Part 175: Gorau Cwarae Cyd Chwarae
Helsinki, and a hotel bar all dark and gleaming with stereotypical Nordic chic. He looked across the high wooden bartop at his fellow drinker, enjoying the open warmth of the other Cardiff bloke's company, and the frankness of their late discussion here in rooftop bar of the expensive Finnish accommodation with its darkly attractive views of the capital city. Small measures of dark bronze whiskey pooled in the two men's deep cut-glass tumblers, and he took a slow sip from his.
It was different, he thought, the dynamic between manager and player, when the player was as long-established and talismanic to the team as this one: a classic feature of the small nation football team, perhaps, the star player always destined to outshine any of his colleagues. Such a man was Gareth Bale, even now, and Ryan Giggs was pleased that his ace was so comfortable to confide in him aside from their strategic discussions of tomorrow's Nations League match against Finland.
Well,' the 46-year-old Wales manager sighed, rubbing his knuckles against the cool edge of his glass, you just need to decide what's really important -- to you, to your wife, to your legacy.' He wrinkled his eyes a little at the younger man sat across from him and stroked the rough dark stubble of his own dimpled chin. `No point staying out there in the sunshine if it isn't working for you now.'
His fellow Welsh football icon nodded slowly at this latest bland advice, nursing his own largely untouched drink and making more maudlin expressions on his long chiseled face. He swung back on his barstool, his big broad shoulders hunched as he mulled this over again. It just gets odder and tougher every season,' Gareth admitted sadly. It's not the dream it was for the first few years. How do I motivate myself when the fans and manager seem to hate my guts, eh?' He hadn't lost much of his Cardiff purr of an accent after many years in the Spanish league, nor the boyish innocence of his rugged features beneath that long dark man-bun.
He was an attractive man, Giggs reasoned silently, giving him a compassionate frown. A big tall fella, broad and strong and deeply manly despite his slightly ridiculous-looking hairstyle. There was a time when I'd be using these whiskeys to make a move, the retired Manchester United legend thought to himself, a guy as burly and masculine as this sat opposite him, vulnerable and thoughtful... Heh, but those were different days. Now approaching 50, the Wales manager was a `changed man'; depressingly faithful to his long-term partner and their comfortable life together. The arrogant infidelity of his youth and prime -- with both men and women -- were scraps of fun that he had bid reluctant farewell to over ten years ago now.
Still, he thought, savouring the rich oaky taste of the whiskey on his tongue, and listening to the gentle purring growl of his star winger beside him, placing his emptied glass carefully back on the dark woodgrain of the bartop. Still.
It is sour there now,' Bale was continuing with an almost mournful tone. Things happened that...' There was an almost haunted look in his deep-set eyes and a little aggressive twist to the expression on his wide mouth. He shook whatever he was thinking away. `I cannot play much longer under Zidane or the management team -- or under that arsehole captain Sergio Ramos. That's for sure. Fuck them. I hope someone breaks his legs in the Spain game tomorrow night!'
Giggs raised his dark, grey-flecked brows and smiled at this little burst of hostility. Now Gareth,' he chuckled warmly, that ain't very sportsmanlike, is it?' He reached over and patted him on the shoulder of his red Wales polo shirt, then stifled a little yawn. `Your agents clearly have some interesting stuff in the pipelione though, from what you've told me. You still feeling the pull of the Premiership...?'
The hunky long-haired Welshman looked away as he murmured his answer. `Always. But... has it been too long? Am I too late?' The questions were rhetorical and his thoughtful gloom was something Ryan could do little to alter, clearly. He just patted him again and made vague noises of reassurance, then smiled unsurprised when Bale pulled away, slid off his stool, and looked set to make his exit.
Sorry,' the Real Madrid star muttered. Terrible pre-match company tonight. I promise my head will on Wales and nothing else tomorrow, boss. Not even golf.' He forced a grin on his almost chimp-like features, flexing and relaxing his gangly strong form in the close-fitting Welsh team gear. `I will leave you, boss. Need to unwind -- hit the pool for a few lengths. See you at breakfast.'
You sure?' Ryan asked a little regretfully. I can't buy you another...?'
On the night before our first international game in forever?' There was something almost mocking in Gareth's voice, or his pious outrage was partly genuine; he grinned at Ryan, who just leered back, laughed softly, shrugged, patted his arm. Nos da,' the 31-year-old Cardiff lad bid him on his way past, and Ryan echoed the Welsh `good night' back to him too, then signalled at a young barman for another tumbler of the same extortionate liquor.
For a while, the middle-aged ex-midfielder remained where he was, sipping the smoky booze and looking over at the panoramic windows. Being away like this on international duty after such a long break made him nostalgic for his playing days, much more than he had felt for years now -- something about the ambivalent foreign city lurking down there, that they would see so little of between airport and hotel and stadium. Some boyish spark in him felt like he was back in his Manchester United heyday, away on a Champions League trip or similar; but no, he was a very different man now, with very different responsibilities, very different pressures. A whole squad of optimistic Welshmen at his command, ready to make their stab at the international stage.
