Part 238: Memories of the Nou Camp
There were far worse places to be bed-bound than the opulent Parisian townhouse, but it was still not easy to settle down and focus on the wall-mounted screen displaying the build-up to tonight's Champions League knockout match. Especially not for a footballing diva like the 29-year-old Brazilian now huffing into a comfortable position, toying with the heavy chain necklace at his chest and wriggling his shoulders against the mounted cushions to find a better posture, his tournament-winning legs stretched out in front and one carefully clad to protect his recovering muscles from this latest and despised injury; the injury that was keeping here in the French capital (and not even at one of his coastal holiday homes, annoyingly, but stuck in the locked down city without any of his entourage to keep him company) rather than helping to lead his team to the Quarter-Finals.
Neymar da Silva Santos Junior lounged back and pouted impatiently at the screen, fidgeting his legs again and shuffling his muscular bottom over the covers to finally find the right relaxing position from which to survey the two major European squads marching out onto the turf of the Camp Nou in Catalonia. He had been thrilled by the tie between his current and former clubs, of course, for so many reasons; falling painfully to the ground yet again and ruling himself out of the major clash had been far more upsetting than the physical pain he had been in since this last knock, and still was not tonight, deeply frustrated and jealous as Paris Saint-Germain and Barcelona lined up ready for the kick-off.
It was galling to be left here in France and miss out, he'd tried to insist on accompanying the squad on the flight down to the Spanish city, but such a trip would have gone against all physio wisdom and the new manager, despite being so evidently charmed by Neymar's persona, had absolutely refused to allow an exception -- he was here at home on the strict orders of Pochettino himself, a fact that seemed to make his current restrictions all the worse. At 29, Neymar still held an almost teenage petulance against authority and instruction, but he was quite keen on the French club's new boss and had no intention of breaking the Argentine coach's apparent affection for him. Quite the opposite, he thought with a mercurial smirk.
The Brazilian athlete did his best to calm and ignore the sulky sensations and stabs of envy, frowning at the screen and preparing to support the boys from home, phone at the ready to tweet his encouragement and reactions. He pawed lazily at his chest and collar and thumbed through social media while waiting for the whistle, looking up every few seconds to eye the legendary Barcelona stadium with a mixture of nostalgia and defiance.
Inevitably, Neymar's mind wandered back to the brilliant few years he had enjoyed there, arguably the pinnacle of his career so far; the brilliant seasons of success there! In challenging moments here in Paris, he would sometimes question his money-driven exit from the La Liga winners and his arrival in the French league, but PSG too had brought its own moments of brilliance, and could continue to do so. He was quite confident his teammates could make a strong challenge to Barcelona tonight, even without his speed and agility as their secret weapon.
On screen, the game was finally starting, and for a moment the panning camera was fixed on the Barcelona goal and their mighty `keeper taking up position, adjusting the straps of his gloves and huffing out steamy breaths into the night air. Lounging in his townhouse bedroom, Neymar grinned indulgently at the sight of Marc-Andre ter Stergen, now considered one of Europe's best goalies, but a fairly fresh face when he had arrived from his native Monchengladbach in 2014, and joined a then-unstoppable Barcelona.
But it was not those distant days that Neymar found himself musing on now, as the match burst into action between his two treasured football clubs -- no, it was a little more recently, in the summer of 2017, in fact on one of his final few days as a Barcelona player...
It had happened in the gym, where Neymar had gone simply to burn off some of the nervous excitement produced by the near-completion of his PSG transfer. A quiet, shady fitness suite where it had just been the two of them there, the German working out solidly and patiently alone while Neymar bounced energetically between machines and refined his own lean physique.
It had only taken a few conversational gambits to coax ter Stergen into removing his earbuds and listening to Neymar's carefully dropped compliments about his upper body strength, alternated between casual questions about his wife and home. For his own part, Neymar ditched his own sweaty workout, clothed in just a thin tshirt and quite skimpy shorts, sloping closer to the free weighted squats of the 6ft2 beast. He perched against a rack of dumbbells, folded his tattooed arms and grinned wickedly at the goalkeeper, openly admiring his hard work now. The conversation was a little stilted in their shared fragmentary English, though Marc-Andre's was far better than his own, but Neymar's charms always managed to transcend language barriers -- far more could be communicated through his wolfish eyes and gentle shifting smirks, or perhaps just exuded in lusty pheromones when he was really in the mood. Which, then and now, was rather often.
