Part 338: Campeonas del Mundo
Somehow, it felt as though it would always come down to this, and the 35-year-old football champion was ready for it, quietly sure of the outcome on the other end of this penalty shootout. Lionel Messi felt as composed and triumphant joining the line-up of his fellow Argentines now as he had as the 90th minute became extra time, or at the outset of the game when the first whistle blew, or sitting through the many rapid press conferences of the past few days. The World Cup was dazzling in his sights and the football GOAT was ready to get his hands on it and achieve the last jigsaw piece of his boyhood dream.
There was only one thing that might obstruct Messi's focus on this achievement, but he had promised himself days ago that it simply wouldn't matter, couldn't matter. Even when the Argentina head coach had almost insisted to him that his close friend could or even should join him and stay in his big double hotel room in the build-up to the finale, and Leo had been left unable to explain to his boss why this generous idea was not happening, even then... So what if his best friend and longest international ally was now not speaking a word to him? So what if all of his privacy and discretion were threatened by one man's prejudice and shock? So what if he'd been snubbed by the biggest supporter of his life and career, just when he most needed to have him by his side...?
The heated confrontation with Sergio Aguero had left Lionel reeling, but even before the night was through, he'd done his best to brush it aside and steel himself against the disappointment and hurt of it. He wasn't here to socialise, he was here to win, and Messi had thrown himself entirely into the final days of preparation for the Qatar World Cup final against France, blanking out the sudden gulf between he and his closest male friend.
Ahead of him, France were readying to take the first of the decisive penalties, and for a moment Messi thought about another potential distraction in this strange final week of the tournament. The outstanding France striker pawed past him on the turf, moving forward to take up his spot in front of goal, and for a moment the two Paris Saint-Germain players met eyes, fierce rivals but also respectful opponents and teammates, and Leo couldn't help but think about two nights ago, and the surprise appearance of Kylian Mbappe in the grounds of the Argentina hotel.
The young French king had looked wary and paranoid as he traipsed through the tropical gardens of the hotel, the same shady palms and gurgling fountains where Messi had found Aguero after the interruption of the young lovers, who were meek and shame-faced in training ever since. Messi had stared in disbelief at his sunset visitor, having spent so much time talking and thinking about Mbappe as one of their key opponents during the day, and now faced with the 24-year-old rising superstar, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and casting suspicious glances left and right in the shadows.
`Kylian...'
He looked at him now, almost aggressive in his confidence as he squared up to the goal and prepared himself for another penalty, more important than ever. Mbappe brimmed with self-assuredness and ambition, and Lionel couldn't help but momentarily wonder at how different he seemed to be the shy and awkward lad in front of him two nights ago: it was strange to think that his own quiet encouragement had allowed the transformation back to Kylian's uber-confident usual self, and that in some way he'd therefore contributed to the young star's hat-trick of Final goals that were placing them in this hard-fought penalty shoot-out for the trophy.
Quiet and mumbling, the 24-year-old had spoken to him not as a World Cup rival, but as a friend and advisor, more humble and vulnerable than he'd ever once appeared at PSG, where Mbappe seemed totally unfazed by his iconic older colleagues; but here, in Qatar, the 24-year-old looked young and scared, and Messi had found himself instinctively supportive and open to helping him. `What's wrong?' he demanded, rubbing one hand on the hard strong shoulders of the taller young man, looking earnestly at him and forgetting how strange it was for a French player to be here right now.
That's how Mbappe had confided in him in a mumbled rush that he'd met up two or three times with Neymar since the tournament began; the Parisian was full of mumbled and uncomfortable reference back to the drinks they'd shared at the Brazilian's apartment on the eve of the tournament, and Messi quickly realised what he was going on. Like many hot-blooded football men before him, Kylian was full of angst and indecision about how much he'd enjoyed the soft Brazilian lips about his tool, and Kylian could guess enough to know that Leo was the man to consult. In moments, they shifted from the gardens to Messi's large suite, and he was pushing a strong drink into the Frenchman's hands and spilling out platitudes and reassurance about what did and didn't matter.
They were supposed to be lethal enemies right now, 48 hours before the Cup Final, but Messi sat on one bed and Mbappe on the other, drinking Scotch from small glasses, and discussing the intoxicating oral talents of their PSG wingman. A more cynical and tactical move might have seen the conversation play out differently, but Lionel felt sorry for Kylian, and the topic was a little close to home: how could he sit and listen to the French stud's doubts and worries without also thinking about Kun's angry features and hurtful words in the courtyard of his apartment? Even as Mbappe nervously explained to him how he'd sneaked into the Brazilian accommodation on three different occasions to be sucked dry by Neymar, unloading his balls and being licked clean by the older football player, Messi was thinking about those tense moments with his best friend, and the risky honesty with which he'd confronted his homophobia.
It feels so good,' grumbled the Parisian hunk sat across from him, his face miserable with conflict, but it can't be right to let him do that to me, can it, bro?'
Messi had slipped into a reverie about his own problems, the broken friendship that he'd been ignoring and suppressing all week as he trained hard and fought to encourage each of his Argentina teammates: he was thinking about the intimate closeness of he and Sergio sat in that garden, talking so honestly, and then the cruel rage of his friend's disapproval once the truth was out there! But... he was also thinking about the brief strange kiss the two men had shared before it exploded that way, and the questions it sparked in his heart.
