boss muttered, sounding tired and irritated. `I don’t understand it all.’ He also looked impatient, glancing out through the open doors onto the runway – the rest of the squad and staff were an increasingly distant line in the pale night, snaking towards their jet. Southgate frowned after them and then back at the senior man. Grealish tuned out of their conversation again, staring resentfully at the officous arm that blocked his way, and wondering if he could just swagger past it and follow the guys aboard the flight. This was bollocks. Why would he be missing from any documents? He’d fucking got here with everyone else, hadn’t he? This was mad. He stared worriedly at his passport, not yet back in his own hands. Jack’s eyes flicked from side to side as he followed it, the crucial ID being passed from one guard to another – in an almost aggressive flare of impatience, mild-mannered Gareth made a grab for it and it was pulled away. The England boss gave Jack a worried, almost apologetic look. `Just wait here,’ Southgate ordered in a strained voice. `I need to get out there and speak to the others. Wait here. Erm – do as the gentlemen say.’ The older man looked quietly furious, backing away and setting out onto the tarmac. Grealish just stood still. He wanted to get angry. It was late and had been a long and frustrating night, and this sudden delay made no sense to him – but he could picture the affray if he lost his temper, and the terrible media circus that might surround it. He was scarred by a few such incidents already, and knew that plenty of tabloid scumbags had tried to condemn his merry celebrations for City winning the League, and his very brief Balearic break before joining England training – he was under strict instructions from his personal management to keep a squeak clean image this summer and safeguard his growing international profile. But these cunts were really testing that patience right now. `Can I at least have my passport?’ he grunted at the nearest of the three guys, trying hard not to raise his voice or square up to the uniformed blokes. His question, however, was ignored, leaving the 26-year-old stud feeling impotent and baffled. He marched back to the seating, leaving his bag by the security desk in some silly mark of protest, then sat down heavily. And there, with his chin on his knuckles, he watched in horrified confusion as the twinkling lights beyond the chrome and glass seemed to illustrate the Three Lions jet leaving without him, London-bound. It was an hour later, and Jack’s efforts to be calm and dignified were hanging by a thread. Grealish was in a different departures area now, less sparkling and rarefied than the special area his team had been in, though he had been carefully steered away from any of the busy public areas where he might be seen by the travelling England fans – that felt a mixed blessing, as he was glad not to have the British press speculating about his airport detention, but it added to the increasingly ominous isolation of his experience. With his boss in mid-air, there was no chance of a message or call from Southgate or any of his teammates. Now he was thinking about who he might call instead: his agent, his agent’s assistant, his reps back at Man City, even Pep Guardiola himself; he considered a quick call to Lil Phil back in the hotel suite where his young mate was apparently `ill’, and he considered calls to varying family members just to express his outrage. But a wariness and uncertainty kept Grealish stalling. He just sat in a sickly-coloured small waiting room by some ominous security offices in a different corner of the airport, coming closer and closer to exploding with bad temper at his handling here and his separation from the travelling England football players. Almost exactly one second before the Brummie lad might have blown up, his passport was thrust at him by yet another identikit member of the airport security team, standing over him with a smile that would seem welcoming in other circumstances. `Sorry for your wait,’ the thirty-something bloke announced, his English clearer and more standard than most of his stony-faced colleagues. Jack was so astounded by this dismissive remark that he didn’t even know how to respond, just taking his passport gladly in both hands. `We will have you in the air very soon,’ the man said, and he performed a kind of vague salute that seemed almost mocking. Jack gawped at him and shook his head in disbelief. Still, he held himself in check. When he was gestured to get up and follow, he did so in mutinous silence, holding in the angry questions and insults. Wait, he told himself, and throw a boatload of lawyers at these incompetent fools afterwards. Whatever shitty airline ran Budapest airport was gonna get absolutely butt-fucked by his legal team after this, and he could see Southgate whipping the FA into a frenzy over it. Jack was led on another complicated route through the airport, told nothing about why on earth he’d been delayed and misdirected like this. The unanswered questions were like a messy traffic pile-up in his weary brain, but they were all swept aside in one clean blow as he stepped out onto a new runway space with the senior man: ahead of them both was a jet much smaller than the chartered England flight, clearly private and luxury. Grealish stared dumbly at his apparent solution. `Too right,’ the ex-Villa player grunted moodily. `Fuckin’ upgrade for Jack the Lad, huh?’ Seeming to ignore or misunderstand these bitter comments, the security manager at his side just smiled blandly at him and stuck a handshake his way. There was something proud about the way he puffed out his chest and stood there, as if all of this was a real fucking achievement and not a spectacular cock-up. Jack glared at him and refused to meet the handshake – instead, he pulled the strap of his bag against his chest and marched rapidly across the helipad-like mersin escort space, up to the short stairway that led into the private jet. It was not so strange or intimidating a vehicle to Jack as it would be to anyone who had not grown up in the rarified wealth of the Premiership, and it made a kind of fuzzy sense to him that the repentant air company might put on such a vessel for him alone, to make up for the confusion and delay. So he marched moodily aboard without another look at the sprawling buildings of the airport. And then on board, the door hissing shut behind him, he paused and re-evaluated. `Welcome aboard,’ twanged the American accent of a solitary air hostess, curtseying briefly at him in a uniform whose coloured trim and bright insignia were faintly familiar. `We hope your flight will be a perfect experience, Mr Grealish.’ She smiled beatifically like some vision from a fragrance ad, all gentle curves and sunny beauty. Beyond her, two bored-looking men in suits were waiting on some of the few seats that occupied this small plush cabin. Jack stood still and stared to them and then back at her, bewildered. What had he expected to find on this replacement flight? The opulence of it suddenly felt bizarre and surreal, just like everything else since he had been blocked at that security desk. `Take a seat, sir,’ chirped the attractive hostess, her voice thick with the American South. Jack didn’t know the States well enough to pinpoint it: Mississippi or one of those, or was it Florida? There was definitely something very Disney about it. He scrutinised her uniform a little bit more and recognised the word `Miami’ in the pink print around the logo. `Er, right,’ Grealish said slowly, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. `Alright lads?’ he barked warily at the two seated men, who only briefly glanced up at him from their laptops. Jack was guided to a seat on the other side to them, a sprawling and comfortable space, where the hostess immediately began to mix him a cocktail. He watched her in dumb interest, feeling the throb of engines in the structure of the plane. `Nice,’ the football player drawled slowly, watching the ice tinkle and crack against the spirits, and then accepting the cocktail from her, their fingers brush, and her feminine attractions making his cock twitch lazily against his boxer shorts. She repeated her blandly pleasant affirmations about a `perfect flight’, and then instructed him to fasten his belt for take-off; in moments, they were airborne. Jack wasn’t sure where they were, but it certainly wasn’t the home counties of Great fucking Britain, and a faint panic whirled in his chest. Perhaps if he had been less tired, or had not drunk three or four strong cocktails, he’d be more actively concerned about his whereabouts or the nature of this tiny jet and its crew, but he found himself observing his surreal predicament from a certain distance: his main theory was that he’d actually had a disastrous injury during the Hungary game, and was concussed in a Budapest hospital somewhere, and this was all one massive morphine trip. It was still dark, wherever they were, and the landscape spiralling below was vague and amorphous, made up of ambiguous mountainous shapes and constellations of urban light. One of the two businessmen appeared to be sleep behind a mask, laptop closed, but the other was scribbling hastily into a diary of sorts, in between bouts of aggressive typing on his device; the air hostess, who had attended to him with snacks and drinks for the past 90 minutes or so, had vanished now. No more flirty smiles or gentle caresses of his shoulder or arm as she bent over to take his glass and mix a fresh drink, or meeting his eye across the cabin and stroking her own neck and collar suggestively, giving him a dull semi for the duration of the flight. Out of the dark miasma outside Jack’s window, the bright outlines of a small regional airport were coming into view, and the plane was rapidly descending to earth. The landing, he noted, was way smoother than any flight he’d ever experienced, and the other thing that stood out to him was that he was really quite drunk. This became even more obvious to him as he was encouraged to stand and exit the plane, his bag taken from him by one of the suits, the hostess returning and giving him her fuck-me-on-the-runway eyes. Jack had to hold onto the railing of the short stairway that took his trainers to the runway, and he found himself quite dizzy – if he hadn’t watched the drinks being mixed, he’d suspect foul play and drugging, but he’d seen just how much of each neat spirit had been poured, and his current unsteadiness made more sense than anything else right now. He woke up in comfort. Confusion too, and the slight needling pain of a light hangover, but mainly physical comfort. He took in his surroundings gradually: the whitewashed walls and sparse decorations, the triangle of azure sky, the tickle of fresh air on his face. He was still wearing his full England tracksuit, he noted, and the bedding against him felt too warm. Very carefully, Grealish elbowed himself up from soft bedding and onto his socked feet, almost tripping over his own discarded trainers as he did so. `Wha’ the fuck?’ the young Brummie groaned, stretching out legs and arms and arching his wiry body, then staring about him and giving the spacious bedroom a more critical look. How had he gotten here? He could remember slurred conversations at the empty airport, and a car ride through winding roads. Had the beautiful air stewardess been with him? Probably not, since morning glory pressed impatiently at the seams of his underpants and bottoms. He let it wilt and fade as he woke up, hesitant fear taking the place of sleepy arousal. He turned to the window and examined its view, not just the bright blue of the sky. The bedroom was upstairs in some kind of villa, and the first thing he saw was the golden horizon of mountains. Jack’s geography was infamously shite, but if he had to guess… somewhere Mediterannean, maybe? He took a moment to feel smug about knowing the name of a sea. In this light-headed state of wonder, he unzipped his hoody and shucked it off, then wandered out of the bedroom and through the pale interior of the villa, which was cooler away from the suntrap of his bedroom window. He drifted through two perpendicular passages and then onto a broad staircase that led down into the open-plan first floor. Had he been kidnapped by ITV and planted in some kinda madcap Love Island spin-off? Nah, there was nothing about this interior to suggest the loveable tackiness of his favourite TV show. This place was a bit cool and pretentious, he thought. I should be in England, he mused with a dull force of shock. I should be with the lads. Getting up for some light training. Turning our attention to Germany. Fuck. What is going on…? How had he gotten from a security mix-up in Hungary to… wherever the fuck this was? The headache stung at his temples and the worry in his body became a little tug of nausea. He needed answers, and soon. Not quite answers, but somehow very attractive, was the breakfast spread in front of him, on the long wooden dining table at one side of the broad living space. His eyes moved from a jug of bright orange juice to some platters of fried vegetables and meat, the basket of bread and pastries, the ice bucket of unappealing beers. And lifting his gaze, the windows beyond the table, which stared out into the grounds of the villa: most immediately, the gleaming blue of a swimming pool. As bright blue as the sky, he thought, and then- The ripples and crashes of a body cutting through the water. He was not alone. With all the reckless confusion of a character in a horror film, Jack Grealish spilled out onto the sun-heated stone of the patio, and then between the scattering of outdoor furniture, approaching the edges of the swimming pool. If Jack had been a more cultured lad, he would have felt like he’d just been air-dropped into a David Hockney painting. Like an iconic movie shark, the figure in the pool was moving quickly towards him, then mounting the little ladder with a burst of energy and splashing water. Jack tensed. And out of the pool water burst the tanned body and roving ink of another man, lunging foot by foot onto the same hot stone tiles as him, a rippling wet figure, 6ft of muscle and tattoo. Hands were pulled through the shaggy damp hair, which was then shaken, and these slim toned limbs hung at the sides of the decorated torso; water ran down lean muscles and collected it at the skimpy dark shorts he wore, before coursing down the thin fur of his bare legs. Jack gawped stupidly at the gleaming icon in front of him, his confusion peaking. `Morning, Jack,’ said David Beckham, grabbing a folded towel from the chair to his left, and throwing it about his broad shoulders. `Shall we have some breakfast?’ Grealish stuffed his face, and washed down mouthfuls of bacon and buttered bread with gulps of the delicious orange juice. There was something about waking up in a surreal fantasy that made you incredibly fucking hungry. `Well,’ said the older man on the other side of the table, `I could hardly leave you there in Budapest, could I? Not after you were left behind by the England squad! I had to get you here, Jacky. And I have to say, I thought you might wake up before now. Still, I got in a good morning swim whilst I waited for you.’ He finished eating some food first, and then stared long and hard at the football hero in front of him, who was still shirtless, and sipping from a frothy coffee. He’d met him before, of course. Well, in theory. `Met’ might be pushing it; they’d been at the same sports events at times, pushed into handshakes and exclamations of mutual admiration, a handful of times, but they’d never properly spoken, and Grealish was still as freaked out as he’d been about ten minutes ago when the 47-year-old emerged dripping from the pool. `It’s not my place,’ Becks had said dismissively, leading him indoors, `but I have as much use of it as I want this summer.’ Then he’d gone and made the coffee, and gently instructed Jack to tuck into breakfast. Which he had, finding himself weirdly hungry, unsure just how long he’d slept upstairs, and unclear on exactly how he’d ended up here. Perhaps that confusion should be scarier than it was, but he was also awed to sit face to face with the famous England star, who was calm and smiling, and now staring back at him. `Waited for me?’ the 26-year-old mumbled. `For you to wake up. You were exhausted when the car brought you here last night.’ `Sure,’ Jack answered, not very sure of anything at all. He held Beckham’s gaze for a minute, then got back to the food, picking a bite here and there from the dishes on the table. Had the iconic Man Utd player rustled all this up for him, or was there a catering team hidden behind a screen somewhere? Fuck – was there a TV crew about to burst out and signal the punchline to this surreal prank? Was James fucking Corden under the table…? `You needed to rest,’ he was told. `And you needed fed. You’ll need some energy.’ `For what?’ `You’ll see.’ Something in that cool reply and the low-key smirk on David Beckham’s handsome face pushed the wrong buttons for Jack. He spat out some half-chewed food onto his plate and screwed up his face in annoyance, then burst up to his feet and back away from the table. `What the fuck is going on?’ he demanded loudly and bluntly. `Where the fuck are we? Why are you sat there in your fuckin’ swimming cossies like this is all proper normal and fine, man? Jesus. Where’s my bag with the rest of my things?’ He patted at his pockets in a sudden frenzy. `Where’s my phone, man? Nah, this isn’t cool – what the fuck is going on, mate? Beckham?’ Whatever bemused cool had sustained him through the airport debacle and the mysterious flight was slipping away – the full bizarreness of what was happening hit him like a sledgehammer. Again, he wondered if he was dreaming, or had taken some weird hallucinogenic. `So… which question shall I answer first?’ Still, Beckham’s voice was calm and bright, and his expression gently smiling – the lines of middle age only added a richness to the footballer’s good looks, adding character to the knowing smirk on his features as he mirrored Jack and got up from the table, wiping his hands on a napkin before stepping around the chairs and following him toward the centre of the broad sunny room. `And call me David, won’t you?’ Jack was running his fingers through his greasy hair and staring around him at the contents of the villa, wondering who the hell the place DID belong to. He tried to piece together the landing of the private jet and the experience at the airport here, and the car that had brought him out through the hills. He could picture a lake, reflecting the night sky and the lights of a town. But not arriving here, not getting into that bed. `You’re starting to panic,’ murmured the famous midfielder. `Huh – can’t think why, man. What the hell?’ Beckham was approaching him in slow purposeful steps, and Grealish just held his position, baffled by it all. He could feel the panic taking him in its wake, and he thought that he would lash out at the older man if he got too close, fight-or-flight mode setting in. But then, a few paces from him, Becks stopped, still wearing a lilting smile on his face; he stooped, pushing his hands against his waistline, and then dropping his still-damp dark shorts away to his ankles. He stepped out of them and came one stride closer, completely stark naked. Jack took in the sight of him, the iconic tattoos adorning his bare body – a little slimmer than it might have been at full professional fitness, but still incredibly tight and muscular, and the most generous of endowments swinging between his legs. `Wha’?’ was all the Brummie could find to murmur, and then one of his prime football heroes was right in front of him, slipping warm hands against his arms, and chuckling as he leaned in softly and took the kiss from his lips. The panic stayed, a nervous fluttering in his chest, but it was quickly joined by excitement, arousal, opportunity – he tasted the coffee on those lips and kissed back, immediately taken in by the handsome guy’s aura. David’s hands hooked under his slim-fit training shirt and peeled it up from his torso until it was wriggling over his shoulders and neck and then dropping to the tiles at their feet. The David was holding him at the waist and leaning in, kissing his neck and collarbone and then his chest muscles, finding and licking his nipples; Grealish could only groan and lock his own sweaty hands about the other man’s strong shoulders and arms, disabled by a panicky lust. In moments, they were off their feet, collapsing into a low deep couch, and David was on top of him, kissing him on the lips some more, and letting out another slightly patronising chuckle. `And now you ARE awake,’ sniggered the Londoner, his hand closing about the outline in Jack’s sweatpants – morning glory was back. Jack groaned some more, pushed back into the soft cushions of the couch, his aching cock rubbed through his clothes, and David’s strong 6ft body pressing over him, kissing him deeply on the sides of his neck, and then his stubbled cheeks, and then back to his lip. A tongue clashed with his and one hand was holding his neck, angling his face to allow fuller and more passionate snogs. `Good lad,’ murmured Beckham, `good lad…’ Grealish reached to get his own handful of cock, finding the long chunky snake between the older man’s furry thighs, thrilled by the weight of it in his hand. He stroked and tugged on it, their bodies rolling against each other on the couch. All thought of mystery and confusion was banished, for now. He twisted and contorted his body until he could reach down and press his mouth into Beckham’s crotch, taking the big semi between his lips and sucking it to stiffness as quickly as he could. He heard the satisfied gasp of approval from the football hero, and it turned him on some more. David’s hand was inside his undies now, fondling his dick, stroking him inside his clothes whilst he tongued the head of the big hard-on that now sprung from the shaven pubes and fat Golden Balls. Becks was sitting upright now on the couch, and Jack was crouched