By the time he left the penthouse bar, he was not quite drunk, but lit by the soft warmth of three undiluted whiskeys and the jarring time zones of crossing halfway over Europe; his idle admiration of burly Bale had slipped away from his tired mind in favour of playing over plans for tomorrow's team talk and preparation, the finalising of his player selection for the decisive Finland game. He was almost whistling the Welsh national anthem to himself as he descended a broad curve of steps into the floor below and moves towards the elevators.
Gareth Bale back in the Premiership, he thought curiously, wondering what it might be like if the Welsh wonder was back on UK soil after all, and he got to see a little more of the big attractive fella; before his whiskey-fuelled mind could stray too far from the straight and narrow, picturing having the Bales over to his Welsh countryside mansion for barbecue weekends and evenings in the hot tub, the lift in front of him was pinging and rustling and the doors were sliding apart with a metallic his, allowing him to step on in. Stop it, he told himself, you promised her -- no more wandering...
Sometimes it was hard to believe he was the same dark handsome bugger who had noshed off an innocent young David Beckham all those decades ago, when the world's sexiest footballer was but an awkward virgin behind blond curtains of hair, quivering in his acne and unbranded fashion disasters. Giggs smirked to himself and then realised the elevator was swooping straight down to the ground floor, skipping his own exit -- fucks' sake.
But its arrival at the foyer level brought a minor surprise for the 46-year-old in his close-fitting white shirt and charcoal suit pants. The doors slid open and a tall lean figure panted into it next to him, sliding Apple earbuds out and sucking in air with each gasp. He recognised the youngster first, and when Neco Williams recognised him back, he looked a bit alarmed. Boss,' the 19-year-old Wrexham lad exhaled, hey -- just needed a run out, er...'
Giggs smiled with tipsy benevolence at the young Liverpool starlet. `Of course,' he agreed, taking in the sight of the long sweat-sheened legs beneath the dark running shorts, and the beaded hairy arms folding at his front over his vest. Curling strands of his dark hair were stuck to his shiny brow and the bridge of his nose -- he looked genuinely worried to have been caught returning from a late jog.
I'm impressed,' Giggs told him simply. A run out at this time?'
Williams sighed at him. I thought it would help me switch off,' he admitted. I'm just so excited to be out here, chief. So psyched for tomorrow.' Nervous grin -- very cute and vulnerable. `Love Liverpool so much, obviously, but playing for my nation like this...' He was a picture of patriotic delight, rosy-cheeked and nervous-eyed. Ryan could not hide his affectionate grin as he looked at him.
But of course,' he agreed. He played his rough fingertips against the panel of buttons beside the elevator doors, not taking his stern eyes off the 6ft defender at his side, emanating heat and stale aftershave as he recovered from his Helsinki run. Perhaps I can help you relax though, lad, and get your head clear ahead of tomorrow... eh?'
Midway up the tall slim hotel building in the centre of Helsinki was a floor occupied by its leisure spa, dominated by a large swimming pool with similarly splendid views. Gareth quietly enjoyed them as he traversed the quiet fitness spaces and made his way into the boxy changing room in the corner, pulling away his tight polo shirt and slack blue tracksuit bottoms. He rolled down white socks and stuffed his things into one of the informal locker cubbies, checking his up-tied hair in a mirror and allowing a moment's vain admiration for the dense muscles around his 6ft1 frame before slipping through another portal and out into the pool room itself, long and rectangular and lined on two walls by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city.
It had been good to spend an hour or so with just the boss. In fact, the whole trip was oddly therapeutic for troubled Gareth, a welcome break from the pre-season efforts in Madrid, where his awkward place on the periphery of a triumphant team got more strained and problematic by the day. His good relationships with most teammates persisted, but the strangle invisible pressure on him to move on -- from himself, from the fans, from his bosses, his agents -- was nauseating and distracting. A few days back in the sunny Welsh valleys training with his countrymen and now this jaunt to Finland... it felt more like a holiday than his own break with family had done.
Giggs was such a steady and thoughtful man, someone he trusted with his personal anxieties. At the same time, mind, the Welsh gaffer played his cards close to his chest -- he hadn't quite given the pushy advice that Bale really craved, he'd been measured and consoling and reserved.
Now, clad in just a well-fitted pair of racing green swimming trunks, he padded large bare feet around the perimeter of the pool, finding his way to the small steel ladders disappearing into the inky water, then stepping awkwardly back at an unexpected splash and movement right in front of him; he probably made a little yelp of surprise that was totally undignified for a man of his physique and age, but the swimming chamber had seemed entirely deserted. He steadied himself, stared down at the figure gripping the top of the pool ladders, and burst out laughing.
The younger Wales player blinked at him with boyish surprise, knuckles tight around the top rung, water running down his round smooth face and from the disturbed dark tufts of his wet hair. `Oh,' exclaimed Daniel James politely, as surprised as Gareth was to share the swimming pool at this late hour. The 22-year-old player let go of the ladder and dipped backwards into the water with a gentle swirl of his bare pale arms; Gareth grinned down at him from the poolside, lifting his eyebrows.
`Nearly gave me a heart attack there, kid!' he laughed.
`And I nearly shat my speedos!' Dan exclaimed back at him, treading water and pulling damp fringe away from his eyes.