`It's as wrong or right as you want it to be,' he told Mbappe sagely, lifting his eyes and staring distractedly at the younger striker, the young man he reasonably expected to fill his shoes in the next era of their beautiful sport.
The meeting between the two Paris players could or should have ended there: Kylian looked a little reassured already, less shaky and emotive than when he'd burst out of nowhere in the gardens and interrupted Leo's walk. He could have sent the 24-year-old running off to his own national camp, and picked up his phone and made some contact with the Argentina mascot who he'd been avoiding all day at training, since the retired striker was a ubiquitous presence in the training camp despite his inability to play for them.
Lionel would like to think it was generosity and bonhomie that made him cross the gap between the beds and lay hand on the thigh of Kylian's thick blue sweatpants, but he suspected it was more selfish: a need for distraction or communion, something to dull the strange surprising pain of Aguero's rage. And that something was Mbappe's cock, gripped in his hand through the sweatpants, and coaxed into life while the Frenchman sighed and slurred at his side, gulping the last of his Scotch.
Messi didn't suck him off, like it seemed his Brazilian beauty had been doing; but he did take the big black cock from Mbappe's pants and tight lycra undies, and jerk it in slow tender movements, spitting into his palm for lubrication. As he did it, he didn't say anything more, and he didn't even touch himself, though his cock was semi in his shorts; it was just a slow silent handjob between the outgoing and up-coming kings of football, and a moment that surely played on both men's minds now as Mbappe passed him and stepped up to take the opening penalty of the shootout.
Messi watched his opponent take a calm and powerful shot and plant the ball easily behind Martinez in goal; as he watched the calm confident celebration of the France hero, the two football heroes caught eye contact again, and he couldn't help but smile in spite of the situation, thinking of the way that strong black body had heaved next to him on the bed, spilling thick oozing cum against the carpet, all throaty breaths and French expletives, soothed and satisfied by the attention of Messi's hand. With the deed done, Leo had just stroked his cock a couple more times, found him a tissue, and rubbed him on the shoulder. `It's all fine, we are just men with needs,' he informed his young teammate and theoretical club exec in a low voice, before watching him tug up his underpants and sweats, and nod with nervous agreement, cheeks a little glossy with sweat.
And now they were passing each other on the pitch as rivals, Mbappe's penalty in and Messi getting ready to take his. He gave a simple respectful nod to the younger star, unable to begrudge Kylian his individual triumphs tonight, probably player of the match; it didn't matter how many goals the Frenchman got in, Messi thought, because he could feel destiny calling for him, and he knew the World Cup would be his. He loped forward and positioned the ball on the spot, ready for his own penalty moment, and just like the 24-year-old, he booted it in with apparent ease, levelling their two sides and piling the pressure on the Argentine and French players who came next - and he just smiled distantly to himself to think of how easily he'd reassured the Parisian stud that evening, compared to the tense confrontation with his best friend.
The penalties ran quickly on, and the 35-year-old ex-Barcelona icon could only stand by and smile with that same easy sense of the inevitable, as Coman and Tchouameni failed to put anything past Martinez, whilst his own teammates Dybala and Paredes replicated Leo's success, making it 3-1 in the climactic shootout.
He hugged the younger players one at a time as their goals went in, slapping the men on the backs and not getting quite as excited or emotional as he ought to, just waiting for destiny to strike and the World Cup win to be confirmed. Dybala smirked knowingly at him in the hug, and Messi thought almost numbly of last night in the hotel, where he and de Paul had spitroasted new Roma signing together, making the 29-year-old squeal and shudder with enjoyment of their cocks... but Messi never took quite so much pleasure in Paulo as Rodri did, perhaps because Dybala liked to quietly boast about how he used to be Cristiano Ronaldo's number-one cocksucker in their Juventus seasons; but more specifically because he was thinking about Aguero's disgust and judgement on the night of the Semi.
Usually, Messi thoroughly enjoyed a bit of light fun with Rodrigo de Paul, as he had early in the tournament when following through Guardiola's earnest plea, the two of them working over Phil Foden for a luxurious hour in his suite; Messi had found a hot and horny playmate in the 28-year-old Madrid player several international campaigns ago, and he enjoyed having de Paul as his occasional fuck buddy and self-appointed bodyguard, though it was a sexual relationship he kept cool and restricted, just like he'd done with Neymar and others in the past. After all, Leo had experienced the heartache of man love at a young age, and he'd been careful what he let develop ever since he was cast aside by his Papi for that indiscretion with CR7.
So instead of anything more passionate and personal, the married footballer settled for things that were purely physical fun, like last night: joining Rodri in his separate suite, and casually circle-jerking with he and Dybala, before lounging back and passing the slut between them, face-fucking him in turns, and laughing oafishly at one another and sharing high-fives. He never let his tough manly sidekick see other sides to him, sexually, like when he'd submitted to Sergio Ramos back in Paris. He was happy to be a different kind of player, rough and macho and dominant, just like Rodri, and try to forget about the sweet tenderness he'd once shared as Pep's first Golden Boy.
That's why kissing Aguero had been so stupid, he kept reminding himself, because he and his fellow Argentinian goal machine were close life-long friends with interlocking families, godfathers to each other's sons... too much at stake! The thought returned to him there, unwanted and unhelpful, as he hugged Dybala and Paredes and then watched France's Kolo Muani step up to try and fix his teammates' mistakes.