He loitered closer to where the goalkeeper's workout was slowing to a halt, fiddling with the sweat-curled blond highlights of his fringe, then toying with a chunky earring, then lifting the front of his translucent white gym top halfway up his six-pack to scratch himself. In front of him, Marc-Andre stood hesitantly over the lowered bar, hulking and awkward in his vest and black sports leggings. The conversation had really died then, just a series of alternating gruff chuckles and shifting looks, their eyes meeting and evading. Neymar could not be sure how rapidly ter Stergen understood his intentions; there was something quite oblivious and innocent about the German, then just 25 to his own 26, though looking more mature and solid, but perhaps he had heard a few things about the Brazilian's proclivities.
He certainly hadn't reacted much when Neymar made the move, rubbing one of his clammy hands against the loaded front of those tight lycra pants, finding the mound and bulge in there. The silence had become briefly more awkward and loaded, and then relaxed for Neymar when the goalkeeper just sighed and grunted. `Really?' was all ter Stergan asked, an incomplete and ambiguous question that could have meant almost anything. Neymar grinned at him, baring all of his perfectly white teeth, and he nodded. Really.
From there, he had taken full control. Resting a hand on one of the tall keeper's throbbing pale arms, he had guided him back to the bench, not even bothering to seek out a more private and safe spot. Standing face-to-face with him, a little dwarfed at his own 5ft9, he had continued to paw and fondle at the front contents of those black leggings, his eyes just daring Marc-Andre to question or challenge his right to cop a feel. And sure enough, the German man's privates had seemed to swell and bulge at this exploratory series of grabs, and then with his other hand Neymar had lifted and peeled away the vest. Like some large muscular mannequin, ter Stergen had just lifted his bulky arms up and allowed it to be pulled fully up and then off, shirtless now with his broad lightly haired chest on show. Neymar had nodded and grinned approvingly, seen a flicker of nervous expectation in the 25-year-old's face.
Neymar kneeled then, sinking his sweaty kneecaps to the mat on the floor below, breathing in the sweaty odour of his goalkeeper. He had hooked fingers quite roughly into the waist of the leggings, and the underpants below, and yanked them over broad thighs. Exposed, ter Stergen's shapely cock had swung and danced close to his softly breathing lips, and he'd blown playfully on its tip. Above, the German hunk sighed uncertainly, still not saying any more in English, German, Spanish or Portuguese.
The silence in other situations might have been passion-killing, but the quiet awkwardness of the musclebound goalkeeper was part of his attractiveness to Neymar that afternoon, sexy in his muscular passivity. He had guided his hips back and then down, encouraging him to sit comfortably on the weights bench and part his thick legs. Still, he took his time before beginning the blowjob, kissing sweat from thigh muscles and nuzzling above his crotch, running his tongue over the furrowed abs, then breathing and spitting on the erect cock and its curled back foreskin. Only when Marc-Andre's breathing was quite rapid with anticipation had he opened his mouth wider and took the warm piece in against his skilled tongue.
Neymar fellated the goalie in slow movements, quite gentle and tender by his own frenzied standards, wanting to make the blowjob last, wanting to really taste the sweat manliness of this big simple man who was staring down at him in wordless disbelief while purring with the appreciation of a neglected young husband who had not been sucked off in too long. A common scenario among the hot-blooded football players of La Liga and, to Neymar Jr, an ideal opportunity.
He used his talented lips and tongue to make the blowjob last as long as he could, but soon it felt cruel to delay the big man's satisfaction, his prick painfully hard and his balls so swollen. Neymar made sure his lips were clamped about the tool when the moment came, savouring his thick oily load on his tongue, getting its full flavour and swallowing back as much of it as he could, then spitting the rest dismissively on the man's black trainers and chuckling gently. Above, ter Stergen's chest rose and fall in heavy pants, his eyes only half-open.
