Premiership Lads Curious Luke Shaw

Part 297: After the Blue Parade

Celebrations yesterday had been fairly sensible: a formal affair, really, with the entire team and staff at Manchester City just exhausted by the final throes of the `21-'22 campaign. Ecstasy on the pitch as their win against Villa, and their winning season, drew to a close, but afterwards a very brief fuss and a lot of tired men hurrying home to kick up their feet. Pep Guardiola himself had been quick to get home and crack open a bottle of red with his wife, drained and relieved - and today, on a balmy Monday afternoon, the REAL celebrations could take place.

Already, the 51-year-old Spaniard was rather drunk, a thick cigar tucked in his mouth, and a weary fever about his eyes as he lolled at one end of the open-top coach with his crew of assistants, soaking up the atmosphere as the League winners made their short parade of the city to celebrate the fourth Premiership title in five years.

Around him, the squad members atop the bus were getting increasingly rowdy, but today was the one day where the experienced manager would make no complaints and do nothing to curb the obnoxious enjoyment of his athletes - what else were they going to do, sit around and mourn their Champions League failure? No, they had all earned this joy, and he was very happy to be part of the rowdy joy up here, hugging his assistant coaches at his side and casting his eyes across the boozing blokes ahead of him.

The bus wound on through the centre of Manchester, drawing closer to its target where a stage was set up for some speeches and further gloating. No doubt the players' celebrations would buzz on, though Guardiola knew that he would duck away soon after - nobody needed their boss skulking about while they let loose and celebrated properly, and he and the coaching staff had their own meal booked elsewhere.

Not that his presence on the coach was doing anything to dampen the boisterous celebration of the men, he noted - Grealish in particular seemed to be wasted, his voice already hoarse as he roared down at the City fans on the road, currently hugging madly at the blue-clad figures of Walker and Stones. Even someone as mild-mannered as de Bruyne looked rosy-cheeked and giddy, bouncing about nearby and photo-bombing the selfies of other players, currently barging between Mahrez and Laporte to get involved. Increasingly, the drink-carrying men were flocking in bursts to their outgoing favourite, Silva, to toast his part in the recent victories, grabbing and hoisting the Portuguese midfielder.

Pep basked in it, very happy to see the players in the throes of this triumph, but also very ready for the freedom and relaxation of the summer break ahead. He turned around, grasping one hand to the rails at the rear of the bus-top deck, enjoying the trail of supporters, flags and flares that followed them, then spun around again and grasped at his beer bottle to take a long mouthful. He puffed on his cigar and felt one of the other guys hug him around the shoulders, shouted voices becoming indiscriminate, just a blend of victorious noise over the Manchester street...

And Guardiola cast his eyes over the men again, his men, seeking out his Golden one - what a great season it had been for his Filipe, really cementing himself as a senior squad member, no longer just the promising young talent on the fringe of the action. Pep was being rewarded for his slow release of Foden's power, both in his performances on the pitch, and in their rarely grasped moments of private pleasure away from football. His eyes found him, a smaller and slighter figure in the raucous fun at the far end of the open-top coach - dwarfed, really, by the blokes around him, a dark-haired small guy in the centre of a huddle who were waving bottles of fizz at the crowd to one side. Pep's mouth curled into a gentle smile, a moment's peace in the middle of the noisy crowd, appreciating the slender line of Phil's neck, marred by a thin strip of text that the older man had never approved of; his slender grace between the bigger and chunkier athletes just made him all the more beautiful and special to his Papi, who wished that he could sweep him away to some private spot tonight, rather than going their own separate ways to celebrate.

And then, in this moment of focus and thought, Guardiola's eyes settled on a different detail - the hand on Phil's back, pressing against the blue fabric of his brand new 22 City kit, pushing downwards across the material. It belonged to the lad on his right, another wiry figure in the tight huddle of footballers, and the blazoned white name across his back read Grealish'. Pep watched the hand move south in a way that was at once bold and discreet - who else would be looking this way and watching it from this angle right now? - and then pushing very firmly down, not just over the fresh City shirt, but down the back of the dark grey-blue tracksuit bottoms that Foden was wearing like everyone else. Suddenly Guardiola was watching his £100 million man thrust a hand into the back of not just those tracky bottoms, but underneath the Nike waistband that showed between them and the sky-blue shirt - it was a fleeting moment, with Foden instantly wriggling away and turning his head. Even from here, the City manager could see the playful grin and mouthed swear words on the 21-year-old's face, and then the returning holler of mischief on Jack Grealish from behind his designer sunglasses. The hand, the mischievous fingers that had slid into the back of Phil's pants (and who knew where else) was back out and slapping him on the back instead, Grealish rattling with laughter and knocking back fizz from the bottle, and both young players were rocking with laughter and embracing closely.

The Premiership coach started at what he saw, a tug of possessive envy burning through him, but the intelligent mind taking over - it was what he'd set up, he reminded himself. It had all been his idea. He could remember how nervous and unsure his precious Filipe had been when he outlined the plan to him. It had been perfectly pitched, Pep knew, and it had been crucial to keeping young Jack settled and happy, he was SURE. His beautiful secret agent had done everything required of him, and helped to integrate the Villa skipper into this team of difficult giants.

Yes, Guardiola reminded himself - he'd fixed his precious Golden Boy up with Jack the Lad, and it had been the perfect scheme of integration and player management...

And yet seeing them cuddled so close at the heart of the player celebrations, their body language and that cheeky interplay, was just... a little... too much, or... Someone was shaking Pep by the shoulder, and turning his attention away from the huddles of players and across the fenced-off road junction their bus was spanning, taking them towards the staged area for the finale of this victory parade. He blinked and shook himself, and cursed once more how far his private passions could distract him from the high-pressure job at hand. He had needed to resist his Filipe over and over to stay focused enough for this to-the-wire battle with Liverpool, to secure this crucial League title. And so many times his feelings for Foden had almost made it impossible for him to get his head down and do so.

A fresh roar of support exploded across the city square they were entering, and Guardiola steeled himself, pushing away such thoughts, and preventing himself from stealing a possessive glance down the crowd to see whether Foden was still glue to Grealish's side after all, manhandled by the drunken Birmingham lout who City had coughed up so much cash for.

Foden beamed proudly across the stage area, arms hugged across his chest and taking a sensible break between drinks - right now, a tracksuit-swathed Pep Guardiola was charming the supportive crowd and toasting to City's success, and the 21-year-old loved to hear the powerful older man speak. He couldn't contain his brimming affection for his Papi, but the jubilant mood of the occasion was convenient for this - all of the players were drunk and their happiness shone on their faces, and so who could possibly tell that Foden was taking a more specific pleasure in watching the svelte Spanish man pace the stage and talk up his teammates.

One by one, other key players came forward, taking the mic from the boss, but the Stockport youth kept away from it. He was no spokesman yet, not at his age or levels of social confidence, though he fantasised about being City captain in about four years' time, and being the one up there making the grand speeches to the gathering - or at least an exuberant club joker at the heart of that banter, like his close buddy Jack now was, hoarsely calling out fellow players and keeping up the joky rivalries from the bus-top party.

For now though, Phil knew his place: the grinning young talent at the edge of the party, trying to look as humble and dignified as he usually felt, even with a few too many beers in him, shoulder to shoulder with Kevin de Bruyne and Rodri. He held back between them, letting his eyes run over the rowdy audience behind the barriers, and then twisting his neck to seek out Guardiola again, the boss having backed away to let the drunk players take the limelight instead. He admired the grizzled handsomeness of his middle-aged lover, sad that the boss would be too busy at a celebratory dinner with the coaches and execs, rather than taking him to their secret apartment - THAT celebration would have to wait, although he was unsure they were going to find time before jetting off on their respective holidays. Phil would be flying to Monaco for the F1 and his own birthday party, and Guardiola had kindly explained several reasons why it would be inappropriate or risky for him to accept an invitation.

The event was reaching its conclusion. The banter at the forefront of the team gathering was being brought to a close and events staff were beginning to usher players and staff members to the back of the stage. Phil moved with the surge of action, turning to wave warmly at the crowds before disappearing between the bigger bodies of his teammates, suddenly dwarfed by Laporte to one side and Dias to the other.

And then suddenly hands were about his waist and he was being drunkenly cuddled from behind, right at the stop of the metal steps descending from the stage - the grip was so clumsily tight and sudden that the young footballer almost went tumbling down them, but he grabbed the rail to steady them and was pulled firmly in against the body of another player, whose distinctive Brummie tones were yelling in his ear, albeit raspy and hoarse with shouting above the crowd. `Lil Philippa!' screamed Grealish for the thirtieth time, repeating the odd nickname that he'd become obsessed with up on the coach.

`Oi,' Foden sniggered, wriggling against his friend and lover's strength whilst also taking the stairs carefully - he had no intention of picking up a ridiculous injury today and entering his summer holiday with his leg in a protective cast!

Grealish shook him and let go before skipping alongside him, all bursting energy and festival mood, drunker and louder than anybody else in the team - Foden had spent the parade waiting for one of the older guys or even one of Pep's assistants to discreetly pull him aside and warn him, but everybody seemed to just be enjoying the Jack Grealish show, to his surprise. It was a very different energy to the serious sportsmanship of most City guys, and it seemed to even take attention away from the yobbish bromance of Stones and Walker, though all three men became even noisier once united. Seeing the three of them together, posing in their sunglasses and hoisting their booze, Phil had felt very distracted and turned on, and he knew it was an image of sweaty togetherness that might return to him in the middle of the night.

Screened from the City crowds back in the main square, here in the complex behind-the-scenes ugliness of scaffolding and speakers, the party seemed to be breaking up for now, and Phil saw the disappearing silhouette of their manager on the other side of a small crowd. The 21-year-old felt a little pang for a different version of tonight, but then accepted it as he always did. The delays and deferrals only made their fucks the sweeter, that was what Papi said, and Phil knew him to be right. Soon, he thought, they would have time for each other - time that they'd so rarely found during this tense season, he reflected a little resentfully.

And after the party, there's the after-paaaaarty,' Grealish was singing tunelessly at him, grinding his snake hips and waving a different drink in each hand. His sunglasses had slid down his nose a little and he leered over their frames, the Harry Styles pear necklace at his throat adding to the drunk-at-Leeds-festival vibes. And after that there's the hotel lobby, or something something,' he hooted happily, losing track of the 00s song lyrics. `Come on Philippa, which car are we going in?'

Foden grinned at the boozed-up Brummie, holding back from him a little, and glancing about them. Actually,' he said in a low voice, instantly lost in the crowd roar, I might have to head off actually, bit of a curfew for me from the family, so-'

Nahhhhh,' boomed the other midfield player, shaking one of his shoulders and nodding over in the direction of the lined vehicles. It's all booked - big party for us fellas, matey, we're all going.' He sounded so hoarse and raspy, having largely lost his voice in the first half hour of the afternoon celebrations, pretty much before they'd even boarded the bus for the parade. In spite of the masses of guys around them, Grealish was becoming quickly very physical, his touch a little more than matey and laddish, something sensuous and provocative in the way his hands roved over Phil's shoulder muscles and at the edge of his neck, and then threatening to move lower again... that rebellious finger, Phil thought with a shudder of desire, that had pushed between his bare cheeks! God, he'd had to push his mate away in a hurry before anybody saw!

Again, carried forward by the general motion of City personnel exiting the backstage area, he shrugged and writhed and separated himself from the fellow League-winner. He fixed a playfully scolding look on the 5ft9 winger, not saying anything but trying to express his disapproval mixed with desire. `I made promises,' he muttered, having spoken at length to his girlfriend and his mum about how he would NOT be getting pissed up in Manchester with the other guys tonight, instead returning to the Cheshire mansion for a big family barbecue, and-

Hey,' croaked Jack's voice. This tiddler isn't partying! Guys!' And then the Villa import was turning it into a hoarse chant: `Fo-den, Fo-den, Fo-den!' And other voices around them were joining with Jack's, a sudden tight burst of masculine force on all sides of him. He was grabbed by the shoulders again, but it was big Laporte, and suddenly Walker was side-by-side with Grealish, wagging a scolding finger at him for even considering ducking out early from the celebrations.

`This is Silva's leaving party!' somebody close by was protesting loudly - it was the almost prim Belgian accent of KDB, so amusingly fey and jerky with a bit of alcohol in him, dancing past with his arm around the shoulders of Mahrez.

Yes!' interjected the voice of the departing Portuguese star himself. You are partying with me!' His broad cheeky grinned past Foden by on the way to one of the waiting cars, and Foden flashed back a glassy smile. Just a minute ago, he'd genuinely believed he was keeping his promises, and ducking away from these festivities to catch a ride back out of the city - he'd been pretty sure he wasn't up to the further heavy drinking that the older guys were capable of, and he'd be sticking to the sensible few beers that were giving him a warm buzz for now. He'd really believed himself.

