Part 359: Champions League Dreams
It was a good job that an elusive smile and a quietly enjoyed cigar were trademark features of a celebrating Pep Guardiola - they were currently a mask that allowed the Manchester City manage to dwell on the terrace of the hotel bar surrounded by his colleagues and cronies, paying limited attention to them, and to stare admiringly across the the long sheltered balcony at his precious Golden Boy, and to will away the minutes until he could reasonably excuse himself. Around him, the staff and players were electric with the outcome of their second-leg match against their German hosts, toasting to UCL progress for the club, and anticipating an FA Cup weekend - many would mistake the 52-year-old Spaniard's quiet and ambiguity as the same playful reserve that he faced the sporting media, unwilling to make ambitious claims or predictions about a possible treble, superstition or (less likely) humility keeping his lips sealed as the Premier League giants returned to prior recent dominance. But nope: Pep had spent enough of this Munich trip with his mind laser-focused on football and success, as obsessive and methodical as always. Now, puffing on his cigar and sipping from the measure of whiskey, the City boss was letting his thoughts move elsewhere, and he stared across the terrace with a smoky intensity in his dark eyes.
There he was, grinning excitedly in the midst of his teammates, quiet too in his own way; Foden's sharp cheeks were rosy and his small eyes sparkled with pleasure, but he didn't seem to get much chance to speak in the loud rough banter of the taller men that surrounded him, apparently content to just laugh heartily along and encourage the other burly football players in their analysis of Bayern Munchen's every failing.
He looked particularly hot tonight, Pep thought, but then it was just so brilliant to have him back. The football coach had been distraught when the news came in that his prized midfielder and secret lover had been rushed away from the spring England camp with appendicitis, and then urgently operated on; as a Premiership gaffer, he was solidly delighted with the squad depth and energy of young Filipe returning to the City ranks and preparing for this Champions League outing and the domestic cup weekend ahead... but as a red-blooded Latin lover, there was a different excitement. Tender respectful visits to Phil's hospital suite and family home had been necessary and important as both manager and papi, but their every meeting during the boy's recovery had been charged with lust and urgency, and now... finally, Phil Foden was fit for more than just football.
John Stones had just told an apparently hilarious joke and brash laddish laughter rippled through the cluster of players at the far end of the balcony, with Foden buckling almost sycophantically with enjoyment of the tall England player's presumably crude humour; Pep couldn't help but stare for a moment at his celebrated centre-back with a kind of vindictive jealousy, thinking of how he'd once allowed Stones to fuck his Golden Boy - but how stupid and petty, when that had been his own arrangement, his own use of his loyal Filipe, and his own dirty pleasure by proxy. Pep felt such daft and hypocritical carnal desires rip through his still body, swaddled beneath a turtleneck jumper against the cool German night; he was watching the slim petite midfielder laugh and jostle with the gaggle of City signings, and he wanted to march across the terrace and grasp possessively for him to carry away to his own luxury hotel room.
These thoughts, churlish and ridiculous as they were, soared as another of the casually dressed winners draped a complacent arm about Phil's shoulders, and Guardiola fixed a conflicted glare on the silhouette of Jack Grealish - conflicted because the expensive Villa purchase was finally vindicating the investment and becoming a real weapon for Guardiola, but because he knew full well how this brash English lad had entranced and preoccupied his Filipe in those two seasons of camaraderie... again, something that Pep could blame on nobody but himself. He should have known how risky it was to encourage further closeness between Foden and the charismatic winger... but newcomer Grealish had been so volatile and precarious at first, and he knew that the bromance there had helped to settle and secure the expensive talent. He just hadn't anticipated the doting look on Phil's face as he followed Jack around like a puppy.
To some extent, young Phil had admitted it all to him in snatches - but Guardiola was very intuitive and aware, and he'd seen the crush building and burning bright, just as he now knew that it had largely fizzled out, and he'd `won' an unconscious battle to keep his boy. But the way Grealish draped an arm about the 5ft7 Stockport youth and pulled him in as he swigged on his bottle of beer...! Pep could march across there and toss Jack off the balcony, his passion and need were so intense tonight!
His grizzled face must have revealed the shift in mood, because one of his longest-serving assistants reached across to pat his arm and ask what was wrong - Guardiola could only dismiss the interest and throw back the remains of his drink in one throat-burning move, then take a long puff of the thick Cuban. He made his excuses, smiling and apologising to the other men, and encouraging them to stay up late and drink, regardless of the early flight back to Manchester Airport - after all, it would be helpful to keep the hotel bar busy with City men, and the floors of their accommodation a little quieter, so that Foden could find his way into his arms without any difficulty.
