Part 162: The Belgian Connection
The two Belgian men had immediately decided that a drink needed to be shared with a rare overlap in their footballing lives -- that Real Madrid had been forcibly removed from the Champions League by the Manchester side's dominant performance was not a problem to the meet-up, just as it wouldn't have been if the tables were turned. The two footballers in their prime had bonded in recent years as the powerful heart of their national squad, and the rare occurrence of being in the same city, country even, after the lockdown months, well... it was too good to resist.
Kevin De Bruyne smiled over the small outdoor bar table at his homeland friend, taking a long sip of ice cool Belgian beer (of course) from the stubby bottle and listening to Eden Hazard's cool and self-critical summary of his debut season in Spain. He smiled with patient sympathy at the other man, his ally of so many trips with the Belgian team, a player he had the greatest admiration and respect for -- and a friend whose advice and judgement he'd long turned to. Apart from anything else, Kevin had always envied the bubbly extroversion of the short dark-haired Belgian man, a lad whose patter and social skills reminded him of figures like Kyle Walker here at the Etihad. Moving up the ranks of the Belgian youth team and into the senior side, De Bruyne had clung to the effortless charm and mischief of Hazard, aware of his own dour awkwardness at times.
They had quickly glossed over the obvious topic of tonight's match. De Bruyne had left the muted and weary celebrations of his Manchester City teammates fairly early, though not dramatically so; the men were worn out by the heat and the battle and everyone had spilled away from the quiet drunk in the club bar fairly rapidly. For the sake of club politics, Kevin had kept his plans to meet `the enemy' fairly quiet, but he knew nobody would judge him for doing so, except perhaps Guardiola himself -- and even the chief would be magnanimous in victory. City were through to the Quarter Finals of Europe's biggest tournament now, a tiring but exciting extension to the long and interrupted season.
Conversation had moved from that to their lives, their families, all of the warmly mundane topics that united the friends. Both men spoke at length about their excitement to get back to Belgium for a little while and see the country, visit friends and family not seen for so long; Kevin felt little stabs of conflicted jealousy that, now out of the CL tournament, Eden could do this a lot sooner than himself. The other guy waxed on about his planned trip to his hometown and then the Middle Eastern holiday of opulence he'd arranged for he and his wife.
You know how luxury gets a woman going,' Hazard said to him with a twinkle in his eyes, hunched over their shared outdoor table in a thin white tracksuit branded with his league-winning Spanish club. Something about those posh hotels and all that fanciness... makes a slut of a saint.' He grinned, that dirty and troublesome little grin that had always signalled his humour and appetite for life, had always been quite envied by sullen single-minded De Bruyne. He made a faint noise of agreement there, inwardly wondering if a touch of opulence would do anything for the ice age phase of his own marriage, but reluctant to admit this aloud. We are leaving the kids with family,' Eden added, and taking almost a week there just to ourselves... I don't know if we will leave the hotel.' He sniggered with a filthy sparkle and downed some more of his light ale.
De Bruyne smiled back at him, but couldn't hold the little worried glint of sadness out of his eyes or lips as he did so -- he saw his Belgian friend frown almost immediately back at him, sensing his uncertainty or restraint. Hazard lifted his dark brows knowingly and fixed him with a thoughtful stare.
It's nothing,' Kevin claimed quietly. The lauded midfielder stretched back in his thin steely seat and tried to avoid Hazard's dark eyes, glancing about the sprawling bar patio and its sporadic occupants, late on an August Friday in a quietly expensive corner of the city. The top-end hotel that Eden's teammates occupied towered over them nearby, seeming to call him back to his duties and away from this friendly post-match drink. Kevin looked back at his friend and found him still staring. Just a bit of a phase,' the redhead grunted evasively in their shared Flemish.
Eden was quick and perceptive, another trait he'd always admired but right now found a little grating and unwanted. Something in the bedroom, my friend?' the ex-Chelsea star murmured, leaning forward over their drinks and knitting his brows. DB, we keep no secrets from each other, do we?' His grin was somewhere between reassuring and sleazy. `I've told you of many adventures...'
Not all, I'm sure,' Kevin coughed awkwardly back, fully aware of how fidelity was an alien concept to his old teammate. He knew how he would react to his predicament but he told him anyway, keeping it vague and simple. She is never in the mood. It's a phase. I am not worried.' The last part a distinct lie. And even as he said it, the bit that most worried him these days floated back to him and he shifted about in his seat, regretting letting the conversation wander this way.