Neymar got up to his feet, pushed down the front of his Nike shorts, took his member in hand and jerked it in a series of rapid strokes until he matched the other man's climax, unloading burst after burst of his own seed over the goalkeeper's pecs. Ter Stergen flinched silently at each shot of jizz pouring down his chest muscles, seeming appalled by the shared fluids even though he had just emptied his balls in another man's mouth. He didn't say a thing, just gasping and heaving, while Neymar squeezed a final drop of spunk from his long brown piece, smearing it on his fingers and then wiping them across the German's sharp stubbled jawline. He smirked at him, winked, and backed off, reinserting his still-hard prick into his shorts. `Really,' he had sighed, and left the tall keeper there to recover and gasp, almost bouncing out of the gym in his swaggering motion, ready to go home and begin organising his move from Spain to France.
Neymar's sexual reverie, and the gentle stirring in the front of his loose basketball shorts, were interrupted by the drama of a dubious penalty to PSG's opponents. He tweeted a furious reaction via the phone in his hand, then guiltily deleted it before it invited too much trouble or scrutiny his way, and fixed his attention on the obvious assassin taking up the duty for Barcelona. Inevitably, Lionel Messi's goal went in with beautiful accuracy and force, and he could only stare on with a mixture of obvious resentment and fond admiration for the man who had once been his most prodigious ally. What a force they had been together!
It was a constant obsession of Neymar's now that the GOAT might finally quit his precious Barcelona and bring his handsome Argentine features and diminutive physique to PSG instead; the prospect of reuniting with that legend and reigniting their attacking partnership... well, it gave him a hard-on almost as instantly as the occasionally flash of Messi's meaty backside in his stupidly oversized shorts, when the camera was in the right place.
The stiffening excitement in his shorts prodded more firmly at his attention and his free hand slid languidly over it, feeling the outline of the bulge in his Dolce & Gabbana briefs. It was not just deep physical admiration for the Argentine, who was now rabidly celebrating his penalty goal with his Barcelona teammates on-screen, but a certain vanity and professional thrill, remembering what it had been like to play with someone on Leo's level. When Neymar first arrived at the Spanish club, he had found the legendary forward quite aloof and difficult, but... A naughty grin played on his lips, thinking of how that relationship had developed, and allowing his thoughts to settle on one important night in particular, where their bond on the pitch had spilled steamily beyond just record-breaking goals and assists, hehe...
It had happened on the first night of room-sharing between the iconic pair, in the wintry start of 2016 -- that 2015-16 season being their most prolific and glorious together -- at the point where cheeky young Neymar finally felt he could call Lionel something of a friend and not just a colleague, god knows it had taken long enough!
23-year-old Neymar, energetic and ambitious as he was, had been excited enough to be roomed with his teammate and South American hero, but it so happened to be the night of a particularly splendid victory over one of their major La Liga rivals. Both men were fizzing with the passion of the win all evening and gripped by a restless heat when they retired to their shared room. Neymar, a young man whose confidence rarely dipped low, did feel a little self-conscious and shy as he stood by the various routines of the more established football hero, who normally roomed with the older guys or, according to team rumours, was allowed the rare privilege of his own suite on occasions. Apparently there had been a good few years before Neymar's arrival where it became quite normal for Messi to go without a roommate for most of the season, a strange deviation from protocol that seemed fitting for such a special player.
Despite the fact he had scored twice that day and assisted Messi's own goal, Neymar found himself almost reduced to the youthful fanboy first leaving Brazil for Europe -- he sat on his bed, half-undressed, watching thoughtfully as the short muscular man fussed around the room back and forth to the en suite. Neymar tried to keep the excitable conversation going but Messi had become broody and quiet, more like he had been in the first season together -- suspicious or resentful of a speedy young assistant here to disrupt his supremacy, before it had become clear they were a dangerously effective partnership.
Leo was in the bathroom again, and Neymar just sitting a little awkwardly on the edge of his bed, repeating the quite innocent question he'd asked his 27-year-old senior, wondering why no answer was forthcoming. He flared his nostrils sulkily and got up from the bed, now just in the loose-fitting white Diesel boxer shorts, crossing towards the half-open door and asking quite rudely for a third time what he wanted to know. `What was it like working for a legend like Guardiola?' the young forward demanded curiously, stood staring into the bathroom where Messi was finished rubbing some moisturiser into his frowning face. Neymar was leaner and slightly less inked in 2016, but he still caught pleasant sight of his own caramel muscles in the mirror, contrasted next to the broad pale strength of the older player's 5ft7 body.
