Part 125: The Night Before Football
Tomorrow night, Manchester City would mark the Premiership re-start with a late game against Arsenal. But tonight, in the hospitality dining room of the Etihad stadium, the squad of champions were gathered for a celebratory meal in anticipation -- with the many restrictions still in place, assembling the team at a local hotel had seemed unnecessary and problematic, but Guardiola knew they needed this little moment of bonding, so he'd put some pressure on the board and facilitated this.
The City manager felt confident about tomorrow night, of course he did -- Arsenal were hardly at his best and almost all of Pep's squad had impressed him over the past couple of weeks. But the experienced Spaniard had real concerns about their limited preparation time, the frantic schedule, the minimal breaks between play. As confident as he was about their first game back in action, he was NOT feeling too assured about the relentless program that lay ahead for these men, and he feared it would test their fitness just a little too much.
Pep knew that it did not help to show this fear, however, and so there was tonight. They were spread out ahead of him, across three tables, seated with an eerie gap between each bloke, dining on overpriced food he had personally arranged from a nearby restaurant, the kitchens here still fully shut down. But for all of these odd circumstances, the mood was lively. They were like kids before Christmas, the night before football, Pep their smoky-eyed Santa Claus readying them for the big day. He just hoped they all managed to get a good long sleep in spite of their boyish excitement!
Pausing in the middle of lining his used cutlery up on the plate, the 49-year-old managerial wizard reshaped that thought: I hope I can get a good sleep in spite of my excitement! He had plans to ensure that, of course, but there were no guarantees. It was like the first weekend back from summer break but multiplied tenfold.
The meal was ending. Guardiola got up from his seat and began his quietly confident goodnights to as many of the players as he could get around. No manly little half-hugs or close handshakes though, as per the rules; like all Spanish men, he was deeply tactile, and the lack of contact felt odd, frustrating, artificial.
Still, he did his best to be warmly reassuring and full of soothing confidence as he addressed the men alone or in pairs or small groups. Kevin de Bruyne was, of course, as relaxed as a man could seem to be, a rock amongst the squad; Pep stressed his admiration for this, levelling an intense look at the pale Belgian fella, reminding him of his key role tomorrow night. Sergio Aguero was fidgety and uncomfortable when they spoke, the 32-year-old Latino seemed both rejuvenated and emasculated by the advent of proper football, anxious to just get stuck in. Others showed their nerves even more: in a brief chat with Raheem Sterling, he found the short English-Jamaican to be more tense and abrupt in his speech than ever, after a few odd training sessions lately. Pep put it down to nerves, confident that the England player would come back to his sparky personality and exuberant good humour after tomorrow night was out of the way.
The manager spoke patiently to Mahrez, Silva and Ederson with a calm, wry grin on his silver-bearded features, enjoying their macho show of cool calm when he suspected they shared Aguero and Sterling's apprehensions. He congratulated Laporte on his return to full fitness, joked a little with Gundogan and Garcia, then had to hold himself back from a full manly handshake with Nicolas Otamendi after the Argentinian defender made a clever pun in Spanish. Next to him, sat quietly by the remains of a half-eaten meal, was young Phil Foden. Turning away from Nicolas, Pep paused, stood halfway between two of the tables, looking down at the 20-year-old Stockport lad; white Nike t-shirt, glossy Kappa tracksuit bottoms, shifty reserved grin on thin lips. Pep stood there with one hand on the hip of his dark grey jeans, his eyes smiling down at the midfielder, then he moved on silently, past the end of this table and over toward the next.
He didn't stop to look over his broad shoulder at the slim young Stockport scally, quietly aloof at one end of that busy table, but moved on with his fixed warm grin, ready to dismiss the last carefully distanced gaggle of City lads. The room echoed with the gentle scraping of chairs and multilingual expressions of comradeship; the men were beginning to head home for these good long sleeps that Guardiola was willing for them.
He cast his critical manager's eye over the smaller final table, and caught sight of two past causes for concern, though right now he felt a little more hopeful. Kyle Walker was buttoning up his shirt over the vest he'd stripped down to at dinner (where did he think he was?!), leaned over to listen to some commentary from Gabriel Jesus; next to him, John Stones was getting up from his chair, rising to his masterly full height and suppressing a little yawn on his big honest face, beneath the increasingly curly mop of his hair.
