Part 161: The GOAT
Heavy rain crashed against the apartment windows, lashed by strong winds, and the noise of it was strangely pleasant to the ear when you were curled warmly in the right bed with the right person. He stared at it through a creased in the bundled sheets, the cityscape dim beyond the beading raindrops and the heavy grey of the early evening. A gloomy sight that just highlighted the sensuous comfort of the present moment and made him appreciate how finite it was -- especially since he would have to be out in that weather soon on the way home.
Phil Foden let out a long-suppressed yawn of his pale pink lips and sighed vaguely into the warm pillow, pushing back with his body a little to feel the hot hairy firmness of his manager's chest, the softer press of his tummy about his lower back and sore cheeks. In response, one heavy arm slid more fully over his side to hold him and Guardiola purred gently into the back of his neck somewhere, pressing the ghost of a kiss on the top of his spine.
Phil's bottom still stung badly, though the lingering pain had yet to put him off. The sensation of having been claimed so hungrily and masterfully by this powerful man hung over him in a much more real way than the physical after-effects of giving up his backside. And his cock ached too, reminder of the attention that had been lavished on it. He gasped with a little near-memory of the most intense orgasm he could remember, the new positions they had tried today.
It had been quite unplanned: tomorrow night Manchester City were back in action, their second-leg clash with Real Madrid to decide entry to the latter stages of the Champions League. As a result, today's training had been long and arduous and the murmured agreement between gifted manager and golden boy had been to wait until that game was out of the way. But Phil had caught Pep staring greedily at him five or six times during the intense stages of today's match prep and when Guardiola called it a day, Phil had been unsurprised to be taken aside for a strategic meeting' and told in no uncertain terms that he would need to come to the apartment' before home. Foden's heart had leapt in his chest and he had nodded fervently, immediately ringing home to adapt the evening plans, buying himself this magic couple of hours alone with Pep.
This magic couple of hours alone that needed to end soon.
Hearing another satisfied groan from the sleepy taller figure of the older man, Phil rolled a little, still listening to the dancing beat of the grim weather on the long windows of the bedroom. He rested his face down next to Pep's, looking him theoretically in the eye and waiting for his heavy dark lids to flutter open and stare back. It took a few moments but they did, and Pep immediately grinned. `You are staring at me,' he said gently, sleepily. He had been so clear and firm about the timeframe of their seized evening together, in such a rush to get naked and into bed; now he seemed utterly relaxed by the almost bestial relief they had shared. He was in no rush to be anywhere.
Just a bit,' Phil muttered back, brushing his knees forward against the hair meat of the older man's thighs, reaching for a hand of his under the duvet, pulling it in against his tight muscular tummy. Pep, sir...'
`Mmm?'
`I want to ask you something.'
Pep's eyes hovered between open and closed and his grin seemed to pause uncertainly. Anything, Felipe,' he said warmly, not moving an inch from his relaxed position in the bed, utterly exhausted and satisfied; Phil had felt him take every bit of his pre-game frustration out in the powerful exchange of their bodies just now, wiping them both out into this dazed lovers' nap. As long as it has nothing to do with Real Madrid and tomorrow night, ha ha... I cannot think about that game for another minute. We are already beating them, but still... all I can see is their smug faces waiting to meet us... ugh.'
No, no, not that,' Foden assured him quickly, locking fingers with him in the warm space between their bodies. Just about... well, y'know. What we talked about before. I...' He hesitated, unsure how wise it was to revive the fragmented and broken conversation that had stretched between them since that first brutal and much-needed fuck. I want to know what happened with him.' Pep's eyes opened a bit more sharply and his long tanned body of warmth and hair seemed to stiffen up between the sheets immediately. His mouth formed the response Who?' but Foden could see in his eyes that Guardiola knew exactly what he wanted to ask about.
I told you I was sorry,' the City manager murmured after the long pause, a trace of hurt in his accented voice -- and he had, over and over, lavish apologies between the sexual favours of his talented mouth and fingers. Phil squirmed a bit to see and hear his worried offence. I should never have brought his name into our time... I tell you again and again, Filipe...'
No, no,' Foden murmured, pulling fractionally closer in the warm sex cocoon of the duvet. I'm not... I don't mean to... I'm not upset with you, papi. That's not it. You know I forgave you before you even said anything!' He stroked at Guardiola's chest hair and pulled even closer. `I just want to... understand. You told me about how you came to know him and... I understand what went on, I mean, I've lived it, heh... it's just -- you wouldn't tell me how it ended. Leo Messi was your special one and then he wasn't. You and he were having this big steamy thing and then you were... leaving Spain.' Phil stared at him, both wanting to scream out and utterly disguise the motivation of his questioning; here they were, together and special, but what was to stop Pep up and leaving tomorrow, quitting Manchester...? He understood that Messi had been his golden boy long before Phil was a man, but what he could not yet get his head around is where that secret affair had gone wrong.