over his lap, bent down to suck him, a long shaggy fringe of his own hair covering much of his face. As he did, his sweats and then undies were being dragged back over his rump, which David slapped and squeezed excitingly, before reaching underneath and continuing to stroke and pat at his chubby bollocks and rigid big prick. He sucked hungrily, just as he’d devoured his breakfast, finding comfort and certainty in the thick member that hit the back of his throat. `Mmmm,’ the 47-year-old groaned, `suck on it, yes… perfect… Mmm…’ Grealish could have kept going for ages, in spite of his headache. He loved the feel of it, the length and thickness of the big weapon, the clean taste of it, the ridiculous thrill of its owner – the most famous man in English football, the icon who every aspiring England player fantasised about becoming one day. Again, Becks slapped him on the arse and squeezed one of his peachy cheeks, then ran that hand up and down his back, briefly pushing him by the neck until his head was deeper in the rich-smelling valley of his crotch, choking on his cock and loving it. But then he was being guided away, his lips breaking from the tip of David’s cock and trailing saliva behind them. `Now it’s your turn,’ the 6ft midfielder declared simply. Becks got up from the sofa, hard-on swinging, and Jack slumped back without his strong body, collapsing sideways; his legs were grabbed and th folds of his escort mersin bottoms tugged away from his ankles, then one sock at a time, and then the icon was on his knees in front of him, rubbing at each hunk of thigh muscle, laughing appreciatively as he felt them and slid his hands down to explore Jack’s famous calves. Stunned, the City player just slumped there, comfortable and confused, his cock upright and vivid. He stared past its towering shape and watched the hungry smirk widen on Beckham’s face. `Fuck,’ he mumbled sheepishly. `Becks…?’ The Real Madrid and PSG star licked his lips and went for it. Jack let out a wild howl of enjoyment, feeling soft warm lips enclose his aching cock, and seeing the bobbing head of the married superstar between his tanned hairy legs. `Fuuuuuuck, maaaan!’ His arms hung limply at his side and his abdominal muscles crunched at his awkward posture on the crouch, his body curling and twisting in pleasure as his cock was gobbled. `Awww man,’ he moaned, `stop, or I’ll cum… mmmm, that feels so good, fuuuuck, fuck…’ Becks took no notice of this, working his prick expertly, slurping about the head and then licking and stroking the shaft. Tickling at his balls with fingertips and tongue. Rubbing and massaging his bulging thigh muscles, pushing up against his lower tummy. Jack shook and gasped, no longer forming words, giving up on trying to warn or delay this service. He didn’t want to cum, because he wanted the sensation to go on forever – he had no idea where he was, and he knew he was supposed to be in sunny Surrey, playing football with the rest of Southgate’s men, but getting blown by David Beckham in this villa could go on indefinitely for all he cared. Becks had stopped sucking him, but was wanking him with both hands, sliding fists up and down his wet cock and staring intensely at him over it as he did. Jack whimpered and gripped at the cushions on either side of him, studying the handsome face of the older man, the strong set of his shoulders, the inked landscape of his chest and upper arms. `Go on,’ sighed the Inter Miami owner smoothly, `go on and shoot for me, Jacky.’ Grealish opened his mouth in a silent cry of orgasm, and his cock became Vesuvius, spilling a stream of frothy white cum over Beckham’s knuckles. Up and down pumped the two hands, agonising against the sensitivity of his exploding cock. He grasped even more tightly at the cushions and closed his eyes for a few moments of languorous climax, kinda expecting to open them and find himself waking up to reality. But nope, there he was, the face of English football, sliding his hands away from Jack’s throbbing member and then wiping the dirty load across his hairy thighs. Jack let out a series of hollow gasps and watched as David backed away from the sofa, up to standing. He lurched forward on the couch, licking his lips, and reaching a hand towards the rock-hard prize of Becks’ big cock – but he was pushed back weakly against the cushions, and the older football star was stepping into swim shorts, which were pulled up until his huge cock was lost among their damp folds. Beckham stood over him and grinned. `Okay,’ he laughed. `Now you ought to shower. Then we can talk properly.’ Grealish stared dimly at him, head swimming, pretty much drooling down his hairy chin at the thought of sucking that big cock again. But he could smell his own sweat and spunk and his head throbbed with the after-effects of mile-high cocktails. He nodded, slowly, and gasped in his breaths. `Okay, Becks, okay.’ Half an hour or so had passed, and they were sat outside: Jack was still swaddled in two white towels, one tied at his waist and the other folded about his shoulders. His hair hung in shaggy curtains, and the smell of soap and shampoo surrounded him like a heavenly cloud. An open beer bottle sat in front of him, condensation twinkling on its glass, and David was sipping from a matching bottle of Italian beer in the other chair. Behind him, fields and hills rolled away to the edges of the lake that Jack remembered seeing from the car. `Italy?’ he guessed weakly, staring thoughtfully at his untouched beer. Beckham smiled. `Does it matter? You’re with me.’ Grealish considered the supreme arrogance of this. Beneath the towels, he shrugged, and he tried to relax. He’d given up trying to understand any of this. He was still high from the orgasm, having gone into a trance in the shower, scrubbing at his lithe body and feeling a new erection come and go between his legs as he did so. Becks had pulled on a Versace robe, open at the chest, and a pair of matching designer sunglasses. He’d also produced an envelope from somewhere, spread now on the table between them, marked where the condensation from the beer bottles had dripped against its neat brown paper. `What is it?’ he asked, only slightly wary. `Open it and see?’ suggested the original Premiership heart-throb. He was trying to sound cool and sophisticated, Jack thought, but the voice was the one thing that didn’t quite work n the spotless Beckham brand image: it was a reedy little voice, really, that didn’t suit the good looks and sex appeal of this multimillionaire in front of him. It gave a humanity to the slick stud, and made Grealish think about how far the London kid had come, the journey they all aspired to, from youth academy battles to overflowing bank accounts and trophy cabinets. `Go on,’ Becks prodded quietly. Grealish slid the envelope closer to him, and picked the beer up for a decisive swig. Then he peeled open the envelope and slid out the sheaf of paper within, poring over it as he glugged on beer. He wasn’t the quickest reader, but his eyes were shooting rapidly between the key details: the branding on the letterhead, the simple legal terms that defined their careers, and the bold numerical figures, the long lines of zeroes. Something clicked into place: the logo on the uniform of the air hostess. Inter Miami. Of course. After a long quiet had passed over their poolside table, other than the crickets, Jack let out an awkward laugh. `This has got to be a joke, man,’ he said, in spite of all evidence, and the knowledge of what had already passed between them. David was impassive and blank behind his sunglasses. `You’ll need time to read it properly. There’s a lot of material in there. But it’s a pretty good deal. I’ve spent a long while on it. Well – my people have, and I’ve figured out some specifics that suit me best.’ `You want to sign me,’ Jack said, his voice dim and bewildered. `Something like that. Inter Miami is just getting started, but it’s time to start bringing in the names that will take us places. We looked at you last summer, I don’t know if you heard, but the time is right now. You just won the Premiership, after all.’ Jack blinked and pulled back at his displaced hair. `Er – I only just signed for City, mate, I don’t think I’m exactly lookin’ for…’ `Read the figures again.’ David’s voice was a little harder, a little more forceful. `Read through it. I think you’ll like what you find.’ Jack did as he was told, and his stomach churned at the extent of the salary offer. `I know you’re the most expensive Englishman going, but we don’t really mind. We can match City pound for pound, dollar for dollar. And we know they have their… well, I wouldn’t quite say, regrets, but…’ Jack froze, hearing his deepest fears vocalised. He didn’t dare look up from the contracts, knowing that his fear would be obvious on his face. Okay, what did this fucker really know? What was his game here? He flicked through the many pages of the dossier, sweating under the midday sun, his own perspiration mixing with the soapy smoothness of his clean skin. He grimaced and drummed his fingers nervously against the paper. `I’ve been watching you for a while,’ Beckham remarked in a playful voice, sounding amused. Jack glanced at him and then back at the contracts. `I kept thinking you would figure it out sooner, but… No. The flowers last summer, the gifts and messages. And when you found out they were coming from an assistant of Vicky’s, I thought for sure you’d have started to clock me, but…’ Jack lifted his head and stared at him, a dozen little memories connecting dimly in his imagination. `That was all you?’ he asked in a Brummie drawl. `Fuck.’ Beckham’s brows suggested a smirk in his eyes, though his mouth remained neutral. He sipped his beer, then ran a finger against the moist glass. `I couldn’t be sure,’ he admitted in a thoughtful tone. `I knew you were the right player for Miami, the right superstar in the making. The new face of English football. You think you’re a big deal now, Jacky boy? Just you wait to see what we could make of you. But… the other thing, I couldn’t be sure of that.’ `What other thing?’ Jack barked suspiciously. David just laughed, and licked his bottom lip gently. `The fact that you’d so desperately lunge for my cock as soon as I dropped my shorts, of course, you beautiful slut.’ Jack’s face coloured and he stared again at the contract, flicking dumbly through its many pages of small print and numbered clauses, his fingers getting the paper clammy. He pushed the pages away from him in a rush of stress, and took a long slug from his beer. `This is some kinda joke,’ he muttered again, overwhelmed. `Think about it,’ Becks said softly. `I know it was tough for you to leave Aston Villa, everyone could see that. But to leave City…? So quickly, with so little connection to them? I mean, everyone knows you’d rather be at United, if they weren’t so fucking awful lately. So what’s one big money super-club compared to another? What’s Manchester, compared to Florida? Yes, there would be a lot of shock, but this move is perfect. I’ve thought about every detail. You’d be earning more than you’ve ever dreamed of, kid, more than any footballer ever has. And more than that, you’d be properly world-famous, the future of this sport. Every lad’s dream. You think you’re something special right now, eh? Just you wait, just you wait.’ Jack stared at him, his mouth hanging open a bit. He drank more beer. `Fuck,’ was all he could find to say. He said it again, and then went for another slug of ice-cold beer, but found he’d drained the whole bottle. He let out a long sigh. `We can pay your release clause,’ Beckham said. He was more formal and businesslike now, less friendly, less seductive. There were no agents present for this negotiation, but it felt intense and dizzying. `We can make everything happen very quickly. The Americans are about to buy into soccer big time, Jacky, and you could be the face of all that. You’re exactly the young man we want at Miami next season, next year, for the next decade. Come to Florida, kid, and you’ll never look back.’ Jack stared at him, astounded, and then that knowing smirk returned, the same one that had confronted him over the breakfast table. `Just tell me you aren’t tempted,’ teased the Miami owner, footballer-turned-mogul. It should have been easy for Grealish to laugh this off. He should have been able to tear up the contracts or toss them aside, into the glittering swimming pool. He already had everything he wanted! He’d already made the huge move from Villa to City, from relegation to Premier League win. He’d broken transfer records for his club, country and league. He’d sold off his precious loyalty to Aston Villa and stepped into the real limelight, and that was just last summer. Jack Grealish, the £100 million man, the charismatic hunk at the heart of English football. He didn’t need any of this bullshit. And yet… `Of course, there’s a few clauses at the end you should look at carefully,’ Becks said suddenly, pushing the paperwork a few inches closer to him. With that, the 47-year-old got up from the table, seizing their empty bottles and vanishing inside the shady cool of the villa, presumably to replace them. Alone in the heat, Grealish sat still and thoughtful for a few moments, then thumbed back through the paperwork and finding the final pages of the contract to cast his eyes over. He stared frustratedly at the dense text, trying to figure out what Becks wanted him to see. There was one sheet that was on a slightly different paper to the rest, and though it still had the Inter Miami letterhead to it, it referenced a different law firm, looked like a separate document of its own, despite being enclosed within this lengthy dossier. He pulled it out and scanned it with stressed eyes, his lips moving as he followed the text. He almost fell off his chair. `So how did you know?’ Jack stood in the doorway to the kitchen that ran along one side of the villa. David was by the open fridge, looking through the many bottles and cans that filled its top half, but he turned now to smile this way. The silken robe, black and gold, hung open and loose over his smooth strong body, bare but for the clingy swim shorts. He made a pleasant `Hmm?’ noise and then pulled a heavy bottle of Moet Chandon from a shelf inside the door, letting the fridge door click gently shut and silently setting about to open the fizz. Grealish stood in his towels, clutching the one sheet of contract at his side. `How were you so fucking sure?’ the 26-year-old football player demanded with hot urgency to his voice. `I mean hardly anybody knows. I shag plenty of girls, I’ve practically got a girlfriend at the moment, or a couple of them anyway.’ He tried to calm his breathing, feeling belittled and ridiculous in front of Beckham’s calm patience. The cork was removed from the bottle with a pop, and now the fizzy gold was being sloshed into two inappropriate little tumbler glasses for them. Becks took a little swig from the bottle before returning it to the fridge. `You found the special clause, then,’ the player-turned-CEO laughed calmly. `What sort of fucking lawyer wrote this?’ Jack demanded quickly. `How is this even a legal thing? Can you really make shit like this?’ He let the upper towel slide away from his shoulders, just the other one clinging to his slim waist as he stepped inside the cool darker space of the kitchen. `I mean…’ He stared at the document in his hand. `Complete ownership of the undersigned’s body at all times,’ he read in a slow clumsy manner. `No inappropriate sexual conduct to be carried out by the signatory at any point… all decisions of appropriate and inappropriate to be determined by D Beckham’s discretion, and… and…’ He threw the bit of paper from him, at David, but it just slid to the tiled floor between them. Beckham laughed, and passed him the small glass of champagne. `It’s a simple proposition, Jacky,’ he said, leaning casually to one side. He raised his glass in an ironic toast. `To your body, which will never have known pleasure like it, once you sign it over and become my plaything.’ `How did you know?’ Grealish demanded again fiercely. `How were you so sure I’d suck your cock, or let you suck mine?’ He glared at the older man. Perhaps the one beer in the sun had already gone to his head, or perhaps he was furious that he would never have even begun to suspect Golden Balls of the slightest sexual fluidity, but somehow the icon had figured out everything about him, and somehow manipulated enough people to get him here last night. Suddenly, the prospect and scale of the man’s influence and power was horrifying, and yet in equal amounts, utterly thrilling. `I’ve been watching you for a while, Jack,’ David said in a tense whisper, `and it isn’t hard to see that you think with your… Well, mostly your feet, but not always.’ A dirty grin. `But I was never sure. Not when I was following you last summer, sending all of those flowers and gifts and clues. Not then. I hoped, but I couldn’t be sure. Although I found out long ago that all men have their price, no matter how… straight they think they are.’ Jack gave a hollow laugh. `Right. Not creepy at all.’ There was a glint in the older man’s eye. `If I was you, Mr Grealish, I’d be a bit more careful what I got up to on open rooftops.’ A long meaningful pause whilst this comment sank in. `I’d had a drone camera on you for most of the week, but I never expected to see you in those positions, and all your buddies.’ In the midst of his heat of anger and lust, Jack’s blood ran cold. He clung to the glass of cold champagne and it almost shattered in his fist. He threw it back in one regrettable gulp, almost vomiting it back up as the fizz raged against his throat. He tossed the glass into the sink and heard it shatter. `You’re fucked up,’ he accused. `So – is this blackmail now, or something? You’ve got… whatever footage you think you’ve got – and I’m just meant to whack my signature on this ridiculous contract, and turn my back on the Premiership to play for your crock of shit team and be your… what, SEX SLAVE?’ He was shouting, and his bare chest was heaving. The knot of the towel at his waist was weak. Becks shook his head and made a tutting sound. `You’re being dramatic. You’re getting me all wrong, Jacky.’ The beautiful middle-aged man moved closer, robe swinging at his sides. He sipped champagne and then held it to Jack’s lips to feed him the rest. Then, grinning, he copied Jack, and tossed it recklessly into the sink, letting it explode into a mess of glassy shards there, before reaching down and stroking a hand along Jack’s side, up and down, down and up. `There’s no blackmail,’ Beckham snapped firmly. `What kind of twat do you take me for? I’m not into forcing anyone – that isn’t my thing, mate.’ `Coulda fooled me,’ he grunted at his hero. `I’m not sure I had much choice about my flights being fucked around with, did I? I hardly came here to Lake Whatever of my own free will, did I?’ Becks brushed this accusation aside. `You’ve been heading to this moment for a good few mersin escort bayan years, Jack. And here you are. The choices are all yours. There’s no threat, no warning – what am I going to do with an aerial sex tape of you and your City pals? Other than wank off to it when I’m bored? Which… I have done about four times, if you must know. No, this is all proper. I – WE – want you at Miami. We have big plans. You could be at the centre of them, the face of football across the world. You could be the richest player to ever kick a ball, for fuck’s sake. We can make you into something you can’t even imagine, cos you’re just a dumb kid from Birmingham.’ He was breathing fast too, his voice losing its professional cool, full of the same hot lust and impatience as Jack’s as he continued: `And yes, I want you. I’ve had a lot of extra fun outside my marriage to Vicky, you see, but there’s nothing like a regular playmate, someone who understands me. And fucking hell, Jack, I’ve never wanted anything like I’ve wanted you this past three years. Look at you. Fucking gorgeous.’ He licked his lips, pulling Grealish closer, making him flinch and tremble. `You know how much everybody wants you, you arrogant twerp, and it just makes you all the hotter.’ Grealish tensed against him, his cock raging hard beneath the towel. The pressure of it strained the tie of the white cotton that little too much, and it began to fall away at the hip, sliding off his arse cheeks and thighs, crashing to the floor at his feet. He was naked again in front of the older stud, who held him tightly and loomed a few inches over him, their faces almost touching. `Sign the contract, and be mine,’ demanded Beckham urgently. Jack couldn’t speak – he could hardly breathe. He’d never felt so excited, both by the coveted stud in front of him, and by the forceful desire that was directed his way. It’s an intoxicating drug, to be wanted, but to be wanted by someone as legendary and coveted as this guy, wow… Before he could answer, Becks was kissing him, and almost lifting him off the ground with the force of his embrace. Jack gripped back at him, breathless, clinging to the taller body and pushing angrily at the folds of the robe until it was falling away. He was naked and he wanted David to be too. He grabbed and pushed at the shorts again, but Becks was pushing him to the door, getting their bare gleaming bodies out of the cool kitchen and back into the open-plan space. Grabbing and pecking at his exciting lover, Jack began to stagger and sway towards the couches again, where they had both tasted each other before – but no, David was grabbing and squeezing at his hand and pulling him into one of the bright rectangles, the doorways out towards the pool again. Their bodies locked together, the two football heroes tottered out onto the patio, into the startling heat and brightness of it all. Their bodies crashed into the chairs where they had sat not so long ago, and knocked over the table. The pages of the precious contract scattered, shuffling across the patio and whipping into the undergrowth. Still, the retired and active players wrestled and groped at each other’s bodies, all