Messi's eyes met his in the mirror. `Let's not talk about that,' he muttered. He looked deeply angry, and Neymar just stood there in the confusion of his misstep -- for months now, he had been delighted by the growing closeness between them, the way Lionel had almost adopted him as a younger brother, regularly inviting he to his family home or entertaining him at parties. And now, for one improbably offensive question, the dynamic between them seemed to have snapped back two years and he was just the cocky outsider. Messi turned angrily from the sink, equally stripped down to just some clingy blue trunks, and Neymar's eye -- not for the first time -- noted the weighty prominence at the front of the underwear.
Neymar was not bright or patient enough to drop it. He is just such a Barcelona hero -- I am not disrespecting our boss, of course, I just wonder what it is like to work so closely with a man like Pep, and-
He was barged quite aggressively aside as the short powerful man moved bullishly through the doorway and back into the room. `You ask too much,' the Argentine snapped fiercely, not looking back at him as he stalked over the room, all of his back muscles flexing and rippling, his underpants hugging the large long glutes quite distinctly.
And that, apparently, was the end of that -- without another word, the Barcelona figurehead was departing into his bed, back turned away and sheets pulled high, huffing loudly against his pillows as if Neymar had asked something awful and personal. The young Brazilian hovered sourly about the room, fiddling idly with himself in his undies, lingering in the bathroom to take a piss and stare questioningly at his own handsome reflection. When he went to bed himself, sleep seemed evasive, the electric power of the day's triumph still jolting through his limbs, but also a confusing indignation that he might have damaged his important new friendship with the great striker.
Then he'd heard it, the most surprising and weird sound. At first, it confused him, a damp snuffling of noise that he couldn't quite place. The strong masculine ideals of their home cultures made it near impossible to conclude the truth: Leo was sobbing into his pillows in the adjacent bed, so violently that even in the dark he could see one of his shoulders shake and throb. What the fuck?
For a minute or so he just lay there in confused awkwardness, but then he acted on instinct. It was empathy and concern that drove him, unusually, more than the lazy semi bouncing in his underpants, but there was no point denying the thrill he felt as he crossed between their beds, lifted the fluffy white duvet, and slid in beside his hero. He murmured in Spanish and reached an arm about those broad muscular shoulders. `Leo, my friend...?' The other footballer's body was surprisingly pliable as he embraced him side-on, cuddling against his thick muscularity and lifting one smooth leg over his, essentially spooning him into the mattress and feeling his sobs soften and diminish. He didn't risk saying any more, and Lionel said nothing back to him in explanation or gratitude. They just lay like that for several minutes, Neymar using his own weight and heat to hold and soothe the alarmingly emotional bulk of his teammate.
But the problem with the tender cuddle might have been embarrassing and damaging: feeling the tense strength of Messi's body and smelling his rich mix of pheromones and aftershave brought a raging hard-on to the young Brazilian's crotch, which now rubbed quite urgently against one of those bulky strong buttocks. Neymar held his breath, unsure if Messi could tell, and if he could, how violent his reaction might be. At 23, Neymar was full of sexual over-confidence, but he was still wary of how different men might react to his fluidity -- he had not yet reached the assertive see-want-take attitude of 2017 and his fitness suite blowjobs.
At first, the rubbing was imperceptible, confusing, but then it became more obvious that Messi was grinding back into him, letting his cheeks rub back and forth across the diagonal stiffness, while he held one of Neymar's tattooed arms tightly over his own chest, and sighed heavily. Neymar tingled with impossible desire, never having dreamed anything could happen with this legendary man; he dropped a single shivery kiss to the exposed white of Messi's shoulder, then let out a long gasping sigh, feeling his bulge glide against the fabric crease between those buttocks.
Of course, later on, when things were even closer between them, he would learn much of the truth: why his question had provoked and upset his roommate so much on that tipsy night when they had been sipping beers and celebrating their win. He would become one of very few confidantes to learn about the torrid affair of manager and star player, and the secret heartbreak that made Lionel cry in the night. And he would toss off several dozen times imagining it, distantly besotted with that Catalonian DILF soon to be embedded in the English Premiership; but that night in the Spanish hotel, Neymar just thrilled and shuddered with excitement to be touching and enjoying the body of Leo Messi, his cock leaking pre-cum from almost that first kiss on his shoulders.