Filipe,' the 49-year-old murmured a little anxiously, hugging him back with equal affection. You are digging up... history.'
`It isn't THAT long ago, Pep.'
Guardiola sighed deeply, his warm breath tickling Phil's cheek. You worry that I will leave you. You worry that I am not serious or real.' His eyes burnt into Foden as he lifted closer and stroked his upper arms possessively. I can see your fear, my boy.'
Foden gulped the truth back awkwardly and tried to meet his older lover's intense stare. I just need to know,' he insisted quietly. I... I want to understand things. I want to be right for you, to be what you need of me. Please, sir. Tell me? Let me understand.' The nervous young Stockport lad curled in against the heat of his papi and bit his lip, knowing this could go either way. But Pep sighed again and pulled him in, surrounding him with his weight and heat and furry presence.
Then I will tell you what I can,' the coach promised with weary acceptance, and we will see if you can understand it, eh...?'
Zurich, 2012, the wood-panelled bars and passages of a hotel and conference centre, cosy beneath the January snowfall. The stolen kiss was a risk, and the thrill of it tingled through his strong compact body, equally frightened and comforted by the sudden indiscreet gesture in the vestibule of a gentlemen's lavatories. One minute Pep Guardiola's mouth was against his, hot with passion and tickly with silver-flecked stubble, and the next he was pulling away, just a single palm on his elbow, his kind eyes twinkling reassuringly at him as he whispered good luck.
And then the 25-year-old football icon was alone in the hallway, pulling self-consciously at the lapels of his dark purple velvet-effect blazer and tidying himself. He pulled a hand across his clean-shaven mouth, sure there would be some indelible mark of his manager's love on his face to scream their secret to the world. Messi paused and laughed a little at himself before strutting back on down the corridor, cutting through one of the bar areas that flanked the event hall, collecting another free tumbler of expensive whiskey, and hoping for his nerves to calm and settle.
Resting with his elbow to the bar a moment, he could spy Guardiola from a distance; the Barcelona manage who had been his secret lover for these past four seasons was back with his wife now, an arm about her waist, laughing very animatedly with a few other members of Europe's football coaching elite. Lionel watched with something between jealousy and admiration, thinking how sweet and helpful the barely-hidden kiss had really been, so much more meaningful than the public praise that Guardiola would be heaping on him throughout this event; his kiss was thick with the promise of later on, the additional hotel room the Barcelona boss had secured for their pre-dinner `meeting'.
He fumbled idly at his waistcoat buttons and stroked his smooth chin again, as flustered by that hanging prospect of time alone with his Pep as he was by the impending ceremony and the question of whether he would claim his third Ballon d'Or prize in a row at these FIFA awards, the 2011 presentation. Messi was still overwhelmed to have received the prestigious mantle twice in a row and would happily see FIFA hand their prize to another of Europe's top athletes, but still... to continue his run of success was an exhilarating prospect that made him almost aroused beneath the heavy fabric of his slightly gaudy suit.
The diminutive striker made his way back through the assembly to the table where he had been placed, his reputation and status transforming a slight 5ft7 man into an imposing presence who earned smiles of acknowledgement or even awe as he progressed through the room. He joined his pregnant partner Antonella, always a little bewildered and alarmed under the pressure and scrutiny of so many peers and admirers. He was suddenly glad to be with her, the public love of his young life, clutching a hand to her tight bump and being chided for taking another alcoholic drink. He smiled nervously at the other top European footballers about their circular table, and their simmering partners, aware of the expectation that everyone felt. He was hotly tipped to win his third Ballon d'Or and everybody else seemed more assured of this outcome than he could bring himself to feel.
Still, when it was shortly announced, it did feel inevitable and unsurprising, a wave rather than jolt of triumph and honour overcoming the 25-year-old Argentinian; the stunted Rosario kid with a growth hormone deficiency who had given up everything to move to Catalonia before he was even a teenager. He kissed his fiancée, a friend since childhood who understood his journey better than anyone, exited their table and made his way up onto the stage area to accept the award.
What humbled Leo more than the gaudy prize itself, or the knowledge that the football hierarchy had been so impressed by him for a third consecutive year, was the community that gathered here to watch him pick it up. On the stage alone were a smattering of his close rivals, the runners-up in the vote, but the room was littered with iconic players of Europe and beyond. He paused halfway across the podium to look back at his own table, where young upstarts like Neymar Junior were slow-clapping with the fixed ambitious grin of someone imagining his own future on this stage; or the legendary Spanish goalkeeper Iker Casillas on the next table, whose applause was so rapturous and selfless that it embarrassed Lionel; or the 5th place runner up, that thuggish Englishman Wayne Rooney, stood just beside him at the end of the row of near-winners welcoming him to the podium, looking totally unnatural in a figure-hugging black suit, all freckled and grinning.