Of course you don't worry,' Eden muttered at him, why should you? Kevin De Bruyne, absolute beast. You cannot go without sex unless you choose to.'
Hmm, try telling Mrs De Bruyne that,' he said quietly and sarcastically, feeling a hot pink flush reach his cheeks. Leave it, Eden, I should not have...'
If your wife is not in the mood, you know there are always other options! Kev, it is like I always say...' He punched him lightly in the arm, hunched close over the table. Footballers never go hungry when there is food all around. Eh? Eh? Ah, come on, none of this puritan nonsense...!'
De Bruyne wished desperately they could get back to the bland professional chat, the awkward tension between his own brilliant season and Hazard's squib transfer to La Liga; he wanted to return to his friend's rabid assurances that Kevin should have won every Player of the Year award going, to his own dull reassurances that Hazard would start afresh in autumn and really make his mark as a Real Madrid man. It was clear that Eden had regrets about leaving Chelsea, one area of his life that he seemed to have been LESS open with Kevin about.
You cannot be loyal and unhappy,' Eden said with the wisdom of a slut. He sucked provocatively at the neck of his bottle and stretched back in his seat. A man like you, a man of your status...! Come on, friend, it is there for the taking, just...'
Well I tried to,' De Bruyne muttered. I... I did try something... god, I feel awful about it. You know I have never ever cheated on a woman, never lied or... Eden, it does not sit good with me, I am sorry.'
Hazard raised one eyebrow and teased. `So you are judging me, eh? I knew you always thought I was a horrible little man for my deeds and adventures, the women I have...'
No, no, you do what you do, it is no business to me...! I just... I let something, er, happen and... it bothers me, Eden. I feel sick about it when I am at home with my wife, even though she will not seem to touch me.' He grunted unhappily at the level of his own honesty, even if one key detail was being carefully danced around here, the identity of the figure in that gym storeroom just the other day. For fuck's sake, I feel I have done something awful and I didn't properly cheat, I just...' He groaned dismally. `I don't think I have it in me, Eden.'
Nonsense,' Hazard told him sharply. Of course you do.' He cracked his knuckles and toyed with his empty beer bottle, glancing at his expensive rose gold watch and then looking sharply back at him, his face full of friendly confidence. You can do whatever you need to do, Kevin. You are a beast of a man, you can't survive a winter from your woman! Go get what you need, that's what I say. And if you ever need any help...' At that, he burst into crude laughter and for a moment De Bruyne stared uncomfortably at him, thinking of the help' he'd received from young Tommy Doyle, but then it become obvious in his mind that Hazard could not mean that, purely meant his wingman role or the wisdom of his dirty and wide-ranging experience.
Blushing still, De Bruyne nodded along and rubbed at his face. Eden talked on, reminding him in a weirdly professional manner about his footy stats, his prowess and talent and status in their sport, as if all of that more than justified any infidelity or betrayal. But there was something riling and motivating in the low dirty mutters of the other player, grinning and winking at him across the table. The City midfielder braced himself, feeling a little shudder of uncertain decision, and nodded along, letting his guilty blush cool and buying into the misogyny of Eden's storytelling.
Hazard took the short stroll up the plaza to the foyer of the hotel with a spring in his step. He was as exhausted as any other defeated Real Madrid player tonight, but the loss was easier for him to take than many. For the stocky little Belgian, this season just needed to be over. Yes, a Champs League win would have been the icing on Madrid's cake, but he felt no great stake in these achievements, knowing how disappointing he'd been to the Spanish club and their army of fans. For Eden Hazard, he was just pleased everyone around him was keeping faith and speaking optimistically about the new season and his place in the squad; he wanted 19/20 gone and out of the way, a much-needed summer rest, and then a blank canvas where he could prove himself all over again, a return to his Chelsea glory days.
That needling little voice at the back of his mind reminded him that he could have stayed there, made more of his primacy at the London club, but... it had felt like a ghost town when that steamy affair with John Terry crashed to an end and the older man exited for the Midlands. In football terms, his final couple of seasons there had been electrifying; in his personal life, it had been a time of bizarre and unexpected loss. An utterly unemotional relationship of purely physical need had been stripped away and revealed the embarrassing truth of his feelings for the brutish, dominant alpha male of his club's aged defender.