Guardiola was vaguely aware of their living arrangements, and based on their performance in the past few training sessions, including their local friendlies, he decidedly approved. It was hard not scowl regretfully when looking at Walker, the big 30-year-old bustling about the table like he owned the place, thinking back to the mess he'd made earlier in lockdown -- but he'd been hard-faced and workmanlike in training, less of his coarse banter and desperate need to be the centre of attention on any pitch. Pep felt a new appreciation for young Stones, taking his teammate in like that and hosting him for what must be quite a few weeks now -- he'd once thought of the close friends as a terrible influence on each other, amply evidence by that first prostitute fiasco not so long ago! But now... he was unsure.
Still, he thought privately, they were both expendable, should the transfer market demand it.
He gave them both a silent nod of approval across the table, knowing they would play an important defensive role in keeping Arsenal away from the scoresheet tomorrow night. And perhaps, if the two yobs could behave themselves over the next few weeks of closing the season, they might actually have a rosy future at Manchester City after all, something he would not have predicted six months ago! He left them to it, turning to mutter privately at one another about their drive home, and waved his affectionate goodbyes at the last gentlemen of this table, striding away to see the men out from the foyer beyond this dining room.
He stood by in his pale green tshirt, dressed down for the informal squad bonding dinner, arms folded and only slight jerks of his bristly chin to wish them on their way. He resisted the schoolmaster-ish temptation to point out that some of them were huddled a little close by; the rules were fairly mad and inconsistent, given how physically close they would all have to be as soon as the whistle blew in here tomorrow night, but still, he had his responsibilities, and knew the dangers more than most. He just smiled patiently and watched the last of them go, his tactical brain still ticking over the plans for tomorrow: the strategy he'd discussed with each segment of the team, the likely starting lineup he was still formalising in his head, the rallying talk he was planning for just before kick-off. His tall lean body bristled with nervous energy that simmered under the surface of middle-aged calm sophistication.
Walker and Stones came last, of course, the rugged older defender booming with laughter at some private in-joke, his shoulders almost bursting through the dark khaki shirt he'd got buttoned up, his hair and beard looking so neatly trimmed that Pep wondered for a moment if John had tried a hand at the scissors, though the favour clearly had not been returned. Kyle looked his way on the landing, an odd mixed expression of resentment and respect, behind with Stones looked typically gormless but open-minded.
Good night, gentlemen,' the Spaniard told them firmly. Do not let me down tomorrow night.'
`Oh no, never,' Walker quipped instantly then, given his recent history, seemed to regret it.
`We'll be putting in our best fight,' Stones assured his boss more sincerely.
Aye,' Kyle agreed quickly, a quick nod and bristle of his features. Thanks for dinner, chief.'
`Yeah, it were lovely,' John agreed in a mumble, and with that, the boisterous pair disappeared down the stairway after the others, heading off to what Guardiola could only assume was their shared pigsty; he was also acutely aware that Stones' girlfriend had apparently left and the two were essentially bachelors together, which made him even more surprised that they seemed to be keeping their heads down and working hard. More oddly, Stones seemed to be keeping his own separation very quiet; Pep had only heard anything about it because one of his assistants had overheard mention of it from other lads. Still... the two were working hard, giving the team their all. Guardiola had no complaints, for now.
Well, that was everyone gone. All of the bustling, excitable footballers released into the night, and their anxious-faced coaching team. Pep allowed his 5ft11 frame to relax, rolling his broad shoulders and patting his full tummy gently, then pushing back through the loose double doorway into the fancy dining room of this hospitality suite, abandoned by the greedy horde; the big long tables were scattered with their mess, but Pep had okayed that, it could be dealt with tomorrow. He just wanted them all home to their wives, their girlfriends, their comfortable beds, their sex bans. All of them except one, of course.
Phil Foden was still sat where he had left him, resting alertly against the high-backed chair and drumming his fingers on the curved wooden arms, his meal almost untouched in front of him. At Pep's gentle footsteps on the floorboards, he looked up, and a nervous little smile lit his angular features, then he got up to his feet too. He'd milled about with the others on the way out, to avoid any hints of suspicion, then simply returned quietly to his spot once the crowd of testosterone began to thin. Unnoticed and unremarked, here he still was, waiting for his manager.