As he had last year and the year before, Messi took his prize from the presenters and made a scruffy attempt at a speech, humble and embarrassed at the centre of attention, and shared glad respectful smiles with everyone up there under the blazing spotlights with him. Every face he looked into up here and in the front tables of the gathering below met his smile with such respect and acknowledgement that he could almost truly believe he was the greatest footballer in the world. The greatest of all time?
That was with one slight exception. As he departed the podium to another thunderous round of applause, he looked across at his runner-up, the 2nd place footballer in this year's prizegiving. His was the most strained and unconvincing of grins, his bulging eyes giving away the frustration of defeat; and Messi could hardly blame him! When this tall powerful man had claimed his own Ballon d'Or debut in 2008, perhaps he had assumed he would dominate the following decade unchallenged. But no, shortly after that, Lionel had begun to hit his prime and swept into focus: Cristiano Ronaldo had yet to claim a second year as the most lauded striker in the world.
Humble and overwhelmed as he was, the stocky Argentine forward paused for a second there, wilting slightly under the intense competitive glare of the tall Portuguese man in second-place, then moving swiftly to the benevolent and admiring smiles of Xavi, Iniesta and Rooney, and clearing the stage in a short walk of fame, the trophy hoisted in both hands.
Pausing in his hotel room, Messi reflected how right it felt to go and privately celebrate this achievement with Guardiola, a man whose talents and insights had really allowed him to blossom in the past few years of supremacy. Leo had broken his back to ascend through the ranks of Barcelona FC but his first season on their senior team had been mixed at best; it had only been with Pep's arrival as the head coach and the potential he had recognised in Lionel that he had become a regular fixture, a regular scorer, a regular hero and champion. For the 25-year-old, every bit of his current success was absolutely intermingled with his relationship with the older Spanish man; his professional glory lay not just in their incredible player-manager relationship, but in their satisfying secret trysts and whispered love.
It didn't come without guilt -- he was about to leave his resting fiancée alone in their big hotel suite, cradling his unborn child, in order to sneak through the big brutalist conference building and find the separate room Pep had organised. The additional key seemed to burn in his pocket like a time-bomb of truth that one day he would have to share with Antonella. Could she ever understand that his needs extended beyond her in this way...? Could he ever convince her that it was possible to love two different people so equally and differently...?
The award-winning football hero tried to brush away the daily contradiction of this reality, helping her onto the massive bed and fetching her the drink and snack she needed, the perfect boyfriend in all appearances, even as his innermost thoughts wandered to what he would be doing before they reunited for dinner. She made quiet, half-hearted complaints: did he really need a meeting with his club manager tonight, whilst they were here in Zurich in chilly January? Could it not wait until they were all back in Barcelona in two days' time? But there was no real resentment or irritation, she was tired and glad of the alone time in this lull in proceedings; some minor awards were still going on downstairs in the events hall and there would be a long drinks reception before the formal FIFA dinner where he would need to sit and be examined by that audience again, their chosen winner at a head table.
A little too warm beneath the dark purple velour of his three-piece suit, Messi exited his main hotel residence and went out into the broad sweeping corridors of the ugly, bulky building. Big square windows looked out on the blizzard enveloping the Swiss city. He amended his route through the hotel to pass out onto one of its long concrete balconies up here on the third floor, needing the bracing chill of the snowstorm against his face to cool and calm him. In fact, he had plenty of time before he was supposed to meet Pep, who would still be politely mingling downstairs, but since lying and subterfuge always made him clumsy and nervous, he found it best to get away early and break away from his conventional life. He could find the `spare' suite and rest there alone, preparing himself mentally for the intensity of his manager -- his master.
His face went immediately a ruddy pink as he stood out on the empty balcony, enjoying the dazzling and blurred view of the blocky buildings around them. The noise of the wind meant that he didn't pick up on the clatter of doors behind him or realise he was being joined at all until the taller dark figure was leaning in parallel to him against the broad barrier, smirking over at him. Lionel jumped a little to realise he wasn't alone in his refreshingly cold spot, but quickly recovered and smiled back. Cristiano,' he breathed rapidly in fairly pleasant surprise, my friend...' He reached out instantly for the respectful handshake of close rivals, looking the taller man up and down.