Hazard pushed those thoughts aside, entering the glossy world of the hotel's ground floor, a faint buzz of beer in his system from the couple of catch-up drinks with his Belgium teammate. He couldn't help but grin to think of Kevin's marital problems and his stuffy awkwardness in sharing them. Eden loved Kevin as a friend and a player, but he knew they were such different men. Different needs, different ways of satisfying those needs. He imagined the big ginger stud returning to the icy cool of his marriage bed tonight and lying awake beside her, unable to initiate anything; it was not a dynamic Eden could ever see himself ending up in. He needed what he needed, and he needed it often.
And speaking of which...
There was the club captain, another powerful defensive player, a tall bearded brute of a man propped up alone against a deserted bar area, still clad head to toe in the expensive grey club suit. The trousers and waistcoat and shirtsleeves clung to his incredibly ripped 6ft figure. Eden, drawn by those appetites he knew directed much of his behaviour, cut short his route to the elevators and his shared room above, and made a beeline for the silent lonely figure of Sergio Ramos.
He settled an elbow on the bar beside him and grinned silently across at his captain. Sergio's sour mood was obvious in his posture and the tight expression behind his slightly scruffy auburn beard. The Spaniard had been forced to miss tonight's fixture due to another ban, his violent defensive style peppering his weeks with the usual Yellow and Red Cards. Still, he had fulfilled his captain's duty, roaring for them from the dugout as if he was a player-manager. But without him, and with a man like Bale wastefully left behind to sulk in Madrid, they'd never stood a chance against City. Ramos seemed to know it -- his bristling aggression here at the bar was not disappointment in his men or anger at the Manchester team, but a fiery self-loathing that he hadn't been on the pitch to put it right.
The two footballers lingered there at the bar, Eden saying nothing but looked at the tight tattooed fist around Sergio's tumbler of whiskey, the hunch of his broad shoulders and the vein in the side of his thick neck. Slowly, Hazard sidled closer and reached a hand to push the glass, almost empty, free of his captain's stiff angry fingers. He let his own digits slip against his as he did so, discreetly stroking the back of his hand with one thumb, letting that slight physical contact say everything. Sergio twitched his head and looked at him.
Eden nodded once, letting a simple smile play on his own handsome features. He bit his lip and rubbed his thumb once more over the back of the captain's hand, then took it away. When he continued on his way to the lifts again, this time El Burro followed, his face set with anger and lust.
Kevin stopped the car and held his palms over the wheel, looking across at the sprawling suburban house, not his own. It was daft to be here, yet here he was, spurred on by Eden's odd encouragement and assertions. He had hardly told his Belgium pal everything, but there had been something in the other footballer's pep talk that meant he couldn't stop replaying the incident as he got back in his car and drove out of central Manchester... and so here he was. Here. Sitting in his car. Looking at the house. Regretting it? No. Glad he'd come. Guilty? Yes. Confident? Erm, not any more.
The 29-year-old squeezed his palms and his knuckles against the soft leather of the wheel and steeled himself against the indecision and shyness that would make him restart the engine and drive on to the next suburban satellite of the big northern city. He could so easily leave this and go home; there would be no questions about his lateness, she would already be in bed getting her beauty sleep, the kids long settled and silent. He could wake up to a celebratory breakfast tomorrow in honour of City's win and the prospect of their remaining games over in Portugal to complete the tournament. But here he was, sweating through his clothes and looking at the low sprawling outline of another home in the wrong corner of Manchester, trying to work out if there were lights in any of the windows.
De Bruyne moved before he could give in to doubt and start the engine. He snatched his phone from the hollow of the passenger seat and thumbed through his contacts to make the call. Taking deep rattly breaths, he listened to the dial-tone and thought with an eerie relief that if there was no answer, he had no choice but to accept his reservations and drive quickly away. But then a click and a throaty sleepy voice, tremulous with surprise. `KDB...?' murmured the Manc accent of City's youngest Premiership hope.
`Did I wake you?' Kevin grunted back simply.
Er... no.' Lie. What's... er, what's up...?'
I'm... outside.' He paused heavily on the drama of this admission and listened to Tommy's whistling little breaths of surprise. Can I come in...? Is that... can we...?'