Guardiola approached him slowly down the tunnel of angled chairs between two tables, pausing two metres away and broadening the slow smile on his own lined features. `At last,' was all he said, letting the two syllables drip from his tongue. He rested hands on chair-backs at either side of him, because it would be a little full-on and risky to reach out and grab the youngster right now.
`Everyone gone, sir?' Foden mumbled, a slim 5t7 figure in front of him, hugging his arms to his front and licking his upper lip faintly.
Pep nodded. `On their way out. We will give them a moment, Filipe. And then...'
`Then we go.'
Si. We go.' Pep wrinkled his eyes a little, grinning fondly at the boy. Unless you change your mind. If you need to be home, if you must...'
`No, sir. I mean, Pep, sir. No, it's cool. I still... want to.'
Pep nodded quietly. Bueno. Then let's go, Filipe. Come.' And he backed slowly away, walking to the coatstand by the doors to fetch his light jacket from a hook, and checking that the quiet, slightly hunched figure of the young lad was following close behind. He passed the thin tracksuit top from its hook into Phil's trembling hands, then reached a paw behind him and held it halfway down his back, feeling the tremble of his skin beneath that white tshirt. He didn't say Relax', other than with his touch, but it worked. Phil let out a long breath, smiled oddly at him, and nodded. Together, manager and player left the dining room and descended the stairs.
`The club owns it,' he explained, holding the door open for Foden.
It was not a large apartment, and it had that generic corporate sheen to it, somewhere expensive but unhomely. We own a dozen or so in this block,' he went on, letting the door fall quietly shut behind them, and tinkling the key in his palm. For charming prospective signings and so on...' He realised, as he trailed off this sentence and took a few steps inside the soulless space of black and silver, that he wanted Phil to be impressed, to be wowed. But why should he be? He was a very wealthy young man in his own right, he already lived in far better luxury than this corporate slab in the centre of Manchester, used to far more space and comfort in his big family home. In his extortionate new sports car.
It's cool,' Phil said after a while, in a careful ambivalent voice. Then, seeming to realise more was needed, I like the views.' True to his word, or trying too hard to be so, the slim young player moved across the arty confines of the living room and to the floor-to-ceiling windows, inspecting the industrial city beneath them. Pep watched him across the room, smiled to himself, found a lamp. He clicked it into life and its warm glow leant some comfort to the stylish chill of the interior; he wriggled out of his jacket and threw it over the back of the designer armchair beside him, then followed Phil towards the window.
He laid his hands slowly and almost ceremoniously on Phil's shoulders, one on each; felt him tremble for a moment then relax backwards into him. He leaned in and rested his nose and mouth against the crown of the shorter man's head, breathing in his clean scent. He kissed him gently against the crown then lifted his face away, massaging the shoulders very slowly with just his thumbs. I needed us to be alone tonight,' he murmured needlessly. All had been discussed, and agreed, though in their almost typical one-way fashion. I have so much on my mind, you see.'
Of course,' Foden mumbled, his anxious face reflected in the glass. Big night, tomorrow. Lot of pressure for you, I guess, gaffer... Pep.'
Guardiola squeezed those shoulders slightly more and dragged his hands in towards the lad's bare, smooth neck, grazing it with the sides of his index fingers. So very much pressure.' He had explained this to his wife, his need to be alone', to think and plan, to meditate. She had been fine with it, as always. But Phil... `Your family did not... ask questions?'
Nah. They were cool. Understood. I'd never have got a full night's sleep with the little un. They were chuffed you were, erm, lookin' out for me, again.' A nervous half-giggle from the 20-year-old, who began to turn around. Pep eased his hold then gripped him again to help, pulling him into position, face to face by the windows. And I just wanted to see you,' Phil admitted, very quietly. `Alone, you know. Not just... at training.'
Pep nodded slowly making a faint murmur of agreement. He slid one hand up from the neck to stroke Phil's finely stubbled cheek and trace his angular jaw, then unknowingly licked his lips. `May I kiss you, Filipe...?' Foden's tight elfin face nodded rapidly, urgently. He leaned in and took the kiss, which he may have done without such an endorsing answer. He brushed their lips together briefly, tasting the young man's eagerness, then broke it almost immediately, shivering himself with anticipation.
`Summat wrong, sir?' the young local lad whispered after a moment's flickering nervousness.
`No.'
`Then why...'
`I want to show you something.'