The 27-year-old Real Madrid striker towered a little bit over him and his handshake was ferociously tight, as if needing to exert every ounce of his masculine presence in compensation for the way the award had swung this evening. Messi hid his flinch of surprised pain at the tight grip and shook back, then nodded slowly at the 6ft2 of sleek black suit and sharp white shirt. He expected some generic and bland congratulation to come from Ronaldo now, but his fellow goal machine just smiled quietly at him and let the flakes of chilling snow bluster about them.
I cannot imagine how close the vote was,' Leo told him warmly. He spoke in stilted English, in keeping with their international setting, though both men were fluent in one another's Spanish and Portuguese; the neutrality and formality of English seemed to be a middle ground between being forced to adopt the other man's language. Well done to you,' he added stiffly, hoping it sounded benevolent and humble rather than patronising or taunting. Cristiano just stared impassively back at him, no real response to the acknowledgement.
`I am glad I found you,' the Madrid and Portugal player said eventually, his voice quietening.
`Yes, er, it is always good to catch up,' Messi agreed.
But today in particular, we must speak,' the taller older forward told him firmly, making him curious and a touch uncomfortable. You see, I understand you, Leo. I understand you far more than most.'
Messi blinked and frowned at this assertion, taken aback by the odd intimacy and emphasis of the steely giant's expression. His interactions with Cristiano thus far had always been a little tense with his own admiration and the other man's all-consuming competitiveness. So much of the rivalry and challenge between the two men was unspoken and assumed; Cristiano's little outburst there was the most he had ever said to him in one go, in fact. He was about to make some polite and half-jokey response when Ronaldo went on, flooring him with sudden terror, `I think I understand what is going on with you in a way that nobody else has seen.' He leaned forward almost intimidately, and Messi felt instantly sure: they'd been seen!
He'd known that kiss in the bar toilets had been a ridiculous and stupid risk, so unlike Guardiola, so unnecessary when they planned to meet so soon after the ceremony! They had seemed alone, sure, but the dark panelled corridors of that floor were so misleading and mysterious and... The short muscular footballer gripped the concrete ledge and stared anxiously back at his rival. Ronaldo was smirking knowingly at him. `Can we talk properly?' he asked, and reached one of his large tanned hands for Messi's shoulder.
Not here,' he barked with a flinch, and felt the presence of that additional key in his pocket. Come with me, friend, come with me...'
He let them into the hotel rooms in a clumsy rush, irked and worried by the knowing look in Cristiano's beady eyes and twisted grin. He held the door for him and pushed it hurriedly shut, anxious at being seen alone with his competitor even though the big open corridor had seemed totally empty. Lionel leaned at the door for a moment to catch his breath then turned to look at the Portuguese man, who had sauntered on into the untouched hotel suite, identical to the others, inspecting the dressing table and window view idly, one hand in the pocket of his long tight suit trousers of black fabric, all tailored to his particular physique.
Leo pushed the key down on the room's small writing bureau then crossed the large carpeted room to face up to Cristiano, who turned back from the windows with that same sickly grin of confident knowledge and an unused upper hand. As he had done on the pitch in their La Liga clashes, he felt dwarfed by the other player, but he knew his strengths and his skills and HE was the three-time Ballon d'Or winner here. He had to not be intimidated or pushed back by the sheer force of the big arrogant man now smirking at him.
I don't know what you think you saw,' he announced brashly, but you have misunderstood.'
A slight twitch to Ronaldo's expression now. `What I... saw?'
He is an affectionate manager,' Leo barked. You know how these Spaniards are. We are all Latin men here!' He bristled challengingly at the older superstar, squaring his low broad shoulders and bunching his sturdy arms at his sides. He watched the hesitant and thoughtful flicker on Cristiano's face, realised too late that he had entirely misunderstood that odd approach on the balcony. His wide dark eyes were full of brief confusion, no understanding of Leo's new comments. They stood there quietly, the only sound the buffeting of the blizzard on the long windows of the hotel room.
Lionel,' sighed Ronaldo, and he slipped from English to their shared Spanish instead, something more private and confidential in his voice now they were properly alone. I understand you. I think you and I are very alike. We are special, you and I.'
Messi's humility balked at this phrasing but he struggled to deny it, stood face to face with the only striker in his Spanish league that he saw as a rival. There were many excellent footballers in that ceremony,' he said flatly in English, then adopting the other man's Portuguese, You and I are just the best right now.'
No,' Cristiano assured him with odd calm to his voice. We are different. We are better.' He took a step closer, emphasising his greater height as the men came closer. You know I am right, Lionel. It is hardly fair to compare us to them...!' His laugh was odd, mechanical, almost sinister. And then one of his hands was on him again, stroking his upper arm through the soft fuzz of the velvet blazer. I see you and I know you are like me, not like them,' Ronaldo murmured now.