The phone call was over in a serious of awkward interchanges, the 18-year-old newbie sounding half-asleep and utterly bewildered, Kevin forcing a kinda grunting assertiveness that belied his half-drunk and neurotic uncertainty. Minutes later he was pawing at the collar of his tracksuit top and making his way up the crunching driveway of the large family home. He knew that at 18, Tommy Doyle did not love alone, but shared his newly purchased suburban mansion with his parents and siblings and possibly more relatives. The idiocy of that particular risk had not been among his calculations as he left the bar and drove out here.
And then the door was opening, and Doyle was there on the step, fluffy-haired and as bewildered-looking as he had sounded on the phone. Kevin stood broodily on the step, hands in the tight pockets of his fresh tracksuit bottoms, looming in front of his young friend, glowing with tonight's footballing performance and supposing with a touch of Hazard-like ego that Doyle must have watched him from the subs bench and thought -- surely -- of what had passed between them last week.
`Can I come in?' he grunted.
'Course you can,' Tommy mumbled. Just...' He was blinking sleep away. `So surprised to hear from you, er, tonight. Er.' The young lad backed off to let him in and they stood in the hallway. Tommy looked anxious but Kevin didn't need telling to keep his voice low and his footsteps careful. The lad's family must all be here, asleep in their own quarters of the big house their boy's talent had bought.
De Bruyne stood there brooding and uncomfortable, and bypassed the much-needed small-talk, the friendliness he'd intended. You were okay, right, after what happened?' he grunted, the only verbal mark that had passed between them since that late afternoon together in the cupboard. He eyed him forcefully, watching as Tommy pulled at the neck of his baggy tshirt, fluffy legs seeming slim in his loose black pyjama shorts. It helped you, didn't it?' the Belgian continued. `I mean, what we did, what I let you...'
Seeming finally to recover from being woken just after getting his head down, and from the shock of his older colleague turning up on his doorstep, Doyle nodded his head rapidly and eyed Kevin with cautious excitement in the half-light of the hallway. What? Sure, of course,' 18-year-old Tommy mumbled sheepishly at him. It were... well, was so kind of you, mate, to... I mean...' He scratched at his shaggy short strawberry blond hair and shifted from bare foot to bare foot. And I am so sorry bout all the confusion there, y'know, I never meant no offence, and you were so good to me...'
All of the kind words of comfort that De Bruyne might utter remained in his chest. He stood there, quiet and fierce, and nodded his head slowly at the shorter, slighter player, the inexperienced teenage midfielder who seemed to look up to him so much. `Good,' he muttered. He looked about the hall with all its signs of family life, alarming reminders of Tommy's youth and the fact they were far from alone here. Before he could cave in and reach for the door behind him, he took a step closer to his host and grabbed his hand, quite roughly.
`Kev?' Doyle muttered in a little thrill of panic.
You wanna do it again?' the Belgian hissed at him in the dark, gripping his wrist and pulling it almost to the crotch of his City trackies, his broad 5ft11 body squared up against the wiry 5ft10 teen. You wanna make me cum again, buddy? Eh?'
In a very different space, a very different Belgian made his own moves. The lights were left on so as to better enjoy the decadent post-match consolation of the fun. Eden's top was already discarded, his thick little torso on show and the rugged growing patch of dark hair visible on his chest between hard purple-pink nipples. He was on his knees on the soft expensive hotel carpet, his hands resting on thighs; he could feel the hot taut muscle even through the suit material while his moist lips trembled about the thick red head of his captain's prick.
Sergio's body heaved with each powerful sigh, the buttons of his smart waistcoat straining about his muscular physique as he leaned back and enjoyed the first teasing contacts of Eden's blowjob.
Hazard brought his hands up to address this, slowly undoing each button while continuing to tease the donkey-dick of the Madrid skipper. He brushed his lips about the rolling foreskin of the weighty tool and gently over the sensitive skin of its head, but nothing more, building up to the moment he would take it into his mouth yet again, this salty thick delight. He loved the frustrated wordless growl of the 34-year-old married man as he worried his cock and undid his clothes bit by bit; the waistcoat loosened, now he undid the shirt, and got his fingertips in against the rock formation of Ramos' six-pack, all building gently up to... the slow wet kiss on the head of his cock and the slow pull of his town tight lips around its girth then downwards, taking so much of it into his hungry talented mouth, trained in brutal fashion by that Chelsea man who he definitely hadn't fallen in love with.