For a moment, these private thoughts carried Messi away from the glory and hope of the penalty shootout, and he was thinking sadly about the way Aguero had shoved him away and spat at him after the kiss - but also about much older injury, and the way things had once ended between he and Guardiola. Those wounds were healed now, but they left scars, and even after he'd done Pep's bidding and indulged young Foden, he'd felt nostalgic and sad to think about the Barca glory days he and his coach had once shared.
But then Kolo Muani had scored and Argentina's Montiel was in position, and victory was there. As soon as Montiel's goal, the fourth successful penalty in a row, went in, the Cup was theirs, and France were beaten. And in it went, and one side of the stadium exploded, and Messi could think about nothing more than his footballing destiny.
Within moments of the winning penalty striking home, Aguero was there at his side. Even though only moments ago he'd been thinking worriedly about the stony silence between them, he accepted it as natural and right that the prematurely retired striker was in amongst the celebrations like he'd been at the Semi and Quarter Finals. Even when the stocky 34-year-old was grabbing and hugging at him like all of his teammates, Lionel didn't stop and say `Excuse me?' because not a word had been shared between the old friends all week, since one branded the other 'disgusting' - in those surreal and godly moments, the win was all that mattered, the trophy was all that mattered, their country was all that mattered! Messi wasn't about to pause the celebrations to grab his friend and remind him that they weren't on speaking terms right now. All thoughts of that, and of ghostly memories of Guardiola or Ronaldo, were eradicated, because Messi had finally led Argentina to the biggest win of all, and the entire pitch seemed to become one mad fiesta of delight.
For Messi, it spun from one glorious feeling to another, and he was quite surprised to find himself suddenly on the shoulders of his friend, hoisted up there and cheered adoringly by every member of the Argentina camp... but held firmly aloft by Sergio Aguero himself. Only then did the jarring change strike him: he looked down and saw his thighs spread over the shoulders and Kun's tanned fingers clasped just above his knees, and it occurred to him that this was the only real communication that had passed between them since that night, a physical closeness that he thought might have been wiped out.
In the midst of the World Cup celebration, apparently that conflict had been rendered trivial and entirely forgotten, because Aguero was hoisting him up and holding onto him and singing his name, and in a moment of odd clarity, Messi found himself smiling more at that - the return of this important friendship - than the actual cause for celebration. He was only on his pal's shoulders for a matter of minutes, swaying dizzily atop the other man, but he felt a surge of gratitude for Aguero's renewed support, literally and physically now, but in many different ways over the years... and mixed with it, he just felt that familiar gladness that the retired striker could be with them and part of this, in some way, rather than the burning resentment he'd felt towards him over the past few days.
Once Leo was off those strong shoulders, he hugged Sergio tightly to him and told him that the win was for him, that the whole fucking trophy should be dedicated to Aguero's career and what he ought still to be achieving - and then, just like that, the close friends were separated by the mad crowd around them, and the ensuing formalities. Lionel experienced hug after hug, cheer after cheer, and he grinned in mild confusion as the basht was thrown over his shoulders and he held the World Cup trophy up for the cameras - but part of his mind was still racing happily over the sensation of being grabbed and thrown upwards by Aguero, hugged and embraced by the other Argentine as if their entire argument of the other night was a figment of a bad dream.
He couldn't spare much thought for the dejected French players, though he did again catch Mbappe's eye for a brief moment and try to smile sympathetically at him. He wondered how their relationship would be once both back in Paris, and if his soothing handjob would make sure that the defeated French warrior would be able to accept him as champion for a little while longer - Messi even thought briefly about Neymar, knowing that his impish Brazilian friend had pursued action with the PSG star for many months. He wasn't sure if he could be glad for Neymar's little victory, or just wary of the trouble he was stirring up at their Ligue 1 club - but then he'd stirred trouble of his own, submitting to the Spanish king, and he wasn't sure what kind of atmosphere he would be returning to after he let Ramos fuck him deep and hard that last night before the international break began.
Luckily, winning a World Cup made it hard for these concerns to feel anything more than background detail, and Messi could relax and fully enjoy the destined win that had felt certain to him for months now. He grinned and laughed and congratulated every lad on the team, every member of staff behind them, and posed for picture after picture, on the field and behind the scenes and then in the relative privacy of the changing rooms, where champagne flowed and the jubilant family and friends were left behind - all, that is, but for Aguero himself, honorary squad member and lead cheerleader. Though Messi had left his wife and children behind in the celebratory atmosphere of the outer stadium, his best friend was here with him in the core team celebrations, a bottle of expensive fizz in each hand and a song on his lips.
It was at some point in this madness that Messi felt himself grabbed side-on by his shirt, the Arab cloak long abandoned; he was grinning mindlessly at the chants and dance moves of other players, watching a strapping topless Rodri bounce up and down waving his tattooed arms, and Martinez still thrusting the Golden Glove stupidly at his crotch, not to mention Mac Allister being doused in champagne spray by Di Maria. The hands at his side yanked him back away from this victory scene, and Lionel turned dizzily to find Sergio at his side, an absolutely manic grin on his face - `Come here a minute!' the former Man City champion was yelling at him, dragging him away from the action, and Messi gladly fell into step, staggering away from the crowd on socked feet, and snatching the half-empty Dom Perignon from one of Aguero's hands.