`I'm not sure I follow you...'
`Yes you do. You know what I am saying because you feel it too.'
`Ronaldo, friend...'
`Here, let me show you.'
He was, suddenly, reaching down between the folds of his blazer and undoing two or three front buttons of his starchy white shirt. Then, seen by Leo in strange slow-mo, he grabbed his hand and pulled it in there, sliding his fingers in beneath the fabric so that he was pressing and sliding his hand in against the chiselled muscle of his famous six-pack. Messi stood there in strange surprise, holding his hand in against the hard heat of Ronaldo's body, one of the bigger man's hands softly gripping his forearm to hold him in place, their eyes meeting in a strange stare. Shocking and weird but, like his name being called out in the Ballon d'Or ceremony, also inevitable and... right.
Come on,' Ronaldo murmured at him. You and I are special, Leo. We are not just any men.' With a jerk of his hand, he encouraged Lionel to stroke and feel at his abs, and brought his other hand up to the collar of his shirt, sliding and stroking there on his shoulder and then his sensitive neck, then thumbing thoughtfully at the knot of his dark tie. Leo gulped and stood very still. Four years into a steamy secret romance with an older man, no other male hands had touched him like this, and Ronaldos' ego-massaging words echoed in his mind.
The next few moments seemed to happen instantly and in the same agonising slow-motion, as impossible as that sounds. Cristiano was dragging him forward by the shoulder and also sliding his hand under the collar of the jacket to feel his shoulder muscles through his shirt and waistcoat; his own hand was slipping onto Ronaldo's lean flank and parting the shirt more across the tight muscles of his torso; the hand above his wrist had moved downwards and found the clipped front of his dark purple trousers; his own free hand was reaching for the black skinny tie that hung from his rival's collar. And then, explosively, they were kissing: Leo on his tiptoes and Cristiano stooping, their mouths clashing.
In another instant, he was off his feet, swept aside, crashing heavily onto the bed with the Portuguese hunk on top of him. Cristiano's hands went everywhere and he reciprocated, pushing and tugging at the thin black Armani blazer, scrabbling for more little buttons and trying to undo that tie, almost choking him in the process. His own blazer and waistcoat and shirt were coming off in a whirlwind of powerful hand movements. And this was punctuated by a second and third kiss, Ronaldo's tight lips finding his and his assertive tongue breaking in against his.
When Messi's layers were open to expose the solid weighty muscle of his chest and tummy, and Ronaldo had fully shed his upper layers and was brazenly shirtless, that ridiculously defined upper body bared over him, he spoke again. You see?' the Madrid striker hissed. I knew it. You and I are alike. We feel the same passions. We are special, Lionel. Special men.' He was pinning him down on the bed, a hand on each of his biceps, hovering over him like some lurid snapshot of his Emporio Armani campaigns. A glimpse of those branded waistbands creeping out of his suit trousers concerned this disconcerting reminder and Lionel was picturing those ostentatious semi-naked billboards that had dominated every Spanish townscape last year.
But...' His first guilt was still to Antonella. Cris, I am straight, and there is my...'
`What is this to her? This is between us, the two greatest footballers on the planet!'
But I...' His guilt for Guardiola a close and painful second. You don't understand, I can't...'
But then he was down on him, kissing with shocking sensitivity at the side of his neck, his hands running up and down his chest and six-pack and pushing at the waist of his trousers. Lionel could only lie there and gasp and grab at the heavy powerful presence, the impossible tight definition of every muscle, the physical perfection that this expert sportsman had crafted of himself. When Ronaldo undid and tugged at his trousers he could only lie back and lift his bottom a little to help, seeing the tight velour material dragged over his strong striker's legs and then his black socks, one after the other, peeled away and tossed aside. And then in some seedy fantasy of their profession, Ronaldo was kissing his feet, his legs sticking upright against his sculpted body, ankles resting above those mighty shoulders so that Cristiano could kiss his soles and his heels and his toes, ticklish and weird but exciting.
No,' Messi murmured unconvincingly, thinking of this room and why it was booked, thinking of the man who had made him what he was. No, Cristiano, you can't understand, I...'
But one of his hands was now on the package of his tight white CKs, having slid down an inner thigh to reach it, and the other was scratching up his abdomen, all while kissing at his arching soles and biting gently at the sides of one foot. The Barcelona wizard shuddered at this sensual attention and let himself be seduced by everything about the moment. Embrace it,' Cristiano hissed. Why should you and I waste our bodies on... mere mortals...? Look at us... gods!' He was letting go of Messi's legs and standing back, off the bed, to whip down his trousers and prove a point. And there he was, the gleaming adonis of those Armani shots, bulging ridiculously in the black briefs of his campaign, every inch of him a work of art that made even tight little Leo feel slack and out of shape.