Oh you fucking little slut,' Sergio gasped into the air, stroking the back of his head. You brilliant little whore, Eden... mmm... fuck I am glad we signed you, no matter how shit you play, hey... oh my dirty little bitch...' Hazard loved to hear it, loved the rasp of the Spanish accent and the crude sexualised English. Very slowly, he drew his lips and tongue back up Sergio's shaft, circling his moist mouth about the head again, then pulling back very gently on his knees and his soft big behind that rested on the heels of his trainers.
Sat on the bed in front of him, Ramos was still moaning, but shifting aside a little, chuckling, happy for Eden's attention to wander. Because right next to the intimidating suited physique of the goal-scoring defender was his roommate and fellow Madrid player. Eden rested his left hand hungrily on the bare thigh of beautiful Isco, licking precum from his own lips as his eyes shifted to the almost nervous dark-featured face of the other Spanish stud.
Yes,' purred their captain, oh yes, Eden, now it is Isco's turn...'
And he grabbed and pushed at Hazard's head, twisting him to the left and down into the crotch of Isco's bedshorts, where his short but impossibly thick tool was already well on its way to hardness, waiting for this shared and lavish attention...
`Just... be real quiet, okay? Please, mate, it's... I don't want anyone to... Fuck, mate...'
Really, young Doyle shouldn't be so worried. The house the 18-year-old had secured for his working class Manchester family was big and the large first-floor bedroom he'd given himself seemed to occupy a whole end of the building, divided by spacious landings and bathrooms from whatever other bedrooms were up here. But as City's young wannabe led the way inside this private space, his fear was palpable: his cheeks were glossy with sweat, his eyes darted everywhere, his knuckles clenched and unclenched. Something in his youthful terror and excitement soothed and steadied De Bruyne's own guilty anxiety.
It was, weirdly, an almost footballing situation: when you played with nervy youngsters, you had to step up, you had to let your own experience and status take over, be solid for them, lead the way... And maybe dirty little Hazard was right, after all. Sex and football were inseparable.
For all its size and grandeur, it was such a teenage room. Cluttered, messy, awkward. Doyle was pulling towards the crumpled sheets of the double bed, past the messy video game set-up and bookshelf of youthful footy trophies, past the pin-up posters of hot women -- decoration or disguise? Kevin followed him, remaining strong and silent and pulling off his tracksuit top and his trainers, then grabbing Tommy soothingly by the arms to hold him at the bedside, dragging one of his hands back to the front of his own pants and showing him the warm hardness that was all for him.
Even in the dark, the bedroom felt a weirdly exposing space, compared to the sudden secrecy of the cupboard in the City gym. This private space felt odd and all-too-real. But Kevin held down his anxiety and indecision and stripped his tshirt off to allow Tommy access to the broad smooth muscle of his chest and abdomen. The invite was rapidly accepted, Tommy's shaky hands curving over his pecs and down his sides. De Bruyne gave his hands a slight push, guiding them onto his hips and the waistbands of his pants, urging him to take over before sliding down onto the bed and letting Tommy hesitantly drag down these tracksuit bottoms.
Oh Kev,' the Manc teen muttered, I've been thinkin' bout this so much, and...'
Shush, just grab it.' He closed his eyes and wanted to shut out the voice too, details that were too tangible and real for him to cope with. But he let his hands take it in, reaching down and stroking the fluffy ginger head hair of the boy next to him and squeezing his lean shoulders a little, while his exploring hand cupped the front of his white trunks and scooped in to fondle his cock and balls. That's it,' the Belgian encouraged with husky excitement. `That's it, Tommy, that is it... mmm...'
By contrast, Hazard kept his eyes wide open, wanting to see every detail of Isco's sturdy little body sprawled out on the bed in front of him now, the last of his clothes pulled off over his ankles to bare his legs and feet. And now Eden could sink down between those spread legs, those thick hairy thighs, to lick once more at the glistening muscle of his cock, to lap and kiss and spit on thick Spanish meat, enjoying every dazed purr and whimper of the 28-year-old star.
Both men's dicks were so delicious to suck, Eden thought, and he loved swapping idly between them, happy that the two Spanish studs seemed so malleable to his oral talent, and almost equally excited to watch each other be pleasured; whenever he sucked on Ramos, Isco grunted praise at him and the captain, and when he sucked on Isco, he always felt Ramos take control and seek to orchestrate the sharing of his hungry mouth.