Speedos?!' Bale muttered loudly at him, tightening the drawstrings at the front of his own more modest trunks. I thought I'd left the Spanish posers of Madrid behind... watch out, I'm coming in, lad...' He ignored the ladder and leapt forward with surprising grace for his stature, bursting neatly into the water and joining his giggling young teammate in the dark rippling waters overlooking Helsinki.
Neco watched with mild concern as the smartly dressed figure of his national manager stooped to take two glasses from the drawer and place them on the top to splash out small measures of whiskey into them, continuing the very complimentary chatter he had initiated in the elevator and on the short walk through the hotel's plush corridors to this rather large suite. The young Liverpool player bit back his uncertainty about the detour, accepting his glass from the boss, and following him over to the pair of small armchairs by the window, angled artfully at the view.
He sat there in his sweaty running gear, his body slowly cooling and recovering, and tried to decide which of the three things was more intoxicating right now: the exciting city lights glinting in the voluminous darkness beyond; the surprise snifter of pricey whiskey that Ryan Giggs had produced once he followed him here rather than disappearing back to his own shared room; the running commentary of admiration that the gaffer was now spilling about his sporadic performances for the Premiership winners this past year.
The cocktail of all three had him grinning foolishly in the comfortable leather seat, self-conscious about his skimpy shorts and tight vest, torn between the desire to get back to his room and take that shower, and staying here to have one of the most legendary Welsh footballers he knew of singing his praises with only the vague appearance of being a little drunk.
Well,' he told him quietly, I defo hope to get more starts this season, I dunno... just depends how it goes, how I impress Klopp in the right moments, y'know...' He grinned over at Giggs and glanced from him to the view as the manager talked on, dismissing his humility and stressing that the Liverpool bosses needed to start making better use of him or another big club would be snapping him up come the next transfer window. He was definitely a bit drunk, Neco noted, hearing the slight slur of his throaty accent and the sprawled posture of the 5'10 older bloke in his chair, a little puffier in the face than the lean wiry figure who Neco could remember pasting into football sticker books as a child.
Ryan seemed to fill up his chair and stretch out of it, his strong legs parted in the dark grey of his trousers, some buttons of his white linen shirt stretching a little over his still-toned body, the top buttons opened now in the warmth so that a curly peek of his chest hair was visible reaching for his slender neck. He was talking now about some fantasy of himself taking over as Man United manager one year after Ole and how Williams would be amongst his immediate signings to sort out his former club and bring it back to former glory. Neco chuckled, increasingly sure of the other man's intoxication, but feeling the same lurid sensations burn down his throat as he sipped on his small glass of whiskey.
Now Giggsy was getting up and wandering, so Williams did too. He stared at the dregs of his whiskey measure and wondered if he should really be drinking anything at this hour with a game tomorrow night, but... well, it was literally the boss himself who'd given him it, hey! He finished it off in a shot and then started when he looked over his shoulder and saw that the older guy (what was he, nearly 50 now?) was at the dresser again unscrewing the lid of the bottle and topping up his own glass; he turned then, grinning toothily this way, waving the neck of the bottle, signalling for Neco's top-up.
Ah boss,' the 19-year-old said, clutching his glass to his warm chest, not for me... I'm all dehydrated from the run, so...'
`Ah come here,' insisted Ryan in a firm and singsong voice, taking a long drink and still waving the bottle this way. The offer was as tantalising and affirming as his praise and his invite; previously, Neco had found the senior Wales coach a faintly intimidating figure, stern-faced and quiet in his leadership of the Welshmen -- tonight he seemed affable and avuncular, almost reminding Neco of the way skipper Henderson had been with him since his brief lodging at his family home. All those praising comments and post-match hugs, scrunching at his curly hair and seeming to adopt him as a young sidekick in the Austrian training days.
Nah,' Neco said again, pushing his glass down on the arm of his chair and patting his hands together awkwardly, smiling apologetically at the boss and approaching him, I can't, chief, haha, but thank you -- so good of you to let me in like this -- I just need a shower, y'know, I need to go and get cleaned and into bed, or...'
Ryan was still sipping his whiskey form the glass in one hand and clutching the bottle in the other as he pressed forward and barred Neco's path, frowning a little and pursing his lips, bringing his arms in against Neco's bare elbows: `Nonsense, you're hanging out with the boss, so...'
I'm so sweaty,' Neco told him with odd bluntness. I need to get showered clean and unwind, so-`
Yeah you're sweaty,' Giggs barked back at him even more oddly, making him pause and blink. But it's okay, you can stay here.' He stared frowningly at him, spilling a little of his drink down one of his arms and against the fabric of his vest, then backing away for a moment. Neco shook himself, laughed, glanced over at the door and thought how much he really needed to get out of here. Okay, it was fun to briefly hang out with the boss, but Giggsy was pissed and would he be so sanguine about players having an illicit drink when they were meeting up at team breakfast in the morning, or...?
Suddenly the bottle was being tossed aside, landing softly on a corner of the big central bed -- Giggs had clearly forgotten the lid was elsewhere, its rich brown contents spilling messily onto the sheets and then the floor as it spun and rolled. Williams stared at this in horror, anticipating the slide of the green glass bottle as it tumbled inevitably to the corner and off the edge and down against the hard floorboards where it smashed open and -- and that seemed suddenly distant and irrelevant because the hand of Ryan's that had gripped the bottle a moment down had moved downwards. The older man was stood close beside him, his other fist holding his cool glass against Neco's upper back, while his right hand found its place on the front of his running shorts.