The two muscular men pulled away, Kun guiding him off to one side and away from the busy noise of the main changing rooms; the retired 34-year-old was still in full Argentina kit and almost as dishevelled and sweaty as if he'd played in the extended match and penalty shootout himself, the glossy sky blue shirt bursting with his maintained muscles. His eyes and smile were wild and joyous, and Messi just grinned happily at the other guy, so glad to have him here, high as a kite on the taste of their victory. He was not giving a second's thought to the fact that before the match, they had just glanced icily at one another in the tunnel, and he'd had zero communication or support from his best mate in the crucial days leading up to the Final - the conflict was forgotten, forgiven, eradicated!
But... Aguero was grabbing at his arms and pulling in very close, not just the ignorant closeness of drunk men without awareness of personal space. Very close. Leo paused, feeling the other man's body heat on his own, and suddenly very aware of the voices and laughter that echoed around the corner, making him so aware that the rest of the squad and staff were yards from them, but... suddenly, hot and damp and tasting of expensive bubbles, Aguero's mouth was on his, kissing him roughly, and planting both hands on his cheeks. Instinctively, Messi kissed back, feeling lips and tongue rub together, tasting the alcoholic sweetness of him, and excited by his dense physicality, but then...
Leo pushed both hands firmly against his chest and wrenched away, frowning deeply and growling with real anger as he spoke. `What are you doing?' he demanded, totally blindsided by the sudden hot kiss.
Sergio just grinned at him, all intensely white teeth and the wet gloss of his rich pink lips. I'm sorry,' the ex-footballer babbled happily. I'm sorry, I have been a dick - I want you to know it's all okay, and-'
God damn you!' Messi exclaimed emotionally and without really thinking - he felt hot with rage, crashing through all of the positive emotions of the Qatari evening. Before he could even begin to think about was happening, he was slapping Aguero about the side of his face, not a particularly hard or violent move, but far more than a friendly pat. Calm yourself,' the Argentina hero snapped at his retired teammate. Don't touch me like that...' Aguero's hands had rested on the sides of his shirt, beginning to feel the ripped muscles of his torso through the glossy and sweaty fabric, and he pushed them roughly away, taking a step back from the 5ft8 man, and ignoring the throb of excitement down in his sports briefs. Damn you! Don't behave like this - we are friends and that's it. Fucking hell!'
Messi could hear and see the irony of it all, but foremost he felt panicked, and a sudden return of resentment. In front of him, Aguero just looked confused and sloppy, rubbing now at part of his face and pouting awkwardly at him, and then clumsily grasping back to the bottle to take a messy swig from, some of its sweet froth oozing over his chin and onto the chest of his honorary football shirt. Messi's glare softened but he held his eyes and just shook his head. It cannot be like that between us,' he announced simply, and then gave a softer slap to one of the other man's shoulders, and began to back away. Aguero, deeply confused and evidently much drunker, looked about to protest and say more, but then instead he just slurred, I AM sorry', and lurched to one side.
But Messi was already hastily retreating from him and marching back into the midst of his players, his head reeling. He could feel Aguero's lips on his, the demanding push and pull of the other player's hands on him, but he could also hear the disgust and rejection in his voice not so many nights ago - he could feel the anger that burned between them as they confronted this very different masculine behaviour. In seconds, though, he was being grabbed about the shoulders by their triumphant head coach, Scaloni, and handed a fresh drink by passing Tagliafico - swallowed back up into the jollity and carelessness of the mood, the moment with Aguero just an intense little anomaly that could be forgotten yet again.
Except not actually forgotten, just suppressed for the remainder of the Sunday, buried away during the lavish winners' party only to surface in the early hours of the morning, when the football champion tossed from side to side in bed, hot in spite of the powerful air-con and the sheets kicked away from his lithe 5ft6 frame.
He was not in the now-familiar confines of his luxurious player suite, but in the separate accommodation arranged for his family tonight, elsewhere in the same hotel. He was drunk and exhausted but still fired with adrenaline, though he'd sensibly quit the partying about 1am at the insistence of his Antonella. She'd been fully understanding when he wasn't up to lovemaking, more than happy to settle for sweet congratulatory kisses as they willed on sleep, but now she was in dreamland and he was frustrated alone.
As Messi turned from side to side, pushing smooth bare muscles against the bedding, he kept asking himself the same question: Had he pushed Aguero away tonight because it was the right and sensible thing to do, and because it made sense after Sergio's erratic behaviour towards him, or... was he just scared? By pushing his friend away, was he carefully protecting them both and making some progress towards a more stable life, or was he just running away from... Running away from what, exactly? But he knew. He thought about the hot intensity of both kisses, and he knew that in the deepest corners of his heart, this attraction to Kun was nothing new. He'd long buried a certain lust for the other married footballing man, and worked hard to convince himself that his love for the other player was purely platonic - that was safe, that was best.
Strangely, Lionel had never been the one to pursue any of his male partners, he reflected; since that first sweet magic with Pep, his male playmates had thrown themselves devotedly (or in Ronaldo's case, destructively) in his path, made themselves obvious and available to their idol... so he would never have dared to make any move or suggestion to his Sergio, not on his own volition. As far as he could tell, the men who found him attractive soon made it obvious, and the action was his to enjoy or reject as he chose.
But Aguero now...
His friend had just been drunk, he reminded himself, completely inebriated, and over-excited as all of them were. Intoxicated by their international victory, even without bottle after bottle of celebratory champagne. And the kiss from Aguero had been a sloppy misguided move of apology and redemption, a desperate bid to cancel the prejudice and nastiness of their last encounter, that's all. Aguero had made it clear that he was not aligned with such fluid private action, had made it so obvious that he was disgusted by the thought, AND YET...
