Part 322: On the Eve of Qatar
From the windows of the private bar, a perfect Parisian skyline was on display, twinkling between the November night, a brightly lit Eiffel Tower in the jewel in the dark horizon. And there was twinkling inside too: the low-hanging chandeliers of the swanky nightspot, the chiming flutes of champagne being picked from passing trays, and the exuberant smiles of the PSG players and staff who were marking the unusual break in their French Ligue 1 season. The Saint-Germain club had ended the league phase in style with a 5-0 victory at home, so there was much to celebrate in the glamorously formal mid-season pre-Christmas soiree... And many of the senior footballers here were excitedly toasting to the upcoming tournament as much as to the ongoing success of this wealthy club: the controversial Qatar World Cup lay just around the corner from tonight, quite literally for those who would be catching morning flights to the training camps of their respective nations.
Sergio Ramos had to purse his lips in a tight smile and work on the frown lines of his rich brown eyes when he thought about it; the glitzy event was a nice marker for the pause in their footballing trajectory, sure, but the World Cup was on everybody's lips and it was hard for the 6ft Spaniard to avoid thoughts about what he'd be doing for the next few weeks whilst many of his colleagues joined their countries and battled for supremacy in the Qatari heat.
The announcement from the Spanish FA should not have taken the 36-year-old defender by complete surprise - he knew he was reaching the end of his professional career, and that he was not the formidable presence he'd been for much of his Real Madrid years, and that the Spanish roster was full of promising young men who had proved themselves in the recent Euros and since. And yet it had. Sergio had been shocked to see the Spain line-up just a couple of days ago, and not see his own handsome grin in the defensive selection - it was the same kind of shock that met the ageing pro when he looked at himself in a mirror. Sure, his tall powerful body was incredibly ripped and well-maintained, but in his face he could see the signs of ageing and the limited shelf-life of his aggressive playing days. Retirement beckoned ominously to Ramos from the horizon, and the prospect horrified him.
As a result, the PSG defender moved quite stiffly through the event, avoiding any close contact with his fellow players or the club personnel who were mingling with them tonight in varying levels of designer tailoring or couture. His own wife was absent from the party, which made it somewhat easier for the centre-back to linger at the edge of group conversations and detach himself when he wished, plucking another tall glass of fine champagne from a passing server, and drifting along the window-line or the curved balconies that overlooked the busy bar below their VIP space.
A spurt of familiar Spanish cut through the multilingual hubbub of the bar, and Ramos turned a sulky head to the side to catch one of his teammates moving this way, collecting two champagne flutes from a server before muscling in next to him on the railing that surrounded the circular drop into the riff-raff below.
`Aha, you already have a drink,' said the younger defender.
Sergio, his face a slight snarl of his true resentment for a moment, tossed back his current drink and then collected the replacement neatly from the other man, lifting a tattooed fist to wipe the sticky residue of fizz from his lips and facial hair. Gracias,' he said simply, not even looking at the surprised expression on Achraf Hakimi's face. He kept his eyes on the room below, staring thoughtfully between the clusters of well-dressed Parisian men and women - after all, if his Pilar was too ill' to join him for this important function, then why shouldn't the Madrid legend find himself a new playmate for the night...?
At once, the 36-year-old reminded himself to adopt the rigid smile of satisfaction that told the world he was entirely cool with missing one last World Cup, and registered that Hakimi was still next to him, speaking quite eagerly about the quality of tonight's home game against Auxerre. Sergio turned and surveyed the Moroccan-Spanish 24-year-old, appreciating the right-back for his attractive North African features mixed with his familiar and homely Spanish-ness as a Madrid local and a reunited teammate from Real.
Achraf, he noticed, was a little tipsy already, which was unsurprising for the well-behaved young footballer; or formerly well-behaved, he thought with a private smirk. Hakimi was telling him about the arrangements for joining his Morocco national squad in a couple of days, and Ramos had to try hard not to sneer irritably at this. Internally, he resolved to have his reps organise a luxury holiday in the Caribbean out of nowhere for he and his family, now that he didn't have to be on flights to Spain and the Middle East.
But tonight is for us,' enthused Achraf. For Paris, I mean. For tonight's win.' He slurped from the remains of his glass, and Sergio took a slower sip from him. He watched as the deep smile split the handsome younger man's face and twinkled in his dark eyes. Do you think it will be a late one?' the right-back asked quietly. Do you think things will get a bit crazy?'
The Real Madrid legend and now PSG centre-back made a scoffing little laugh and shrugged one shoulder lightly, adjusting the lapel of his ink-blue Armani suit and then stroking at the red-brown fur of his goatee beard. `We'll see.'
A little red flush came into Hakimi's high cheekbones and the right-back looked self-consciously away, staring about this circular balcony and at the various clusters of their colleagues. Ramos just smiled indulgently and patted one large hand against a shoulder of the younger man's paler blue blazer.
The 24-year-old had been such an innocent type when he first knew him at Real Madrid, it had to be said, and not just in regards to supping alcohol. It was funny for Ramos now to think about the queasy look on the young defender's face when he'd stood by him in a stadium shower and idly brought on his shaky hands over to place over his soft cock, beginning to initiate the Moroccan into a different kind of teamwork. Now, as Hakimi glanced back at him and finished his fizz, he could see a cock-hungry glint in those beetle-black eyes, and he knew that he could do almost anything he wanted to the 24-year-old football player, whose model girlfriend was nowhere to be seen.
But the 36-year-old felt no urgent twitch of action in the contents of his suit trousers or the sleek black trunks beneath. As handsome and athletic as Achraf certainly was, with his princely Arab features and heavy lashes, his broad shoulders filling out his suit nicely, he was... ugh, easy. Uninspiring. Oh, Sergio had gladly made use of him a good few times this season already, but... Tonight, he thought, called for something a bit more high-class. His bruised ego needed a bigger distraction than the nervous excitement of this awkward young man could possibly provide, stood here practically begging for it and blushing like a schoolgirl.
`Get us some more drink,' Ramos growled at him as he finished the contents of his own, pushing the cool glass into one of Hakimi's warm hands; and as soon as the other Real Madrid graduate backed away to fetch more Dom Perignon, Sergio himself made a swift movement in the other direction and disappeared into the twinkle of the soiree.
Another footballing legend was being a lot more cautious about the drinks tonight, having already switched from the expensive bubbles to a colourful mocktail, despite the protests of his close friend who had remained at his side all night. Neymar could badger on all he wanted about 5-0 and the need to toast it in style, but Lionel Messi was thinking about the jet that would deliver him to the Argentina camp tomorrow afternoon, and the need to be fresh and impressive as he linked up with his countrymen for the most important campaign of his sporting life. Qatar was the now-or-never moment for him to lead Argentina to that special victory, and the prospect had consumed the 35-year-old for most of the year already.