The Liverpool teen stood very still, jolted by surprise and confusion. He turned his head slowly, seeing the intense and breathy expression on the manager's face: his dark wide eyes, the silvery fur of his beard, the pale golden tan of his skin. Slowly but firmly, Giggsy was massaging the front of his shorts, cupping his hand about his crotch; the other was moving the cool glass back and forwards against the top of his spine, then pulling it back for a sip, then hoying it across the room in a glassy arc until it smashed on the floor just like the bottle. Fuck,' Ryan grunted quietly, my hand slipped.' The hand holding the glass, he must mean, cos the other hand was very firm and commanding where it lingered, finding and holding the shape of Neco's cock through his shorts.
Daniel had been keen on a solo swim tonight -- the summer break seemed to have vanished away from him before he knew where he was, and though he'd loved the banter of joining up with the Wales squad at their countryside training camp this week, he felt exhausted by it all. Plus, he was now sharing a hotel room with his excitable United teammate Dylan Levitt, a sparky young midfielder on his first senior venture for the country, who had literally not stopped talking once on the flight out or as they settled into their suite or before, during or after dinner, or... Dan knew he was normally the chirpy excited one, but Levitt was proving a bit much for him on this trip.
In theory then, he'd been disappointed when another player turned up at the pool's edge and joined him; it was a distraction and a nuisance, he briefly thought.
But this was Bale... something of a hero for him. A hero for all of the lads here, really. Dan was not as strictly Welsh as most of them, though he was not the only English-born lad here on the squad; you had to face a certain amount of cynicism from your mates to do it, he'd learned, since English lads would just assume you were taking the easy option of getting onto a national team by joining the smaller pool of England's neighbour. But Dan had grown up in Yorkshire in a passionately Welsh household and he had thrown in his lot with his dad's home team since a young age, never wasting any energy on the Three Lions. He might not have the trilling accent of these other guys, but Dan saw himself as firmly Welsh and he was deeply proud to be playing for the country; so just like any other young Welshman, he idolised the international success of Gareth Bale, longed to reach the giddy heights of the Real Madrid star now sharing the pool with him.
They spoke in bursts, punctuating comfortable silences of swimming alternating laps or idling at opposite ends of the lengthy pool. The two of them would pause, clinging to nearby points on the pool's edge, or treading water close by, snatches of light conversation about their summer holidays and their hopes for the team tomorrow -- they discussed who had stood out to each of them in training and their shared confidence in Ryan Giggs' solid leadership. Bale made some admiring remarks about Dan's on-off brilliance at United, in turn James reminisced about when he first saw Gareth play for Wales in his youth.
And how much could he admit to himself now that his admiration for the big Cardiff bloke was more than professional or patriotic? How easily could he hold those thoughts in his head even days after finishing a romantic summer trip with his darling girlfriend? He'd pause in his swimming and watch the movement of Gareth's big body, sleek muscles powering in and out of the water, his body and the pool rippling in sync. Every now and then he'd catch glimpses of the wet tightness of the man's trunks and become self-conscious about the black speedo he'd adopted for speed and efficiency in his late-night dip.
Fuck, he thought, Gareth is so hot. He'd fantasised about him before, of course he had, but this felt like the first time he had ever been truly alone with his teammate and fellow attacking winger. He consciously avoided swimming too close to him, tried to control his stolen glances, focused on working his lithe young body and tiring himself out. Before long the internal sexual tension was simply too much -- he announced his decision to exit the pool and retire, making vague comments about lacking Gareth's stamina or strength right now! He struck out across the water and grabbed once more at the steely ladders, hoisting himself onto its rungs and clambering up onto the tiled surrounds, feeling cool water rush down his toned body at every reach.
He reached forward for the long bench where he'd left his neatly folded towel, bringing it in against his face and chest in a gentle rub, then pausing at the cool silence of the space. He turned, looked over his shoulder: Bale, he noticed, had paused, idling in the centre of the pool looking this way. He was staring oddly, thoughtfully, at... well, at... Dan stood there self-consciously, aware of his exposed back and thick short legs, and the tight swell of his buttocks beneath the wet speedo. His eyes met Bale's and the bigger guy looked away. No, Dan thought, no way was he really looking at his... no...
He turned back away, grabbing at the towel and drying his front and his shoulders and his arms, then shoving his toes into the pair of flip-flops he'd left there. Behind him he heard ambiguous watery crashes as Bale's body moved through the water, as if he was coming for the ladders too -- but Dan moved embarrassedly along the perimeter, returning to the little changing space on his own, wondering for a guilty minute if his long hungry looks at the Cardiff stud had been too indiscrete.
On his own in the changing room, he pulled the loosened towel about his shoulders, water still trickling down his chunky thighs, and he blinked away the watery images of Bale in action -- but wet footsteps a few metres behind him signalled the other Wales player following him into the small dark square of space, all exposed wood and warm moist air.
You're right,' he heard Bale say gruffly, it's getting late, can't swim the night away...'