He was shoved forward by numerous hands and shoulders about him, carried easily forward in the throng of his fellow Premiership champions, and moments later he was being bundled into the backseat of one of several identical BMWs, with Grealish on one side of him and Stones on the other, and Walker joining the driver in the front and taking control of the in-car stereo to blast out some party tunes. Foden grinned wildly and embraced the mad atmosphere, then pulled out his mobile phone from a zip pocket, beginning to punch hasty excuses into a messaging thread with his girlfriend.

It was an impressive rooftop bar; not far from the end-point of the victory parade, but also a world away, high up over Manchester. The blue heat of the afternoon was turning into an oppressively cloudy evening, sunny heat trying to burn through in one direction, and stormy weather threatening in the other. But the drinks were flowing and the tropical plants and decoration of the Manc roof terrace were doing their best to suggest a more Mediterranean location to the partying footballers who had taken up the entire venue.

Quickly after arriving, the 30-year-old Premiership Player of the Year had found himself a comfortable position on some of the outdoor sofas at the heart of the rooftop, needing to rest legs that were still sore from Sunday's game, and also conscious of having drunk too much already. The Belgian football icon was cradling a martini glass in both hands and taking his time with it. He really didn't drink to this excess often and his giddy good humour from the bus-top had temporarily turned into a slight wariness, letting the drink wash over him as he enjoyed the atmosphere and view, and paid limited attention to the fierce conversation on the next sofa, where Mahrez and Emerson were arguing over the club future of Bernardo Silva, the diminutive Portuguese player squashed between them.

Kevin de Bruyne had this sofa to himself, his thick legs spread and his back muscles sprawled back against its dark cushions, the cocktail still nursed over the lap of his tracksuit bottoms. Some players had changed into their own clothes between the City event and this party venue, but de Bruyne had not thought this far ahead, and was one of several men still in club gear that looked amusingly out of place in the bougie rooftop bar.

Kevin was drunk, and happy, and a little bit horny.

The third of these things was not unrelated to the first two, but it was a frustration for him. He could imagine his wife's dismay and severeness if he lurched drunkenly into their bed in a few hours' time. `Stay in a hotel,' she had barked austerely at him over brunch, clearly uninterested in his inevitable drunken horn. Almost automatically, the 30-year-old began to crane his neck and look around him, trying to pick out Raheem Sterling in the crowd, but he cursed the thought and then busied himself instead with draining the last of this martini cocktail. He'd sworn that wouldn't happen again, especially after that last hotel encounter and Sterling's persistent demands for more. The Jamaican England star was a fantastic cock-sucker, but he was always pushing his big round bottom at him and demanding to be fucked, and the Belgian blanched at this prospective transgression. Why? He wasn't sure, but he didn't want to go there, it felt so much more like... cheating.

Almost unconsciously, the midfield star tugged at the full crotch of his dark pants, adjusting the tight lines of his underwear beneath, and then clutching the empty martini glass in his other freckled paw. Calm down, he told himself firmly, and resisted the urge to cast his eyes about again for any glance of Razzer - he wasn't even sure that the England international was here, not all of the squad members had made it as far as this early-evening after-party, and he vaguely remembered some reference to Sterling's holiday plans beginning with a sleeper plane tonight.

This left de Bruyne to suppress his booze-powered sexual urges, tugging awkwardly at the crotch of his tracky bottoms, and shuffling sore legs on the spread of the sofa, trying to tune back into the rabid chatter of the other guys instead.

Kyle Walker thumped his hand repeatedly against the surface of the bar, insistent and excitable as the other lads downed yet another jager-bomb and burst into hoarse coughs and splutters in response. The Sheffield-born defender whooped and clapped his hands together and then gestured dramatically to the smirking barman. `Another round!' the City right-back yelled at her, his voice as strained and pitchy as everybody else's from chanting too much in the parade.

Fuck!' cursed the nearest of the other lads, skinny young Foden. He grinned and leered at the 5ft7 scally, grabbing and squeezing him by the shoulder. It'll put hairs on yer chest, Golden Boy,' he teased roughly, jostling the youngster and laughing heartily then pulling a wad of fresh notes from his pocket.

Walker had swapped his new City shirt for a gaudy hawaiian number, buttoned tightly across his own muscular chest and bulging at the curves of his upper arm muscles, though his bottom half remained covered in slim-fitting City tracksuit on his muscular legs. He pushed the cash across the bar and watched fresh shots being prepped for them.

Beyond Foden, Grealish was bursting into song so messy and tone-deaf that nobody could recognise it to join in; on the other side of the idiot towered Stones, who was slurping casually from a pint of ale between shots, and their row of serious drinking was completed by Ruben Dias. Walker laughed and grinned at the dazed and wavering giant of the 6ft1 Portugal star, the 25-year-old fitness fanatic looking worse for wear after giving in to the free-flowing alcoholism of the evening.

Ready, lads!' the 32-year-old footballer barked at this motley foursome, slapping one strong hand on the bartop again and then grinning gratefully at their waiter. He leaned his muscular bulk to the side, pushing the tumblers and floating shot glasses in the direction of each drinker, then seized his own, lifting it to clink in toast with the others. All five jager-bombs clinked noisily together and Walker, again, was first to throw his eagerly back, enjoying the sickly mix of buoyant energy drink and syrupy spirit, enjoying its instant mingled kick. He clashed his glass back to the bar and thumped both fists against his pecs through the hawaiian shirt, then belched loudly. To City!' he yelled enthusiastically, and grabbed his arm across both Phil and Jack's shoulders to shake and hug the other players.

Grealish had lost count of his drinks before the action had reached this posh bar, and he wasn't even sure how many rounds of bombs Walker forced down them all at the bar just now. He'd staggered away when big Kyle became too busy play-fighting with even bigger John, just wanting to properly soak up the atmosphere and capture some sense of the event - he wasn't sure that any of the more established City players could understand the new thrill of this achievement for him, having never secured any such title or trophy in his years at Aston Villa. It had all been very weird for him at the weekend, with his former Birmingham club forming City's final opposition and obstacle, and the emotions were certainly complex: somewhere under the lairy drunken joy, Jack couldn't help but wonder how much sweeter and realer today might feel if he'd been able to lead Villa to this same position at the top of the League. It was a ridiculous notion, he supposed, and yet it was an unavoidable fantasy. He'd hung up his captain's armband and left those days behind, and bought his seat at this table of champions... and it felt amazing, unbelievable really, and yet...

Grealish was barely conscious of drinking to suppress these doubts and half-formed regrets, in fact as the evening wore on he was barely conscious of anything, but the thoughts and feelings were there, simmering beneath the surface of his superficial victory. The first thought that had gone through his head this morning, waking up in his bed with a female prostitute curled at his side, was a simple question: How much had he even contributed to this Premier League title...?

But that was this morning in the fuzz of a light hangover whilst counting out £50s for the sex worker in his bed, trying to remember if he'd used a condom; and this was tonight, overlooking the big industrial city with a fruity cocktail in one hand and a final jager-bomb shot in the other. He jostled and danced aimlessly as he moved along the high railings to enjoy the view through bleary drunkard's eyes, and then he leaned his back against it and took alternating sips from the two drinks.

The swanky privacy of the rooftop bar shook with the macho high spirits of the Man City men, and Grealish surveyed the cluster of his new friends and teammates. He'd lost sight of Foden at the bar, the sexy young slut seeming to slip away from him before Walker could insist on another round of bombs; but he could still see Kyle and John wrestling and cackling at that same point, as overtly tactile with one another as they had been whilst weilding the Premiership trophy on the pitch yesterday. Jack wondered excitedly whether the intimacy between the blokes was as obvious to other observers as it was to him, having experienced the dirty pair's alliance first-hand in his early weeks as a City player - it was a secret experience he'd treasured ever since, never quite getting so involved in their mischief since, but closely watching the way they acted about each other at every opportunity. Pair of sexy yobs, he thought, remembering his welcome party at the start of the season, and the way the three of them had played in a spacious disabled toilet in a different Manchester bar; the two defenders had been trying to dominate him, he remembered, but he'd had the pair of them lapping at his perfect Brummie cock, proving himself.

The two-word phrase echoed a little in his drink-addled brain, seeming to sum up the exhausting first season at his new club: `proving himself'. Had he managed it...?

With a slurp of cocktail and a messy downing swig of the half-finished jager-bomb, Grealish drowned that question along with all the others today, and swaggered away from the edges of the party, back into the sunset mix of his colleagues, belting out some victory chants that got the nearest guys going. He was a Premier League champion, and he was going to party like one - and he was NOT going to be paying for tonight's shag.

The 25-year-old centre-back had been trying to leave for what seemed a while now - in fact, more or less since he had reluctantly arrived at the rooftop after-party. A minute ago, he'd seen a couple of other City players saying their goodbyes and maxing an exit - it was goalkeepers Scott Carson and Zack Steffen, and Ruben Dias had made to join them, hurrying drunkenly over to join them and then realising that he'd left his phone and wallet somewhere in the bar. With a roll of his eyes, the 6ft1 stud turned around and let the two goalies disappear through the doorway. Dias, unusually intimidated, steered clear of the central bar area where he feared Walker might twist his arm into even stronger shots, and skirted the seating areas in the hope of seeing his discarded possessions.

The Portuguese player barely touched alcohol, far too committed to the increasing physical perfection of his limbs and torso. He was, after all, one of many Portugal players who held Cristiano Ronaldo as their late-30s icon and role model, and saw such neurotic physicality as the key to success and longevity. Consequently, the beers on the bus and the mixed spirits since were hitting the big defender hard, making him dizzy and excitable, but also nervy and restless - he was increasingly sure that he ought to slip away from the party and this pretentious rooftop, and book a car back to his home in a trendy corner of Salford.

If he could just find his phone, he might even just call up his girlfriend and convince her to pick him up, Dias thought. He pictured her perfect body and smirked drunkenly to himself. Perhaps they could pull over somewhere on the way back to Salford and he could slide into her in the backseat of her car. He'd not fucked her in days, saving all of his energy and focus for Sunday's final game of the season, that last crucial win to secure the title. Ruben was not someone who engaged in sex bans easily, and his insatiable supermodel girlfriend shared his rampant appetite. At least it had been worth it - they'd beaten Villa, and ultimately beaten Liverpool too.

Dias frowned, pausing to scratch his chin and look about the faux-tropical paradise of the roof terrace in search of the spot he'd sat when he first got here, and let go of his phone and wallet which were too chunky in the pockets of his tight white skinny jeans. How annoying!

Turning on the spot, he crashed straight into another guy. He wasn't sure who was more responsible for the crash of their muscular bodies, but the shorter and slighter lad staggered away and almost fell over. Ruben had to lunge at him and steady Jack. There was something about seeing how drunk the stupid Englishman actually was that almost sobered Dias from his own feverish intoxication, but not quite - he laughed awkwardly and slapped his new friend gently on the cheek. Wakey wakey,' he barked at the English lad whose accent he could barley understand at the best of times. Watch where you go, eh!'

Grealish leered almost sleepily at him and saluted him. Oh yes sirrrrr,' he drawled. Ruben! My man! Big man! Legend.' And instantly the City newbie was hugging him, making Ruben laugh uncertainly and prop him up, getting a lungful of his potent aftershave, strands of sweaty long hair tickling the sides of his own chiselled face. He propped Jack up and parted their bodies, shaking his head - he was simultaneously judging the mess that Grealish had turned into here, and nervously wondering if he was far behind.

`You big sexy bastard,' Jack remarked at him with a wink.

Hah, yes,' he said stiffly, patting him on the arm. He stared about them for his things, but felt Jack tug on one of his strong arms and he turned back to face him. Hmm?'

Fuckkk,' Grealish slurred. Your arms, mate. Serious hulk action. I want biceps like this.' Said muscle was being tenderly squeezed and explored by Jack's hands, Ruben's pale green t-shirt taut against the upper bulges of his arm. He laughed and pulled away, shaking his head. `A skinny English boy like you?' he yelped playfully, and winked back at this overrated British lout who he could never understand, yet rather liked.

Tsk. Skinny?' The wiry Englishman was sidling up against him, his face a little glossy with perspiration, his hair scraped back over his head, and a few damp patches of spilled drink marking the font of his t-shirt. I'm fucking huge where it counts, buddy,' the midfielder exclaimed loudly at him, and it made Dias burst out laughing.

`Sure, sure,' he said with a shake of his head. Was this drunken oaf coming onto him? He regarded the other player critically, distracted for a moment from the quest to escape the party, some dormant instinct whirring into action. But then Jack was lunging past him in his drunken pirate swagger, moving on in the direction of the bar, and Ruben paused to stare contemplatively after him.

Aymeric Laporte was vaguely aware that the gathering had thinned out, though he wasn't very conscious of having said his goodbyes to many of the guys. The tall Frenchman paused to try and do a quick head count but gave up, and returned his attention to those nearest him on the sofas. He'd dropped himself into a comfortable sitting position behind a fairly vacant-seeming Kevin, the big Belgian slumping in the other direction and possibly napping behind his aviator sunglasses; opposite them, Silva and Mahrez were in heated discussion, seeming to speculate on how Haaland was going to affect team dynamics when he arrived in Manchester this summer. The Spain international smiled to himself at their talk, hearing Mahrez's worry and Silva's eagerness, the outgoing player seeming sure that their big new arrival would lead to a general shake-up of Pep's plans.