Now, stripped to his own black boxers, he hunched forward on one of the hotel beds, licking the taste of defeat from Isco's thick nob, holding onto the girthy muscle of his legs, so darkly haired in contrast to the smooth shaven sculpture of his tight torso. He opened wide and went down, able to take Isco more fully in his gob than their ridiculously well-hung older pal, who was somewhere to his side, muttering and cursing and jerking his big piece with little wet fap noises.
And now, busied with blowing handsome Isco, Eden felt fingers on his lower back and the tight patterned waistband of his boxers, stretching them down over the famous chunky globes of his cheeks, patting rather than slapping this pale flesh. He waited for the invasive push of Sergio's finger between them -- he'd longed for a second fucking from El Burro ever since their shag at the president's house. Being so roughly and sweatily taken on that guest bed at the end-of-season soiree had been the culmination of many long weeks of fantasy and desire for Hazard, a delirious lockdown prospect made muscular reality. His first fucking since... well, since... him.
But no fingering came, not yet. Instead, hunched forward to suck on Isco, Eden felt the soft tickle of beard hair on his cheeks and the moist breath in the little hollow at the top of his crack. Then his cheeks were being parted and... oh, wow... for the first time in his life, Eden Hazard felt a tongue enter his arse crack, and he bucked in overpowering new pleasure, amazed to encounter such a new sensation at the age of 29. He leant forward into Isco's lap, licking and jerking his tool and relaxing his chunky backside into the Madrid's captain's dirty face, his tongue meeting the rosebud of his hole.
With shy, slow movements, they shifted into a more comfortable position -- De Bruyne pressing his head and shoulders back into the overlapping pillows, his body flat and open, tight white pants bunched up around his thick thighs. Tommy lay against him, still clothed in the warm musty-scented layers of his pyjamas, hand jerking rapidly where it held the big Belgian boner. Kevin kept his right arm about his shoulders in a reassuring embrace, holding him there as the gay teen wanked back and forth on his cock, watched by the older man through half-closed lids.
In this comfortable pleasure, all the uncertainty disappeared -- the guilt at betraying his frigid bride seemed irrelevant, the horror he'd felt at seeing Walker and Stones in action faded as if witnessed by someone else, the long-held certainties about his own sexual preferences seemed parochial and distant. All he could feel was what he'd felt and enjoyed last week in the storeroom, an intimate heat and tenderness where he needed it most, the joy of his dick being finally played by another rather than himself in secretive shameful moments of sex-starved masturbation.
He rolled his head back against the pillows and groaned happily. `Yes, Tommy,' he growled softly, just about able to acknowledge his male name as long as he didn't look at him too closely or let himself picture the scene in full, jerked and teased in another bloke's bed and holding him in place there, feeling the tension in his neck and shoulders. Mmm. He dared to open his eyes and see it properly, the dim outline of his thick ample prick rubbed back and forth, a little greased with Tommy's own spit, little bubbles of precum on the tip. He shifted his head and looked into the set nervous expression on Tommy's face, staring fixedly at the toy he'd been gifted tonight. And then past that, down the folds of his printed band tshirt, to the forming tent in his pyjama shorts.
Somehow, the matter of Tommy's own arousal had not featured in his memory of their first encounter, or in the whole abstract weirdness of this. He had happily held onto the notion that he was doing the curious teen a favour, yes, but... seeing the outline of that hard young erection panicked him, and then suddenly the two red-haired footballers were glancing at each other in this sprawled embrace, eyes meeting. Tommy blurted it out in naïve optimism and Kevin shuddered: `Would you, erm, do me too, while I...?'
De Bruyne swallowed loudly and regarded his own selfishness with the contempt of a dutiful and fair-minded man, and nodded his head at his young companion. `Er... yes, I guess, okay...'
With creaks of bedding and hot wet groans from each man, the Belgian squatted down on hands and knees on the carpeted floor and threw himself into the Spanish spitroasting.
In front, he was sucking Isco again, his shoulders squared and his palms dug into the carpet, tasting the salty hints of approaching orgasm from the dark-haired attacking midfielder. Behind, his chunky bottom jiggled with each forceful thrust of the captain, powering his tool inside Eden with just as much power and depth as he giddily remembered from the recent party. Impaled between these two gorgeous men, Hazard just held his ground, happy to be used tonight, to be the comfort to these competitive men and their sporting disappointment, knowing that he could go home to his wife and invert this submissive role when he climbed on top of his wife tomorrow. Eden Hazard was a man who wanted everything and knew how to get it.