Pep made his way through the busy terrace and slowed on his way to the open doors, staring so intensely across at Filipe that the 22-year-old must have felt the heat burn into the side of his long slender neck; drawn magnetically to his heat, the young star turned to glance this way, and their eyes met. Pep paused for only the slightest of moments, eyeing up the beautiful young man, and nodding his head ever-so-gently. It was not an immediate demand, as much as his loins burned with it, but a nod to the time - he certainly couldn't have his Golden Boy exit immediately to follow him out, not without raising too many questions in the wrong quarters. He couldn't, as he deeply wished, just grab him in both arms and yank him away from that lingering Grealish hug or the latest burst of banter courtesy of Stones or Walker or Mahrez. Instead, he had to walk coolly away, deliberately casual to avoid attention or protest at his exit, and stroll through the glossy bar interior to pull aside the manager and slip him the appropriate roll of Euros that would extend opening hours just a little and make sure the Munich win was fairly enjoyed.
But there was one last thing that caught Guardiola's eye and slowed his exit from the room, ready to go upstairs and shower in anticipation of his bedroom visitor; he was pausing momentarily at the bar after slipping the bribe, accepting a final strong drink which he would carry up to his room, when his eyes slipped to the lift and he caught sight of the fresh-faced Argentine youngster awaiting service. For just one dangerous moment, Pep's eyes lingered over the perfect curves and proportions of a lithe young body on the World Cup winning 23-year-old... and then were wrenched away, refusing to travel down memory lane to the last diminutive Argentinian who had captured his heart. Stay in the present, he told himself, and appreciate what you have - what you've been burning for all night!
The Catalonian ex-defender moved away from the bar, distracted briefly by a keen smile from young Julian Alvarez, but just patting the developing midfielder on the shoulder of his skintight t-shirt and slipping away from him without conversation, single-minded in his plans for the rest of tonight.
A short distance down the bar from the vague smile of the young Argentine and the departing manager, another member of the squad was eyeing up the barmaid and gently adjusting the weight in the front of his black trousers, wondering what time her shift ended and if she stayed at the hotel overnight - she looked a pretty young thing who might quite happily ride an international football star into the early hours, and the merest sniff of such action had the large Portuguese man stiffening in the Nike-branded underwear that he had recently been modelling.
Ruben dos Santos Gato Alves Dias looked with quiet lust at the young German girl until she was whisked away him by the busy activity of the hotel bar, summoned down to the other end to serve his teammate - with abstract jealousy, the 6ft1 centre-back leaned his elbows against the counter and stared down the bar to watch her flirt with a slightly younger footballer, the squad's acne-spotted World Cup champ. For all his chat, Alvarez just seemed to be ordering a sparkling water, and Dias scoffed to himself, amused and charmed by the innocence of the South American just as much as their barmaid seemed to be.
For a moment, the 25-year-old defender allowed himself to mull on this: was young Julian quite as cute as the blue-eyed blond who was busting out of her halterneck?
Grabbing up his beer and moving away from the bar, the large muscular athlete scoffed at himself and shrugged away this stupid internal question - ridiculous comparison, with that hot pussy floating about behind the bar, and that goofy scamp teammate flashing his boyish smile everywhere and now unscrewing the lid of some overpriced h2O. These were the kind of stupid thoughts that came when you were sex-starved, he told himself, longing to return to his girlfriend in their Manchester penthouse, having forced himself to stay sexless in the run-up to this big game - and intending to do the same with their next few major fixtures, with the FA Cup Semi at the weekend and their title challenge fixture with Arsenal lying in the midweek ahead. `NO SEX' seemed to have lurked between the lines of one of Guardiola's many squad speeches this week, advising lots of rest to avoid the inevitable fatigue of their loaded schedule and quest for maximum silverware.
With that in mind, Ruben turned his back on both the attractive bar-girl and the nearby grin of Julian - he shouldn't be looking at guys like that, even after what went on at the rooftop bar last summer. And mentioning that... He almost stumbled right into the diminutive figure of another teammate crossing the bar, Phil Foden, who he still couldn't quite look at without picturing his bare pale butt-cheeks exposed on that rooftop, offered up to the drunken consortium of hyped-up football studs.
Ruben frowned ambiguously at the younger man and muscled past him, away from him and Alvarez and the bar, and heading towards the windows to check out the view of the city; anything to cool him and to exorcise the horny thoughts that trembled in the crotch of his black trousers, so that he wanted to press his cold beer down there against his semi. The serious-faced Portuguese man melted back into the cluster of his teammates, suppressing the longings for physical satisfaction, and reminding himself of the big games ahead - he needed to hold it in and control himself, and definitely stop noting how cute little Alvaraz was, for fuck's sake!