Comfortably drunk, Aymeric decided against getting involved and stoking Riyad's uncertainties, sensing the 31-year-old's discomfort at such a prominent and prodigious striker joining their ranks. He could tell that Bernardo was just being a shit-stirrer, winding the French-Algerian winger up with ideas about how Guardiola might start to reorganise the squad around the incoming Norwegian beast.

Instead of joining them, he turned and nudged KDB. `All good?' he demanded in French.

`Perfect,' de Bruyne assured him, straightening up and stifling a yawn.

`This party might have passed its best,' Laporte remarked softly.

`Mmmm?'

I mean, some people have gone,' the centre-back said thoughtfully. It didn't last so long.' He looked about the table for his drink and realised that his glass was empty. Should he go to the bar for more, or call it an early night? A cloud-obscured sunset was glimmering somewhere over their view of Manchester, and he thought of getting back to his nearby apartment and taking a dip in his balcony hot tub during the final couple of hours of sunlight. It was a bit anti-social of him, but the 6ft3 athlete was tired and a little frustrated - alone in his tub, he might enjoy a slow wank and perhaps video-call his girlfriend who was already at their holiday home in Sicily. As much as Aymeric had enjoyed the boozy afternoon and the showy city-centre celebrations, he was looking forward to a bit of space away from these egotistical men and the many little rivalries that fired up the City squad.

`Do you think you'll get married?' blurted Kevin next to him, speaking French to him in a confessional tone that seemed to ignore that Mahrez too would understand them.

Whoa,' chuckled Laporte. Getting deep, Kevin.'

Huh.' A sighing pause. Just don't bother. Once you marry, the fun stops.'

Laporte raised one dark brow and he smiled uncertainly at his close friend. It was odd to see de Bruyne as drunk and playful as he'd been on the open-top coach, and yet it was even rarer to hear him so intimate and negative. He reached a hand for one strong shoulder of the slumped 30-year-old. `You sure you're okay, Brownie?'

The sunglasses slipped away from Kevin's big open face and the red-haired football star lurched this way slightly, leaning closer and hunching both shoulders. `Why will my wife not fuck me?' the Player of the Year blurted at him in a slurred, dopey voice. Aymeric started at the intense honesty of it, hesitating with his hand still on Kevin's warm shoulder, unsure what to say.

Sorry?' barked Riyad from the opposite sofa, leaning forward with his hands on the ripped knees of his dark jeans. The Algeria player's eyes were wide and his grin lopsided. Did I just hear him right? Fuck - how drunk are you, Big Kev?' Mahrez burst into mocking laughter, relaxing back in his sofa. Silva had caught the tone of the conversation but looked confused, left out by language, and staring between them. What is it?' the 27-year-old Portugal star demanded impatiently. What?!'

Stones found himself momentarily alone at the bar, where he'd remained for almost the entire evening. The 6ft2 Barnsley lad turned on the spot and laughed to himself. He'd pretty much forgotten they were up above the city in this posh spot - he'd spent the past few hours rooted to the spot here at this bar, either knocking back shots, belting out noughties pop songs in terrible harmony with his bros, or nursing moments of headache and wondering if the hangover was about to turn up early. He laughed at the view that could be seen past the tropical plants and wicker furniture, thinking ironically that he could have been boozing at any dingy bar for all he cared, and what a wanky spot this booked venue actually was. He propped his elbows to the sticky surface of the bar, dirtied with many spilled drinks, and tried to remember where sexy Kyle had got to.

It was hard to keep their hands off each other once they'd had a drink, and the two big blokes barely tried. But there were careful limits to the horseplay and banter, and they'd both felt a bit alarmed when they realised how close they came to those limits even on the pitch yesterday, Walker planting a wet kiss on Stones' cheek during the celebrations. Sure, nobody would REALLY suspect their hidden love, but photographs of the moment had panicked them both last night when they returned to their respective partners and recovered from the exhausting season-end.

Still, neither of the blokes had managed to keep their hands off the other during the parade celebrations, or here at the bar, but... Hah, fuck limits, fuck caution. A dopey drunken expression on his handsome face, the 28-year-old chuckled privately and pushed himself upright, his hands rubbing against the sticky bartop. He turned to flirt with the barman and demand fresh drinks, but found it unmanned. Annoyed, he stared side to side before stooping over it and pouring himself a low-quality pint that was half froth.

Hey, hey,' came Walker's voice close by, returning to his side. With that same reckless disregard for who might see what and interpret what lay beneath their banter, Kyle's hand cupped and slapped his arse through the loose-fitting chinos he wore, leaning in close to him and planting a kiss on the side of his shoulder in a more gentle gesture. What the FUCK is THAT?' the right-bark yelped at him.

John laughed, shook his head, and pushed the terrible pint over aimlessly, letting its contents drain messily behind the bar. Who the fuck is serving here?' the big centre-back grunted. I've been waiting for - er, well, I've no idea how long I've been waiting, but fuck I need another drink. Where've you been?'

Walker smirked at him, licking his lips furtively. He slipped around Stones to the other side, then lifted the hatch to let himself behind the bar, proceeding to start pouring a fresh pint with the casual posture of a soap opera barmaid. A couple of grand in cash did it,' he announced in a low voice. The manager was a bit jumpy about it, but I promised him we'd pay for any, er, damage.'

Stones was not the sharpest tool, even sober. He stared uncomprehendingly at his best mate and behind-closed-doors boyfriend. `Wah'?'

Kyle pushed the pint across to him and began pouring a second. `Paid off the staff, dickhead. The party is all ours. No nosy bar wankers who might see the wrong thing, y'know?' His face cracked with that infectious idiotic smile, and John leered dotingly back at the older defender.

`Er, cool,' Stones laughed, still a little lost. It sounded like his boyfriend was clearing the scene so they could just have fun up here. But it was hardly just the two of them, was it? Even though the party had thinned out, here could hear the voices and laughter of other blokes somewhere behind him, and... but still, he liked Kyle's thinking, enjoyed the idea of staff being paid off and the terrace being all theirs. He slurped from the pint, appreciating Kyle's pouring skills, and then taking the sticky shot glass of lurid liquor that was now being handed to him as a chaser.

`Now the REAL party can begin,' chuckled the 31-year-old eagerly.

`Sure,' John agreed readily, throwing it back and grimacing at its sickly sweetness. He relented more than happily as strong hands grabbed his collar over the bar taps and pulled him into a brazen snog, hoping that nobody was really looking this way and watching - their mouths locking in a sticky wet kiss that tasted of the sweet liqueur, Kyle's tongue pushing in against his, making him shiver and yearn. When Kyle broke the kiss, he hung over the bar eagerly, wanting so much more, feeling his cock twitch and wake in his chinos.

Riyad couldn't stop cackling. It was hilarious to hear someone like de Bruyne talking so earnestly like this, and the stiff Belgian bloke seemed to have no idea how funny it was for everyone else as he continued to open up. `And she NEVER wants to suck it,' the midfield star was announcing now, gesturing mournfully as the details of his frigid marriage poured out between the assembled men. Seated next to Kevin, Aymeric Laporte looked less amused, flashing cautionary looks this way and seeming to disapprove of Mahrez's enjoyment.

But Riyad was not about to be discouraged or chastised. He was drunk and happy and keen to hear more such painful honesty from the usually cool and reserved Belgium player seated opposite him. On one side of him, Bernardo Silva was cackling with similar glee, and on the other, deep manly chuckles from Ruben Dias, who had forced his muscular bulk in next to him on a sofa that was not designed for three such well-built sportsmen.

The Algeria captain stifled his own laughter long enough to throw in a question. And are you allowed to go down on HER, mate?' he demanded of the Belgian player, feigning serious concern, then immediately bursting into fits of immature giggles. Or - haha - do you have to fill in some application forms for that...?'

De Bruyne just groaned sadly in reply and slumped backwards, and Mahrez hooted with further laughter, slapping his thighs and nudging at Silva and Dias, elbowing the two Portuguese lads and shaking his head in disbelief. De Bruyne was plastered like never before. Mahrez gladly lifted his glass and held it to one side, allowing Grealish to try and top it up, though most of the poured bubbles went over his hand and wrist. Jack had turned up at their table with two bottles of champagne and was perched with them on the arm of the sofa next to Silva, slurping from one and using the other to top up everyone's glass as soon as they stopped drinking long enough.

As the seasoned Premiership winger slurped the limited contents of his champagne flute, then licked some of the spilt excess from his fingers, he heard booming voices as two more lads joined their circle. Like swaying Grealish, Walker and Stones came bearing drink - big 6ft2 John flopped down into the narrow space next to Aymeric, hugging a bottle under each muscular arm; Kyle had pulled over another light piece of this garden furniture, closing the gap between the two sofas, and was laying down a tray of empty shot glasses on the table. He pushed over and knocked aside other empty glasses and bottles in doing so, before unscrewing the bottle of tequila in his hands and beginning to play club rep again.

`Application form?' de Bruyne was murmuring, as if starting to realise he was being laughed at.

`Don't mind him,' Laporte was muttering in French rather than English.

`What's this?' Stones demanded playfully.

`What's Big Kev applying for?' Walker barked, busy with pouring their shots.

`Oh, just his wife's pussy,' Mahrez sighed enjoyably, and he gestured his empty glass towards Grealish, hoping for a better top-up that actually might land in the glass.

Ohhhh, lovely,' came Kyle's predictable glee, while John laughed deeply and even Aymeric seemed to drop his po-faced defensiveness. Kevin grinned in a weird, wistful way, seeming to notice how squashed in he now was, sharing his sofa with two tall men. He stared intensely at the tray of freshly poured tequilas, then snatched one of the translucent shots, downing it before Walker had even finished pouring the last. Another,' the midfielder grunted determinedly, and his forcefulness sent the circle of footballers into fresh hoots of amusement.

Bernardo Silva was only just clocking that this was all that remained of their party, and that even the staff seemed to have deserted the rooftop bar. He didn't mind, it was great up here and the dance music was still blaring from assorted speakers - and this was a fucking great collection of his City friends, these remnants of the party. As confident as the Lisbon-born footballer was about ending his five-year spell at the Manchester club, it had been a defining period in his young life, and he would certainly miss many friendships he'd made here in England. Whilst the 27-year-old was courting a range of exciting opportunities across Europe's finest leagues, he knew that there was an edge and ferocity to Premiership life that might not be matched in the continental tournaments.

He gladly took a shot of the tequila and awaited Walker's instruction before knocking it back, then seized the warming champagne bottle from the clumsy hands of Jack Grealish, perched heavily beside him on the arm of the sofa. Freed of the clammy bottle, one of the English player's hands rested on Bernardo's shoulders, stroking against the back of his neck in a not-unpleasant fashion that gave him pause for thought. Silva clutched the claimed bottle and swigged back its dregs to drown out the tang of the tequila, far from his favourite tipple, then stuffed it into the nearest plant pot to get it out of the way. He relaxed, feeling Jack's hands work massaging at his shoulders through his thin black shirt, liking the way the drunk Englishman was beginning to touch him.

Tuning out of the general discussion of Kevin's sexless life, he turned and looked curiously at glassy-eyed Jack, wondering just HOW drunk the arrogant lad now was, and whether he even really knew what his hands were doing. Still, it felt good. He smirked. To his left, Mahrez was leaning interestedly forwards again, because he was questioning de Bruyne on exactly when he'd last fucked his wife. Over the arched back of the Algeria captain, Silva caught Ruben Dias by the eye, sharing a curious little smile with his Portugal teammate, and nodding thoughtfully to the leaning figure of Grealish, massaging his neck and shoulders in an intense daze.

The look that big Ruben returned to him was hesitant and a little embarrassed; neither of the Portuguese men had ever made any reference to what sometimes went on in the sweaty hotel suites of their international duty together, cronies of the legendary Ronaldo. Bernardo was vague and uncertain on what the younger player had done or not done, and he supposed that Ruben might feel the same ambiguity about him - particularly, Silva had often wondered about whether the well-built 25-year-old had ever been convinced to go down on CR7 and swallow his load. Silva himself had only done it once, several years ago, and considered it his darkest and most shameful secret; the other times he had held a more dominant role alongside the iconic striker instead, allowed to share the eager mouths of a couple of more submissive men who formed Ronaldo's coterie. Sometimes Bernardo wondered if any man in the Portugal squad had NOT tasted Cristiano's cum, and he shuddered to admit to himself that it had ever happened.

A few buildings away on the edges of Manchester's Northern Quarter, a private dining room chimed with the sound of dessert spoons and the tinkle of poured port. Pep Guardiola sat at one end of the long table, softly marinated in too much red wine and now the fortified addition; the meal had been delicious, praised and reviewed avidly by the other men about the table, a mixture of coaching and corporate bigwigs who made up the ruling elite of this super-rich football club.