Well,' grunted the younger South American at his left, suit yourself.' No such international pressure seemed to exist for the Brazil star, who was knocking back another flute of the pale golden liquid, and then continuing volubly on the subject of how many goals he was going to score in just the group stages of the Cup.
Leo smiled thinly at his friend and occasional lover, unusually intolerant of Neymar's mercurial spirit, and unable to muster much interest in the bravado of the chat; the truth was that the football hero was gripped be a strange nervousness, now that the World Cup was almost here, and the months of expectation were mounting up inside his compact muscular body with a tension and dread that he hadn't felt since the very early days of his special career. Well, perhaps with the exception of his first few games here at Paris, grief-stricken by his Barcelona exit and traumatised to be starting over in a new city. Club football now seemed irrelevant, and Messi had motored through tonight's home game on autopilot, utterly disconnected from the French league: all he could think about was what awaited him and the Argentina team in Qatar.
When Neymar started to fantasise about an all-South American World Cup final, Messi found he had no choice but to cut him off, barking irritably at the other forward. Please, rest it for a minute,' he pleaded in Spanish, glaring for a moment at the excitable younger man, and then frowning with a mix of apology and embarrassment. Let's just relax and enjoy tonight,' he grunted moodily, and Neymar just grinned and laughed. That is what I'm saying,' the Brazilian insisted, nodding at Messi's soft drink, and then giving his arm a squeeze through the sleeve of his dark blazer. Hey,' hissed the 30-year-old, `if you need to unwind later on, just slip away from the wife when the party is about to die, and...'
Leo frowned judgmentally at the other player, as if scandalised that Neymar could be thinking so inappropriately on the eve of something so sacred as a new World Cup. He tutted and shook his head and the former Barca buddies parted ways, Neymar cackling to himself and Lionel trying to relocate his wife in the crowd of designer dresses worn by the Parisian WAGs.
However... as soon as he was away from Neymar's energy and support, it occurred to the football stud that maybe such a' unwinding' was exactly what he needed! It was unlike him to be so uptight and anxious about the sport he had dominated for so many seasons. A few hours at Neymar's luxury pad might be just what his pent-up body and brain needed before he pulled on his Argentina tracksuit and boarded that flight tomorrow.
Suddenly, his wife's arm was hooking about his and he felt a pang of the usual guilt for such a desire, when he had so little reason to stray from his happy marriage and home. His occasional fumbles with the Brazilian man felt like a comfortable bad habit, something that he didn't really need but would struggle to give up, and he regularly cursed himself for lazily indulging in that affair - it had only ever started as a little bit of secret comfort in the wake of his break-up with Pep Guardiola, and to this day it felt like that, a short-term fix that eased the pain of leaving Barcelona behind. Neymar was one of his greatest friends, but he didn't feel anything passionate for him like he once had for his treasured Papi.
At the bar area at one end of the top-floor VIP area, the club's own Parisian star was eschewing the champagne and waiter service, having moved to hard liquor instead, testing small measures of expensive whiskeys with a few other young French players, a couple of whom would be joining him on the national team from tomorrow onwards.
Kylian Mbappe was feeling electric. The 23-year-old felt very ready to swagger into this tournament as one of the most celebrated young players in the world, and tonight's club win had set him up perfectly for the campaign ahead. The muscular young footballer swirled the latest sample of expensive whiskey about in the heavy tumbler glass, his other hand pushed into the pocket of his skinny-fit black trousers, and he flashed his broad satisfied grin at the men around him, enjoying the air of great expectation as the company fawned over his prospects with the France team in Qatar.
No such end-of-career pressure for Kylian as Leo was mulling over, nor the disappointment of snubbed Sergio; the French forward was barely approaching his prime and knew he would be at the centre of all tactics and strategy for his national squad once he joined them for a couple of days' prep on the Riviera tomorrow before flying into the Middle East, and Kylian Mbappe had trophies and awards in his eyes.
For a few minutes, the loose entourage about the 23-year-old thinned out - one man was called over by a senior coach who wanted to introduce him to a family member, and another was summoned by an impatient girlfriend. Smiling to himself, Mbappe turned back to the bar, sipping from the strong smoky liquor, and examining the crowded and colourful shelves of the well-stocked bar, wondering what he might move on to for a last couple of drinks before the inevitable wind-down of this latest PSG party. They were always short-lived and more about showing off than any real release, photos for websites and the press, all glamorous and civilised, never anything messy like the developing youngster privately craved. Things would be a little different with the France squad, he supposed, having been shocked by how wild and enthusiastic the drunken nights could be in that international bubble, based on his youthful forays at that level.
Not that Paris Saint-Germain didn't have its party boys too...
And here he was. Sidling up to him, relaxing his forearms down against the shiny bartop, and turning one of those whimsical smiles this way from his right, fixing wolfish eyes on him where he stooped. Kylian smiled guardedly back at his friend and teammate, and tilted his glass and nodded his head. `Good night, Junior?' the French forward asked smoothly in his limited English; he enjoyed using this little nickname on the Brazilian, who really did often seem younger and less mature than himself despite being 7 years his senior. He enjoyed the little grimaces and flinches it caused in the egotistical South American, though there was no REAL hostility between the attacking pair. Their relationship ebbed and flowed with their own moods and egos, and there had been some periods of real tension or antipathy, but things lately were more mellow - Kylian quite enjoyed a bit of banter and aggro with the overrated superstar, and he grinned to anticipate how their rivalry might fire up somewhat once they were proper opponents on the world stage.
Neymar, he had to concede, was a wild partier, far more fun and unpredictable than most of the super-rich men who played at this club, and once upon a time Mbappe had discovered that to some discomfort - a clumsy little episode of hotel room group sex where he'd followed Neymar's lead into just the kind of sordid scene that he'd wanked over as a teen virgin, and assumed was de rigeur for football stars. He and Neymar, he thought, fucking hot beauties in a hotel in a city he couldn't even place on a map, and he'd loved it, sharing the aura of mad celebrity that came with Mr Brazil... until that kinky fucker took it too far and put his fingertips in the wrong fucking places...!