`Oh. Erm...'
`Do you trust me, Filipe...?'
`Of course I do, sir.'
`Sir?'
`Pep. Guardiola. Boss. Huh...'
`You trust me completely?
`I do, I really do.' Phil leaned in then, seeming to be after the rest of the unfinished kiss, but Pep held his body in place, hands gently about his neck and shoulders, keeping their mouths apart, but only just. They could feel each other's breathing. He sighed happily and took one step back, hands lifting slowly from about his young player's throat.
Then follow me,' Pep instructed, and he took Foden by the hand. They crossed the cool urban chic of the lounge and went through an open square frame into the apartment's huge only bedroom, where a large masterpiece of stainless steel frame stood halfway across the soft creamy carpet, black silk sheets resting tantalisingly on its covers and pillows. Guardiola's squeezed Phil's hand once, then nodded towards the bed. Get on it, my boy.'
Foden let go of the warm, comforting grip of his manager's hand with some reluctance, eyes flicking quickly between the silvery outline of his boss's encouraging grin, and the massive dark and sleek form of the apartment's only bed. But as before, he felt utterly compelled to follow the instruction, and all he wanted was that tantalising beginning of a kiss to be resumed, enjoyed, celebrated. He'd been unable to think about much less since the night of his birthday, their private little drive into the fields, what had happened beneath the dark trees.
It was only as if he lifted both knees onto the rustling black silk of the bedding that he saw them: one hanging gently from each silvery bedpost, fencing in the nest of soft pillow. They dangled ominously from each post, twin rings of charcoal-coloured metal linked by a thin but sturdy chain; handcuffs.
He rested where he was and turned around. Pep still stood by the door, but one hand had slid down to rub a little against the front of his jeans, and the other was stroking chest of his tshirt idly. A thick smile played on his reddish lips and his eyes wrinkled in observant pleasure. Phil gulped, his mouth very dry, and played with the zip of his tracksuit top, slowly rolling it down and open and then sliding the thin but warm garment off; it slid over the glossy sheets and onto the carpet. He watched his manager and owner in quiet expectation.
`Put your hands in the cuffs,' Guardiola said slowly, each word a breathy sigh.
Phil began to move, turning onto all fours and crawling up the bed, looking in nervous awe at the simple manacles that dangled from the bedposts, beginning to twist around onto his arse- Take off your clothes first,' the City manager ordered in a slightly less patient gasp. He did so. The tshirt first, rubbing it up and over the slim toned muscle of his torso and tossing it down into the same heap as his tracksuit top. Then, one at a time, his grey sports socks, feet bared. And then, in one slick motion, his tracksuit bottoms and his blue-and-white striper baggy boxer shorts, off and kicked away, sliding off the bed and to the floor. He was sat coyly naked, knees pulled up, privates temporarily hidden, shivering a little in the cool night air. Si,' murmured Guardiola. Foden moved backwards, eyes still on his master, wondering how he should awkwardly do this, but -- `No. Not that way. Lie down on your front, Filipe.'
His fear rose. He remembered, with a sharp sensation somewhere low, how things had begun to progress in the woods that night. Pep had said he was `not ready', but that had not been very long ago, and now...?! But again, obedient and trembling, he turned around and angled his naked form towards the headboard, gulping once more. He began to lay out on his front, his semi-hard cock splayed up against his lower abs, long lean legs stretching back down the sheets, chest and face pressing down into the silk, hands outstretched to either side; and Guardiola himself began to do the honours. First his right, the cool metallic cuff grazing his wrist, a little mechanical click as it was locked in. He tried not to flinch and tremble at the sudden sensation of entrapment, resisting the strong urge to yank back his left wrist while he heard the bigger, older man cross around to the other side of the bed. But for all his fear and uncertainty, he felt his faith in the man as solid as anything, and he kept his hand there whilst the same thing happened: gentle metallic rubbing at his skin, tiny click, purring sound of approval from the boss, hand locked in. He pulled experimentally on both arms and found his hands unable to move more than an inch, a weird sensation, his upper body stretched wide by the posture and the entrapping cuffs. If he'd been alone, he might have been seized by a sudden panic attack, but he wasn't, he was with the most powerful and caring man he knew.
Sure enough, the tender question sounded somewhere behind him. `Is that okay, Filipe? It does not hurt?'
`No, sir,' Foden murmured.