Now Ramos was grumbling at Isco in Spanish that Eden was too cock-drunk to follow, but body language told him the story. The 28-year-old was (reluctantly) sliding back with his cock, stroking one side of Eden's flushed faze, a little string of saliva still connecting them for a few moments. And Ramos, behind, had slowed and then stopped his violent thrusts, was shuffling about. Between them in doggy style, Hazard lifted his head and watched the conflicted desire on Isco's face as this other married heterosexual athlete was teased further over the line. Fuck him,' Ramos was commanding in more clear Spanish now, fuck him good, brother, fuck him...!'
Hazard grinned at the fresh dirt of Iscos' expression, his uncertainty, his almost boyish fear and thrill. This solid young Spaniard who had been led astray by the alpha male, and by Hazard's own willingness to play dirty. He thought vaguely of his own surprise when he'd first strayed from his purely heterosexual philandering and began to appreciate how much fun his own sex offered. As if, at the end of his Chelsea years, and in the big move to Spain, he'd briefly thought he could give it up and be more loyal to his wife! Bullshit.
Ramos took position in front of him, smearing his big cock at his chin and bottom lip, and he felt Isco clumsily handle his world-famous rear, pulling the cheeks open and nudging his solid girth in between them, finding the greasy dampness where Ramos had already ploughed. Sloppy seconds for that Spanish stud, but the novelty would drive him wild. Eden braced himself for it, and wrapped his lips hungrily about his captain's dick, confident in one thing above all: for all the stats and the media criticism, the wavering affection of the fans... his first season at Real Madrid could never be seen as a disaster or a failure, not when it ended in this. Isco pushed inside him and he arched his back and tightened his mouth about Ramos, the filling of their Spanish sandwich once more.
Tentatively, Kevin closed his hand around it, surprised by its heat and hardness even after half a lifetime playing with his own. Tommy was not SMALL but he was smaller; the almost delicate feel of this other man's member against his palm and between his strong fingers was a terrifying sensation, as if he might hurt him if he wasn't careful, or worse, like it might fire off its dirty load of spunk at the slightest jerk of his own arm muscles. He stared down the length of his right arm, leaning over Tommy's tshirt and down to the space between top and shorts where cock and balls emerged, crowned with a little nest of fiery pubes. He squeezed on it and the youth gave a shuddering gasp, worryingly near to his own face.
Overwhelmed by the mutual contact, Doyle's attention had slowed. His slimmer freckled arm hung below Kevin's, playing with his cock and his fat heavy balls, but without the force or enthusiasm he had been enjoying. The lay there like this, hands on each other's manhoods, athletic bodies tense side by side, and De Bruyne stared in fascinated horror at what his wife's sexless treatment had driven him to. He looked at it, the pink-tipped fleshy thing in his hand, and felt a twist of confused nausea, as he had when he'd walked in on Kyle and John, when he'd looked up that porn to try and understand what they were doing... for a moment, he felt like his head might actually explode.
And then, as if burnt or stung, he pulled his hand back, grunting almost angrily; alongside him he could hear Tommy's sharp little intake of worried breath, a regretful frown on his face. Kevin didn't put into words his self-disgust or his guilty sensation that a worse betrayal was happening. Instead, he rolled to the right a little, and pressed his left hand down onto the lad's shoulder, holding him to the bed while he pulled on leg over, straddling above his waist. Tommy stared up at him with wide blue eyes, highlighted by the ginger-blond of his hair and little goatee, the soft red freckles on his tanned cheeks. Kevin stared back, his pale face impassive and stony. He held himself over the teen's body and with his other hand, grabbed and tugged his cock.
In moments, he finished himself off, edged and tantalised by Doyle's handjob. Holding the lad firmly down by the shoulder, he knelt heavily over him and pulled his cock to release, emptying his balls of salty whiteness that streaked and puddled on the printed front of that tshirt, staining and splashing it bit by bit. De Bruyne's breaths were animal grunts and, as soon as the last drip of his load marked the cotton below, he pulled to the left and climbed off the bed, unable to look at the youngster. He could hear his fast nervous breaths and the sound of his sudden wanking, but he ignored him, pulling his boxers on properly and finding the discarded items of his Man City tracksuit.