Neymar slid under the covers and kissed over his chest, taking time to lick and suck at his hard blunt nipples, but one of his hands finding and stroking his cock as he did; finding it to be even bigger and thicker than dreamed, responding wonderfully to his caresses. For his part, Messi stroked at the tightly-bunched dark curls of his hair, massaged his neck and shoulders, and sighed magnificently into the night. Neymar soon swooped lower, hunching up below the duvet as he kissed down the taut six-pack and nibbled at the fabric of those tight trunks, mouthing at the cock he would soon devour. When he had peeled the fabric away, he went absolutely mad for the massive Argentine tool, perhaps the biggest he had held in his mouth: it tasted glorious, a taste that lingered in his mouth in 2021 Paris.
On other occasions Leo would go on to return this favour, a surprisingly energetic and rabid cock-sucker when the mood took him, always shocking and delighting Neymar Jr when it actually happened; but that night, with Neymar assuming less experience in his married friend, he had assumed all of the generosity and deviance, drooling all over the massive rod and stooping his head to lick and play with the big hairy bollocks.
But it did not stop there with just this oral attention. Neymar pushed up at the big striking thighs, lifting and parting those legs -- still discreetly tucked beneath the duvet, breathing in the musty masculine air of their bodies and crotches, Neymar had sunk lower against the mattress and began to kiss at the fuzzy skin below the balls, pushing more firmly at the underside of Messi's thighs until his broad powerful bottom was raised and exposed fully, and... Neymar's long powerful tongue slid in against the ass-crack of his hero, and the Argentine growled deeply in response. He was only just beginning to find and love the skill of rimming at that age, and it was one he was more than happy to test out and develop with his face buried in the mighty backside of the Barcelona great.
At some point, Messi tore the duvet aside to watch, wanking his own huge dick as he stared lustily down his smooth front, legs dutifully lifted and apart, arse spread for Neymar's enjoyment. Neymar kept reaching down to jerk himself through his white pants, but then having to stop before he creamed too soon -- in his overexcited mind, he was becoming too ambitious, wanting more than his serpentine tongue to explore that glorious entrance.
They shifted positions, Messi pushed back into the same position in which he'd initially sobbed, Neymar grinding at him from behind and kissing messily over his shoulders and down his spine, stroking his biceps and his tufty dark brown hair. Then sinking down his body to prise open those cheeks again and spit and lick between them, tasting and enjoying the sweatiness of that deep furrow, really shoving his face in there and taking it all as his, loving the yelping whines that spilled from Lionel's mouth. Then he began to kiss the base of his spine instead and shove a single finger in there, enjoying the slick wetness he had created over a quivering knotted asshole -- but after he had inserted one greedy finger and bitten playfully at one buttock, Messi began to pull away, elbowing at him and grunting with caution in his voice. No,' he snapped, when Neymar began to rub the frothing, leaking head of his own prick into the spit-lubed canyon. Nobody else will ever do that!'
Nobody else? Confused young Neymar relented, but couldn't stop wanking himself, so excited even if he hadn't got to plough the wet hole he'd rimmed hungrily. He lay on his side, wanking himself silly, while Messi rolled onto his back muscles -- and now the goal assassin was reaching quite roughly for his small jutting ears and his curly hair and pushing his face down. Rather than the sobbing hunk he had spooned and cradled, Messi was suddenly rough and commanding, dragging his compliant face over his dick and holding it there, thrusting upwards to fuck his pursed mouth, choking him on that rager. Neymar gave muffled cries and gags of distress, but he loved it, his face fucked like a pussy while he jerked himself to completion, spilling drop after drop of his watery seed over his thighs and onto Messi's shin and knee. Leo's cock went off like a geyser, a creamy flavourful fountain his mouth that he couldn't swallow all of, much of it spilling out over his chin, his lips, his dimpled cheeks... he slobbered at the mess, gasping for air, his face finally released from the hands and the violent upward thrusts, choking on his teammate's juices, but laughing through the struggle, his eyes wild.