`Well don't let me hurry you,' Dan said back with forced casualness. He looked over his shoulder, unable to stop himself watching the rise and fall of chest muscles as Gareth crossed the room to this same wall of cubbies and shelves, finding where he'd left his things. They both stood there, two metres apart, bodies dripping wet, very different swimwear sticking damply to their lower bodies.
Again Gareth looked this way, seemed to catch him staring, and Dan glanced sharply away. And so it went: one minute he was burying his face in towel and awkwardly anticipating the moment he would need to slide off the wet speedo and expose his chilly shrunken privates; the next he was stealing glances at Bale, at the flex of his upper arms, or the way he delicately held a towel about his waist to shed his shorts, all shuffles and British reserve. And each time these stolen looks would be countered or interrupted as the older man glanced this way and fidgeted away. Dan realised his rounded cheeks were burning red and he almost laughed aloud at himself.
`Dan?' he heard the experienced footballer's voice asked in a quietly gruff burst.
Yeah?' he replied brightly, looking that way. Gareth stood there, tall and broad, towel tightly wrapped at his waistline or just below. His face was unreadable but frowning -- confused, annoyed, worried? Dan stared questioningly his way, draping his own towel down his front, feeling his cock and balls twitch in the wet pouch of his black swimming briefs. Yeah, mate?' he repeated in a heavier, cautious voice. He's seen you looking, you little creep -- why did you have to make it so obvious? You were just starting to bond with the legend, weren't you, and now you've gone and-
It's okay,' Gareth muttered, his voice deadly quiet, his face increasingly intense. I think I know what you want.' Dan blinked and stared and frowned back. And then, in one smooth move, Bale undid the knot of the towel and let it fall away. He was now stood fully naked -- wow -- and he took a couple of long strides to lock the doors at both sides, the one that led out onto the pool area and the other that returned to the hotel corridor. As he moved, his muscles still rippled and shone, but the long fat thing between his hairy thighs also swung and shifted, and it was that which Dan's eyes had to follow. When it was done, Gareth just stood there, staring hard at him, so big and powerful looking that the 5ft7 United lad could almost have felt some surge of fear. But no, not with this guy. Not Bale.
Well?' demanded the Real Madrid star in an urgent whisper. Am I wrong?'
Ryan pulled himself behind the slightly taller frame of the lean teenager, closing his left arm about his side and resting that hand on his upper tummy, gently easing the vest up so that his right hand could push more clearly inside those tight clingy running shorts, needling into the mesh lining and taking proper hold of the warm dank contents. He pulled and fondled the teen's cock and held their bodies close together as he did, breathing heavily against the back of his neck. Tell me to stop,' he grunted very quietly, close to his ear. If this is wrong, tell me to fuck off, lad.'
He knew it was a stupid thing to say, given his status and influence here, but he was too drunk now for clear thought, and he felt pretty sure the young stud was appreciating the attention -- his body had stiffened up but he wasn't wriggling away or pushing him off. Something in his manner hinted to Giggs that this kinda contact wasn't 100% new to him. Still, he knew his age and the risks of his actions, knew the potential he could have misread this athletic youngster. He gently tugged on his member inside his shorts and planted the ghost of a kiss on the bottom of his hairline. Tell me,' he insisted more firmly. Do you want me to let go? Is this wrong, lad?'
Neco's voice, when it came, was wavery but unmistakably excited. I don't mind, boss,' he murmured back. I just... I didn't think you were... erm...'
I'm not,' Ryan insisted darkly. But you needed relaxing, didn't you?'
`Mmm, yeah, gaffer, um...'
Then just relax and let me help you,' he grunted authoritatively, and eased back the foreskin so he could run his thumb tip over the sensitive head. Let me touch your beautiful cock you young stud, and no more talk about needing a shower. I prefer you like this.' He gently kissed the nape of his neck now, and stroked his left hand further up under the vest, holding his thin muscular body, feeling its weary heat and dormant strength. Fuck, fuck, fuck -- he'd promised himself he wouldn't ever do this again, but here he was...
Bale pressed his sturdy bare buttocks back against the wooden shelving, stretching his spine upright and letting his muscular weight press into the wall of cubbies and shelves that were empty but for his and young James' belongings. He held the lad's head at his crotch and felt his needy lips surround and dance around his swelling twitching member. He ran his strong fingers through the short wet hair and guided the angelic youngster around the space between his mighty thighs, encouraging him to take more and more of his growing hard-on into his gob.
Oh fuck, it felt good, so good.
When he'd been noshed by Eden Hazard, he'd been wasted and terrified, had hardly been able to feel the new pleasures being opened to him; sucked off more aggressively at that recent party by Sergio Ramos, he had somehow felt like he was being dominated and beaten even as he was so intimately pleasured by the filthy mouth of that alpha. This though was more like a suck-job from his gorgeous wife in the early days of their love: Dan's lips and tongue felt so soft and careful, his little bleating breaths so tender and anxious.
Watching his tight little body in and around the pool had been too much for Bale's slow-burning lust to resist, and all of the youngster's nervous glances and shifty stares... It had taken a lot of Gareth's confidence and energy to take the plunge and expose himself, but he was so so glad he had. Hadn't he always wondered a little bit if the cute 22-year-old was entirely hetero? (Had he ever paused to wonder the same things about himself? This was his third blowie off a bloke!)