To this day, Kylian was a bit unclear on what Neymar was really about. Was the wily Brazilian forward bisexual or something, like a lot of the rumours here seemed to claim, or was he just a bit kinky? Or was he just a shitty troll who liked to provoke and shock? Had he even touched Kylian that night as anything but a daft prank to test his boundaries and make him look foolish in front of those sexy sluts they'd shared...? Years had passed, and their friendship had wavered and recovered and wobbled again, but the 23-year-old still felt puzzled by the foxy grin and mad eyes of this 30-year-old Peter Pan.
Join me,' the Frenchman said. Drink a man's drink, not that fizzy rubbish.'
Neymar tittered and muttered something in Portuguese, then nodded enthusiastically. Kylian waved over the barman and ordered them two doubles of another premium whiskey, then slid a little closer to his troublesome older friend, his brain sizzling with adrenaline and alcohol, and that simmering question back at the surface: just how wild is this Brazil fucker, after all...?
Neymar made a little face after sipping the new drink, and then suppressed a laugh as he downed another much bigger gulp. `Disgusting,' he muttered in French, but continued to sip at it, and Mbappe grinned warmly at him, beginning to notice just how drunk he'd become whilst holding court here at the bar.
`Are you ready for France to fuck Brazil in the Final?' Mbappe challenged loosely.
`Ho ho ho, you think you will make it there?' the older man sniggered back.
Do you?' Mbappe sneered back. We might fuck you in an earlier round.'
Neymar lifted a hand and wiggled around his pinky finger. `We would like to see you try.'
Kylian grinned and blinked, very amused by this when Neymar must know more than most just how well-endowed he truly was. He seemed to have caused a slight stir in the tunnel today when he grabbed his big package intimidatingly after catching an Auxerre player giving him a funny look, but the gesture was standard macho signalling on the Parisian streets where he'd grown up, and everybody knew that a big cock and balls bought you more respect from the guys around you!
There it was again, tingling through his head: the question of what Neymar Jr had actually been playing at that night a couple of years ago, on a Champions League weekend away, when the stupid fucker's hand had wandered, and... Kylian's grin wavered and he felt a little hot and flushed, knocking back a throat-burning mouthful of the latest peaty whiskey to distract himself from that troubling memory. But Neymar, lounging sideways to the bar, was giving him a funny look, so inquisitive and penetrating, as if he knew exactly what memory was being turned over by the younger forward.
Just as Kylian was about to bark at the other international star with a bit more cheap banter about where they might connect in the World Cup hierarchy, they were interrupted by a looming tall presence arriving between them, blocking Neymar's knowing stare and planting both large hands against the glassy top of the bar. `Gentlemen,' purred the rich Spanish accent of the former Real Madrid barbarian, and Kylian straightened his own posture respectfully - he'd long contemplated Sergio Ramos as a potential teammate, of course, but he'd always envisioned it being south of the border at Madrid, and never expected to have the famous centre-back join him here in his Paris.
`What are you two drinking?' Ramos demanded, and Neymar pushed his glass in front of the Spaniard, dismissing the whiskey with a couple of presumed swear words. Mbappe laughed and supped at his own, accepting that this latest top-shelf choice was less palatable than the last couple he'd worked through here, but swaying a little on the heels of his tight patent leather shoes, feeling the warmth and buzz of the booze in every muscle of his 5ft10 physique. Unconsciously, one of the footballer's hands reached down, and again he was clutching instinctively at the weighty package between his legs, this time for his own comfort and ego, rather than to kiss his teeth at an opposition player in the tunnel; few 23-year-olds could carry themselves as calmly and confidently as he did in the presence of PSG's expensive imports, but every now and then he felt like the young boy he was in the presence of the thirty-something legends.
He puffed out his sturdy chest, his pecs pressing against the buttons of his pale-blue shirt, and he watched as Sergio took a big gulp from Neymar's glass and then smirked mildly, licking his lips and giving no signs of the mouth-burn effect. `Lovely,' the centre-back announced coolly, and Kylian looked past him to the idle smirk on Neymar's relaxed features - Neymar was no longer staring at him with that thoughtful intensity, but leaning to one side and looking interestedly up at the tall Spanish monster, the scourge of Europe's attacking footballers.
For a rare moment, Mbappe felt insecure and threatened by the ageing centre-back, and then he laughed out loud at himself; what, was he jealous that Neymar's strange intense focus had shifted from him to this big fucker...? Mbappe shook his head and rolled his shoulders, and wondered if he'd had too much to drink. If dirty Neymar really was the bi slut that the rumours claimed, then who cared with guy on the team he had his filthy eyes on...?! Not Kylian Mbappe, that's for sure, he knew where HIS interests lay, and he was happy playing the field with the attractive women of the French limelight.
Neymar da Silva Santos Junior was horny, and though that was nothing new, he was also fiercely determined. He had no intention of going back to his city-centre penthouse on his own, and he could hardly be bothered to dial up one of the three or four regular prostitutes at the high-class agency he depended on; he wasn't in the mood for a woman to pleasure, he knew that, and he needed at least one of these big muscular brutes on his silk bedsheets tonight. Messi didn't seem to be interested, the poor old bore, but maybe tonight would be Neymar's lucky night...
Next to him, Sergio and Kylian also had their backs to their bar and were clutching heavy tumblers of gin and tonic, ice clinking and swirling in the glasses that Neymar had ordered them to move on from the pathetic macho whiskey. The party was still bustling about them, but it would come to a sudden and civilised end soon, and Neymar's thoughts were already turning to the `after-party' he would like to host at his. His hungry eyes flicked optimistically from the 6ft Spaniard to the stocky French kid, and he wondered if he was being over-ambitious - he'd flirted outrageously with both men in the past, and got nowhere, so it was silly to think that tonight might yield results. And yet... the World Cup was in the air, and everybody was put on edge in their own special ways.
He interrupted the stilted conversation between Ramos and Mbappe, who were confined to English by poor knowledge of their mutual languages, and asked the two other superstars if they would be interested in smoking a cigar at his. He saw immediate and genuine interest on the centre-back's face, although young Kylian looked sceptical and a little confused; Neymar was too drunk and excited to be cautious or subtle. He leaned in close to 6ft Sergio Ramos and elbowed him gently. `Nothing like a thick cigar between my lips,' he slurred happily, winking at the older football player, and then bursting into naughty and ambiguous chuckles.
The Spaniard's face was hard to read, as always: glassy eyes and a tight smile that could be false. Beside him, though, Mbappe looked alarmed and as if he fully understood the unsubtle implications of Neymar's suggestion. The French forward was staring this way with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open a little, as if he could barely believe that the 30-year-old had just muttered to someone as powerful and macho as the former king of Madrid. Neymar caught Mbappe's eyes and winked again, playful and ambivalent with him.