The 35-year-old forward lay there for some time, tortured by his own inner monologue, until he eventually decided that he needed to be on his feet. If he continued tossing and turning here, he would just wake up his wife and share the misery of insomnia, and they both had journeys back to South America tomorrow, flights to Buenos Aires and the next round of celebration. Out of bed, he glanced regretfully at her peaceful body, wishing that his one beloved woman could be enough for him - he shouldn't need this other sex, but his youthful affair with Guardiola had spoiled him, and taught him that men could love each other differently and more fully.
He moved about the suite in just the baggy boxer shorts he'd changed into for bed, looking for something to pull on so he could leave the room. With a wry and wistful grin, his attention fell on the basht, its floaty black fabric draped over the back of a chair. Though it was just translucent mesh, he pulled the symbolic garment on over his bare torso anyway, and pushed his feet into a pair of sliders, then quietly exited the hotel room to wander through the silent corridors, half-surprised that there wasn't still some distant noise of a party - presumably, every member of the extended Argentina family had finally crashed out into fitful sleep, though tomorrow's flight would still be full of sore heads.
Lionel tried to focus on that: the journey, the victory parades, the important moments of really embracing and enjoying their achievement. And then, he thought, some blissful days of real peace at his family ranch in Rosario, before duty would call him back to Paris to complete his second season there at the French super-club. He tried NOT to focus on the simmering sexual energy that had gone unsatisfied last night when he couldn't relax with his wife in his arms, climbing into bed and escaping the party.
But stepping out through the quiet halls of the hotel and taking big breaths of air in the gardens, he hit upon de ja vu. He'd passed a couple of teammates already, slumped asleep in furniture of the hotel's communal areas, collapsed there with bottles held to their chests or dangling from their fingers to the floor, contents already spilled; but out here in the garden, his ears caught low whispering voices, and he drifted instinctively towards them again, unable to resist the mild curiosity of the onlooker.
It was, again, the two young apparent love-birds of the Argentina squad. Just beyond a fringe of palm leaves, he could see them, holding each other against the thick trunk of one tall tree. 21-year-old Enzo Fernandez was obvious to him because the midfield Benfica player was still wearing an Argentina shirt with his name and number on the back, though below its hem, the young footballer's sturdy rear was framed by the dark lines of briefs, much of his hairy legs on show. And against him, pinned to the trunk of the palm, Julian Alvarez was shirtless and shivering, and the look on his acne-marked young face was full of shyness and excitement, the two young players grinning in at each other and then sharing a deep long snog in their private spot.
Messi hung there for just a few moments, no desire to interrupt or disturb the tryst between the youngsters. He just found himself staring at them through the darkness and thinking about how recklessly and fully he'd loved when he was that age, absolutely devoted to his Spanish manager, and unafraid of embracing the feelings - not like now, so cynical and cautious, even when playing with Papi's new toy for him. When was the last time he'd felt real passion and intimacy? Gloomily, he knew the answer: in Portugal, two summers ago, when Foden had first tried to warn him off, and then joined them in a reunion three-way, allowing him one last taste of Guardiola, the man who'd shown him the world.
Full of reflection, Leo backed quietly away and left Enzo and Julian pawing and kissing at each other in the shadows, making the garden their bedroom, and celebrating each other's powerful young bodies under the palms. Good for them, he thought wistfully, and headed back inside the hotel. Back past the snoring figures on sofas and chairs in the bar area, back past the gaping silence of the restaurant and pool, back up towards the elevators that could whisk him through the floors - but back to his family suite, or to the isolation of his player room, his home for the past month?
And then there he was, of course - wandering around a different corner into the same glossy foyer area, looking like he'd partied harder than any active player in the national team. His short dark hair was a little scruffy and he had lifted his tangled Argentina shirt halfway up his flat tummy to scratch at his body; bleary-eyed and slow, and still clutching a thick bottle of fizz in one paw, taking heavy footsteps across the marble floor. He stopped as they saw each other, and his expression was unreadable - but Messi moved decisively for him anyway, and took the risk. Inspired by either the sight of the youngsters, or his own nostalgia, or the sheer weight of tonight's win, he took the risk, and moved quickly and firmly towards the other man, and grabbed him about the waist. Then he kissed him, locking lips a little more tenderly than tonight's early drunken peck, moving their mouths slowly together and sliding his tongue in to explore his friend's. As for Aguero, he just let the bottle fall to the floor with a single heavy crack, and melted into Messi's grip, uncertain but unresisting, until he let out a thin gasp as their mouths parted, and Leo held him by his wrists and stared him down.
`Do you want this?' he hissed severely at him.
Sergio Aguero didn't speak a word, he just nodded once.
Upstairs in the room they should have shared all week, they went for it.
Let me make love to you,' Aguero was snarling recklessly at him, tearing off his honorary football strip, baring the thick tanned muscle of his upper body, the evidence of the gym work that filled his retirement hours. Let me please you like Guardiola did, my friend!' His voice was so earnest and desperate, totally sexy and intoxicating to Lionel right now. He sunk his face low and kissed the other man's chest, nipping at his firm nipples and running his lips over the small patch of dark hair between the pecs, then back up against his salt-and-pepper stubble and onto his hot wet mouth. Their bodies crashed through the suite and into its bedroom area, and down onto the same kingsize on which he'd done Pep's bidding to pleasure and comfort Filipe.