Pep himself had barely noticed the series of complex dishes, and certainly had not appreciated their taste as anything extraordinary. He did his best to chip in at the free-flowing conversation of the powerful men here, but he fell quiet for long gaps and had been asked several times if he was feeling okay - his vague answers had been repeatedly met with pleasant laughter and comments on how much he deserved a holiday and time with his family after the season's campaign. The less successful elements, and especially the approaching UCL final in Paris, were elephants at the dinner table, but Pep had little thought even for them.

He just kept picturing Jack's hands on his boy, holding and teasing young Filipe on the top of that coach, for all Manchester to see. And his blood boiled.

Foden had been at the toilet, and had one of those epiphanies about just how drunk he was whilst trying to make conversation with himself in a mirror. Walking back out of the doors onto the roof terrace, he'd gone slowly, staring in horror at the slew of angry notifications on his lock screen - messages from the two overbearing women who ran his life, his girlfriend and his mother, horrified by his decision to stay out and ruin the family barbecue. It was clear from the unfinished text on-screen that he should stay in the city tonight and not show his face back at the Foden mansion. He didn't even open the messages, just half-reading them from the lines of notification before re-locking the screen and pushing it into the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms.

The 21-year-old drifted across the spacious terrace, suddenly aware of how quiet it was in terms of people, if not noise level. The speakers screamed out hits from last summer as he passed closer to them, then away from their noise and over to the circle of outdoor seating past the bar, where the remains of their squad party were still together, nine of them including himself. Where were the bar staff? Had they really been left this rooftop area as a purely private party now? The thought was oddly exciting, though he didn't quite know why.

There was a vague cheer at his arrival, and he grinned foolishly from face to face, wandering into the gap between sofas, between Kevin at the end of one and Jack seated on the arm of another. He grinned from a sheepish looking de Bruyne to an absolutely wasted Grealish, whose bloodshot eyes fixed him with an almost vacant stare of hedonistic abandon.

Here he is,' called out Kyle Walker's distinctive Yorkshire accent, Philly himself, he'll nosh you off, Big Kev, that'll sort you out.'

That usual flare of panic ran through Foden at this crass outburst, though it was intermingled with that same abstract excitement - he was always excited by big burly Walker, had been since those experimental moments when the defender had made use of his curious mouth in a stadium toilet cubicle. He'd enjoyed an invisible protection from the right-back's crude banter for some time since then, unsure exactly how fully Kyle understood his special relationship with their mutual boss, but clear that Pep's aura made him somehow... untouchable. Not tonight, apparently.

Rather than prudish horror, he went for casual cheek, and shrugged his shoulders. `I'm sure Big Kev doesn't need my help as much as you did,' the 21-year-old quipped with a lightness that surprised himself - he hadn't realised how risky the comeback might be until it was out of his mouth, but he supposed that innocent ears would just think it standard footballer banter, and not a precise reference to how he'd once sucked off the rugged fucker during rocky patches of his own lovelife.

There was a ripple of laughter from the circle, including a hesitant snort from Kyle himself, but Foden found himself staring at the other butt of the joke, unsure why anyone was suggesting he might suck off the Belgian - and he found that Kevin was staring back at him with an odd expression, hunched uncomfortably at his end of that sofa, a lot of colour in his cheeks. The official Player of the Year, he thought, the senior counterpart to his own Young Player title. It was hardly the first time the horny Stockport youth had wondered what Kev's cock might taste like, and he laughed at his own imagination.

`Is he actually considering it?' burst out a fresh peal of enjoyment from Mahrez; the Frenchman was as domineering and blunt in his humour as Walker, though his arrogance was a constant source of teasing and nicknames from other City players, who had never allowed him the same superiority here that he'd once held at Leicester.

`Who, Kevinho or Philippa?' chortled Grealish to the other side, and Phil felt one of the drunk man's hands on his lower back. He grinned uncertainly to his left, taking in Jack's red cheeks and sweaty hair, then looking interestedly back at de Bruyne, who was still staring at him.

`Why not? It's just up here,' he could here Kyle laughing in a pointed, meaningful way.

Yeah,' John Stones was chipping in supportively, I think someone should be getting head, it's a party after all, for fuck's sake.'

The Premier League Young Player of the Year might have backed rapidly away from the circle if he hadn't been encouraged to down quite so much alcohol in the past few hours, and as it happened he just stood there with a cautious grin on his thin features, bathed in the soft gold of the descending sunlight at the edge of their terrace. He blinked in its warm light and shrugged his shoulders in the thin white t-shirt he'd worn under his City top. `At least let me have a tequila first,' he joked with another surge of this unusual social confidence, and was met with much encouraging laughter.

A shot glass came his way - sloshed full by Kyle, who began to pour the faintly yellow liquid out into the other empties too; plucked from the tray by a chuckling Mahrez, and passed via Silva and Grealish; Foden took it before the Brummie could spill it, and briefly contemplated the intoxicating contents before licking his lips and throwing it back. I'd rather have the salt and lemon,' he coughed, but right now I'd suck on anything to take that taste away, ha ha ha.'

Kevin joined in with everyone else's laughter, pushing himself up from the sofa; he felt overheated and squashed in, Laporte feeling all hard and bony against his side. He brought himself up onto the arm of the sofa, and therefore closer to Phil, who was still twisting his face slightly at the taste of the shot, seemingly comfortable with the half-joking suggestions that had been thrown his way.

De Bruyne looked at him, and as usual was reminded more thoughtfully of his ginger-haired mate, and wished Tommy Doyle was here partying with them - he had thought that the other young player might be here today for the celebrations, his loan spell in Wales surely complete at this point. But there had been no sign of the 20-year-old, as there had been for a whole year or more in Kevin's view.

No young Tommy, he thought wistfully, but this other local talent, standing very close to him now as he rested on the arm of the sofa in his City tracksuit, his neck and cheeks seeming to burn with the heat of his drunkenness. His eyes locked with Phil's, and he smiled in a way that he hoped was disarming and maybe even endearing, but which in reality just looked kinda gormless. `You going to suck me off then, Philly?' he slurred, echoing Kyle's chosen nickname, and ending the blunt question in a trailing laugh that made him unsure if he really meant what he was asking. He was too inebriated to consider whether the other men around him would laugh the topic off or understand that he was really propositioning the youth. And Foden was just shrugging, and being slapped on the back and side by Grealish, and he could hear encouraging hoots from Mahrez and Walker.

Without stopping to question anything, de Bruyne began to unzip his unnecessary tracksuit top, letting it spill open over the brand new City shirt for next season. He then began pulling down on the legs of the bottoms, but this was impossible until he got his broad arse off the side of the sofa and stood up. Reflexively, Phil was sinking down, stooping in the gap between sofas until on his knees. Right then, this was really happening. Kevin just stood over him and shoved gracelessly at his bottoms, sending them down his broad pale thighs, and exposing the bulging semi in his grey underpants.

It was like a scene from one of those cliche dreams in which you turn up to work naked. He was pushing his pants down and standing in front of half a dozen teammates, only vaguely aware that he'd said too much to them about his sexless marriage, and miles away from even a sniff of regret. Phil Foden was on his knees in front of him, eyes wide and mouth gently parting open, and it wasn't Tommy fucking Doyle, but he needed this. Would Foden be as talented as Sterling...?

`Yes lad,' called Kyle eagerly and encouragingly, glad that the debauchery had kicked in so rapidly now that there was nobody up here but pumped-up football lads. He was passing the filled shot glasses of tequila left and right, spilling much of it on his hands, his intense eyes fixed on the far side of the low table, and the sight of Philly Foden pressing his lips around the head of de Bruyne's long pink weapon.

Kyle heard Mahrez swear in a couple of other languages, the Algeria captain's voice mingling with throaty laughter from Stones and Grealish, and more ambivalent gasps from the other men. Above all of their voices came Kevin's deep and earnest groan, and somehow this noise of pleasure just provoked fresh and liberated laughter from every one of them, ripping up some unidentified tension that had been whipped into existence. Walker just rubbed his palms together gleefully and then held up his shot glass in a celebratory toast. `To Kevinho getting head!' he saluted, breaking through the laughter, and a mumbled echo of his x-rated sentiment rippled through the circle of guys.

As one, the seven City players seemed to be transfixed by the unfolding deviance: the big bland Belgian standing there with his underpants creased around the tops of his fluffy thighs, his cock emerging from a thin fuzz of red-blonde pubic hair, and now buried deeply in the pursed lips of Phil's puckered face. Very slowly, the young man's head slid in and out of the other footballer's crotch, seeming to sink a bit deeper on the wet shaft with each fresh movement, his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching at the midfielder's gifted legs as he did so.

`Holy fuck,' Aymeric was muttering with a more genuine and honest shock than most.

`Good man,' Bernardo was chuckling with an ease and comfort that excited Kyle.

`Suck it all,' boomed John playfully, and Jack wheezed with naughty laughter.

Ruben Dias said nothing, Kyle flickering his eyes to the right to take in the might frame of the other defender. The Portugal player was silent and inscrutable, tense where he sat; one of his thickly muscled arms rested on the side of the sofa and at the end of it, his large hand squeezed into a fist and unfurled in repeated motion.

Kevin de Bruyne groaned again, more deeply and openly than before, almost oblivious to having an audience - it was funny, but it was also incredibly hot. Kyle had been curious about his teammate and friend for a good few months, the squeaky clean wholesomeness and occasional bursts of dry humour drawing him to Kevin as someone who needed to be led astray. Now he was wondering if someone else had got there first, seeing just how readily the married fella was feeding his thick pink cock to the slutty Stockport scally - and Phil was a surprise too, as drunk as he was. Kyle had not expected that Pep's Golden Boy would share out his talents like this, had really anticipated a prudish outrage and the youngster leaving them to it. Really, Walker had thought that most of these boring fuckers would go their way, and had hoped for Grealish at best being open to a rooftop fumble with Walker and his boyfriend, who was now practically drooling at what he saw. Without worrying about anyone glancing this way, Kyle reached across to stroke and knead at the nearest arm and shoulder of his Barnsley hunk, making John glance this way and grin lovingly at him, the sexy bastard.

Kyle reached eagerly down the front of his tracky bottoms to feel himself in his briefs, and the buttons on his hawaiian shirt strained over his chest and shoulder muscles as he did so. John's eyes, distracted now from the sight of Big Kev being sucked off, followed his motion, watching the mound of his own wandering hand down against his bulge. The 28-year-old defender licked his plump lips and sidled from one sofa to another, suddenly next to him, panting a little. His hand rested on one of Kyle's thighs, and he began to lean in for a kiss - but Kyle's ego hit upon some strained limit of public affection, unwilling to snog him here the way he had at the bar. Who knew what the others would really think? Instead, he scooped one large hand against the back of his boyfriend's head and brought it down against his crotch, pushing Stonesy's face down there to his sweaty bulge, making him sniff and lick at it through the material, and groaning softly in anticipation.

Jack felt no possessiveness towards his playmate Phil, it really wasn't like that - he had a strong brotherly affection for his England teammate, and he really enjoyed having someone as rampantly sex-hungry as he was to share rooms with in City life, but he saw no romance or depth to their physical connection. How could he, when he woke up most mornings to dreams of being in a Mykonos villa with Benjamin fucking Chilwell...?

Watching the other City player down on his knees like this, and sucking off one of Jack's ultimate footballing icons in particular, was just... wow. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so turned on, his hard cock pressing against the insides of his dark skinny jeans that had replaced his tracksuit pants once he got to this party, always the poser. He rubbed himself through the black denim and murmured encouragingly, `Go on, my Philippa, swallow the bastard whole, yeah...'

It wasn't any jealousy or envy that made him lift up off the arm of the sofa, and he didn't want to deprive Kevin of the pleasure that was making him heave and sigh - he just wanted in on the action, and he kinda wanted to be closer to the 5ft11 ginger stud who had been his midfield inspiration for years. Few names had sealed the contract on his move to Manchester more than this one, and few left him starstruck at training in the way that the Belgian still managed to after one long season as colleagues. Jack shuffled in next to him now and was glad to feel one of the other guy's arms close about his shoulders, whilst unbuckling his belt and shoving down his skinny jeans and boxer shorts - out came his huge hard-on, and he rubbed it against the smooth skin of Phil's cheek. Those pretty eyes opened and rolled from one of them to the other, and then the hungrily sucking mouth swapped from cock to cock; if Keven was disappointed to lose the fellatio, it couldn't be for long, because Jack saw one of Phil's nimble hands dart to work, sliding up and down the wet length of de Bruyne's equipment. Seeing that and feeling Foden's hot mouth on his own shaft made Jack grunt and groan and he reached a rough hand down to rub and push at the crown of the younger player's head, feeding his thick one to the back of his throat until he gagged. Mmm, lovely.