A particular jolt of envy had disturbed Neymar's comfort as he watched the milling celebrations of the Barcelona men: a more specific jealousy in amongst the more generalised annoyance at being stuck here on his arse and not getting stuck in at the Champions League...! He had noticed it before, but now he frowned with particular suspicion and cynicism at the way Leo Messi grabbed and coddled Neymar's theoretical replacement at the forefront of the squad. The girlishly long-haired Frenchman danced and posed alongside Messi, and Neymar couldn't hold in a private snarl at what he suspected was a particular friendship between his former wingman and Antoine Griezmann. The pair of them were all over each other! Neymar jealously remembered the physical contact between himself and Leo after their MANY bold wins.
As the match unfolded, Neymar had much to smirk and gloat at: Barcelona's 1-0 lead was incredibly shortlived. Mbappe, that glorious young stud, booted in goal after goal, joined in the second half by Kean. The housebound Brazilian hooted loudly and tweeted excitedly as he watched the 4-1 victory rattle along, Messi's fading side becoming sluggish and defeatist, PSG resplendent and ambitious! Poch seemed to glow as he fisted the air from his position at the side of the pitch.
In the latter quarter of the match, there was a flurry of substitutions, particularly on Barcelona's squad, and Neymar found himself fixating on one in particular. At 34, the great Catalonian centre-back was a slightly tragic sight on his way off the pitch, visibly furious at the score and impending loss, a ragged and violent figure as he exited the game to make way for a younger and more energetic defender. Gerard Pique, the great local man of the team, and another of Neymar's treasured teammates from his glorious years there... What an incredible man, he remembered with a leer, sliding in his mind's eye back to a very different time: 2013, freshly arrived from South America, ready to take on European football...
A much skinnier Neymar Jr, quite scrawny and lithe, his hair a flouncy Brazilian mullet and his grin always quick and edgy as he took in his new surroundings, 21 years old and arriving at perhaps the biggest football club in the world.
He had made his handful of early appearances for the senior squad, was already making waves in the squad of experienced legends, but on that particular late summer's day, he had wowed everybody in training. He had aced every challenge thrown at him and left the coaches quite awestruck. Leo Messi, affronted by the audacity of a young wannabe, had more or less stormed off the pitch at the sight of his aerial antics. Now Neymar strutted through the interior of the Barcelona training camp, bouncing on his heels and humming happily to himself, replaying the numerous dazzling highlights of the day's work.
Neymar was on his way to the changing rooms, delayed by a little extra time in the gym, desperate to put some more meat on his skinny frame so that he could match the physicality of his teammates; he was still a little lost in the labyrinthine passages of the high-spec training centre, so much more wealthy and generously kitted than what he was used to in the early years of his footballing career. He swaggered along in spite of his uncertainty, riding the day's high, and then pausing as his path was blocked by a massive figure emerging through the door he was about to open. Through it burst one of the major names of this Barcelona squad, a man so tall and broad that he almost dwarfed 21-year-old Neymar Jr.
The Brazilian,' commented the big centre-back in gruff slow English, then back into his Spanish, you must be tired out from all that trickery today.'
Neymar, after a little starstruck moment of surprised, nodded and grinned at the established defensive legend, taking in the mighty 6ft4 build of Gerard Pique, his upper body bare and a little glossy with sweat, a towel about his waist. Only 26 then, but already bearded and patriarchal, and married to one of South America's most beautiful exports. Neymar was awed on numerous levels by the world-famous player towering over him, not least the bulk of his strong physique or the brooding intensity of his eyes. As a local-born man, he was particularly revered at the club, a clear leader in the ranks of Neymar's new squad.
When Pique, briefly adopting his own Portuguese with apparent comfort, insisted that he must be tired and sore and in need of a dip in the recovery pool, Neymar could only nod dumbly and make some naff comment on how well Gerard had played earlier that day. And so he found himself following the massive defender through the corridors and around a corner into a narrow chlorine-scented room where the Catalan beast promptly discarded towel -- clearly, subconsciously, Neymar had assumed there were some shorts or pants under that, since he found his eyes bulging and his brows raising at the sight of a large hairy bottom, and then as Pique half turned, the long lazy swing of a flaccid cock in front of low-hanging balls, all beneath a thick bush of red-brown pubes. He stared challengingly at Neymar, who quickly corrected his shocked expression and curious darting gaze.