Messi fell on top of the 34-year-old, unable to stop kissing him, and feeling his strong rough hands push under the flimsy black mesh of the cape, both grappling at each other's bodies, Leo's that bit slimmer and more ripped by the intensity of his sporting life, Kun's more thick and dense under his roaming fingers, but so strong and firm. Lionel happily let his face pushed aside so that Sergio could kiss and bite at his neck, whilst fingernails scratched all the way down his back. This, he thought with a tremor, was passion and intimacy.
If Messi had some faint mental outline of how this lust might play out, he found himself wrong; he was about to kiss his way back down onto that broad sexy chest and work his way down, but no, Aguero was flipping him to the side and pinning him down and doing that to him instead, kissing at each of his pecs and then sucking on his nipples like they were some bimbo's tits. Down went his kisses, and Messi could feel his rough grip moving to the waist of his bed-shorts, which were ripped quite violently away to expose his huge throbbing hard-on. He stared down his own ripped torso and watched in amazement as the other married man took the big tool in hand, stared at it in some sort of fearful alarm, then took it clumsily into his mouth and sucked on the tip like a push-pop, making him moan in instant and shaky delight.
Oh yes,' Messi cried out, reaching down and stroking his hand against the stubbled side of Aguero's face, then pushing his fingers through the short dark tufts of his hair, oh yessss!' With a look of real determination, Aguero was chowing down on his big hard prick, taking the veiny length a few inches into his mouth before immediately gagging and trying again. He struggled to the task, clearly new to him, but he spat against it and rubbed his hand up and down the shaft, and his pouting lips and wide eyes were so sexy that Leo thought he might blow his load just looking at him and waiting for more.
Partly in fear of such an early climax, Lionel allowed him only a few more minutes of this clumsy attempt before he swapped places with him, shucking off the shimmering black of the Arabian cape and making himself naked, then peeling down Sergio's tight-fit jeans and the designer undies beneath. He did his best to slow and calm himself, wanting to savour these 3am moments together, and to remember every detail of their togetherness - he didn't want this intimacy with his best friend to just be some mad fumble that got lost in the blur of his Qatar World Cup win, he wanted it to be... different.
He took his time in bringing his mouth to Sergio's straining erection, kissing instead at the insides of his thighs and nuzzling the slight bumpy stubble of his waxed pubes, then caressing his tight dark balls with the tip of his nose and then his tongue, before finally licking down one side and the other of the thick curved shaft, and then kissing lavishly against the bulbous tip. Kun shuddered and moaned for him and he found his hands, letting their fingers tightly interlock as he began to move his mouth up and down the thick Latino cock, disciplined and slow and showing clumsy Sergio where he'd gone wrong in his first clunky taste of cock. Messi sucked him good and deep here like he had the other Man City star on this bed, young Phil on behalf of his former lover, but this one, this rugged Latino man, was all his, just his. He drew his wet mouth away and wanked him slowly and firmly like he had huge Kylian Mbappe, but not with the tender reassurances of an older teammate, just the hot tenderness of a lover. Then he slid his body to one side so that they could try each other at the same time, a 69 of mature muscle, Argentina's two finest sons.
He slurped and licked at Kun's fat prick and smiled down the inside of their prone bodies to see how serious and determined the 34-year-old looked. Aguero took Messi's bigger longer tool in hand and licked at the tip and around it, but again struggled to get much of it into his mouth without immediately choking and gagging; Leo just went down on him slowly and gently, teaching him with his mouth, until Kun was attempting the same, and both men were quietly slurping on the other's fat erection, pausing for breath and to look at each other and let out hoarse chuckles of amazement.
But Messi couldn't stay like this for long, because whenever he looked at the awkward dimpled smile on the handsome man's face, he just wanted to kiss him, and he broke the 69 position to do so, grappling with Aguero's thick naked body and locking lips with him, happy to just tongue his mouth and run his hands up and down his bulky arms and shoulders, sliding in under him and grinding their crotches so that their hard wet dicks rubbed and throbbed together.
`This is so good,' Leo gasped and moaned at him.
Forget everything I said,' Kun pleaded. I just want my friend back.'
`You've got him, Sergio, you've got him.'
`Let me make you feel good. Let me be like these other men.'
`You're not like other men, Kun-'
`Fuck me like you fucked him,' came Aguero's hot begging gasp, and Messi stared at him in surprise, his mind not having raced quite that far ahead yet - or if it had, making different assumptions, and thinking that this hot stud in his arms would be the fourth man to ever claim his backside, following in the footsteps of Pep, Cristiano, and Sergio Ramos.
`You want me to-?'
Fuck me,' hissed Aguero again, his face very severe and almost aggressive, fuck me like you fucked him!' The misjudgement in the other football hunk's words occurred to him, but he was too excited to try and correct him; Kun must refer to their mutual friend Guardiola, and sex with the Spanish Papi had only ever worked one way round. But the needy submission in Aguero's voice and in his dark eyes was so powerful, and Lionel was not about to break that magic. Are you sure?' he murmured, but he could hear his own eagerness in his moan. You're sure you can take me?'
Aguero seemed to find the challenge in this question. `I can take anything!'
Oh baby,' Messi moaned eagerly. I want nothing more!'