There was no denying the feel of his cock stiffening and throbbing inside the chalky white tightness of his own jeans. Ruben Dias pressed a tense fist against the arm of the sofa and let out a long ragged breath of indecisive temptation, his eyes locked on the dual figures of Kev and Jack, young Phil crouched attentively between their standing bodies. The 25-year-old defender's nostrils flared and his jaw set in an unreadable expression that might have seemed like anything from disgust to envy to an onlooker - in truth, it was both of those feelings and more. He'd always told himself he'd never become involved in anything this dodgy at his professional club, though such resolve had failed him when secret opportunities fell his way on international duty - the golden rule of `What's okay for Cristiano must be okay for all of us' only ever seemed to make temporary sense when Ruben was in that international bubble, playing under the leadership and influence of his charismatic hero. He imagined the same to be true of the striker, who surely only developed such surprising intimacies with fellow Portuguese real men, and was probably much more reserved and well-behaved in his disciplined club routine. Right?

Dias released his breath in an uncertain sigh, and then a more meaningful moan drew his attention away to his left. He jolted in surprise. Walker had his head thrown back, relaxed and spread on the third sofa, and fucking Stonesy was all over him... the buttons on Kyle's tight shirt had either finally given up the fight, or been ripped asunder by one of John's big hands, exposing the tattooed muscle of the right-back's chest. John's hand roved up and down those muscles and his head was pushed down between the other defender's legs, nuzzling at the contents of his briefs. Kyle's tracky bottoms were at his knees. And Kyle was silent - it was John himself, his head held down there, who was making the gasping moan noises. Fuck.

Ruben felt the uncertain throb of his cock, and he tried to survey what everyone else was thinking. Across from him, Laporte was left on his own in the centre of the far sofa, gawping at the attention Grealish and De Bruyne were receiving from Foden - had he ever engaged in this kinda play before? It didn't seem that way. Dias had somehow assumed that similar rituals and antics might happen in the Spanish national squad where his friend now played, but Aymeric looked utterly lost. At Ruben's right, Mahrez and Silva were turned away from him, but watching and still laughing - either the Algerian was convinced this was all a hilarious slapstick prank, or he was fine with such behaviour. And as for Bernardo... well, Ruben and he had once made awkward eye contact from opposite sides of a recovery sauna whilst certain Portuguese teammates brought them to a sweaty finish, and a noisy Cristiano throat-fucked a third playmate a few metres away by the wall. Ruben had struggled to look the 27-year-old in the eye when they reunited at City training two weeks later, only relaxing once a frenzied late-night texting session between the pair had clarified and guaranteed a mutual silence on the matter.

In spite of himself, Ruben touched his cock through his jeans, and he squared his big strong shoulders. Like all of them, he was horny, and sex-starved - they had all been under the strictest orders last week and the one before, building up to these final few clashes in the league. He knew that as soon as he got back to Salford, that frustration could happily end, but perhaps there were more immediately convenient options here on the rooftop over Manchester, and he gradually lifted his muscular body from the couch, stepping carefully over the glass table and towards crouching Foden.

Laporte felt bewildered, if not entirely uncomfortable. God, he thought, guys will do the maddest things with a bit too much to drink and a few weeks on a sex ban...! Presumably all of this lot had been very well-behaved and disciplined with that ban, he reflected, as only that could explain their raunchy and ridiculous behaviour now. For Aymeric, such rules had only ever seemed like guidelines, and he'd continued to fuck his girlfriend quite actively whenever the mood took them, casually ignoring Pep's authority and always trusting in his own consistent form in defense. This week, however, had been different - a mix-up on some bookings had seen his partner disappear to the holiday home for some hosting duty and the 6ft3 Frenchman had been left with only his own right hand, which was no substitute. It had only been a matter of days, but the attractive 28-year-old had not gone so long without a proper fuck since his teens.

But could he really just let a guy play with his cock like these seedy guys were...?

Laporte wasn't sure. He wiped clammy palms down the legs of his pale grey suit pants, and glanced uncertainly about him. He drew himself back in surprise as Ruben Dias lunged over the table of drinks in one long stride and formed a triangle with the other two around Foden's crouching form. Instinctively, Laporte drew away from them, a little freaked out - giving him a rear view as the big-bodied defender threw his black shirt up and off his tanned body, and then undid his belt and hiked down his white jeans. For a moment, he was staring at the broad powerful back muscles, and then down past them to the prominent and dark-haired glutes, and sensing that just out of his view, Phil had turned around and was now taking a third footballer cock into his English mouth.

Edging further away from this, he opened and closed his dry mouth, then snatched the open tequila bottle from the table and took a swig. Across from him, he saw expressions of uncertain appreciation on Silva and Mahrez's faces, and then looked to the right. Again, he couldn't quite see the action: mainly, he could see the muscles of Stones' back, stretching out, and ending in the waistband of his Armani undies at the near end, his arse lifting and bulging through the fabric of his thin summer trousers. At the far end, his head bobbed up and down against Kyle and he understood that Phil was not the only man here willing to suck cock. Beyond the chestnut brown curls of Stones' hair, he could make out the bare shoulders and lolling head of Kyle Walker, who was groaning loudly and cooing their teammate's nickname: `ohhh, Stonesyyy, yesss mate... maaaate...'

Fuck it,' he heard Riyad announce suddenly. I'm jerking off, and I don't even care.' And directly in front of Laporte, his fellow French-born player spread his legs, leaned back, and undid the front of his designer jeans. He sat there, cock in hand, teasing his chubby circumcised member and lifting his embossed t-shirt partway up his sandy-brown six-pack. Aymeric realised he was staring comparatively at his friend's cock, and then eyed Bernardo nervously - but Silva was doing the same, giving Riyad's member a keen look, then fishing out his own to play with, as if it was a perfectly casual thing to do. They're all mad, aren't they? Wasted drunk. This is actual madness.

He sat there, unsure whether some unknown social code demanded that he too grab his cock and start wanking out of sheer desperation, or whether he should clamber over the sofa and leave these bastards to it. He was genuinely stumped by the decision, and hardly noticed the shift and dynamic to his right, not until he felt John's hand on his knee, or glanced down at the bright enthusiastic face of the centre-back. His lips and chin were glossy. Behind him, stretched out on a sofa to himself, Kyle was sliding one hand up and down his glossy cock, the other resting on his chest muscles. Go on, let him have a go on yours,' the Sheffield brute grunted easily. You won't regret it.'

Stonesy went slowly, sensing that Laporte was uncertain. He undid his tight suit pants and avoided touching any of his lumpy bulge through their silky material, instead focusing on undoing the buttons of the Frenchman's clingy patterned shirt, letting it fall open away from his lightly tanned torso. He breathed heavily with excited, but kept his motions slow, resisting urges to look away and see what was going on behind him - he could hear bumps and squeaks of shifting furniture as someone changed position or moved closer to someone else, losing track of the dynamics, and just concentrating on his new target.

Once Aymeric's trousers were fully unzipped, he took each of his hands, and pinned them down to the sides with his own strength, before dropping his face to the man's crotch. With his lips and teeth, he parted the zip fly and played with the waistband of the tight trunks beneath, letting his chin rub prominently against the outline of that French cock. With some difficulty, he teased the trousers more fully open and the undies gradually down - his lips and noses rubbed against the coarse tangle of unshaven pubes, breathing in the perfumed sweat of the man's bush, and eventually reaching the lumpen weight of his prick. Still, Stones went slowly, breathing on it and letting his lips only gingerly caress its floppy length, doing this several times very slowly before finally pushing his tongue against it and hearing the self-appointed Spaniard gasp out in pleasant surprise.

And then he moved with more purpose, closing his hand about the base of Laporte's cock and taking its fast-swelling bulk into his eager mouth, tasting it against his tongue and the roof of his mouth. He felt hands on his bare shoulders and knew the touch to be Kyle's, closing in on them to enjoy watching - it was Kyle's hand, rather than Aymeric's, that pushed forcefully on the back of his head, forcing him down and making him swallow all of the surprisingly lengthy weapon. Laporte just groaned, sounding distant and still unsure, and Stones enjoyed the feel of him, the rich sweaty taste, the interference of his brutish boyfriend. He lifted his left hand off the man's right wrist and brought it exploratively over until he found and could play with Walker's cock, still wet with his own saliva, teasing and edging it and wanting both dicks in his throat, but knowing they were probably too thick together.

It was like a double porn show in front of him, and yet switched to the wrong channel by accident - where was the TV remote? He should probably change it. And yet he didn't particular want to.

Riyad Mahrez, arrogant Premiership winger, sat and tugged on his fat cock, pulling his t-shirt further up his torso, admiring his own six-pack upside down, and glad to see Bernardo Silva glancing curiously aside at him. `If you like what you see, why don't you get involved?' the ex-Leicester player grunted at his neighbour, taking on the mood of the action - well, why shouldn't he have his share of the fun?

Sat to his right, the departing City player laughed lightly, and his ambiguous reaction made Riyad feel slightly nervous. But then one hairy hand of the mature 27-year-old reached over - since Mahrez was still gripping his own veiny cock, Silva's fingers toyed instead with his fat hairy balls, tickling them until he let go of himself. Silva's hand replaced his, grabbing and stroking his cock for him, and the switch to someone else's touch felt electric on his skin. He grunted a strange indifference to it, but couldn't help the urgent mutter of demand. `Suck it,' Mahrez found himself hissing at his teammate, since everybody else seemed to be getting that treatment but him.

Hunched close, Silva laughed again - a strange, thoughtful kinda laugh. He looked his teammate in the eye, finding the Portuguese guy quiet and thoughtful. But he was shaking his head. `No, I won't do that,' the Portugal player said under his breath, almost to himself, whilst keeping his hand moving in slow tender strokes that made Riyad's balls ache and his cock stretch into its fuller veiny length. He grunted his vague, confused dismay at Silva's boundaries and then dreaded some returned demand - did the 5ft8 midfielder think he was about to do that for HIM instead...?

But no. Hand still about Mahrez and his manhood, Silva turned away, and called at the others in his light, jovial way. `When's it our turn on Lil Filipe, eh?' the City hero asked brightly, and Mahrez felt a little jolt of shared excitement - the midfielder was really just voicing the question that had passed through his own head as he began to play with his own cock, and he was glad when the parting of those standing men brought their answer.

There's plenty of Philippa to go around,' he heard Jack snigger, and he heard a sort of hungry moan of lust from the kneeling slut. He bit his own lip, and squeezed at the base of his cock, pushing Silva' hand away. Get over here, Foden,' Mahrez called fiercely, glaring dominantly at the crouching Englishman. `Come taste a real man, okay?'

It was his leaving party, and so Bernardo Silva did not feel entirely magnanimous as he watched Foden crawl past his legs and take up residence in front of Mahrez, helping to spread those legs further and rapidly leaning into suck on his exposed offering of `real man'. The Portuguese player supposed that it would quickly be his turn, but he still resented Riyad's arrogance a little, that pomposity that they had all playfully shot at during training-ground banter over the past few years - there was something exciting about the forceful way which the winger now fed his thick North African meat to Phil's gob, and yet Silva just wanted his turn.

He felt a hand on his hairy forearm and he glanced over. It was Jack, whose touch had begun to massage teasingly at him before all of this intensity arrived. He grinned encouragingly at the stooping Englishman and his messy locks on either side of his sunburned dopey face. Well hello,' Silva declared quietly, lifting a hand to stroke his hairy chin, then rubbing a thumb over his bottom lip. Are you about to give me a goodbye present, £100 million man...?'

`Dunno,' chuckled Jack in that adorably absent voice.

Come on,' Bernardo said, with a wink. You know you'll miss me, English boy.'

Jack licked his lips. Well, well, well - who'd have thought that the Aston Villa heart-throb had this side to him? His face was all British sleaze, and Silva found he loved it. Behaviour that had always seemed a dark secret of the Portugal camp was now burning away on a Manchester rooftop, and he would never have to train or play alongside any of these gentlemen ever again - he was a free agent. And he wanted his cock sucked. He ran his hand up the side of Jack's rather attractive face and then pushed down, guiding his parted lips in the direction of his own dark curve of meat, until it was sliding in against that thick tongue, and he threw his head back and gasped.

Attentive waiting staff were bringing the men their jackets and tidying away the messy contents of the dining table. Pep stood behind his chair, resting one hand on its wooden back, the other stroking back and forth across the thick salt-and-pepper growth of his chin and jawline. He stooped to pick up his wine glass and drained the last of its contents against his dry lips, then turned to politely take his light linen suit jacket from the waiter who was bringing it to him; the casual club tracksuits of the public event had been swapped for summery formalwear by the high-powered gathering of City leaders, though even the lightest fabrics felt too much in the stuffy heat of this upstairs dining room.

The men made their way down to street level and Guardiola stared vaguely up and down the busy road of restaurants and bars, not quite catching the parting words of the guys around them. He slid his hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and checked the messages on his phone - a few belated congratulations messages from old friends or colleagues, and a couple from his family at home. Nothing from Filipe. He held it in both hands and paused on the pavement, opening up a new message to Phil Foden, and hesitating only briefly before punching in his simple text: `One night very soon, my boy.' Send. The 51-year-old smiled uncertainly to himself, but in his mind's eye, he watched Jack's hand disappearing down the back of Phil's pants.