When he left the room, he knew his hurried footsteps would be louder than Doyle would like, but he needed out of there. The last thing he could hear as he pushed the bedroom door shut behind him was the gurgling groan of the 18-year-old's orgasm, the climax he had promised to help deliver, then recoiled in guilty horror. Now Kevin's guilt was double: he had let down his wife, but he had also misused the sweet English youth. He fled the house in a hot sweat, rushing for the safety of his car.
Ramos and Isco were asleep in separate beds, snoring. Discarded by them but utterly satisfied, Eden sprawled at the bottom of one bed, the captain's, like some sort of loyal hunting dog. His arsehole throbbed with the alternating fucks of those two, pulled all over this room and buggered until he had no choice but to wank himself off and cum all over the carpet. He'd swallowed both men's loads and his dark stubble was sticky and starchy with their cream. Bits of it were stuck in his chest hair and sideburns and he still felt shiny with sweat all over.
Slowly, Hazard slid off the bed, happily aware of the burning sensation both cocks had left in his solid rear. He went into their bathroom and washed his face with a hint of reluctance, wanting to remain stained and marked by the ownership of these two stallions. But he needed to sneak back to his own room, shared with Kroos, and reveal nothing of this detour. He would be able to claim his Belgian catch-up with De Bruyne had gone on a little too long, and who would ever suspect anything kinky or untoward about that big solid lump of professional boredom?
Hazard dressed himself while smiling at the sight of the two exhausted players, tangled in sheets where they had fallen, faces buried in the pillows and rattling manly snores shaking from their open mouths. He looked in particular at the exposed view of Isco's big round backside, a rear to perhaps compete with his own, and at the stretched view of Sergio's flank, all hard defined muscle that made him look almost inhuman in the glare of lights. Hazard switched off the lights and left them, glad of the cooler corridor; still, he went out onto the floor's communal balcony area before finding his own bedroom, needing the night air on his skin.
He was standing there, looking affectionately out at the bland industrial skyline of an English city after a long year in Spain, when his phone buzzed in his tracksuit pocket. Given the late hour, he was very surprised to open it and find the incoming call from his good national pal.
Kevin,' he purred, full of his own sexual satisfaction, don't tell me... you cracked the ice queen at last?' He chuckled, rolling his neck with a click and tensing then relaxing his bruised buttocks. `You dirty bugger, DB, what have you been...'
I tried to take your advice,' his Belgian fellow muttered at him down the line in gasps. I tried to... you know, just... follow my lust, and... I tried to... ugh, I feel sick about it, Eden, I cannot do this, I cannot just take my pleasure where...' He sounded mad with panic and upset, and Eden felt a twinge of guilt or empathy. `I cheated on her again, I let someone else... ugh, Eden, I feel so horrid, I don't know how you...'
Relax, relax,' Hazard insisted, feeling slightly defensive, his own bad behaviour brought into the light by his countryman's guilt. It does not have t be so heavy, what did you even...'
I should not have let it happen, I should not have gone there. I feel so sick, my friend, how could she ever forgive me if she knew? I must be patient, I must behave, I must...' He rambled on like this, barely coherent and slipping between English and Flemish. Eden listened sympathetically but with a sting of irritation that his afterglow was being shattered by someone else's neurotic inability to enjoy themselves. What would she say, Eden? What would she say if...'
No if,' he snapped at him. She will never know. You are a free human and...'
I can't believe I let him,' Kevin mumbled miserably, I should never have gone, I should never have... I mean I almost... I began to try...' His words broke to a miserable whimper, high-pitched and so unlike his solid nature. Oh, what a mess, I am sorry... Eden, I should not have called, I just didn't know who else to... ugh...' And then, sniffling and unmanly, he ended the call, disappearing from the mobile phone and Eden's night, a man brought low by his own intensely repressed lust. Hazard clung guiltily to the phone in his hands, a little disturbed to hear how distressed big dependable KDB was tonight, and wondering how much his advice had fuelled that collapse. And then, cutting through the fug of his own well-fucked orgasm, he heard again the clumsy wording of his pal. Perhaps it had been a slip of the tongue, something lost in translation, he really had sounded like he was very distressed and confused. And yet, in the middle of all that, he had definitely said... him'?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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