`What do you two say, hey?' Neymar purred. He took an icy mouthful of gin.
I do enjoy a smoke,' growled Ramos, and his tone was as ambiguous and inscrutable as his long tanned face. Kylian...?'
Neymar grinned wickedly at the forward, remembering his earlier clumsier attempts to get closer to the future of French football - or at the very least, to lead him further astray. Mbappe looked typically dopey and hesitant and it was terribly cute to Neymar, who just shrugged and played with the knot of his silver-grey tie. Oh, to get these two back in his flat, and to get those suits off their bodies... mmm, he was semi in his Diesel underpants at the prospect of it. He was also wondering if Sergio had picked up on his flirty comment, and he decided to go further.
`I'm sure we could have some fun back at mine,' the Brazilian player said in Spanish, then awkwardly translating it into broken French for the other guy. He grinned enticingly at them both and took another long sip of gin-and-tonic, reckless and excited. Soon he would be in the Middle East and playing in what he supposed to be his final World Cup, and he had high hopes for it to be a very decadent and dangerous few weeks in Qatar; why not start tonight...?
Sure,' grunted Ramos, after a long pause. Cigars it is.'
`Who else shall we invite?' Neymar asked him in rapid Spanish, now ignoring Mbappe and his awkward hunched presence; he was becoming increasingly excited by the prospect of pushing this Spanish monster's boundaries, he and Messi's former nemesis from their Barcelona heyday. He'd ogled at the tattooed masterpiece of Sergio's body from their first shared training session, but he'd known better than to make an outright move on the 36-year-old - everybody had seen how vicious Ramos could be when pushed on a football pitch, after all. But tonight...
Hakimi,' Ramos grunted with the same suddenness, putting down his drink. He'll be up for... some fun.'
Neymar sparked with eagerness, reading the shift in the other man's smile and eyes, and hearing the loaded pause in that murmured comment. He nodded rapidly and winked once more at Kylian. Oh?' he cooed innocently back. Good idea. I should see if Leo wants to join us.' At this, both the Spanish centre-back and the French striker looked a little taken aback, and their little tremor of knowing shock was yet another aphrodisiac to the horny Brazilian; he could forget that to most men, Lionel Messi was the epitome of conventional masculinity, and an untouchable figure. To Neymar, the football GOAT had been far from untouchable for many a year.
`Leo?' Mbappe murmured in a voice that sounded quite faint and reluctant.
Oh, he's a lot more fun than you'd think,' Neymar said, locking eyes with Ramos for a moment as he spoke in Spanish, and then repeating something similar in French. Drink in hand, he skulked away from the pair, gesturing playfully at them with his free hand. I'll organise a car,' he announced in English. `Downstairs. Five minutes.' And with that, he slipped away and determined to steal Messi away from his worries for what might turn out to be his most enjoyable night in Paris to date.
Even in the limousine across the arrondissement, Sergio Ramos felt a little unsure if he was reading the signs correctly. He sat in the centre of the back seat, man-spreading his mighty legs in slim-fitting suit pants, and nudging his elbows half-accidentally at the neighbouring physiques of Achraf Hakimi on one side and Kylian Mbappe on the other. He could feel the nervous tension of the Moroccan lad to his left, having whispered commandingly in Hakimi's ear as soon as he found him: `Come with me and I think you'll have more fun than you were expecting, boy.' But to his right, Mbappe's thigh and arm were unyielding and sturdy against him, the forward's body language very guarded and reserved as the car sped them across the centre of Paris.
Opposite them, the two former Barcelona icons were lounged more comfortably on a matching three-seater space, less crammed than he and his two neighbours. Neymar was poised and wild-eyed at one side, trailing his arm out of an open window into the November night air, and swilling Dom Perignon from a bottle that had been passed around the five of them several times. And at the other side of their less cramped three-seater space, Lionel Messi was lounged quite casually, staring out of the window with an almost absent expression on his lean bearded face.
Ramos was pretty sure he understood what Neymar had been getting at just now in the party, but he was confused by language barriers and strange body language from the others, and he was conscious that the culture here at PSG was not the world he'd left behind in his kingdom of Madrid. His cock throbbed and pulsed in his black underwear and he pressed sweaty back muscles against the leather through the white of his shirt and the expensive fabric of his blazer; he was itching to be out of these clothes and having his tattooed muscles worshipped by at least one of these inferior men.
Overheated, the Spaniard pulled at the tight collar of his shirt and he glanced from face to face - from Neymar's wry smirk to Lionel's distant frown, to Kylian's wild eyes and Achraf's sweaty upper lip. Here they went, off to smoke luxury cigars on the balcony of Neymar's apartment, and he supposed that decadent send-off should be enough to round off the mid-season soiree... but he was aching for something much more.
Leo took the proffered Havana and allowed his friend to light it for him, then led the way out onto the broad balcony space that extended from the master bedroom of the penthouse. It was surrounded by the architectural splendour of central Paris, but high up enough to feel fairly private and secluded, staring down into a noisy square that bustled with Sunday nightlife even on the verge of winter.
Like Ramos, Messi wasn't quite sure what he was here for. He'd succumbed to Neymar's invite quite quickly, thinking that the socialising with the other men would be fairly brief, and he could perhaps spend the night in Neymar's bed and then zip home to his wife in the pre-dawn light. But now that he was here, puffing on the cigar and removing his suit blazer to enjoy the cool breeze on his sweaty shirt, he wasn't sure that he would be able to wait for the other three to leave, and he wondered if he shouldn't have made such hurried excuses to sneak away from his partner and the safety of home.
Messi had convinced himself that a little friendly touch from his old friend would be the perfect antidote to his pre-tournament nerves, so unusual for him; but being here with the likes of Mbappe suddenly felt like the opposite, a pointless way of heightening the tension of the World Cup that would kick off so very soon. Not that it had been mentioned once since they bundled into the limousine and left the PSG party - nobody wanted to mention the Cup in front of Sergio, all of them so intensely aware of his snub and disappointment.
Leo blew smoke rings with the purple-grey haze of the cigar, leaning his short muscular frame into the metal railings of the balcony, and surveying his company for this strange afterparty. Neymar had found a bottle of red wine and he was pouring large measures of it into oversized glasses, framed in the French windows that led back into his huge bedroom. Mbappe was accepting one of these chalices with a look of reluctance, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest and a sweaty sheen to his round face and clenched knuckles. Ramos and Hakimi were positioned close to each other, the bigger and older of the two Real Madrid players draping a shirt-sleeved arm about the shoulders of the other defender, and each of them taking glasses of red from Neymar whilst puffing on their Havanas.