It was happening right now. Phil was bent forward, his head in Riyad's lap, but he could feel someone fumbling at the waistband of his sporty trunks where they showed above his tracksuit bottoms. He instinctively knew it would be Grealish, even before he lifted his head from between the dark fur of Mahrez's thighs to glance to the left and see Jack's hairy arm stretching behind him. The pair of them were on their knees in front of the sofa, and Jack had his lips and tongue just over the glossy head of Silva' slender dark prick. Phil grinned, feeling Jack's fingers slide inside the tight elastic and poke at the damp upper end of his crack in an experimental way.

But then Mahrez's hand came pushing down over his head, bringing his face back down to the task at hand - his lips parting to take in the curved shaft of the big French-Algerian piece that tasted so good. He opened wide for it, taking Riyad in deep and leaning comfortably into his lap whilst the finger teased the top of his crack and stretched at the material of his undies and pants.

Fuck man,' panted the 31-year-old, pushing down on his head greedily with both hands. Where you been hidin' this mouth, slut boy?' His casual aggro and pushiness turned Phil on, making his cock leak against the front of his Nike underwear.

Foden had already been too drunk, but now he was drunk on cock. How many had he got his lips about now? He'd started with de Bruyne, amazed to go down on the big handsome ginger bloke who he'd always dismissed as highly conventional and straitlaced - then the more familiar girth of Jack's weapon against the back of his throat, tasting of musty pre-cum - and then he'd trembled in surprise as he was fed the heavy contents of Ruben Dias' white skinny jeans, the men's actions becoming more dominating and forceful as they used his willing mouth as their fuck-toy. And now his fourth snack, running his lips up and down the chubby shaft of Mahrez's short powerful cock. He groaned as he slurped back up it and pulled away to gasp in deep breaths, letting out a giddy laugh and wanting to pinch himself to check that this wasn't some fever dream.

Mahrez was groaning and lolling back against the sofa, but Foden wanked rather than sucked him, using both hands to attend to the spit-slicked shaft and tickle at the hairy balls. It felt natural to be pleasing the older man like this - Riyad wasn't as attractive to him as some members of the City squad, but he had a similar powerful energy to him as someone like Sergio Aguero, who Phil had once pleasured on Papi's behalf towards the end of his City career. He licked his lips and sucked in more deepth breaths, poised between the older man's spread legs, and pushing back with his tight bottom as Jack's hand slid more fully inside his pants, gripping at his firm cheeks but also digging a central finger between them to disturb his sweaty hole.

Mahrez, grunting impatiently, reached and hooked a hand around the back of Phil's neck, insisting on more oral attention - eagerly, the 21-year-old complied, bending forward and dropping his mouth to the angry red tip of the fat dick, taking it back into his mouth and sliding down it to get a fuzzy tickle of pubes against his nose and chin. All the while, shifting his body into doggy position and allow Jack's hands to yank clothing away from his slim white arse, fingering it now with tight little jabs between the cheeks. He felt Jack's spit fall against his crack, helping to lube the single finger that was now puncturing his ring in this tight little rhythm. He heard Jack's low growling laugh beside him, realising that Grealish was no longer serving Silva.

Foden wondered what Mahrez and Silva might think to see this, to watch as Jack exposed and then fingered his arse here in this dangerous public setting - would they be excited, like they were by the mouths on their cocks, or would they think it was a step too far? As utterly wasted as he was, the Stockport youth found he didn't give a fuck - he wanted Jack's cock in him as soon as possible, or any cock that was going.

Kevin was sat back down now, his thick pale body pushed down into the narrow space that remained on a sofa occupied by Aymeric Laporte and Kyle Walker. In front of them, Stones was still on his knees, giving most of his sloppy oral attention to the Frenchman in the middle - but it was Walker who was stroking the gentle curls of the centre-back's brown hair, guiding his head up and down in Laporte's lap. Kevin's eye roamed: he took in the muscular shoulders and neck around John's bobbing head, and the glimpses of the 6ft3 French player's perfectly proportioned cock; he looked at the side-profile of Aymeric's red sweaty face, seeing the urgent pleasure and panic in his eyes, the trickle of perspiration that was bobbing down his throat and onto his bare chest then down against the crunched folds of his abdomen where he sat with his shirt wide open. Beyond him, Kevin found himself particularly admiring the hunched figure of Kyle - all those tattoos and the caramel skin stretched over bulging muscles. His friend's confidence was intoxicating in the air, and he wished he could be as sure of his body and his power as his team's seasoned right-back.

Walker was reaching across and tweaking one of Laporte's nipples as he giggled and spoke dirty encouragement to Stones: `Go on, slurp on his cock like a lollipop, you dirty fucker!'

De Bruyne decided to do the same, if awkwardly. `Yeah, suck him good,' he grumbled hesitantly at big tall John, whilst reaching across and pushing aside the cotton of Aymeric's shirt so that he could pinch and stroke the other dark pink nipple on that smooth strong chest. Laporte glanced at him in some aroused alarm, and his wide eyes turned Kevin on even more.

Kyle went further, dropping his face down and kissing the French stud on the pec, then treating his stiff nipple like a teat to suck on - Kevin might have copied, but he was too embarrassed, and he thought he would clash heads with the snorting thug if he tried to echo his action. He tore his eyes away, enjoying the feel of his own body pressed against Laporte's, and looked at nearby Ruben Dias, who was stood wanking himself off with an intense expression on his face, looking down at the central action.

De Bruyne's eyes bulged, and he thought confusedly of the way Sterling was always trying to entice him into putting his cock in his arse. What the fuck? Phil Foden was now on his back on the low table that sat between the three sofas, stripped entirely of his City tracksuit but for the socks and trainers on his feet, which stuck up in the air. At one end of the table, Grealish was on his knees, laughing and mumbling as he jabbed two fingers in and out of the boy's arse, frigging him like some girl's pussy - and at the other end, Mahrez was also on his knees, kneeling by the table so that he could feed his cock into Foden's willing mouth. And between them, Silva sat hanging off the edge of the sofa, wanking himself furiously whilst looking at the scene - he glanced up and his eyes met Kevin's, and the Belgian felt extremely hot and confused. This was all spinning out of control. Had it really began with him being a bit too honest about his wife's disinterest...? The magic spell of alcohol that had opened him up so much was partly fading, allowing insecurity to resurface, but he was also tingling with excitement and wanting his cock sucked again with the skill that Phil had shown him - it was none of the private gentleness of his experimental meetings with Doyle in the past, but it was far better than the clumsy toothy action of nervous Raheem.

`Are you going to fuck him?' the 30-year-old found himself asking bluntly, unable to filter anything between his brain and his mouth. He stared urgently at Grealish, this brash English lad who professed to hero worship him yet seemed so utterly sure of his own talents anyway. Kevin gawped dumbly at his new friend, sensing a shift in their relationship, having always felt the ex-Villa player was a bit starstruck in his presence - but drunk Jack was utterly liberated and careless, didn't seem to care who saw him with his digits up another lad's bottom. And he was nodding, whilst spitting into his other hand and slicking it across the powerful shaft of his cock.

Grealish slurred as he spoke. Gonna give it to im good,' he laughed thickly. `You want it, Lil Philippa, right?!'

Oh god yes,' came Foden's desperate whine. Ohhh...'

This was all going so fast. Kevin felt a hand clutching at his right shoulder: it was Aymeric, seeming to grip him for some connection to reality, whilst panting loudly and pouring sweat from every inch of his body. He looked catatonic with drink and enjoyment, and Stones was still sucking him off noisily.

De Bruyne looked back into the centre of the fray. Dias had moved closer, was standing right by Grealish, still pulling back heavily on his own huge cock - and Silva was in closer, hugging an arm about Mahrez's shoulders and helping him to feed his cock into Foden's throat. But now Silva was taking over with laughter and comments of `My leaving party!' so that he could push his member into Phil's wet lips instead, whilst Riyad just slapped his cock against the lad's cheek and brow.

Kevin squeezed on his own cock, wondering if he could just blow his load and run away, now that he felt so insanely out of his depth. But they all seemed to be trapped on this sweaty spiral of lust and opportunity, and somebody was pushing the tequila bottle into his hand - it was Walker, leaning across and grinning lewdly at him. Down some of that, mate,' the Yorkshire defender instructed him eagerly. It'll see you right, lad.'

Fuck yes, Kyle thought, this was brilliant. This was pure filth. It reminded him of the crazy foursome he and John had shared with Harry Maguire and Luke Shaw on England camp that time, the best group sex that the lusty 31-year-old had ever experienced - even better than the time he'd paid for three prostitutes in Vegas on his mate's stag do, meaning to share them among the group, but just taking the entire trio to his own bed and having a wild few hours going solo. (Even better, part of him thought, than the first time he and John had secretly shared Sterling, the pair of them too nervous to try fucking one another, but happy to take out their sexual frustration on the Jamaican stud, who claimed no memory of the event the morning after.)

Walker slid off the sofa, playing with his balls and letting his hard-on bounce up and down. He stood up so he could wriggle out of his sweat-damp hawaiian shirt, peeling it fully away from his shoulders and back, and tossing it into the growing mess of clothing and bottles that was strewn between the items of outdoor furniture. He thought happily of the wads of cash he had pushed into the bar manager's hands before instructing them not to set foot on the roof terrace until he said so. It would cost even more, he knew, when their self-service bar tab was totted up and any damage to the furniture was included, but they could all fucking afford it. This was how champions should party, he thought smugly, this was exactly what they deserved after their big win.

Kyle shuffled closer, wanting a good view as Jack Grealish took hold of those upright legs and angled his cock down between them. God yes. Kyle wasn't strictly attracted to Jack himself, for some reason, it was more the way others all obsessed over the floppy-haired pretty boy - that's what had made him so determined to get a piece of the newcomer back at the end of last summer, that and a need to feel like a dominant presence in the City squad once Jack's ridiculous fee had become public knowledge. But the lad DID have a fantastic cock, and he enjoyed the sound of Phil's groans as it was pushed slowly into him - had these two fucked before, then?! It seemed that way - but didn't Foden belong totally to their manager? Walker was confused but excited.

He positioned himself close and took over from Mahrez and Silva, crouching low so he could feel his hard-on into Foden's mouth, cupping a hand beneath it to make him a bit more comfortable as he filled his gob up with his own thick meat, almost choking the lad. He adjusted position to allow the blowjob to continue, groaning pleasantly and watching as Grealish began to thrust at the other end. The two of them, England and City heroes, now spit-roasting the manager's Golden Boy, FUCKING HELL - this was amazing for Walker and his fragile ego, he thought he might picture this scene for the rest of his career.

Grealish fucked hot and fast, confident in his familiarty with Lil Phil's body. He knew how the lad liked it, knew how to make him squeal - or the lad would be squealing, if he didn't have a mouthful of Walker. Fuck, that was a hot sight. It made Grealish thrust harder and faster. He held Phil's ankles and kept his legs up, powering his own hips back and forth and slamming his cock right up inside the perfect pert bottom of his favourite fuck-buddy.

Grealish was happy to get his dick in there, of course, but he also liked being watched. He loved the shock and interest around him. Dias was to his right, holding one of his bare shoulders with those massive hands, and he could hear more than see how furiously the Portuguese beast was wanking himself. There was de Bruyne with him too, his face wide in earnest and innocent shock - this was utter magic to Jack, who had idolised the Belgian midfielder for years, and now felt the older man's fascination matching that. But it wasn't just those two, all the guys seemed to be watching him intensely, captivated by the way he ploughed Foden on the table.

There was a small chance of regret, a part of him supposed - where would all this madness end? What would it be like, for so many of his teammates to know that he swung both ways? It had been strange enough to spend the whole season so conscious of Kyle and John, whilst powering through his casual affair with greedy Phil, but now there would be several more blokes on the team who had literally watched him fuck a guy. Oh well! Mad shit had gone down at Aston Villa at times, especially when John Terry was around, and he'd never once lost the respect owed to him as captain. (Admittedly, he was pretty sure at least two members of that squad had actually been in love with him...)

He slowed down, a brief lull in his energy, just pushing lazily at the lad's arse and reaching down to slap the side of one buttock, but then he picked up the pace again, a piledriver against the pale sweaty muscles of Phil's bottom and thighs. It felt so good, and he thought that he would blow his load if he carried on for much longer - somehow keen to delay this peak, he slowed again, and then pulled out, gasping for breath. Who's next?' he barked excitedly, looking wildly from face to face. Who's fucking him next?'

Ruben hesitated, his big body tense. Could he fuck a man? He'd asked himself this before, sat in that dark stuffy sauna, watching the ripple of every intricate muscle in Ronaldo's physique, listening to the yelps of the player being railed against the wooden wall - but it seemed to lie behind the 25-year-old's uncertain boundaries. Getting his dick sucked well was one thing, he'd thought, but any more than that...