Suddenly Ronaldo was back on the bed, back on him. The two of them writhed together in just their bulging underpants, hands grabbing at fresh muscle and lips finding each other out. The snowstorm battered the windowpanes above the bed and their tongues and fingers battered strong athletic flesh. Messi forgot to feel guilty; forgot about his pregnant woman two corridors away taking her nap; forgot about the delicately powerful kiss a couple of floors below, forgot about four years of intimacy and submission with his manager. The sheer power and sensuality of Cristiano Ronaldo was absolutely undoing him, a feeling like nothing before.
Ronaldo grinned into his face, holding him tight and stroking his bulge. I was right,' he gloated. I could see this in you. See that you needed special treatment, like me. God, what specimens we are...!' His arrogance was appalling and intoxicating. `We are the two best, are we not? We are on another world to the rest of them... our bodies are...'
`You're something else,' Messi retorted admiringly, drunk on the smooth tanned mass of the 6ft2 beast beside him, plunging a hand into his briefs to grab proper hold of his equipment. As one, the men pulled each other's pricks free of their designer pants, and they looked admiringly and comparatively down. Actually, they seemed to be well-matched, both incredibly well-hung men -- the key difference was that the quivering semi of Ronaldo's Portuguese meat was neatly in proportion with his tall and majestic physique, but Messi's was always a shock, too obscenely long and thick to belong to a compact body like his. His stature made it appear even more maddeningly huge, and Cristiano pulled and stroked at it now, visibly delighted.
`The two GOATs,' he jibed as he teased his thumb over the head of Messi's cock and made him purr.
Yes,' he agreed helplessly, si! Oh Cristiano...'
The two best,' muttered Ronaldo forcefully, kissing him on the cheek. And they gave YOU the prize...'
Yes,' Messi agreed in hot pants, but you are... you are the master... you are so big and powerful...' He jabbered devoutly to the god at his side, in love with the bulges and curves of his muscles. `I do not deserve that trophy, not next to YOU...' He didn't really know what he was saying. This wasn't just his natural Argentine humility, but fantasy and lust, an abject desire to submit entirely to this beast of a man. He looked into his face and saw the twisted grin of victory.
I agree,' Ronaldo said simply and shamelessly. We are special, but I am best. You are mine.' The meaning of his broken words hit Messi excitedly and he nodded, feeling his body give in even before those big hands were muscling him over and onto his front.
Like his low muscular weight meant nothing, Lionel Messi was tossed over and into position, digging elbows and forearms into the bedding and letting his thighs be pulled into place, his tight white Calvin Klein trunks dragged back down. The wet sound of spitting and then rough imposing fingers going between his big glutes. Four years of being bottom to Guardiola and still it felt as surprising and violating every time, especially with the power and authority exuded by a man like Ronaldo; he was jabbing his fingers into the soft fluffy hair of his crack and then into his hole. Messi gasped and gushed. Oh yes, take me,' he whined, needing it now more than anything, take me please... you are right, you are a god, you are the greatest...' He felt a weird detached sensation as if watching and hearing himself, seeing his subjugation in front of his runner-up, but craving it maddeningly.
As Ronaldo took him from behind, he could feel every muscle of him, the hard ridges of his six-pack on his back, the weight of his chest above his shoulders, the tight strength of his arms jutting down the sides of his own -- and more than anything, the rigid tension of his massive prick, already nudging between his cheeks. Beg for it,' growled Ronaldo wildly. Beg for it, bitch.'
`Please... please Ronaldo, please CR7...'
`Beg more, tell me you need it!'
`I need it, I've always needed it, fucking hell... you're the only one... the god... oh fuck, please...'
`How does it feel?!'
`You are so big, so massive, I can hardly... oh Cristiano, you are so right, we are different...'
`Yes, and who is the greatest?!'
`You! Always you! Oh my god!'
He should have heard the click of a key even in his loud submissive moans and the panting Portuguese goading. When he looked up and saw him, it was hard to say at what point they had actually been interrupted. How much had he heard or seen? Did it matter? Pep Guardiola stood there in the doorway, dressed so smartly in charcoal grey, a key fob dangling in his clenched fingers, his burning eyes staring directly across the room. Leo blanched and remained on all fours, unable to easily move with the piledriver hard-on of his only football rival in the world inching into his ring. His latest sordid beg died in his throat and he just stared over the room. He felt Cristiano's hands tighten on his shoulders, his big body paused but not retreat. Guardiola's eyes flicked from Messi's own face to, presumably, the grinning triumph of Ronaldo's. The second of uncovered betrayal seemed to last forever, a tableau of disaster; he could picture it from Pep's eyes, the sight of him debased on the bed with Ronaldo's almost inhuman physique mounting him, framed against the snowy window view behind them over the bed.