Neymar did what the room required: peeling his Barcelona training shirt, already a prized symbol of his career trajectory, away from his very lean boyish body, and dropping the long shorts so he could kick them aside, then removing his socks and trainers. He remained in the simple black sports briefs beneath, but still Pique stared silently at him with that same intensity, that same expectation. Neymar cowered a little, his natural exhibitionist streak a little overshadowed by the awareness of his smaller stature -- though in truth he shouldn't have worried. Removing the skimpy black briefs exposed the long flop of his endowment, more proportionately impressive to his 5ft9 build than the fittingly equine thing dangling between Pique's hairy thighs. The Spaniard nodded once.
First, they climbed into the ice-cold plunge of recovery, a temperature that made Neymar's young privates shrink and recede inevitably as she shivered in the water. Pique barely seemed to react to its arctic embrace, relaxing at one side of the small circular pool which came up to his navel while it almost reached Neymar's nipples. Their strong legs iced and they stood in conversation, the 26-year-old local firing question after question at Neymar about his experience so far: his contract, his accommodation, his family. It was all welcoming and friendly in theory but barked with such serious and interrogation that it made the Brazilian feel quite on edge, and he was struggling to maintain eye contact and not let his eyes wander.
Neymar had not arrived in Europe a fresh-faced innocent. A lithe handsome footballer, he had enjoyed more than his share of young women since his mid-teens, but he was also no complete stranger to a little man-on-man fun. Sweaty Brazilian nights with his laddish pals had led to many moments of naïve exploration, wandering hands and occasionally, mouths, though not actually his own. The relative attractiveness of men, though, had never particularly occurred to him until now -- 21-year-old Neymar had dismissively assumed that the fumbling enjoyment of another boy's hand or mouth on his parts was just a stupid game or phase, nothing to be given any thought, especially in the rough and tumble world of youthful football. But now, faced with Pique...
When they switched from the icy plunge pool to the warmer recovery option at the other side of the room, Gerard flipping a switch on the wall to produce hot jets of bubbles against their dipping bodies, Neymar could not stop watching the flickers of muscle and the flopping movement of the man's generous privates, seemingly unaffected by the cold temperatures, or so large that it didn't particularly matter. And then even with them sitting down across from each other on the stepped rim of the jacuzzi, he could not stop staring at the way it floated and bobbed just below the surface. Staring at it with what he would gradually learn over the coming years was a voracious and unstoppable appetite for fun.
They spoke, but the tone was different, matching the temperatures of the pool. Gerard seemed softer and warmer here as he complimented Neymar on his skills, made bold predictions about his career here. The first time their feet made contact, he jolted back and assumed it was an accident. But repeatedly, Gerard's larger toes and bridge came rubbing against his own, pressing at him; and in doing so, the big man was spreading his legs and his arms, relaxing more fully into the bubbling water. The expression on his face was so dark and intense that it almost frightened inexperienced young Neymar, but his body and his lust was responding in kind.
Ankle dragging ankle, he began to respond to the underwater motion of Pique's feet. He slid around the circular seat a little until they were not opposite each other but at a right angle, knees and calves rubbing, and then... right beside each other, one of Gerard's big strong arms closing about his shoulders quite firmly. With his other hand, the older man reached for his, pulling him by the wrist, pressing it down below the frothing surface... and like he had on drunken teenage nights in Brazil, he fingered at the thick outline of Pique's meat. He sighed and shivered as he toyed with the underwater serpent, enjoying the firm manly hold on his slim back. Pique was still and silent at first, but his breaths becoming heavier. Neymar quickly began to imagine ducking down there and tasting the meat in the way that other boys had done to him in the hot drunken dark of his youth -- but Pique had other plans for his erection.
The huge paw that had rested on his shoulders began to knead its way down his back, past the surface of the water, down through that heat, until one finger was sliding in the top of his smooth young butt-crack. He clenched his cheeks automatically but Pique made a disapproving grunt and he did his best not to. He shuffled side to side on the smooth seat while Pique's thick long digit pushed in between his flat cheeks, poking where only he had once curiously explored in his youth, unsure what was taboo. But soon he was sitting on a single strong finger, being explored and opened up -- making hot little gasps and unable to concentrate on the slow underwater handjob of the dick that had been inside Shakira.