Their strong bodies rolled again until Messi was on top with Aguero pinned below, and he eased up his sturdy smooth thighs at his sides, seeing the immediate flash of nervousness in those strong dark eyes. He kissed him on the lips whilst giving his cock a pull, then tickling past it and below his balls, onto his gooch, and edging a finger in between his plump cheeks to find and rub his little virgin hole. Aguero shuddered but held onto him, pinned on his back with his ankles up in the air, Messi snogging him on the lips and tickling gently in his ass-crack, wondering if he could really make this happen. He pulled back a little and pushed his fingers in between Kun's pink lips to wet them, then returned them to the job, finding and pressing the button of Sergio's rose-bud. `You really want this?' the World Cup winner gasped and groaned at him.
I want you,' Aguero snarled back, I want to be yours.'
In went one wet finger and the determined snarl became just a submissive whimper, and Messi smirked wickedly at him, pressing the digit into him and opening him up ever so slightly. He kissed him some more, on the lips and the cheek and then the neck, rubbing their cocks together as he entered him to the knuckle, wiggling the single finger in against his impossibly tight muscular entrance. `My beautiful friend,' he groaned, and still Aguero just whimpered and gasped for him, eyes squeezed shut and mouth a perfect round O.
He knew it was too quick, too soon, but his discipline was fading. He pulled his finger away and lifted and pulled more at Kun's thick legs, and pressed down on the trembling heft of his hard-on, nudging the big thick head in against those cheeks. He shivered even at that contact, feeling the big glans of his cock rub in between the firm round muscles, as excited as if he'd never fucked the peachy bottoms of Neymar or Greizmann or Foden, as if this was his first time all over again. He leant in as gently as he could and pressed his cock in there, in against the tight wetness that his finger had left, and he held Kun by the knees, staring over into his wide-mouthed face, his scruffy beard and mussed fringe, his open glossy eyes - pressing, pressing, nudging, groaning deeply as he did...
So slowly and gently, he felt the ring stretch for him, felt the tip of his cock slide ever-so-slightly into the body of his favourite Argentine teammate, the man who had been by his side every step of this legendary career, and then- `Aagh,' came Kun's whimper of pain, and he stopped himself, holding his body there, the first couple of inches of his huge cock prodding into the tight virgin ring of the other man. Aguero stared at him with a face of pain and horror, clearly realising the enormity of what he'd submitted to, and Messi knew they were rushing things - this was too much for Sergio right now, too much too soon, and he needed to pull back. But it felt SO good, that tightness around his meat, the tenderness of Aguero's body against and beneath him, the brave willingness of the married virgin.
Messi forced himself to pull back, freeing his weighty cock from the resistant entrance, and then leaning forward to plant a long wet kiss on Aguero's quivering lips. And then, grinning eagerly, he edged his body forward in a different way, hard-on swinging, and straddled over the other man's sinking twitching thigh muscles until - `We'll do it this way' he groaned - and he sat his arse over Aguero's rigid cock instead, straddling him and finding his position, knees planted either side of his midriff, sinking his own big bulky glutes down and letting them part about the poke of a man's prick, rubbing expertly back and forward to tickle and stimulate his own more experienced hole. And Sergio just stared at him with the same wide-mouthed and wide-eyed amazement, but pain and alarm becoming relief and eagerness, and his strong thick fingers rubbing up Messi's six-pack to grip him beneath the arms at either side, helping him get comfortable.
Lionel rode him like that, the power bottom that Guardiola had trained him into in his youth, bucking on top of Sergio like a rodeo cowboy. Aguero's shorter thick tool felt amazing in him, and he had been secretly craving another fucking ever since he gave in to Ramos in Neymar's penthouse - it was what he loved best, in all honesty, though he'd fought so hard to deny it to other men after things ended with his Papi, other than a few shamefaced relapses with that chiselled deity, Ronaldo.
Now he rode happily on a new man's cock, pushing his hands down against Aguero's broad chest, and locking eyes with him as he bounced and gyrated on his tool, riding him good and hard and making his own strong cheeks jiggle. Aguero's hands came around to cup them and squeeze them and he pushed up and down more with his body, riding him good and proper, taking him with relative ease, and just gasping for more as he jigged up and dow nand Sergio began to thrust more confidently upwards, fucking him from below and letting out short rapid pants as he did it, looking totally dazed.
Messi came first, hardly touching himself until he knew it was close, and then actually grasping one of Aguero's heavy hands and wrapping it about his shaft to help him, to help bring on the moment of peak. His cum shot out in fierce bolts, silvery white up the dark olive of Kun's skin, and then striking the salt-and-pepper growth of his thick short beard hair, making him grimace and gasp. Still, Messi rode back and forth, grinding his strong buttocks over the throbbing prick, then moaning to him, Fill me up - cum in me, Kun, please!' And Aguero gripped his sides and motored his hips upwards, fucking him much harder now, as if finally realising it was okay, and slamming up into him with jerky furtive speed, gritting his teeth and... Ohhh, god, Jesus, oh god, mother of Christ, ohhhhhhhhhhh-'
Yes,' Messi growled, cum for me, my champion, fuck yessss!'
Afterwards, they lay still for a long hour, a little light beginning to creep in through the thin drapes that were only half-pulled over the huge windows. No sleep reached Messi, and he knew he would feel like a wreck as he rejoined the team and boarded their flight to Buenos Aires, but he didn't care. His cock and his hole throbbed with satisfaction and his whole body felt more spent than it had as the 90 minute whistle took them into extra time and beyond; he felt as if he'd put as much of his strength and passion into one fuck with Kun as he had the entire World Cup tournament, and the victory felt just as good.