But he rested there and grunted is excitement, feeding the inches of his thick veiny cock into the United lad's gob, making him gag and whimper and then releasing his grip on his head so he could recover and find a better angle. God it felt good. He stroked Dan's hair and neck and let him lick at the base and length of his prick and then kiss its thick glistening tip. Oh wow.
Dan's eyes rolled up to stare at him, wide and worshipful. It struck mixed shame and glory into Bale's heart to see it, the handsome dark looks of the nominal Welshman, the short tight curl of his drying hair, the red-brown tan of his cheeks and brow. He was slurping back and forwards over the thick upper end of Bale's big meat, treating it like a lollipop, drooling his spit onto Gareth's skin. He whined hungrily and patted at the leg muscles on either side of him.
You like that?' Gareth grunted at him. You like my big Welsh cock, English boy?'
Dan nodded without stopping his licking and lapping.
Good,' he continued roughly, go on, suck it good, you slut, you little Manchester slut, go on...'
He heard his own gruff voice and felt silly -- who did he think he was, Sergio? He'd never spoken to anyone like that in his entire adult sex life, never mind a younger friend. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Dan was pulling away now, holding his cock by the base but taking his soft mouth away -- shit, had he said too much, was that kind aggressive dirty talk no good for this fella then...? He clung guiltily back against the selves, watching his cock judder and drip spit as it separated from Dan's pouting bottom lip.
`Bale,' he moaned.
`What?'
`Bale... mate... er...'
`What? What is it? What did I-?'
`Fuck me?'
`What?!'
`Fuck me? Please? I want this in me...'
`What the fuck?! What the... mate... Ugh!'
He tightened his grips on the wooden slats to either side of him, tensing his 6ft1 physique and staring hard at the young sportsman kneeling between his legs. His first instinct almost took over: the urge to throw this slender young lad away from him, hurl him at the far wall, grab for his towel on the floor, escape with a fistful of clothing and find his hotel room where he could hide in bed and pretend lust hadn't dragged him this far in the wrong place. But that instinct was overshadowed by a burning image, the sight of Dan James climbing out of the pool in front of him, his perky bottom bouncing with each jerk of his wiry body, the black lycra tight over bulging round cheeks.
`Fuck me?' pleaded Dan James one more time. Gareth grunted, closed his eyes, nodded.
He had to step carefully to avoid the broken glass as he moved to the king-size bed, not wanting any of it lodged in his shiny new running shorts, tented about his hard teenage prick. Ryan's hands were on the back of his broad shoulders, guiding him gently forward and tittering at some dirty joke he'd made; like the quick glass of liquor, Williams had his doubts about this, the same queasy reluctance that had struck him after those tentative stoned nights with Elliott. But like the whiskey, he felt in safe hands -- this WAS Ryan Giggs, a Premier League legend, a great Welsh footballer, his boss out here away from Anfield life.
Before he could even sit on the bed, half-turning, Giggs was touching him up again, tracing the outline of his hard-on through the thin rustling material of the shorts. He was rock hard there, teased into it by the older bloke's attention and his own dutiful abstinence since he was driven into the Welsh valleys for the training camp. In fact, he'd barely been able to touch himself over the past few weeks, sharing a cramped Austrian cabin with a teammate for so many nights.
He laughed as he was pushed back onto the bed. `Sir,' he chuckled, suddenly giddy with the thrill of it all, but still in two minds to politely push the boss away, to reiterate his inner conflict: I'm straight! Honest!
He propped himself up on his elbows, feeling fresh sweat prick at his body as Giggs lunged onto the bed with him but hovered at that side, resting his hands on the thick muscle of his thighs, tickling the dark downy hair there, sliding up and tugging at the hem of his shorts legs -- then grabbing at them to drag them down, quickly exposing the neat trim of Neco's pubes. His long hard cock was slowly revealed and released, springing upwards in its rigid excitement, immediately held in the strong white knuckles of the gaffer's paw. Neco gasped a little at the touch, the roughness and strength of his hand, closed his eyes for a moment before realising that no, he DID want to see this... he wanted to see the legendary footballer crouching forward on the bed and teasingly gripping his 19-year-old boner.
Beautiful cock,' slurred Giggs in his rough manly tones, his face pulled into an aggressive sneer as he loomed in over his crotch, shoulders hunched; the buttons of his shirt had loosened more, exposing a triangle of that dark chest rug. But it was hidden again as his lined face dipped forward, lips parting, descending on the tip of Neco and running his big wide tongue over the head in a slow lap that made the Welsh teen shudder and gasp and cry Sir!' again in a muffled mix of protest and sheer pleasure.
Relax,' grunted Giggs, squeezing his cock more tightly, pulling his hand up and down a little, pushing his other hand up over the tight abs and sliding his sweaty vest further up his torso. Neco felt pinned back to the bed, but not so much by Ryan's hands as by his own sudden urgent lust, he felt so incredibly horny and in need of this servicing -- it felt like a surreal dream that he might regret when he woke up, but for now, he just wanted that huge strong tongue against his cock-head again! Relax,' his manager moaned, hunching further forward over the bedding, `relax and let me help you... and then tomorrow night you make your senior Wales debut, you beautiful lad... hehe...' He went down with a slurping noise and took it all in his mouth, and Neco stretched back and groaned.