`Good, then you are ready.'
`Ready?' He wasn't ready. A single thick finger from the old Spaniard had hurt like hell. He'd felt it all night and all the following day, limping about the house and wondering if some internal damage had been done, then forgetting the pain by the next day and laughing at himself. Why would he be ready now if he wasn't then? He lay there, unable to say a word, his naked body trembling against the cool silk, his arms stretched uncomfortably, oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck...
`Do you not trust me, Filipe...?' His manager's voice was oily and delicious.
`Of course I do, daddy,' Foden whispered harshly back, and he didn't know where the noun choice came from, it just slid out of his mouth and then was there in the room, impossible to take back. He closed his eyes and let his face rest awkwardly against the slope of pillows, unsure where Pep was in relation to him now... but then he felt it, mmm, warm rough palms resting against each of his buttocks. His terror at what might be to come retreated for a second in lust and then resurfaced in anguished memory of how much it had hurt to be poked just a little by one solitary digit, and he let out a frightened whimper that couldn't stay in. Guardiola's hands rested on his glutes, squeezing and parting them ever so slightly.
`What is wrong, my boy...?'
`I'm not ready,' Foden admitted, hating the weakness in his voice.
I am not going to fuck you,' Guardiola's smooth tones murmured somewhere low over his back. Relax and trust in me.' Phil made an unconvincing little gasp noise and felt the hands squeeze just that little bit tighter, pull his firm young cheeks just that little bit more apart, and then the wet gurgle noise of spitting, and the sudden damp hitting his crack. He heard it again and felt more of his master's saliva dribble between his glutes. It tingled at his sensitive crack, cooling and damp, making him shiver and yank very gently at the thin chains holding his wrists in place. Relax,' gasped Guardiola soothingly, relax and let me...' He slipped into Spanish at the end of that murmured sentence, or was just not fully audible. Phil Foden lay there entranced, unsure what to expect, his cheeks squeezed gently open and then...
What came next sent an immediate convulsion up his wiry body. A wet, soft but forceful pressing sensation on his crack, not a cock but a tongue. He arched his back and instinctively lifted his bottom a little, driven mad by two very distinct feelings at once: the soft wet push of Pep's tongue rolling up over his hole, and the bristling tickle of that salt-and-pepper beard grazing both arse cheeks at once. He made a squealing sound but his face pressed forward into the pillows, muffling it; his hands pulled again at the cuffs, his whole pale body writhing onto the bed in surprised stimulation, overwhelmed.
A finger had felt sharp, alarming, invasive. A tongue felt... wow. He quivered and mumbled wordlessly, pulling the chains taut and flexing at his thin arms, wanting to look over his shoulder and see, but unable. Unable to move, unable to reach for his instantly thickening prick and touch his own excitement. All he could do was lie there, feeling Pep's powerful hands move now from his buttocks to his thighs, stroking tenderly up and down his sides, but also holding his legs in place in case they lashed out accidentally in the throes of enjoyment. All the while, Pep continued to tongue at his arse and stop only to kiss each soft downy buttock, then go back to work; twitching tickling scratches of beard hair with every little motion of his grizzled old face.
He felt his hole throb and itch, relaxing a little. Now he longed for what he had just moments ago dreaded. Some invasive push, finger or thumb or cock. He just wanted to feel his master inside him. But it didn't come. Pep's fingers came back to his cheeks, strayed near his crack at times, pulling the muscles apart, but it was only that tongue -- and what a tongue! -- that slid in and rubbed over his virgin hole. He was squealing now, head to the side a little. Oh sir,' he cried, oh daddy...'
He would hear gasping, lusty breaths now and then, when Guardiola paused in his task, but he longed for the heavy gasps to form words, to hear his master's voice, praising or berating him, mispronouncing his name in that exotic Iberian fashion, ANYTHING... but no, nothing but the tongue lashing his hole, the hands coursing up and down his thighs and onto his backside and occasionally pushing idly at his gooch. Phil whimpered and cried into the pillows, wanting to yank back his wrists and snap these cuffs so he could reach for the timebomb of his youthful hard-on, which just rubbed frustratingly against the sheets.