Leo tried and failed to catch Neymar's eye, wishing that he could somehow communicate his questions and needs: why are they all here with us? Can't you get rid of them? I need your mouth on my cock, Santos Junior.
He was less drunk than the others, but he was exhausted and tense, and he was glas of the cold night on his neck and his cheeks, and on the sweat-patches of his white shirt. Suddenly Neymar was bundling out and next to him, pulling his body heat close, and clinking wine glasses with the one that was now in his hand. To Paris,' the Brazilian cackled generously. And to Havana, eh.'
To Qatar,' one of the others slurred enthusiastically; it was Hakimi, and Messi felt the others match his curious stare at the Moroccan lad, then at Sergio Ramos, as if expecting the Spanish centre-back to throw his teammate off the balcony for bringing up the tournament from which he was excluded. Instead, Ramos just made a huffing laugh over the awkward pause, and barked out his own toast: To Neymar, for having us up here,' he said loudly. `For a smoke and a glass of red, and whatever else.'
And whatever else. The three final words hung in the steaming air between them, and Leo Messi stared at his rival turned colleague with sudden interest. Oh. So, it was like that. He blinked and couldn't help but slightly lick his bottom lip. Sergio fucking Ramos? He glanced sharply at Neymar on his right, and saw the hungry smirk on the Brazilian's mouth. He then looked back at the big tall bastard who he had fought with night after night in La Liga, who he had struggled to befriend as a new teammate in this strange late chapter of his career. `And whatever else...'
`The cigar and the wine will be enough for me,' grunted Mbappe's awkward voice, stood in the other corner, and coughing a little as if unused to smoking on a cigar. His voice was heavy with decision and rejection, and Messi wondered why Neymar had lured him here. He'd heard enough about his friend's previous attempts to get some fun out of the frigid Frenchman, and he wasn't sure he understood the interest; but then he and Neymar had very different ideas, and very different needs.
Not for me,' Ramos continued, his voice bold and commanding, even in the slightly awkward English that this multilingual crew were sharing. And with that, he proceeded to run his fingers through the slicked-back dark hair on Hakimi's head, toying with him and shaking the 5ft11 lad at his side. This lad,' he announced in a stern growl, `has beautifully soft lips, in case any of you are interested.' The Moroccan was blushing but smirking, suddenly coy at the side of his fellow Spanish player.
Messi licked his lower lip again, and he glanced demandingly at Neymar, trying again to communicate many words in a simple look: what the fuck have you got me involved in here, my friend...?!
When the other men went indoors, Kylian followed, even though he'd loudly announced three times in a row that he ought to call a car and make a move; like the others, he clipped off the end of his smouldering cigar and deposited it on the ceramic tray provided, then clung to his half-empty wine glass as he trailed inside the huge bedchamber within. He could keep walking, straight past them all, to the door that would take him out through the penthouse and allow him to exit via the private elevator that had brought them here. The hired limo from before was probably still waiting in the boulevard below, and could have him safely in his suburban mansion in twenty-five minutes.
Instead, the 23-year-old stood near the centre of the room, holding the stem of his wine glass so tightly at it threatened to snap against his tense dark fingers. He watched as Achraf Hakimi sat down on the foot of the big bed and its obnoxiously glossy jaguar-print sheets, with the figures of Ramos and Neymar hovering close by. Sergio, for some reason, was still pawing at the slick dark hair of the 24-year-old, whilst Neymar was scratching at his chin and looking overcome with impatience.
Sergio's free hand - he'd put his wine down somewhere, then - was now descending down the buttoned front of his white shirt, and finding the front of his dark blue suit trousers instead, where it began to work against a button fly. Kylian's eyes bulged and he looked back up the 6ft man's body to his leering face, a little shiny with sweat, and then down at Achraf's face, staring loyally up at the other man. Achraf's own shirt was being unbuttoned by one of Neymar's hands, which reached in to rub across the front of his chest, whilst with his other hand Neymar took deep gulps of expensive red bordeaux.
Mbappe gawped at this, and then across at the one and only Messi, who had paused a few feet to his left, facing towards the bed scene with a strange expression across his face. Almost impassive, but with little twitches of interest; certainly no displeasure or disapproval on that famous face, not in the way that Kylian supposed must be beaming from his own features right now. And yet... he wasn't leaving.
Neymar bit his lip, stood to one side of the sitting right-back. He pulled and stroked at Hakimi's body, undoing his shirt a little more and rubbing now at his shoulder and the back of his neck, then back to his sweaty pecs. He watched intently as the man's face was pulled in against the crotch of Sergio's suit pants and then exposed underwear; through the fine black fabric, the monstrous outline was briefly obvious, and then concealed by Achraf's face, pulled in against it with one of the big man's hands splayed over his crown. Neymar lifted his eyes and connected stares with the centre-back, who smiled roguishly at him, and he nodded eagerly. Oh, yes. This was what he'd wanted.
Neymar backed off slightly, touching himself through his suit pants, and watching now as Ramos began to undo the buttons of his muscle-fit shirt, exposing inch after inch of his ripped abdomen and then his art gallery chest. As his body bared, one of Hakimi's hands roved up it, and the suit trousers were pulled further open and down. And then, at last, Sergio was pushing the Moroccan's face back, and stretching down the material of his pants, until his big weapon swung free and slapped its angry red tip to the shiny pouting lips of the other defender. In front of them all, Sergo Ramos fed his big veiny cock into the shockingly hungry mouth of the 24-year-old, and Neymar couldn't help but squeeze his erection through his shiny grey trousers.
He likes that,' Neymar said, not taking his eyes off the inches of meat being pushed into Hakimi's mouth. Well done, Achraf.'
He looked at the powerful smug expression on Ramos' face, and felt a fresh surge of desire for the dominant man, returning to the lust that he'd felt when he first shared a training gym with his former rival. Even back then, he thought, he'd knocked out a few wanks thinking about the Real Madrid beast, who'd snapped at his heels on the Spanish pitches, desperate to foul and injure him at any opportunity - he'd been turned on by the aggression and force of his rival in those heady La Liga days, but he'd never imagined he might share a moment like this with him...
Still touching himself, Neymar turned questioningly to the others. Mbappe looked worried but stood and stared without blinking, and Messi was nodding slowly and silently, as if in grudging approval. And Ramos was beginning to groan in a very showy way, taking hold of Hakimi's head and really thrusting his big meat into that gurgling mouth, drool forming about the handsome right-back's strong jawline.