grabbing and shaking, kissing and reaching. At last, Jack had gotten the shorts down, getting his hand back on the massive tool between David’s leg, but he was being kissed so sensuously down one side of his neck that he hardly had the strength to squeeze and jerk it. Their bodies crashed down onto one of the long sun loungers and its legs immediately buckled and broke, its thin cushions forming a tenuous bed beneath their writhing bodies. The sun lashed down on their skin, hitting the pale patches of David’s bared buttocks as his shorts were dragged down his thighs by Jack’s questing hands. `Oh fuck,’ Grealish whined. `Oh god, yes, take me…’ `You’ll sign for us,’ Becks grunted forcefully. `You WILL be mine… nobody else is getting this…’ He grabbed and pulled at Jack’s arse cheeks as he said it, making him tremble and groan, making his hole quiver and wink. Still their passion dragged them from here to there, rolling and tumbling from the broken sun lounger and onto the hot stone of the patio, which scratched against smooth skin, against Jack’s hairy tan and David’s intricate body art. Muscles rolled and rubbed against the rustling papers of the spilled contract, all clauses and exorbitant dollar signs, until Jack was pinned on his back and his legs were pushed upright from beneath. David’s head was sinking down, but not to lavish at his cock, but lower, kissing past his tingling balls and licking his gooch instead – Jack let out a wild cry as his cheeks were parted and the face of football was pressed between them to rim him hungrily. The 26-year-old writhed on his back, reaching down and dragging his fingers through the fine golden-brown hair of David’s head, every push and flick of a skilled tongue making him buckle with fresh waves of desire. He rolled his head and stared at the pages about him, the fragments of the multi-million contract that would tie him to Miami and to this man – the face of American football, his imagination roared, the king of the sport on a whole new planet, and the personal sex toy of this gorgeous man, worlds away from Manchester or Brum. Jack’s head swam and his body convulsed. Beckham’s tongue was spreading and preparing his hole, and he longed for something harder to enter him there. He didn’t have to wait long, those strong hands hoisting and parting his mighty legs some more, and David’s ripped torso appearing between them. `Get ready,’ the England legend growled, and Jack felt his hard thick tip against his wet ring in seconds. He stared lustily at this man, remembering the poster of him on his bedroom wall as a kid, remembering impersonating him on the football pitch as a teen, remembering walking into a barbershop and slurring at the guy to `give me a Becks trim, yeh?’ But as the thick cock entered him and he was pressed back against the sun-baked stone that almost burnt his skin, he was thinking of something different, something a world away from all of this glamour and insanity. Gone was the villa on the hill and the Italian summer, gone was the tanned skin and extravagant ink, gone was the fluttering paperwork and ridiculous propositions. In his mind’s eye, Jack Grealish was in a barn in the Midlands, his back pressed into mucky dead grass, the air full of smells that were distinctly rural, and his virgin arse tickled by the fingers and then prick of a very different footballing man. `You’re so tight,’ growled Beckham luxuriously. `Oh, FUCK YES, so good… Soooo good…’ But the gasping dirty talk of the superstar became less and less focused on him: `Take my massive cock, you slut… come on, open up for Becks, you know you want it, mmm… you want my famous cock, don’t you? Mmm, yeah… fucking take it baby, ohhhh…’ The stud was heavy on top of him, pushing deeper and deeper inside, everything was white hot and madness, and Jack felt lost. He pictured himself in Florida, and part of him felt cold. Not the part of him being pounded by Beckham’s cock, admittedly, but somewhere deeper and more personal. `You’re so tight,’ David was grunting again, holding on to him and ploughing his arse, dragging their bodies back and forth across the flagstones in a way that would scratch and mark their skin. He was huge, and his fucks were powerful and deep, and Jack was almost numbed by the force of the pleasure and tension… but he also felt curiously detached from it, and the whirlwind of the past twelve hours was starting to make so much more sense. `Mmm, you stud,’ moaned the most famous footballer in the world, 9 inches or more inside his arse, `mmm you fucking beauty, Jacky lad, ohhh yes…’ The force of Beckham’s desire for him was staggering, totally overwhelming. `I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!’ And now the middle-aged hunk was pulling out of him and kneeling over him, pressing down on his six-pack whilst wanking himself in a frenzy, haring towards the finish line. `Yes, yes, fuck yes, OHHHHH-‘ And spluttering in passion as his cum rained down on Jack’s gleaming body, on his midriff and the bulging hairy muscles of his spread thighs. He held onto his own cock and pulled it in long slow strokes that were now lubricated by a shower of Beckham spunk, into which he blew his own second load of the morning, oozing watery cum from the fat head of his prick, gasping wordlessly into the hot air and staring up at the beautiful bloke. As he did, he let out a liberated laugh, finding the utter absurdity of the moment, and realising how much he wished he was somewhere else, with someone very different. Neither of them had spoken since their mutual climax. Becks had rolled aside and lay in the harsh sunshine for a while, but Jack had pulled himself to the edge of the pool and slid into the chlorinated water, his body sore and his cock aching from too much action. He bobbed and floated in the water, letting himself relax and luxuriate, soaking in the madness of the Italian morning. He heard Beckham groan and get to his feet, then go indoors. Grealish remained in the pool, treading water and letting his imagination rove back to that riverside picnic, that haybarn passion, all of the dates and moments that had happened since then. He thought about Ben’s London townhouse and the night he’d spent there; the morning sex in the kitchen, the arrival of Ben’s cleaner. His body ached for him. Eventually, the English athlete dragged himself from the pool, not bothering to cover himself, since his towels were discarded somewhere indoors. He stepped over the scattered contract pages, leaving big wet footprints on the paper, and shaking his head in disbelief. 5ft9 body dripping, the Brummie lad went into the villa, finding David sprawled nude on one couch, an image from an art gallery or sculptor’s studio, just graffitied by Banksy after. He looked up and stared this way, and in spite of the passion the two men had just shared, he seemed to instinctively know the answer that was coming. The two men stared each other down: Becks lounged on the couch where they had sucked each other, a stunning sight even at 47, still one of the hottest men to emerge from the world of football; Jack in his prime, all bulging leg muscle and youthful virility, his cock almost semi already after shedding two heavy loads from his big balls. They both smiled in ironic, wistful ways, and shrugged with their postures. `You’ll regret this,’ Beckham told him quietly, but not vindictively. `I don’t think you understand what I’m offering you. What we’re offering you. It’s a once in a lifetime offer, City boy.’ Something sulky, but not quite resentful, slid across his features and his body language, and he slumped a little further into the soft comfort of the sofa. Jack nodded slowly, and picked his way across the room, finding his underpants and sweatpants and his training shirt, pulling them over wet muscles, covering his beautiful body up and depriving his host of this magnificent view. `Maybe,’ he said honestly. `Hard to know, isn’t it? Er. Where’s my stuff? Where’s my phone?’ A long sultry sigh from the man on the couch. `It’s all where you left it, by the front door. I wasn’t hiding anything from you, for fuck’s sake.’ He averted his eyes, lying there, staring up at the ceiling, clearly spent by the force of his fucking on the patio, his body looking as scuffed and scratched by the outdoor sex as Jack’s arse and back now felt. Slowly, Grealish went and collected his bag, finding his phone (5% battery!) on a windowsill next to it. He returned to the main area and fell into an armchair across from where his naked host still lay. His phone was awash with worried messages and missed calls. He laughed awkwardly. `How the fuck did you even do it?’ he asked, almost rhetorically. `How much did you pay the bell-ends at the airport? Did they even know who they were working for?’ David glanced over, meeting his gaze with an evasive smirk – the sulk of defeat seemed already to have passed. `Actually,’ Jack chuckled, `don’t even answer that. I think I prefer the mystery. This was fucking fun, man. Now – how the hell am I getting back to England, eh?’ Grealish didn’t spend much longer in the villa, whether it was Beckham’s own or the property of some billionaire buddy; though Becks seemed to recover from the indignity of rejection very quickly, his interest in Jack died with the scattered contract. It was clear that he meant what he said: the offer had been serious, and temporary, and now that it was spurned, Jack doubted he would hear a single thing from his powerful admirer ever again. Quickly, he was in the hands of employees, being driven back around the Lago towards the town and the provincial airport. He stared at the young Italian driver and wondered if the guy had any idea what he was part of, who he was ferrying here, and what services he was really procuring for the horny bastard back in the villa. They hadn’t spoken much during the wait for the car, though there were dozens of questions that Jack’s inner fan-boy wanted to ask old Golden Balls. He’d charged his phone for a bit and taken a second shower, and changed into fresh clothes for the drive to the airport. He’d been promised Beckham’s private jet – again, his, or borrowed? Unclear – and it would be dropping him off at Milan airport in no time at all. From there, flights had been arranged that would deliver him to Heathrow, and eventually to Southgate’s camp. Almost foremost among Jack’s concerns as he boarded the jet, now understanding that the suited men sharing the cabin were lawyers or agents of David’s complex staff, was the England-Germany game on Tuesday night – he’d have missed a whole day of training by the time he was back among the squad, so he could hardly see himself getting a start in the next international fixture. But hopefully this mad debacle wouldn’t keep him from a subs position in the roster for the Germany clash. Weirdly, Jack felt more confident than ever. That’s what had hit him, burning his back on the patio and taking that huge cock inside him – a renewed sense of how much the world was drooling over him, the whole footballing network at his feet! It’s how he’d felt last summer as he inked the City contract with Pep, but the euphoria had been hard to maintain as he joined that team of giants and superstars, struggling to find his place in their dynamics and achievements. But this morning… Beckham had been pursuing him for over a year, and drafted page after page of legal bullshit to secure his arse-hole. Jack Grealish had never felt more in demand. Which made it all the more odd and romantic that football was NOT actually the main thing on his mind, flying over Northern Italy in the brief journey to Milan, and transferring to a much less glamorous flight where a first-class cabin would get him home to Blighty. Snoozing in his lounger seat on this flight, Jack flicked through the depths of his phone’s photo gallery, trying not think about the ecstatic interlude of his morning with Beckahm – that could wait, he knew he’d be reminiscing about that poolside fuck for years to come – and instead pawing over old selfies from years gone by, him and his closest footballing pal, two cheeky chappies grinning into the lens together. When the flight arced down into the English countryside and he was delivered to safety, Grealish knew the first thing he’d be doing when his device went off `airplane mode’. He knew there was nobody he wanted to see or hear from more; knew he’d be ringing up Ben Chilwell, whatever fucking time of night it might be wherever his beautiful buddy was out on his summer holidays. Grealish drifted in and out of sleep, hugging the phone to his chest with a dozy sigh, and dreaming of that barn in Leicestershire, where Chilly had taken his cherry and brought him to life. Under the dulling ferocity of the late afternoon sun, Beckham wallowed at the edge of the pool, sunglasses back on, and skin gleaming with protective cream. Still, the patio around the pool was littered with the loose pages of the wasted contract, and he watched the sheets flutter and drift in the light warm breeze that played on his hot skin. It had been worth it, he thought, even for a one-off. Grealish had been everything he hoped for, a perfect beautiful peach of a lad, one of the hottest he’d ever tasted – had he ever really believed he could buy him like that, and keep him all for himself…? He’d wanted to. But he’d known that the chances were against him, otherwise he wouldn’t have gone to such ridiculous lengths to make the offer here, at this particular Tuscan mansion. Quietly, the ageing legend laughed to himself and relaxed his body against the warm stone and lapping water, replaying the morning’s action decadently in his head: the airhead stud’s early confusion, then his exciting eagerness in their first clinch and oral – followed by his exciting outrage and the sweet victory of fucking his perfect arse. Of course, the villa’s CCTV had caught it all, and David wouldn’t have to rely on memory or imagination when he enjoyed it over and over in future, but it was hardly the same. He allowed himself a few moments more of the fantasy: bringing Grealish out to Miami and using him whenever he landed in Florida, his new star player but also his perfect extra-marital treat, tied to him by millions of dollars in contracts. Never mind. There would be other young studs, there always was. HAD TO TRY SOMETHING A BIT DIFFERENT FOR THE 300TH EPISODE OF THE SERIES – LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THOUGHT! HOPE YOU’VE BEEN ENJOYING MY RECENT BURST OF PRODUCTIVITY… ALWAYS KEEN TO HEAR FEEDBACK AND IDEAS, THOUGH WHO KNOWS MUCH LONGER I CAN KEEP THIS STORY GOING. THANKS FOR FOLLOWING THE ACTION FOR 2.5 YEARS AND 300 CHAPTERS… SO FAR! ‘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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