This went on for what felt like forever. Waves and waves of unexpected pleasure up his body. His hole feeling looser and needier every time that tongue coursed over it. And then the pauses, as deeply physically aching as the attention, when he would just hear the older man's heavy breathing or soft chuckle, kissed on the buttock between breaths, but no words, still no words. And then, just as he felt his cock might explode untouched, a little change in position. Pep's hands on his hips, pulling upwards, indicating he should move his legs in a little, pulling up onto his knees, his lean white arse stuck up in the air; he was imagining himself in the third-person, picturing it as a voyeur might see, his naked degradation and satisfaction.
Now Pep licked a little more slowly at him, but brought one hand in between his trembling smooth thighs. He didn't take Phil's swollen erection in hand, he just rubbed a single thumb at it, near the base, and that was all. And like that, Foden's pleasure was dragged and extended: tongue lapping slowly and sensually up his arse-crack, and one thumb running up and down the absurd length of his young boner, made to look bigger by his petite frame. The motions were in sync and they wracked him with pleasure, so much pleasure, but not enough. Pep,' he whined, please... ohhhh...'
The cuffs rattled at the bedposts as he unconsciously dragged on his arms -- not to escape, but to demand more, to grab the older man and plead for something inside him now, even just a little finger. He felt tears of frustrated pleasure bite his eyes. Pep planted a wet kiss on his right buttock, then pushed his face right in, so that Phil could feel his strong tongue over his quivering hole, and more than just a thumb close up his cock, a full hand...
OH YES,' the young Premiership prodigy screamed into a pillow, OHHH...'
In long moments of orgasm, he emptied his balls against the sheets, drip after drip. Good boy,' came Guardiola's shuddering voice at last, and he was moving over the bed, crawling alongside him. Phil could feel the warm pressure of his still clothed body against him as he cried into the pillow, his dick still tingling unimaginably. He felt the brush and prod of fingers on one forearm and then the twist and click of a lock. His right hand was freed, but the whole arm felt numb and useless as Pep released it and lowered it down his side. Phil turned his head slowly to meet his master's eyes, saw the concerned amusement there, mouths close enough almost to kiss. Good boy,' Pep repeated gently, `beautiful boy...'
`Thank you sir,' Foden stammered out.
Guardiola was pulling over him now, reaching for the other cuff, unlocking it like the last, letting his hand slide weakly away. Foden just clung to the bed, wiped out by the strength of his orgasm, but then suddenly realising that there was work to be done. His right arm still felt lifeless but he pushed out against the football manager's body, feeling the tickle of his chest hair even through that tshirt, then going down, past the belt buckle, to the swell of his crotch. Last time he had been denied, put off, but surely not now? Not now he had been such a good boy?
You should rest,' Pep said softly, feeing the weak wriggling of his young protegee against him. He licked his lips eagerly and thought that perhaps the boy could take a little more rimming now he'd cum, but would it be too much for him to take? But Phil's hand was closing insistently about his own neglected bulge, the thick firmness of denim and dick. No,' he murmured, `you need to recover from... oh Filipe...' The boy's touch was tender but insistent.
Let me,' whispered Foden somewhere about his upper chest, leaning into his shoulder. Let me.'
Godammit. Who was he to resist? Pep instantly began to pull his tshirt off, and Phil's hands came to help, sliding in against the warm fur of his torso and wrenching upwards. They let it fly off in the same vague direction as the young lad's clothes had done, and Pep leaned in irresistibly for the kiss, snogging the boy full on with the tongue that had teased his hole. He enjoyed the defiant energy of the trembling youngster against his own calm power, the cuffs still rattling gently on the bedposts where they hung. He broke the kiss, biting Phil's lip a little bit. Go on then,' he hissed at him, suck papi's cock.'
Foden moved like a blur, kissing down the dark rug of his chest and reaching for the buckle of his belt. Guardiola just let himself relax back, loosening his tight shoulders, and folding his bare tanned arms up behind his bald head. He felt the lad struggle with his belt and flies but did not help, allowing him to enjoy the desperate physical struggle to access the older man's already rock-hard Spanish length. Mmm. To think how tentative and terrified Filipe had seem when they first touched each other in bed, to picture the prudish British horror on his face.
Now he was animalistic in his dragging down of the jeans, furied in how he leant down and kissed the hairy brown skin of Pep's thighs. And now the tight white boxer briefs were coming down. Pep watched languorously and sighed as his cock was released, long and thick and slightly curved, and instantly kissed and gobbled by Phil's small, inexperienced mouth. He stretched out one arm and reached to stroke his hair and neck and made the loud appreciative moans he knew his boy needed to hear.