The door pulled shut behind Guardiola with a thick slam. As soon as he was gone, the Madrid striker pushed forward and Messi felt himself filled inch by inch with a prick even bigger than his manager's. Tears of pain and distress sprung up in his eyes and he gripped at the bedding with every knuckle, wracked simultaneously by the force of Cristiano's fucking thrust and the knowledge of what he'd destroyed in his lust. In the moments where he should have crawled out of the bed and snatched at his scattered suit, he was too overcome with shock to do so, holding place on the bed instead, feeling the massive Portuguese rod press deeper into him with each stroke, feeling his own ungainly erection twitch and throb. And then, somehow, it was too late! As Ronaldo manhandled him, he gave up on the thought of pursuing Pep and explaining anything. How could he explain it?
Consumed with heartbreak, he simply submitted to the physical control of the act itself: twisted over onto his back and his thick short legs pulled so that Ronaldo could mount him again in missionary position, jolting over him in furious energy, face over his, a look of almost vicious triumph in the other footballer's long sharp features. Cristiano was saying nothing now, no dirty or sweet talk, no comment on their joint superiority; clearly all that mattered was his own supremacy, the `justice' of fucking the man who could beat him. Messi lay there and took it, giving up his Ballon d'Or supremacy of three years to the rival who had glowered beneath him all that time, 2008's promising young winner. In the throes of it, he could forget Pep again, forget everything, just give himself up to the immense physical dominance of the strongest man in the sport.
Only when Cristiano pulled out of him did the real pain -- the emotional pain -- come back to him, picturing over and over the hurt look on his manager's face, while his body was dragged into new positions, up onto his knees. Ronaldo was grabbing and wanking his monstrous tool for him now and urging him to do the same, the pair of them leaning into each other as they jerked mutually and brought each other to their messy finish. Cristiano's muscles gleamed with sweat and were slippery to try and hold onto. Messi felt the tears spill from his eyes down his puffy cheeks but he pulled unstoppably on the massive dick that had been buried in his body. It was the most surreal orgasm of his life, watching his load spill on the superhuman ridges of that six-pack through a mist of heartbroken tears, then having his shaggy dark hair clutched and his head pushed down just in time to catch Ronaldo's creamy ejaculate all over his cheek and chin and open mouth.
And then he was lying on his back, streaked with sweat, that oozing cum all over his face, staring sideways out of the window at the blur of snow. Cristiano lay beside him, heaving out big sighs and muttering in satisfaction. Oh yes,' he said, apparently to himself, now you are the greatest in the world, Cristiano, now you are the GOAT... oh yes... fuck FIFA... haha!' Messi closed his eyes and heaved out another defeated sigh, seeing the fuck for what it was: he had ruined the great secret love affair of his 20s just to complete the ego of the man he'd beaten fairly.
Pep fingered at the chunky sovereign ring on Phil's pinky finger, holding him morosely close in the nest of the bedding. Outside, the summer storm sounded louder and more blustery than ever. He turned the ring a little on the young lad's finger and rubbed a digit over its smooth stony bulge. He was wearing this even as he lay there and took it,' he whispered tragically. He wore it constantly, from the moment I bought it for him. It was supposed to mean that he was mine, all mine.'
Finally, the 49-year-old ex-player and uber-successful coach risked lifting his eyes and meeting Phil's face. He saw his compassionate stare and sad downturned lips, the kind look in his wise young eyes. I know how terrible some of it sounds,' he whispered to him. Of course, my own wife was in the building. I was, myself, unfaithful in every way, to both her and to my Leo. It is so complicated, I suppose. But he was mine, all mine. Neither of us, Filipe, had ever TOUCHED another man before or during our years together. We said that was important, that made sense. We had our women, we had our lives, but we had each other. He was my boy, I was his papi.'
He trailed off, choking the words, uncomfortable on so many levels: reliving the pain, voicing the secret taboo feelings, sharing it with someone in Phil's position. All of it. He regretted his frankness and detail as he'd recounted his Zurich experiences of 2012 to the boy in his arms. Apart from anything else, they had long outstayed their scheduled visit here; his wife would now be serving dinner at home and wondering what on earth had kept him late at the City training ground. His silenced phone, discarded somewhere in the bland chic darkness of the flat, would be loaded with missed calls.