Next to him, Sergio seemed to drift in and out of the edges of sleep, his eyes fluttering closed and his body becoming more perfectly still, then jerking a little, and an expression of fresh alarm flooding his handsome features. But each time this happened, the 35-year-old PSG forward just stroked a hand down his upper arm, or onto his shoulder or chest, or down to fondle his soft cock and balls, and a single kiss was planted on his strong jawline, or a little whisper of `It's only me.' And Aguero would relax against him again, or give him a silent look of affection, or just breathe out deeply and happily.
When the light through the drapes was brighter, the World Cup winner pulled his naked muscular body away from the other man's and crept through into the separate bathroom, where only a couple of weeks ago he'd seduced Foden by smug candlelight, and he blasted his short strong body beneath a cool shower, scrubbing down the tattooed muscle and rinsing his big floppy cock and tingling arse. He wrapped soft towels about himself and went back through into the bedroom, where Aguero lay on his back staring at the ceiling, his body bare and exposed, cock flopped onto one thigh. Messi sat by him and reached a damp hand to rub gently over the dormant monster, smiling across at Aguero's quite serious face.
`Do you regret it?' he asked, trying not to sound as afraid as he briefly felt.
Aguero didn't immediately answer, but he did shake his head. It felt amazing,' he said after a while, still staring at the ceiling, his thick arms folded behind his head. I never knew sex could be like that,' he admitted weakly. Now he did look this way, his face a bit mournful and embarrassed. I'm sorry that I... I said some horrible things, and... I didn't want to believe that...' A big huffing sigh, and Messi just pulled gently on his prick and patted one of his chunky thighs. I didn't want to remember how good it felt when that boy sucked me off, you know, I didn't want to admit it.'
`Which boy?' Messi couldn't help but ask, and he heard the twinge of immature jealousy in his muttering voice.
Aguero twisted his face into something between a smile and a frown. At City,' he confided gently, Pep's little Golden Boy...' And then he laughed awkwardly, and stroked a hand on one of Messi's legs. `I guess that was you once.'
Foden, he thought, and he almost burst into hysterical laughter - it was as if the skinny boy from Stockport had magically brought them together, just like he'd once briefly enabled that reunion with his Papi in Portugal at the Champions League final. And a clear memory struck Lionel, of seeing Phil out in the foyer, and the reaction it got on Kun's face when the two former City teammates brushed past each other - yes, it made sense, and he knew without a doubt that Guardiola himself had a hand in that too. He smiled lazily at it all and just stooped down to kiss Aguero on the lips... at first, he did so hesitantly, half-expecting the dawn light to make his friend hesitant and regretful, maybe push him away, but no. Aguero cupped a hand over the back of his neck and snogged him back with his tongue, and Messi lingered there, enjoying it too much, until reality and duty crept up on him.
`I'll have to go,' he whispered.
`I know.'
`The flight... the victory parade, and...'
`I know, I know.'
`You should be there.'
`No... It's your moment. I've been here for everything, but...'
`Everybody will welcome you onto that team bus, Kun.'
`But I need to move on, right?'
`You're not... you're not just avoiding it because of...'
Aguero pursed his lips and shook his head. `Go join the team, get ready. Have your big moments. And when you get back to Rosario at the end of it... I'll be there waiting. If that's okay, amigo?'
Messi couldn't help but beam joyfully at him as he pulled his head away. Of course,' he agreed in a soft voice, already fantasising about it. You know you always have a room at that ranch. Be there, and we can do all of this again.'
Aguero's voice was a tender gasp. `You'll let me fuck you again...?'
`Over and over,' the GOAT promised him, and he kissed him once more on the lips before shedding his towels and moving away from the bed, stark naked and reaching for fresh national kit on the shelves, items he could pull over his clean muscles before sneaking back through the hotel to check in on his wife and then joining the early commute to the airport. He couldn't tear his eyes from his best friend as he dressed, and Aguero seemed to feel the same, just staring this way and smiling wearily, and then crawling up from the sheets as Messi approached him once more, freshly kitted out in his country's colours, a world champion.
The two men, friends for most of their lives, held each other in tightly muscled arms, and locked tongues, snogging deeply and happily, enjoying the feel of each other's bodies as they had in the last hours of the night, Messi riding his man into climax. He was already picturing how good it would be to do again, how many positions they could try, how desperate his hole felt to take Kun's cock once more. He could barely pull himself out of the embrace to go and rejoin the formal celebrations of their huge footballing achievement - he just wanted to stay in this room and have his brains fucked out by the man who should have been scoring goals at his side all tournament.
This is just the beginning,' he promised him quietly. See you soon.'
`I'll be waiting,' his Aguero promised him in a breathy voice, sinking back down onto the bedding, naked and semi-hard, and Messi hesitated one last time in the doorway, ready to tear off his kit and leap onto that beautiful olive-skinned form - instead, the final accolades of his career called to him, and he retreated through the suite, ready to climb back into bed with his wife and that trophy, and fulfil his destiny.
A DELAYED FINALE TO THE WORLD CUP COVERAGE, BUT HOPEFULLY WORTH THE WAIT! NOW THAT'S OVER... WHICH PREMIERSHIP LADS NEED REVISITING IN 2023???
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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