Neymar downed the rest of his red wine in a long gulp and then he tossed the glass away, ignoring the distant crash it made somewhere in the corner. In a frenzy, he began to tug off his tie and open his shirt, his hard-on pressing furiously at the tight grip of his trousers. Watching was okay, but he needed his part in this mad fun.
Ramos relaxed himself onto the bed now, tossing his shirt aside and spreading the taut muscles of his bare upper body across the gaudy sheets. His cock ached as it left Hakimi's mouth for a few moments, swaying between his thighs as his pants and then underpants were pulled away down the long muscular trunks of each leg. And then the Moroccan lad was back over his crotch, licking the tip of his cock and then taking inches of it into his hot warm mouth. He could still remember how nervous and scared the younger player had been the first time he tried it, but Achraf now slurped on it like an ice-pop, and groaned needily as he did, an absolute slut on his knees at the foot of the bed.
The centre-back groaned happily and rested back against the bed, spreading his tattooed arms on either side of him, and enjoying the wet pull on his veiny cock, the same one with which he'd dominated so many of his fellow men in Madrid, clapping Eden Hazard's cheeks and leading the likes of Bale and Benzema into dirty deeds, making those other masculine powerhouses weirdly indebted to him for sharing his submissives with them by the pools and lawns of that Spanish housing complex.
For a few moments, nothing existed for Sergio but the comfortable bedding beneath his naked body, and the intense pleasure of Achraf's mouth; but now he could see how close Lionel Messi had drawn to the action, and he was impressed. The Argentine legend was undressing, but not by himself - Neymar was basically stripping him off, helping him out of his shirt and not stopping there. Quite lovingly, the wiry Brazilian was cuddling and kissing at Messi's upper body, nuzzling at his collarbones and fondling his biceps, then reaching across to kiss and stroke his smooth chest and circle his hard nipples. Then he was helping him out of his trousers, so that the two former Barca bitches were just in their undies, stood close by Hakimi, and feeling up their bulges.
Ramos stared for a moment at these bulges, both of them quite large, but Messi's looking frankly ridiculous. Well, no surprise there.
With only a little reluctance, the 36-year-old sat up slightly, and he pushed his bitch away from his cock, ready to share him. Achraf stared loyally up at him but Sergio just slapped his heavy dick against both of his cheeks and pushed his head towards the others, making his intentions clear. Neymar was pushing down his pale trunks and yanking out his cock and instantly Hakimi was upon it, sucking him with the same mad fervour. Ramos grinned at this but then met eyes with his once great enemy, and couldn't help but laugh at this next stage of their surprising friendship.
Try him,' Ramos growled at his La Liga nemesis. He's good.'
Messi was no less amazed or amused, but he had to admit to himself that it was not Achraf Hakimi who was turning him on right now. Here was the most ferocious opponent of his career, spread out on the bed in front of him, an absolute unit of manliness; he was not interested in the huffing slit in front of him who was now slobbering over Neymar's cock and making the Brazilian giggle and gasp with pleasure. No. He wanted to just stare hungrily at the big Spanish hunk on the bed, and revisit some of their more physical tussles from the Nou Camp.
Suddenly, someone cleared their throat loudly, and he was reminded that there was a fifth man in the room. Serious young Kylian had moved closer to them, and was now muscling in on the kneeling figure of Achraf Hakimi. The French player was grabbing at himself through the open flies of his suit trousers, hand clutched about the bulge within, and he was pulling in very close to Neymar, as if ready to elbow him aside and take over - but he didn't need to. Neymar was instantly hugging him close and rubbing at his head, and retracting his wet cock to tease against Achraf's plump lips. Helpfully, he shifted aside and guided Hakimi further across, until Mbappe was pushing down at his layers of clothing and unleashing his weighty black member into the fray, ready to take his turn at their appointed hole.
Messi looked down at the disturbed fuss of Hakimi's dark hair, and saw the length of Mbappe's shaft disappear into that sluttish mouth. He stared up the exposed ridges of the younger forward's six-pack, and then up to his frowning puzzled face. Again, Leo was amused, enjoying the sight of the grumpy youngster lost in this moment of taboo pleasure; but all the more amusing was Neymar's enjoyment of it, both hugging at Mbappe and pushing roughly on the back of Hakimi's head.
But Messi, pawing at the front of his black briefs, found his attention drawn away from these three, and back to the bed. He was both alarmed and shocked to find that Ramos too was staring this way, meeting his gaze. The 6ft defender was sat up, legs still spread, and big veiny cock in his hand. He was magnificent and terrifying, and he was all that Lionel could look at in the room. It was all very well messing about with his close friend and pushing the boundaries of a surprising buddy like Mbappe, but... this man on the bed was the real deal, and something that he needed to get his hands on.
The 35-year-old icon found himself paralysed by mixed feelings of desire and pride, pulling and tugging at the outline of his erection in his black pants. Perhaps if the other three weren't at his side, he would just pounce straight onto the bed and take what he wanted, but... he felt self-conscious in front of his friend, and in front of these impressionable younger men, who probably saw him in a certain light. Even Neymar, as close and trusted as he was, had only ever really seen one side of him, sexually; he'd never allowed Neymar to take control and top him, like his Papi and that destructive rival who had broken his great love affair many years ago.
But this majestic figure on the bed... He stared hungrily at him, and he felt Sergio's eyes bore into him, as if the pair of them were staring each other down once again on a La Liga pitch several summers ago. Lionel licked his lips and he watched as Sergio slowly did the same. Then he felt his body lurch as, quite abruptly, Ramos began to move away, sliding one bare limb and then the other off the bed; he was up and on his feet at the far side, beyond the mass of Neymar and Mbappe as they fed their big cocks to hungry Hakimi. Messi heard Ramos' voice as if from afar: `I'm going to get more wine.'
The Spaniard was heading for the bedroom door, his big naked body glistening in the lamplight, but he was looking this way, grinning wickedly, and still locking eyes with Leo Messi, who quickly made to follow.
Kylian pushed his cock forward, edging it deeper into the man's mouth until he made him gag and struggle, and even then he took a couple of dominant moments' pleasure before pulling back and allowing the other young PSG player to breathe. Mbappe staggered back slightly, shocked at his own boundary-pushing, and holding his cock in both hands. He swayed a little on his socked feet, and looked questioningly at Neymar; almost instantly, the 30-year-old had placed his cock into the hungry orifice instead, fucking Achraf in the face with rhythmic hip movements, whilst turning his face to grin this way and wink infuriatingly at him. The French forward gasped and shuddered and questioned how good it had felt to have a man's mouth close about his long thick tool.