Bless him, Foden did not yet really know what he was doing, but he could be trained. His jagged little teeth bumped the fat shaft and he got out of breath every time he tried to take more than a couple of inches in. Pep knew what the boy really wanted, and he pushed his hand down to grip the base of his own tool. `You want to taste my seed?' he growled.
`Yes sir! Oh god yes...'
Mmm... Guardiola relaxed his tall body and reached down with both hands. His left grabbed and pulled a little at Foden's short hair, dragging his face down against the muscular plateau of his hairy thigh, and the right began to wank eagerly on his spit-lubed cock. He stared down at Phil's nervous agitated face. Open wide- stick out your tongue... soon, boy... mmm...' It didn't take long. His cock had been throbbing since he tasted Foden's hole. Mmm... tonge out! Yes...' He allowed himself the loud howl of pleasure, knowing how empty their neighbouring apartments were, as he Vesuvius of a cock erupted and dribbled its white magma onto Phil's waiting tongue, lips, cheeks. He held his face there, not letting him explore or lick or take over, just trapped against the heat of his furry crotch, while his dick oozed onto his open, hungry mouth.
Then he grabbed one arm and began pulling Phil up against him, their spent contrasting bodies side by side over the sheets. Foden, bleary-eyed, reached up achingly for a kiss, but Pep stopped him with one finger over his messy lips. He shook his head. He did not want to taste his own seed on those pouting pink lips. Relax,' he moaned, letting Phil's dense wiry frame relax onto him, head to his chest, relax...'
Phil clung to the bigger man's body, loving the heat and scratchy dark hair on his own smooth skin. He was still shaking a bit, had been since the rimming began. He realised his wrists hurt a little from straining against the cuffs, but it seemed a small price to pay for the dizzying heights of pleasure he'd been allowed to reach. He rested his head in against the warmth of Guardiola's chest and clung to his thick torso with both arms, one smooth leg dipping between the Spaniard's meaty thighs for warmth and comfort. Their dicks flopped limply at their bodies, glossy little streaks of cum glittering in the dim light.
Pep's hand found his, and he watched quietly as the older man stroked the signet ring on his pinky, the smaller but more intimate part of his generous 20th birthday gift. Phil smiled nervously at this symbol of ownership, glad to have it noticed that he was loyally wearing it, as always. He kissed the hairy slope beneath Pep's reddened neck.
`You said it had been in the family for a long time,' Foden said quietly.
Pep sighed his confirmation. `Mmm. Yes. Four generation, perhaps? Not so sure...'
`But,' Phil added, and he stopped himself. He had been thinking about this a lot, but he was scared to broach it. He let his lips play a little over the thick collarbone and his other hand squeezed where it held under one of Pep's soft pecs.
`Si...?'
`You mentioned another boy,' Phil said, immediately blushing.
A soft laugh shook the chest beneath his face. `Are you... jealous, Filipe...?'
Curious,' he muttered awkwardly back, staring down at their hands, at the decorative ring on his last finger, the single translucent stone that Pep now rubbed beneath his thumb. I don't mean to be nosy, I just...'
It was a long time ago now,' Guardiola muttered, mysteriously or evasively; his other hand had lifted and was stroking at Phil's blunt fridge, at the top of his ear, down his cheek a little. It is not for you to worry about, Filipe.'
`I know, I just...'
My Barcelona days,' the older man whispered vaguely. Another time, another... It not matter now.' He leaned over and kissed Phil gently on the forehead. Trust me. That ring is mine and so are you. That is all there is to know. Or did you not enjoy being... completely mine...?' Their heads tilted and eyes met in the unlit room, only faint city glow creeping in against their naked skin on the bed. Now,' Guardiola said, without waiting for the unnecessary answer, dragging the silk sheets up and over them, `we need to sleep... and tomorrow... win.'
FINALLY, THE PRMIERSHIP RETURNS... ALTHOUGH OBVIOUSLY ON THIS SERIES, IT NEVER REALLY STOPPED! ENJOY THE FILTH AND ROMANCE. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU'VE LIKED RECENTLY AND WHAT YOU'RE HOPING FOR IN THE FINAL WEEKS OF THE SEASON...