Pique was quite tender with him as he repositioned his body -- turning him around, lifting his knees onto the seat, arching his back forward so that his elbows hooked onto the pool's edge, lifting his smooth pale brown bottom just over the surface of the hot tub -- but his fingers were rough and aggressive as they returned to his virgin's ring. Forceful jabs, pushing imperiously inside him like had a pussy, first one and then two. He heard Pique spit on his hands, felt his other paw stroke and slap at his cheeks. He whimpered and gasped, so naïve and unsure compared to the hungry animal that ate out Messi's backside or swallowed ter Stergen's German load.
While he roughly frigged his bottom, Pique was clearly attending to his own hard-on; Neymar felt its thick wet tup brush his cheeks and his hip, knocking meatily into him. Still, he was stupidly surprised when he felt it pressed between his cheeks. He was scared then, almost oblivious to the idea of being fucked, but he was so excited that he couldn't mutter a word of uncertainty or protest. He did look nervously over his shoulder, and the sight of the 6ft4 beast looming behind him, so thickly athletic and serious-faced, made his balls and his hole tingle with desire. Still, when the cock began to really push at his entrance, the fear came back and he knew he whimpered and yelped, so much that Pique had to rub his upper back and make soothing noises during the slow insistent thrusts that began to push into him.
The heated bubbles of the jacuzzi were on a strict timer and had ceased, but soon the water frothed and roiled with the heat of their motion instead, Neymar Jr gracelessly taken at the pool edge, fucked with long brutal strokes until the bigger man was going deeply inside him, making him burn and shake and cry out. Pique said nothing, just grunted dully, let every muscle of his body do the communicating. And what it communicated was raw animal lust, shocking and liberating to Neymar was he was bashed repeatedly against the water and concrete. It seemed to go on forever, alternating between crippling pain and mind-blowing pleasure; when Pique climaxed, he was almost numbed and senseless, just gasping weakly and wondering if this was how his girlfriends had felt when he deflowered their cunts. He was flipped roughly onto his back, muscles sore against the hard edges, and he just lay there watching as Pique spurted strands of silvery cum onto his narrow chest, huffing and puffing like a big bad wolf.
When he was done, Pique left the pool in a couple of quick strides, not looking at him or saying a word. After later discreet fucks, he would be more vocal, but only to insist fiercely on silence and secrecy; later still, there were legal documents, NDAs on his desk. For now there was just a fierce quiet, Pique emerging from the pool with nothing but deep sighs, and he left floating against the lukewarm water, cum dribbling past his nipples and his arse burning ferociously. There was a dull click as Pique flipped that switch again, and the bubbles returned, hot and soothing against every muscle -- it was the one kind gesture of the beast who had taken his virginity and done nothing to appease his own taut erection, which leaked pre into the water and he was almost too scared and sore to even touch properly now. He did, once Pique's wet footsteps and heavy sighs had vanished, and he jerked off alone, absolutely dazed and awestruck by what had happened, scared by the pain but wanting nothing more than the big man to come back and snog him with that sexy bearded mouth.
And now, in 2021, Neymar was wanking himself silly on his own again, a spit-lubed fist running up and down his cock. His other hand was pushed fully inside his loose shorts to rub at his gooch and tease his own fuzzy ass-crack while he jerked towards a messy completion, still watching the screen and the post-match interviews with his manager and teammates. The vivid Barcelona memories had been intensely arousing, but it was his present and future now driving Neymar wild, a determination that PSG could provide equally steamy snapshots in a long `career' of conquests!
Memories of the German `keeper and those beautiful Latino mentors were clear and sensual, but it was the sight of jovially grinning Pochettino and sternly self-satisfied young Kylian that occupied his mind as he mounted towards climax, wondering why he had been so fucking well-behaved in his French years. Neymar da Silva Santos Junior whooped indulgently at the large empty bedroom and spilled his creamy load over the shimmering material of his shorts, grinding his back and shoulders into the pillows and grinning up at the ceiling. Oh yes, oh fuck yes.
Barcelona had been a LOT of fun; but why couldn't PSG be the same...?
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share