Dan could feel the tense uncertainty in every move of the bigger man's body, but also an assertive strength that reminded him almost of Maguire; he moaned happy encouraging nosies as he was manhandled into the wall of shelves, his body still damp and slippery and his speedos being pulled in awkward jolts over his arse and legs and left tight and restrictive about his knees. In his mouth, he could still taste the salty precum that had frothed about the foreskin of Bale's big Welsh meat, and he knew he would happily return to sucking that if the big married bloke backed out of this next step -- but hopefully not, because Dan's arse ached for a fucking.
He'd been overjoyed at the brief spurt of renewed fun with Luke Shaw in early summer, topped repeatedly over the course of a couple of weeks, but he knew his handsome teammate belonged to another, and they'd both seemed worried that the bursts of sweaty fun during the Premiership restart would wobble their close friendship -- since Luke's end-of-season ankle injury, Dan had never even tried to hint of anything more happening between them, just focusing on being a good supportive pal to him while lustily remembering those tight strong fucks in the shower. He'd borrowed his girlfriend's toy a few more times when he could over the summer, stretching and toying with his hungry hole and fantasising about... well, among others, the very beast of a man now pushing him roughly into the wall and grunting in his ear as he slapped and prodded his hard-on against his round chubby white cheeks!
God you're big,' he told Bale in a dirty whisper, you're massive, mate, so fuckin' hot...' He felt a bit more confidence in Gareth's hands, pushing and holding at his shoulders and neck, lifting him up to make it easier; Dan grabbed hold of shelves, pulling himself up a bit so that his shorter height wasn't a problem. Fuck, you tasted good,' he muttered at the Wales hero, I want you deep in me, mate, please, fuck me like your wife, yeh?' He wasn't sure if he was saying too much and making it uncomfortable or turning the Madrid winger on, but he carried on in a mumbled Yorkshire mutter. `Just push it in me, fuck me deep man, make me your bitch...'
Yes,' Gareth grunted in response, finally, really tightly holding him now, pressing into him so he could feel his pecs over his shoulders, his bullet-like nipples rub his smooth skin -- and the thick damp tip of his cock pressing between his mallow buttocks. Dan bent his body a little and spread his legs and gasped, writhing his body and helping. He could feel Bale press inexpertly at his hole and he tried to relax himself. Yes,' Bale grunted again in his ear, hot breaths down the side of his neck.
Stick it in there, you big beast,' Dan told him quickly, fuck's sake I've wanted you in me for years...'
`You have?'
`God yes -- so much, Gareth, come on...'
`Oh fuck...'
`Mmm, that's it, push in, ohhhh... shit you're BIG...'
`Fuck, mate, oh... mmm...'
`Oh it feels amazing... you fuckin' god... mm...' Dan gasped, the words performative but the noises so real, feeling himself spread and opened by the girth of it. He pushed back to help and to rest his body more into the strong hold of the Cardiff giant, loving the solidness of his chest and his arms and the rapid nervous grunting of his breath. It hurt and he needed more lube but it also felt amazing, he knew with a strong certainty that this must be Bale's first time fucking a bloke, felt so utterly ecstatic to be that bloke.
Never tell a fuckin' soul about this,' Bale hissed in his ear. You got that?'
No,' Dan promised, though he was pretty sure he'd tell Luke, no of course... oh mate, you feel so good in me, that's it, go deeper... mmm.... You can fuck me hard, mate, go on... ohhhh...' In it went, deeper, harder, oh god yes. Dan's own cute shapely cock was rock hard and he couldn't stop himself from grabbing and wanking it as he was roughly shoved into the cubbies and fucked. Gareth fucked like a virgin, as if he hadn't been ploughing his hot missus for years, seemed unsure what he could do with Dan's chunky bottom, but still it felt amazing -- every slow ungainly stroke, every retreat and push, every tight squeeze and grab of those massive hands. Dan did half the work for him, clenching and relaxing, pushing back and pulling forward.
`I'm gonna cum,' Bale gasped quite unexpectedly -- Dan hadn't realised quite how tight and sensational his own arse must be for a first-timer, and he felt thrilled more than disappointed that it was climaxing so fast.
Fuck me real hard then,' he begged, push it right in, shove it up me Gareth, come on, cum in me, breed me like your bitch, you fuckin' stud...' He muttered nonsensically on until Bale seemed to properly get the message and shove up and forward hard with his hips, ramming his length inside and then choking up in moments of intense pleasure. Dan could feel it, hot and wet, loved the tension and agony in Bale's body around him. `Yesss, yesss, yess,' he whined, grabbing his own dick quickly, desperate to finish with this hunk still in him, pushing back into his strong torso and cuddling arms, jerking himself furiously with that intense thickness and pressure deep in his rear -- until he was spewing globs of cum from his pink tip and shuddering back into Gareth's arms with wordless moans and pants.
When he felt the Wrexham lad must be close, he stopped fully sucking him and wanked him instead, hunched between his strong young legs so that he could watch him properly while he did the job; he pulled in long strokes down the slick hard-on and flashed his tongue against the shaft and the plump rise of his tight ball-sack, double pleasure for the teen as he slid towards finishing. Giggs watched the way his six-pack tightened and relaxed with each convulsion, the way his pretty dark-lashed eyes close and his red lips formed an `O' of ecstasy. He could see his tanned hands gripping the bedsheets and veins stand out in his long neck.