But now there was a moment of indecision, holding on to his aching cock and seeing the sweat-dripping enjoyment of Jack Grealish next to him, the sluttish posture of young Phil Foden, so ready to be taken. There was a long moment where the 6ft1 centre-back might have pushed Jack away and scrambled into place to replace him, seeing the shiny pink hole and wondering how tight and good it might feel on his Portuguese cock. He'd been aching to fuck his girlfriend all day, but she NEVER let him do anal...

But Ruben hesitated too long, and the sweaty bodies around the table were slipping into new positions before he knew it. It was Walker - fucking hell - who was replacing Grealish, taking hold of Foden's legs and powering into him instead. The burly Englishman seemed to think it was perfectly normal, and the two lads' actions were shocking Dias - gone were his ideas about prudish and repressed English men, and he was having his eyes opened to a whole seedy new aspect of British football culture.

De Bruyne was right next to him, their bodies too close really, and Dias rested a hand instinctively on his back, feeling the seething heat of his pale soft muscle. He squeezed him about the upper back, just glad to lean his aching weight on someone for a moment, and feeling the heat that exuded from the red-faced ginger. Kevin's head turned slightly and their gazes met for a moment - the Belgian man looking so lost and overwhelmed, but wide-eyed and eager. He was certainly getting a lot more than he'd bargained for when he first complained about no sex in the marriage bed, wasn't he?

Ruben wasn't sure what e was doing when he let go of his own cock, but if it was a subconscious invitation, it was taken. Kevin's hand was on it in a moment, curling about the middle of the shaft, holding it firmly, but moving against it in frustratingly slow strokes. Ruben cautiously laid his own hand over Kevin's, encouraging it into a firmer and faster stroke of his throbbing member. He nodded firmly at the 30-year-old, needing someone to bring him to his finish, since Phil's holes were busy - and why not this big innocent-faced hero who the collective men all loved and revered?

Aimless, Dias felt his hand wander across the bare upper back of the 5ft11 man, kneading against his sweaty skin but zigzagging downwards little. They were both on their knees, and their bodies leaned close together at the side, shirts long discarded behind them; Ruben's own skinny white jeans were bunched about his knees, and Kevin's tracksuit pants were halfway down his thighs. At the back, this meant his big broad arse was out in the warm air, and the centre-back's hand found it, running across the doughy flesh and downy hair of it, giving one cheek a good squeeze. He hardly knew what he was doing, but it felt good - there was something almost womanly about de Bruyne's backside, not like the slim glutes on that skinny English kid being fucked in front of them. That question played again in Ruben's head, the possibility of going further and fucking a man -- and he squeezwed a bit more meaningfully at one chubby buttock. Kevin stared intently back at him, his lips quivering uncertainly.

And then both men were disturbed by the extent of Laporte's urgent groans.

`MON DIEU,' the Frenchman howled, feeling his balls release. He had been on the verge of cumming for many long minutes, almost wanting to clench his body and delay it because things felt so good, but also wanting it over with - and now he did spurt his seed, his 6ft3 physique convulsing against the sofa and almost kicking out at the other guys in front of it. He felt his warm cum splash against his abdomen and chest, but when he opened his eyes and looked down the length of his body, much of it was dribbling against the cheeks and chin of John's gurning face. Stones was laughing and wiping the back of a hand across his mouth, holding Aymeric by the cock in his other hand.

The Spain international panted and groaned, his arms stiff at his side. He stared wordlessly at the English defender who had brought him to this messy climax with his mouth, absolutely shaken by the lines that had been crossed. But as he stared at John's messy grinning face and slid further away from him across the sofa, his eyes caught what was going on beside them, and he felt an even greater shock.

Laporte had been lost in his own selfish pleasure, unable to believe he was being sucked off by a dude - but now he could see that Phil Foden was spreadeagled on the table, with the insanely defined body of Kyle Walker slamming into him at one end, and Bernardo Silva thrusting into his face at the other. The Frenchman gasped and moaned in bewildered surprise, still trembling and sticky from his own climax.

Stones was getting to his feet, little wet slicks of cum still on his face, and turning away from him. `Oi, I want a go!' the centre-back was shouting at Walker. John was peeling open his jeans and muscling forward, pushing between Dias and Grealish. Laporte stared on as he saw Walker withdraw, his cock free and shiny, and make room for Stones to take over - stooping down, the 6ft2 lad was pulling his own huge cock free from his underpants, and grabbing at Phil's slender, shiny body. Laporte quailed at what he was seeing, his usual happy-go-luck confidence falling apart.

Stones was dimly aware of Laporte getting up and fucking off, but his drink-scorched attention span had moved on from blowing the hot French fellow defender; he was now burying his big dick to the hilt in Foden's arse, remembering how good it had felt to once plough the pretty lad in a clubhouse bar, some indirect `treat' from the manager for his return to top form. He was very happy to repeat that, flipping Phil's body up off his back and into doggy style on the table, pushing his arse into a better position so he could ram his massive one into his gaping hole.

As always, Stones fucked with a lot of boisterous laughter and flailing gestures, grabbing and slapping at Foden's body. He was a clumsy and powerful fucker, when he let loose, and he didn't always get the chance, often the bottom to Walker.

It was Dias now on the other side, fucking Foden in the face. Stones cackled and reached over to high-five the Portuguese man, who looked vaguely confused but reciprocated, their palms stinging together in mid-air over their shared plaything. It was all a drunken blur, and the booze in his system might have rendered the Barnsley lad numb - but strangely not, he had been so fiercely aroused by servicing Laporte and being manhandled by his Kyle in front of so many others. So when Walker was suddenly grabbing him from the side, pawing at his muscles and nuzzling the side of his face, whispering `Fuckkk' in his ear, Stones quickly reached his climax, ready to unload inside the bucking bronco of Foden's body.

You wanna take my load?' he drawled loudly at the lad. You want me to cum in you again?' he barked in a throaty voice, all hoarse and wispy from too much shouting and singing. `Again?' he heard the grunted whisper of Kyle's confused voice in his ear, but the note of shock and dismay in his boyfriend's tone didn't really register with him in the moment. Phil was squealing yes, and John was pushing hard inside him for a final flew strokes before emptying his balls, treating the Stockport scally like a fleshlight.

`Here, my turn,' he panted, acting on tequila and impulse. Quickly, he was manhandling Foden's body, grasping at the slim toned youngster like it was the body of some petite woman he'd seduced into bed. Never had the French-Algerian considered that he might put his dick in a lad, and yet in this moment it was vital that he did so - seeing the other three blokes pounding their shared bitch was like a red rag to a bull, a potent challenge to Mahrez and his dominant personality. He needed to be the one to fuck Foden even harder, to make this team mascot really scream for it.

He threw Phil from the table onto the other sofa, taking up position behind him, unwilling to share him in the way that others had. He grabbed his slim hips and crouched his knees slightly to bring his crotch down, then jabbed the fat head of his cock between the pink, hand-marked cheeks. Having watched Jack, Kyle, and John all mount the lad, he expected his cock to just slide in to the midfielder's back passage, so he was stunned by the muscular tightness that met his tool.

Still, he forced himself inside, satisfied by the deep moans that Phil emitted, and he held him tightly by the sides whilst burying his girth inside his bottom. Then he fucked him, powering his hips forward with his strong arse muscles, and letting go of the slim body so that he could lift his arms to his side and flex his biceps, turning to make sure the others were watching. Fuck yes,' the winger panted arrogantly, slamming inside Phil's arse. FUCK YES.'

Silva clambered onto the couch, standing beside the doggy position of Foden's body. He pulled fiercely on his cock, grinning as the young lad's face twisted this way to meet it - lips open, tongue stuck out, eyes wide. Yes,' the Portuguese football star growled, you want my load? You want Silva's cum, you little bitch? My goodbye gift to you, slut?' He wasn't sure where this dirty talk was coming from, but had he always looked at the young local with this greedy hunger? There was something about the sharp features and false innocence of the Stockport Iniesta, wasn't there? He was desperate to jizz on that pretty face and leave his mark on this up-and-coming legend of their sport, a final shot on target for City.

Mahrez was still slamming into Foden, grunting heavily with each thrust; the others were close too, all of them huddled around this one sofa. Laporte was gone though, he thought distantly - it had all got a bit too much for that big tall pussy. Silvas laughed to think of it, knowing he would have to speak to the French bloke and reassure him that this was okay - he would have to ask Laporte whether no dick-sucking went on in the Spanish squad, like he'd always assumed!

Someone was grabbing and rubbing at one of his shoulders - it was Kyle Walker - and someone else had slapped him on the bottom - maybe Jack Grealish? Phil was licking at his balls whilst he wanked his cock over his face, trailing pre-cum on the bridge of his nose. Silva was close to exploding, and he had not cum in many days. He bit his lip and gasped in his breaths, thinking of the first time he'd cum in a lad's mouth, held and encouraged at one side by a masterful Ronaldo. Go on, feed him,' the Portugal hero had hissed dominantly in his ear, having fed' him only days before that in a secret dark encounter that shocked Bernard to the core. Thinking of Cristiano somehow did the job - what Portuguese man wouldn't give up everything for that warrior king?

Silva burst, showering Foden's face and fringe in a sticky mess that he'd stored up for ages, swearing loudly in Portuguese and letting his body flop back against the support of Kyle and Jack.

Guardiola paused in the pool of light outside his front door, the City vehicle slowly reversing out of his gated driveway and leaving to drop off the final two passengers from their short road trip out of Manchester. He hesitated by the door, knowing it was not so late, though darkness had finally fallen; he was drunk and exhausted, but he would need to be pleasant and sociable for a while when he went inside.

For now, the football manager held himself out in the porch, allowing a few more self-indulgent moments of wondering. Had Phil and Jack grown too close? Was there something more going on there than the arrangement that he himself had put in action? Could there be things that Foden was not telling his Papi? The questions that had plagued the genius coach all night were now given paranoid freedom, rather than suppressed. He took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Before unlocking the door, Pep checked his phone again. No response to the firm message he had sent his Golden Boy, and the message only had one tick. Sent, but not seen. He let out a huffy breath, annoyed at himself for such immature need to even check. He was a 51-year-old at the top of his management career, a married father. He was not some teenager in love. This was ridiculous.

And yet somewhere out in the Manchester night was his precious boy - and for the first time in their intense relationship, Guardiola felt the bonds of his controlling love coming loose. He had no idea where Filipe was, or what he was doing, and the cost of his gradually neglect was painfully apparent to him.

Foden ached wonderfully, turned over into yet another position, his brain just a mush of primal pleasure. His face and chest were covered in cum, and he was no longer even sure whose. He was back on the table, which felt slick with his own body sweat beneath his lean back muscles, and his legs were parted to allow another fucking. It was Jack again now, piling into him and laughing, red-cheeked and mad-eyed. `Gonna cum,' the Brummie stud was gasping for him, and Phil stared adoringly at his big brother. He nodded faintly, wanting every drop of the Grealish seed inside him, not caring that it would be joining the other loads in his arse, just wanting to be bred by this perfect stud of a bloke.

Yes,' he cried weakly. Breed me!'

Yesss,' Jack growled in response. Ugh, YES...'

Foden gasped, and as he opened his mouth too wide, a cock was slid between his lips. He was surprised but he reacted quickly, slurping on the dick and trying to work out whose it was. Short, fat, chunky. Mahrez. He lapped at it, and realised he could taste cum on the tip. The Algeria captain had jizzed and was now feeding the last traces of it to him while gasping overhead and spitting on his face. Slut,' he growled. Lick it clean.'

Grealish was howling as he climaxed, and Foden knew he was being treated to all of the Brummie's spunk, deep inside him. He shuddered and groaned on the table, more cum smeared across his lips and pumped into his arse. He'd lost track of it all. Didn't really know who'd fucked him and who hadn't, in the mouth or the arse. He wanted it all, wanted to lose himself in the madness, but more than anything he wanted Jack.

Riyad's cock was pulled away from him and he twisted his neck to look up his body at Jack, who was still thrusting weakly between his thighs, holding him at the knees and rocking back and forth in these closing pushes of energy, even though he was spent and unloaded. Grealish grinned, his face half-covered by messy strands of his long hair, stuck to the sweaty fuzz of his cheeks and brow. Their eyes met, and Phil felt himself begin to weakly mouth the three words he always wanted to say - but Jack's grin was wicked and playful, not romantic, and his pants were businesslike and satisfied. You little stud,' the drunkard teased in a thick slur, barely able to stand straight. Love ya too,' he quipped casually, in a matey tone, and Phil realised that the three words had indeed escaped his mouth in an honest sigh - but whether or not the other footballer had caught their panicked sincerity or not, he couldn't say.

Kevin de Bruyne watched as Jack slid away from the body on the table, both of them naked and shiny. Foden lingered on the table like the remains of a shared meal, his legs flopping down and his arms dangling to the sides, chest rising and falling. Grealish was slipping quietly away, playing with his floppy cock as he headed towards the bar to serve himself a drink. Kevin was sat a little way away, on one of the sofas, and still wanking his cock desperately, wanting to let go and cum, but unable to properly relax.