His body trembled and his heart thundered, but he continued to pull back and forth on his cock with his right hand, unable to stop pleasuring himself, Achraf's saliva serving as lube against his palm and fingers as he did. And then he stumbled forwards, keen for more, and Neymar pulled him in willingly. Now they were both of them pushing and slapping their hard pricks against the clammy face of the third player, who stuck out his tongue and allowed it and his lips to roam against the sensitive heads of their cocks.
That's it,' Neymar hissed, holding his shoulders. Knew you'd like it.'
`Fuck,' Mbappe growled belligerently.
Just enjoy it,' Neymr insisted. Feed it to him, look how much he wants it.'
`Fuckkkk,' he moaned.
That's it, you sexy bastard,' encouraged Neymar, his groans shifting from French to Spanish to Portuguese, hard to follow. Mmm - that's it, you sexy lad, that's right...'
Fuck, fuck,' struggled Kylian, dizzy and mad. He cupped a hand about the side of the crouching defender's face and really forced his cock in there, choking him again, pushing forward with his hips - and a hand, Neymar's hand, resting on the small of his back, feeling his sweaty skin there, and then reaching down to spank one of his hard muscular cheeks, annoying and exciting him all at once. Yes,' purred the Brazilian's voice, `yes man, yes!'
Neymar backed off, but only so that he could momentarily enjoy the sight of it: the bullish figure of the arrogant young striker, driving his cock in and out of that mouth, until Hakimi was red-cheeked and watery-eyed, and he had to intervene, pulling Mbappe back and letting the other young lad droop to the side, coughing and spluttering and recovering. Neymar clung at Mbappe's strong biceps and held him still, then kissed him once on one of his bare shoulders. Let me,' he murmured into one of his ears. I don't choke like that.'
The 23-year-old turned and stared at him in something like shock, and Neymar just smirked and sank to his knees. He'd wanted this for ages. And still, as Kylian turned uncertainly this way towards him, he was stunned by the sheer girth and weight of the big black cock between Kylian's fuzzy thighs, just as big as he remembered it from watching it in action when they had that foursome with the girls in the hotel. He licked his lips for a moment and then went to work.
Mbappe's gasps and sighs above were music to his ears, and he gripped his hands to the sides of those mighty striker's thighs. With talent, Neymar took the cock deep in his mouth, just like he'd sucked the big dicks of Messi and Pique and others, and he made Mbappe squeal and shudder and curse profanities in French; Mbappe was too busy shuddering and keeping his balance to become as rough or dominant as he had before, treating Hakimi as a ragdoll. With a mouthful of French black cock, Neymar was still the one in command, finally turning this stern young stud to his own delights, after three seasons' unsubtle hinting.
They had stumbled into one of the penthouse's other bedrooms, and into another comfortable bed; whilst the bedchamber with the balcony was a seedy little nest of a South American lothario, this one was a minimalist shrine to football, the dim lamp by the bed revealing numerous awards and framed shirts against simple white walls, a small private museum to Neymar's illustrious career. Sergio Ramos had no interest in it. He had Lionel Messi in his arms and he had borne the smaller footballer into the bed and pinned him beneath his body.
They weren't kissing, Ramos had never really come to like kissing men; he did, however, love to have each of his muscles kissed, and he was pulling and dragging Messi's face against his chest and arms to encourage that, and the Argentine was rapidly relenting to this suggestion. Ramos weighed on top of him, their cocks rubbing, and he dragged Lionel against each pec and each bicep, even then forcing the other superstar's face into one sweaty pit until he could Leo's tongue against the smoothly waxed skin of his under-arm. He grappled and hugged at the tightly muscled body beneath him, incredibly excited, and yet not quite able to believe that he was going to get what he wanted.
Maybe he'd wanted this for longer than he knew... all those years of fierce rivalry in their sport, when they had spat and swore at each other across club divisions, had their been an element of sexual tension then? Had Leo Messi felt or known it, even if he hadn't...?
He grabbed and held at Messi's wrists and then forearms, struggling and wriggling over him, though fighting over nothing in particular, just feeling their two powerful bodies writhe against the other, tossing across the simple back sheets of this spare bed, their own private party away from the attention of the lesser three. Sergio grasped one of Lionel's hands and pushed it down until his former enemy was pulling at his cock, and then he rested a bit more, poised over him and just groaning as he felt it.
That's it,' the Spanish brute muttered to the South American. Feel my big Madrid cock, you Barca slut.'
I want it in me,' moaned Messi's voice, and Sergio felt that surely this was some drug or booze-fuelled dream, and not reality on a Parisian night. I want it in me,' the Argentine gasped again, squeezing the thick base of it, and Ramos sucked in a mouthful of air, holding his strong body over the other man, every muscle tensed. In the faint light, their eyes met and he stared wildly at the greatest opponent he'd ever fought. He nodded once, electrified, and began instantly to grapple with the smaller muscular body until he had flipped the Barcelona hero over onto his front, and then began to pull those tight black briefs down over that impressive rump.
Messi pushed up with his backside, hugging his face and arms into the sudden mound of pillows. He felt Sergio's rough hands against his back and sides, as if not quite knowing what to do with him, but then one of those hands was squeezing and pulling at one of his glutes, and then the other, and then that cook tickle as he heard and felt spit shot between them against his crack and hole. And then Ramos was properly on top of him, much taller but only a little stronger, and he pushed further up and back with his bottom, feeling the thick strong thing prod between his cheeks.
Lionel had not been fucked since leaving Barcelona, when one of his oldest footballing friends had taken him aside in that station and comforted him with the kind of power and authority that he had long missed. He'd melted in Pique's arms and opened himself up to a fellow Barca legend. And before that, that precious reunion with Guardiola and his new Golden Boy at the Champions League Final of 2020; and before THAT, he thought, had been the long-regretted fuck with Cristiano Ronaldo, when his `GOAT' rival had claimed him and broken Pep's heart.
THIS was what he'd needed before the World Cup... Not just some mindless fumbling with Neymar, who knew how to make him cum but could never thrill him entirely. He needed THIS, held in strong arms and pinned to the bed, taken completely and dominated, losing himself in another man's power like he had with Pique and Ronaldo and Guardiola!
He grunted and squealed as he felt the tip enter him, but he relaxed himself and gave in to the strength of Ramos, feeling it push inside his out-of-practice hole, stretching him out. He groaned more loudly, feeling Sergio's hands all over him, one settling upon his chest and the other clutching at his neck and jaw. Deeper into him pushed the big Spanish cock, filling him up, and he wanted to scream out.