He was yours,' Foden murmured quietly in agreement, seeming to turn the story over in his mind, Pep's explanations of the difficult months following that snowy January, the rapid painful collapse of their trust and affection, and he ruined it. He chose Ronaldo.'
I must sound possessive,' Guardiola muttered. I know I am. You must think I am...'
I understand,' the 20-year-old Manc lad whispered at him. I think I do. I mean, it's another world to me, I guess. I was barely a kid then, growing up hero worshipping both those guys. I had no idea that...'
No,' Pep agreed sternly. Nobody did. I have never told a single person about my years with Messi before now. Perhaps I should never have told you, Filipe...'
`But I'm glad you did.'
`You are...?'
Foden nodded and Guardiola stared obsessively at him, this beautiful and loyal slip of a lad who seemed to understand and appreciate him. The nagging sense of his own stupidity and foolishness lingered behind this burning love. How could this ever end well? He'd thought the same about Lionel Messi, and he'd been so right.
But I was bad too,' Phil mumbled to him suddenly. Kyle...'
I neglected you,' Pep hissed at him. It was all my fault. I didn't treat you well, my boy. And I have told you... Walker will not bother you again. He understands his position.' He stroked a thumb over one bony cheek and held the lad's face close to his. `You are all mine now, yes?'
I would never have let him fuck me,' Phil mumbled a little desperately. I'm all yours. Totally. I promise, sir. I would never do to you what Messi did, I promise you.' His eyes were almost manic as he gushed his devotions and Pep wanted to hold him and fuck him again, stay here all night and into the morning. `Never,' Foden finished loyally.
I know,' he whispered. You are my golden boy, Filipe, you could never hurt me like that.'
With Champions League success still hovering on the edge of the completed season, it had been a long and tough final day's training before the match tomorrow, the fight to close the score-line and reclaim their place in the Quarter-Finals. Every player had been giving his all today, burning sweat to prove themselves to the bosses and secure their place on that pitch tomorrow night in the heat of battle... but nobody worked harder than him. Nobody pushed themselves more than him. And as a result, every inch of his tall body gleamed and rippled with muscle as he shed his training kit and stalked down the short passage into the communal showers, from head to toe; from the curly mass of his dark hair to his shapely striker's feet and the ridiculous show of muscle and strength all the way between them.
In the showers, he interrupted a jokey conversation between some of his younger teammates, all consumed by a reminder today that this year's Ballon d'Or had been cancelled and negated. Their talk hushed on his arrival and he heard the young Italian nearest him snigger out a final comment, `Well, it would only have been Messi anyway...!' An abortive ripple of laughter sounded from the naked men under the showerheads, dying as Cristiano Ronaldo slid into the gap between them, punching the shower into life and luxuriating beneath the hot blast.
He looked between the Juventus players on either side of him, letting rivulets of hot water course between his muscles and down his 6ft2 frame. He smiled acidly at one and then the other of the two Juventus stars, enjoying their obvious discomfort. There was a vague titter of amusement from the other shower block occupants further away from them.
Oh hey,' mumbled one of the two young men, their solid Dutch defender Matthijs de Ligt, tall and solid and blond. Didn't see you there, Ron...'
`We were just, er, wondering who would have been your competition for the prize if it DID happen,' quickly added the other boy on his other side, Neapolitan midfielder Manolo Portanova, grimacing beneath the wet streaks of his long brown hair. He and Matthijs seemed to freeze up in the middle of soaping down their athletic bodies, lingering anxiously to the left and right of their sculpted striker, who took his time spurting shower gel from a dispenser and working it between his flat palms into a thick lather.
Ronaldo chuckled complacently. Boys,' he sighed, I have told you before. Lionel Messi is nothing but my bitch, now and always. He has never beaten me, not really. I am the Number One whether FIFA agree or not. We all know that.' A chorus of approving chuckles from the other Juventus players around the steamy shower block. Ronaldo smirked at first Portanova and then at de Ligt. `Do I have to spell out to you why I am the greater player than little Lionel...?' Blushes and chuckles and muttered agreement from both the Dutch and Italian youngsters, and coarse laughter from elsewhere in the room, everyone there adamant in Ronaldo's supremacy as their leader and talisman.
Satisfied, CR7 turned back to the blast of his shower and slapped his soapy hands to his tight, impossibly defined body, letting it gush over his pecs and abs and down his thighs. Oh yes, he thought triumphantly, it didn't matter how many Ballon d'Or trophies were given to that pesky Argentinian pretender. On a snowy day in 2012, he'd staked his claim on the lion cub and showed him who the real GOAT was in this sport, and every year since. Now, grinning wickedly to himself, the world's most powerful footballer glanced left and right, and decided which of these cocky young things most needed to learn a lesson about just how dominant he really was...