Ryan had not sucked dick in so many years but it was, he thought, a bit like riding a bicycle.
In no time at all, his work was done, the dick in hand was jolting and quivering, streams of thick spunk were oozing over his hand and flicking back against that hard, tanned skin of the abs. He pulled in hungrily and ran his big tongue about the head, tasting the rich saltiness of the boy, then lapping it off his own thumb and fingers, then pulling forward to dab spots of it from the abdomen. Beneath him, Neco moaned and shook and lay with his eyes shut.
God he tasted good -- they always did -- Ryan was thrown back into all the dirty memories of his young adventures as a Manchester United player, the guys he'd seduced and toyed with, always following his golden rule. Don't go too far and don't go back. The Williams boy was a beauty, so virile and handsome and sweet, but he'd never suck him off again, never touch him; if the Wales debutant tried to mention this tomorrow before or after the match, he'd stare blankly at him, never acknowledge it. It was the only way.
With this in mind, he sat up and stared at the gasping form of the Liverpool player, a tinge of regret on his drunken mind. He was rock hard in his suit trousers now and he wanted to wank off and spill his load over that tight six-pack or those fluffy thighs or, better still, that pretty supermodel face. But no. He knew his own rules. He slid carefully off the bed and went to the mirror, wiping dots of cum from the salt-and-pepper beard around his mouth and chin, savouring the flavour on his own tongue. He caught his shifty dark eyes and smirked embarrassedly at himself, old habits returned to in spite of his best efforts at being a good boy. At 46, he was still a filthy fucker, it turned out.
He turned around, fiddling with the loose buttons of his white shirt, watching as Neco crawled off the bed, looking dazed, pulling down his vest and trying to stuff his still big hard prick into his skimpy shorts. Yep, definitely want him to stay and do more things with him, but... nah. Not worth the risk. It was just like he'd told nervous young Becks all those years ago.
`Sleep well, then,' he grunted dismissively, watching Neco adjust his sweaty kit, fiddle with his mess of curly hair, stare about guiltily. He walked to the door and held it open for him, and the men did not look each other in the eye. The 19-year-old staggered out, drained and satisfied, and the middle-aged manager shoved the hotel door firmly shut behind him. Once alone, he ripped open his shirt and tugged the flies of his trousers apart, then went to the mirror and pulled his thick Welsh meat into his hand. He stared himself hard in the eyes and wanked out his frustration, wishing the lad was still here and ready to return the favour, all beautiful and angelic and muscular... and Giggs shot his load across the floorboards with a wistful groan, wondering if all those long years of careful rules and deliberate detachment from male playmates had been worth it.
As Giggs collapsed back onto his bed in a drunken stupor, fumbling at his soft cock and thinking about how much he wanted to cuddle and hold the curly-haired youth whose cum tasted so good, the other Wales players settled down to on the night before their Finland fixture.
Neco Williams returned to his room in a daze, intoxicated and emboldened by what had happened. Oddly, he felt more excited than ever about making his proper debut tomorrow night here in Helsinki, as if the blowie in the manager's bed was something much more formal and professional, a real indicator of his future value to his national squad. His roommate, fellow Wrexham lad and Liverpool property Harry Wilson, was snoring obscenely into his pillow with no acknowledgement of the 19-year-old's shifty lateness and salty odour. Neco abandoned the planned shower and just crawled into bed stark naked, pulling the covers over him and picturing Giggs' face as it sank down at his crotch; he thought about smug Harvey Elliott on the coach out of Wembley last weekend, boasting whatever filthy exploits he'd achieved there in the toilets. Just wait til he hears about this!
Dan James limped into his room, relieved when his chatty roommate Levitt seemed to be fast asleep. He stripped off his damp tracksuit and disappeared into their shared en suite bathroom to shower off the sweat and cum, his body now aching from the force of Gareth's physicality in a way he had completely ignored while it was happening. He scrubbed himself down with a cheeky grin on his boyish features, the cat who got the cream: right up his hole. He'd dreamed of playing with the big hunk over and over for most of this year, had never dared to hope for it in reality. His bottom stung form the size and strength of Bale and he knew he would be reliving that swimming pool encounter in his head for years to come.
And Gareth Bale himself lumbered uncomfortably into a room at the other end of that corridor, still wiping sweat off his brow and adjusting his aching semi in the front of his tracksuit bottoms. His usual roomie, fellow Welshman-abroad Aaron Ramsey, slept with distant innocence on his handsome face, sprawled in the next bed with his chest and one bare leg on show, as Gareth sank down to sit thoughtfully on the end of his own, chin cupped in his large hands. The 31-year-old footballer stared silently across the room, thinking about three moments: the kiss his wife had given him as he left the family villa to catch his flight to Wales about five days ago; the look on Ramos' face as he cornered him in that quiet bathroom at the president's mansion; and the gorgeous sensation of pushing his veiny hard-on between the pillowy cheeks of a young lad's arse just now, and hearing his dirty begging for it ringing in his ears. `Holy fuck,' groaned the simple Cardiff bloke, and he collapsed backwards onto the bed still in his clothes, exhausted and overwhelmed.