The bed creaked beneath them as Ramos began to hump and thrust, buried to the hilt in him and crushing him down against the bedding, holding him in his muscular grip. Slow but strong thrusts as he seemed to pull back and then drive deeper into him. Messi groaned and spluttered with each stroke, satisfied from within and unable to form words with his bearded mouth as his face was pressed in against the pillows and he had to twist his face to one side to properly catch his breath.
`Take it, take it,' roared Sergio's rabid voice, and he took it, he took it.
Kylian Mbappe found himself on the bed now, in the same louche position that Sergio Ramos had occupied shortly before. He didn't know where Hakimi had slunk off to, neglected and ignored by the action now, but he knew exactly where Neymar was, crouched between his lifted legs, tonguing his balls whilst wanking his cock up and down in long wet strokes; and then the mouth was back on the tip and shaft of his cock, ending its brief holiday against his sack. And the young Frenchman could do nothing but lie there and huff out his breaths of pleasure, drunk and wild and fighting through the numbness of that as he felt his balls strain to unload.
Where were Ramos and Messi? The thought circled in his mind and then faded away just like the whereabouts of Hakimi. All Mbappe could think about was the mouth and tongue that were working up and down his fat prick and then back to his balls, taking one and then the other into the mouth and sucking on them in a way that gave him strange shuddering sensations all through the core of his muscle-bound body.
He kept trying to reach down and take control, to grab Neymar's head and press it into his crotch so he could choke him on the girth of his cock... but Neymar's hands found his, fingers locked with his, and there was something quite relaxing and liberating about that, just lying here and handing his enjoyment over to another guy 100%.
His body seemed to pulse from a light-headed drunken numbness to the most incredible and unbelievable sensitivity - in one of these surges of feeling, he felt his cock really throb and tingle, and he knew he was going to empty his big balls. He tried to mouth some warning to the other man about this, not wanting to pour his cream in a man's mouth, but no words left his dry lips, and soon he was jizzing with the warm softness of Neymar's mouth still enveloping the tip of his prick.
Neymar Jr swallowed every drop, just as he so often took every ounce of cum from Messi's big Argentine balls in this very bed. He slurped and licked, getting all of the French cream from around the huge head of Mbappe's member, and then little streaks of it that had drooled down the shaft and onto the balls; all of it. He groaned and moaned as he ate it up, savouring its intense saltiness on his palate, and rubbing at the sweaty muscles of the younger man's thighs as he did, wild with his own desire.
And then, satisfied, the Brazilian pulled back, laughing lightly, and breathing in the manly odour of it all, the sweat and cum. On the bed in front of him, Kylian's body was heaving and shaking with each breath of recovery, every dark muscle shiny with sweat. Neymar pulled away, sliding off the foot of the bed and up onto his feet, where he instinctively reached down to play with his own sensitive cock.
He looked about the room, remembering Achraf, and discovering that the Moroccan 24-year-old was actually asleep, curled up awkwardly on a chaise lounge by the windows, where he'd apparently crawled after fellating Mbappe became too stressful. Neymar laughed again, wondering if he should wake the sluttish Spanish expat and invite him into the bed, or not... and what about the other two?
The 30-year-old couldn't be bothered to find them. He was just thrilled that he'd finally got his mouth about Mbappe's cock and, even better, eaten his salty load. That was enough to sustain him as he stood there at the foot of the bed and jerked off, his mind occasionally darting away to contemplate the mischief he might get up to with a few friends on the Brazil national team, or other contacts who might be available to him once in Qatar next week... But these distractions were brief and minimal, and his attention returned happily to the scene in front of him, the stocky Frenchman spread out on the bed in front of him, sweaty and bare and impressive.
When he came, Neymar shot his messy load across Mbappe's shins and thighs, silvery droplets on the dark brown of his skin. He stood there for a few long minutes, pulling on his dick until it ached, milking every drop of seed from himself, and then leaning on one of the bedposts to steady himself whilst he caught his breath.
`You okay, brother?' he coughed at Kylian, who was dragging his hands across his face and groaning. No answer from him. Neymar laughed. He lurched away from the bed, his spent cock and low-hanging balls swinging as he did, his lithe body bare and glistening. Filled with a surge of kindness, he took blankets from drawers and threw one over snoring Hakimi and tossed the other at naked Mbappe, who seized it and rolled over with it curled around him. He left them like that, picking up the red wine bottle and guzzling from it before strutting out through the corridors of his penthouse.
The grunts and squeaks led him to the half-open door of the next bedroom, his trophy room, and he rested naked in the doorway. The black sheets of the bed were a mess, and beyond them, dimly lit, were two figures up against the wall. Sergio Ramos, 6ft and powerful, thrusting against the body of Lionel Messi, slamming into the white-painted wall and fucking him with a scream at every thrust, seeming to climax just as Neymar arrived to enjoy the view. He guzzled red wine and played lazily with his limp cock as he watched the piledriver motion of Sergio's body against Leo's. Wow. Naughty.
Neymar left them to it, drifting happily away and letting himself into the big main bathroom where he stepped into the wetroom area and blasted himself under the hot shower until he felt a little more fresh clean, laughing to himself at the sexy chaos of his after-party, the end it had brought to this half of the Ligue 1 season, and the auspicious beginning it might mark for a World Cup of decadent fun in the luxury hotels of Qatar. Bleary and happy, the Brazilian troublemaker scrubbed at his bare body and let soap suds course down his legs and past his toes, then swathed himself in towels and moved back through the penthouse.
In the spare room, he could now see Leo and Sergio's bare strong bodies laid out on the bed, separate but side by side, silently exhausted but perhaps not asleep. He'd always suspected that Messi liked to take it, and though he didn't understand why he'd never been allowed to fuck him like that, he was far from offended; he was just excited by the thought of seeing those two legends going at it, and he had to pull himself back from wandering in there and flopping down between their magnificent bodies to form a sandwich.
Instead, Neymar loped back into his own bedchamber and slid into the huge master bed, wriggling between the sheets until he was lying right beside the stud he'd chased for several busy seasons. He hesitated for a moment, trying to work out just how asleep Kylian was from his breathing, but then he slid closer to him, and threw a proper duvet over his blanket-swaddled muscles. He spooned the younger player gently, and found that there was no muscular resistance from PSG's treasured young star. Instead, Mbappe pressed gently back into his arms and made a vague grunt, face pushed away from him. Neymar sighed contentedly and squeezed at him, resting in against him and taking deep sleepy breaths, sinking deep into intoxicated exhaustion, ready for sweat dreams of World Cup victory to come.
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