Dias was sprawled next to him, jeans about his ankles, and one of his big tanned legs hooked over de Bruyne's own white thigh. The Portuguese player looked half-asleep, his big chest rising and falling in the same breahty rhythm as Foden's, and his strong arms spread behind him over the back of the sofa. His cock lay limp between those strong thighs, spent after firing its load on Phil's chest a few minutes ago, helped by Kevin's own reaching hand, which he stared at as his other pumped his dick in numb dissatisfaction.

He'd tried touching other lads' cocks once, had even attempted to take one in his mouth - that had been on international duty, visiting the shared room of the Hazard brothers, after confiding his curiosities in Eden and Thorgan. It hadn't felt right to him then, and freaked him out, and he still felt uncomfortable with the two talented Hazards when Belgium training brought them back together from time to time. Back then, it had scared him, in a way that his comforting trysts with Tommy Doyle and his wet mouth had never. But here tonight, the urge had taken him, and he had wanked Ruben firmly, giving more attention to the defender's prick than his own, which now seemed utterly numb and senseless and he wasn't sure he would be able to shoot a load.

But what he found himself thinking about as he lolled on the sofa, looking from Dias to Foden to Mahrez, who looked passed out on the opposite sofa, was the way Ruben's hand had clutched and squeezed his bottom for a few moments back there. The pleasure of the sensation confused the Belgian a little, as did his disinterest in queuing up to put his cock inside Foden - it seemed to drive the others wild, and yet the thought was cold to him. Just as it always was when Sterling was pushing his big brown booty at him in hotel bathrooms, desperate to get more love from him than just a load on the tongue. But Ruben's hand on his own backside, that had been...

Unexpectedly, a bit of feeling returned to his cock, and largely ignored by the dozing others, KDB brought himself off, splashing cum on the inside of one thigh, pale watery jizz trickling over the little curls of red hair where it fell.

Kyle pushed John's taller body against the back wall of the bar shack, snogging him so fiercely that their slippery physiques toppled and broke several bottles of liquor before finding some balance and holding each other tightly. Kyle kissed hungrily at him, their bodies both spent and their balls empty, but their passion for each other lasting well beyond that. He curled his thick arms about John's torso and pulled him close, kissing him on the cheek and the neck. Love you,' he grumbled in his ear. Love you, you big dumb fuck.' He loved the feel of John's height and strength against him, the way their muscular forms interlocked in these sweaty post-fuck embraces.

Awww,' interrupted another voice. This is cute.'

Instinctively, Walker broke away from the other man, slapping a hand to the surface of the bar and turning to face the bleary-eyed customer who leaned there as if expecting service. The 31-year-old greeted his England teammate with a leering smile, casual and dismissive of the tender moment that had just been broken. `What can I get you, good sir?' Kyle asked in a playful falsetto, his shirt pulled back on over his shoulders but hanging open over his big ink-covered chest.

`Anything you like, wench,' played Jack Grealish in a weary voice. He'd slid onto a barstool and now leaned heavily onto the counter, looking like he might pass out. In spite of the moment's panic at being interrupted, Walker laughed fondly and scrunched the mess of the other lad's poncy hair.

We best get you home, daft lad,' he said to the inebriated Brummie, turning to wink at Stones before beginning to pour a pint of water for Jack and then a pint of lager for himself. Or you can crash at ours, you eejit.'

`Ours?' murmured John beside him, stroking his lower back beneath the thin fabric of the floral-patterend shirt.

Kyle sniggered. `I mean - mine. My place. Erm. Mi casa su casa, dick'ed.'

John grinned lovingly at him. `Si, senor.'

Jack allowed himself to be guided from the bar, barely conscious and helped back into some of his clothes by the friendly scaffold of John Stones. He leaned heavily on the taller guy, slurring out bromantic affirmations of love. Such a legend,' he blared at his big friend, whilst being helped into his t-shirt and almost falling over. Proper stand-up guy, Jonny S. Love ya. Love ya all. Where's Lil Philippa? Love youuuuuu, Philly, love yoooooou...!' He giggled and hugged stupidly at Stonesy, making it harder for the other player to help him into his trainers. `Love you Ben!' he cried out daftly, slipping between the present moments and the dreams his brain was falling sleepily into - then he laughed awkwardly at himself as if this was a slip of the tongue, and pushed grumpily away from John's help.

`Right, which club are we heading to?!' the footballer yelped out to the lads nearby, as if he had the tiniest chance in hell of making it past any bouncer in the city. He then proceed to turn in the direction of the doors that would lead back in doors, and tripped straight over the nearest chair, tumbling face-first onto the deck.

Ruben shook his head and strolled past the mess of the other player, who was being helped up onto his feet by a combination of Silva and Stones. Dias left them behind, buttoning up his short-sleeved black shirt and reaching down to check the buckle of his belt as he reached the exit and took careful, deliberate steps down into the stairwell; he could sneer judgmentally at the messy heap of Grealish, but he knew he'd far exceeded his own drinking limits tonight, and done wild strange things up there that he would regret in the morning. This wasn't Portugal duty with Ronaldo, he thought sourly, it couldn't just be left behind when you returned to the day job.

Still, there was a long summer break before he would have to look Kevin de Bruyne in the eyes and remember that he'd let the milky white Belgian toss him off, and Dias intended to enjoy every bite of freedom that his holidays brought. He reached into one tight pocket of his white jeans and removed his phone so that he could ring his girlfriend and arrange for her to pick him up somewhere nearby. Would he still have the gusto to fuck her when they were back at the penthouse...? Perhaps.

A small dark reception area connected the bottom of the stairwell to the main indoor spaces of the top-floor bar, but also led to elevator doors. Behind a raised desk, a nervous-faced barman type was counting notes with eyes that shone with private profit. He glanced up as the 6ft1 Portuguese defender marched firmly by, phone to his ear. `All done up there?' the Mancunian guy blurted nervously at him, seeming to know he was being paid for more than just a little privacy.

Ruben paused and scowled at the shifty guy, as if it was his direct fault that the straight 25-year-old had allowed men to suck and stroke his cock yet again. He twisted his face into something approaching a smile, and shrugged his big shoulders; the phone in his ear was making a dial tone as it began to connect with his girlfriend's device. Give them a few more minutes,' he snapped vaguely, and then slipped into fluid Portuguese as his partner answered the call and immediately bombarded him with how horny she was for his big dick. I'll see you soon baby,' he slurred at her, disappearing into the waiting elevator and getting as far away from the orgy as he could.

Laporte woke up abruptly in the back of the taxi. Here we are,' the driver was calling at him gruffly from in the front of the vehicle. Here? Where? Drunk, dizzy, confused, the 6ft3 football hunk rubbed unhappily at the sides of his head, and blinked life into his eyes. Oh, here' was home. The car was on the kerb in front of his big apartment building by the canals, the tall dark expense flecked with glowing windows. When had night actually fallen? He had been sure it was still sunset as he lolled on the roof terrace and lounged back getting his dick sucked. With a jolt, Aymeric remembered that it had been one of his buddies doing that job, and not his sexy girlfriend.

Grimacing, he fished in a pocket and found his bank card, tipping the driver heavily and grunting out his gratitude before unfolding onto the pavement, his whole body aching and exhausted. The taxi disappeared with a growl and Laporte hung his head in his hands, groaning dismally to think of all the seedy action that had taken place. They'd all just drunk too much, he told himself, that was it. All those other lads would be feeling the same way as him once they sobered up and realised what they'd been doing. Even Phil, he lied to himself, he'll wake up with a sore arse and no mistake! Just too much drink, that was it.

He staggered to the door and began searching his pockets for a key.

Stones practically shoved the docile form of the Brummie lad into the back seat of the car, then stepped away, still laughing at how floppy and zombie-like Jack Grealish had become on the journey down from the dark rooftop. He put his hands to his hips, grinning foolishly, and watching as Jack half-consciously tried to find a comfortable position on the headrest, then sliding to one side and falling into an almost foetal cuddle against the other lad there, who stared past him and winced apologetically.

`You sure you'll be alright with him?' John called to the lad in the back of the car.

Phil Foden nodded. `I'll get him home to his.'

Yep,' John sighed contentedly. You do that, lad.' He winked knowingly at Foden, sensing the other lad's devotion to their messy mutual friend. Then he pushed the door firmly shut on them, and backed further onto the pavement. Phil's muffled voice was communicating with the driver, and Jack was complaining sleepily, but then the vehicle was gone, speeding away down the road.

Stones sucked in a deep breath of the night air and folded his arms over his chest, glancing down the sidewalk to where Walker was noisily interacting with another taxi driver, asking him what nightclubs might possibly let the pair of them in so they could keep their party going a little bit further. Swaying as he walked, the 28-year-old player laughed at his boyfriend's persistence and optimism, knowing they were both a sweaty drunk mess, albeit somewhat more rigid and composed than Jack the lad.

Yeh?' Kyle was yelping. Sounds great. Take us there. It'll be a laugh.'

For fuck's sake,' John groaned at him. Where are we going?'

`Some all-night Irish bar not far from here,' the other player chuckled, nudging his arm but holding back from grabbing him for another snog in front of the taxi driver.

Oi, what about us?' Mahrez demanded, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt-jacket over his t-shirt, as he and Silva spilled out onto the street, coming up behind the two defenders. What Irish bar? Are you two partying on? I'm up for that. Let's do it. Silva?'

The Portuguese guy at his side jsut laughed. `I think I might be done, guys.'

`Lightweight. Kyle? John? Where is it you're going?'

He saw the two City defenders share a look, and he felt like a gooseberry all of a sudden. He burped drunkenly and scratched at his neck, muscling past them and glaring suspiciously at their waiting taxi driver - the winger felt as if his sins must be visible on him, as if the driver and the bar staff above must have been able to look at him and think `hey, that bloke just fucked a guy senseless!' Riyad wasn't actually sure what he felt about his actions up there, he had no qualms that it might make him gay or any less of a man, but he certainly hated the idea that strangers might be able to tell. He glared almost accusingly from Stones to Walker, suspicious of the meaningful little glances they kept sharing.

`Huh, well, maybe I'll leave you lads to it,' he muttered reproachfully.

Just some bar,' Stones grunted. You're welcome to join.'

Hmm.' He glanced furtively at Bernardo Silva, who was strolling on down the pavement and hailing another vehicle. Maybe I'll just share with that wanker and call it a night too.' He stared thoughtfully from Kyle to John, unsure what it was he actually suspected, but suddenly wary of these two ringleaders of the seedy action up there - it was beginning to dawn on him that he'd seen John going down on Aymeric, and it wasn't just cute little Phil who'd been made a plaything tonight. He backed away from them with an ambivalent glare and then jogged on after Silva.

Relax,' Bernardo told him gently, the two prime football hunks reclining in the back of another taxi, speeding in the opposite direction to the one that Walker and Stones had taken. Mahrez and Silva both lived in the same posh old market town on the edge of Cheshire, so he had been more than happy to share his taxi with the 31-year-old now that he seemed to have accepted the party was over. Don't overthink it,' he added, giving the other City star a sidelong look across the back seat.

The French footballer had a sulky pout to his expression and was sat in a slightly uncomfortable posture, his window rolled down and his fingers drumming noisily against one thigh. He'd made some odd vague comments as they got in the car, alluding to Foden and Grealish and Stones not quite being the guys he'd thought they were, and Bernardo had rapidly cut him off. For one thing, it wasn't a good idea to speak too openly in front of the driver, even if English didn't seem to be their language, and for another, he wasn't interested in listening to any homophobic rubbish from the other guy.

We all had fun,' Silva said with a firmness, still looking at his now ex-teammate. Right?'

`Huh.' Mahrez didn't properly look at him, leaning to the door and staring out of the open window at the city that sped by. He hadn't looked so grumpy or conflicted when he was pushing his fat cock in Phil's mouth or ass, Bernardo thought, and he almost laughed quietly to himself. He rolled his eyes and relaxed in his own seat, looking out of the other window, and wondering how much he would miss Manchester itself as a city.

Was he surprised to find out that little Foden was a slut for cock...? No, not particularly. But he WAS surprised that he'd also had his dick sucked by Jack Grealish. He'd enjoyed the strangely charming awe that Jack seemed to treat him and others with this season, as if he was a nobody who had been dropped off in Man City by a cuckoo, rather than another top-flight footballer making a simple club transfer. Silva knew that he didn't occupy quite the same hero status to Grealish as say KDB, but he was still up there in the Brummie guy's fantasy football hierarchy - and to have had that rugged English stud suck on his cock as a parting gift, wow. It made Silva grin and chuckle with a smug sensation in his chest - he really did feel that he was leaving this team having achieved all he could now.

One selfish little thought flashed over his mind - he couldn't wait to boast about this to his own respected hero when they were next in training together, quite soon. What would Cristiano Ronaldo say when he found out that famous Jack Grealish liked the taste of cock....?

'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

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