Phil Foden had only a little more difficulty in getting away from the bar than his Papi; he was surrounded by insistence that he have One More Drink, and that he should Not Be A Boring Twat. However, he couldn't stop looking at his wrist-watch, and he smiled away each rebuke from the other lads, and got away from the increasingly drunk throng of City players. Phil himself had limited his drinks, wanting to be sober enough to appreciate what awaited him upstairs; the twin joys at the end of his appendectomy recovery period, coming off the bench to participate in tonight's European win, and physical reunion with the man who had remained a tower of support in his life as he rehabilitated.
The experience of the surgery and recovery had somehow sharpened and clarified Philip's feelings for his manager: seeing grave-faced Guardiola arrive at the hospital with gifts, and seeing him attend needlessly to the concerns of his family as he was moved home... If the young Englishman had ever doubted that the Man City daddy truly loved him, then he felt a fool for it, and he couldn't wait to give up his body once more to the sexy older man who was waiting for him in his suite.
Chill rain and wind had killed the pleasure of the balcony, and the bar interior was all the more crowded, the air rich with beer and testosterone; Foden had to pull and squeeze through the bodies of his teammates and support staff, almost crashing straight into Ruben Dias, until he was out in the air-conditioned cool of a stairwell, climbing two flights in an eager hurry. He caught sight of himself in a mirror on the fourth-floor balcony, and realised how irrepressible the smile of pleasure was on his lean face, which made him laugh self-consciously. He paused needlessly at this mirror to fiddle with the short cut of his dark hair and the fit of his thin sweatshirt and slack chinos, wondering how Pep could single him out when the City squad was rich with well-built masculine attractions. Foden dismissed these insecurities and delays and hurried down the corridor, checking for the room number inked cautiously on the inside of his wrist so that he couldn't forget it.
At the door to Papi's suite, he was forced to wait and knock two more times, fostering more nervousness that Guardiola might actually be too tired, or now too busy and disrupted - but he thought about the intensity on the older man's face before as they passed on the smoking balcony, and he knew that nothing could get in the way of this rendezvous. He was just about to knock a forth time when the locks clicked and the door opened fractionally inwards, then a little more, and he was summoned in by the joyful smile framed by salt-and-pepper beard. His coach was a luxurious sight, silky dressing gown falling open away from the rug of his chest hair, and a rich perfumed smell of his shower pouring through the door - and Phil dipped rapidly in through the doorway to meet him, almost shaking with anticipation.
Below, in the sweaty crowd of the bar, John Stones couldn't help himself: at every opportunity, he brushed himself against the man nearest him, and sniggered under his breath, enjoying himself all the more when his neighbour turned slightly and shot him impotent warning glares, even as his lilting smile betrayed his enjoyment. At the slightest opportunity, big John would rub the front of his tight slim-fit jeans against the hip or prominent backside of the shorter older defender, or reach down and rub his hand lightly against the rise of those strong glutes, or against the bulging front of the sweatpants; it was easy enough for the lanky 28-year-old to be tactile with his fellow Yorkshireman, since everybody around them would fully accept it as part of their ongoing bromance and brash laddish banter.
Look,' hissed Kyle Walker, leaning in close to them, you know I need to behave myself after what went on in that bar, okay?' Even as he muttered out this ultimatum, the thickset Sheffield bloke looked excited and bright-eyed, and Stones could only apologise with a dopey hangdog expression and a panto gesture of holding up his big innocent hands and acting like he'd done nothing to touch the other bloke, just been jostled against him by the shifting crowd of City players that still occupied the rain-lashed first-floor bar area.
`Sorry bro,' John slurred, already quite drunk.
`Just watch it,' Kyle scolded him quietly.
`You worried someone will get jealous?' he giggled.
`Fucking leave it, and let me get us another beer.'
`Someone might get jealous of you getting touched by me, old man, hehe.'
`Fuck off...'
Ancient Kyle,' he joked, pushing it, getting handsy with sexy-boy Jonny Stones, yeah...'
`Who the hell has ever called you Jonny, you big prick?'
`Cougar, they'll call you, old man...'
`Gobshite.'
Here, do you need a hand getting to the bar, oldie...' He leaned in, sniggering drunkenly, and hugged the 5ft11 brute side-on, towering over him at 6ft2, and almost planting a kiss on the side of his face in front of everyone, but stopping himself just in time. Why are you being so grumpy, mate? What's got your knickers in a twist, chief?'
Walker bristled against him and made a huffy noise before insisting Nothing!' and then shooting him a sharp thoughtful look. What?' John demanded, leaning against him and blinking slowly. Kyle's face, briefly grumpy and annoyed, shifted to a smirk, and John felt one of his wandering hands reach down and cup his own backside in the same suggestive way he'd kept doing to Kyle.
What do you say we skip that last beer?' the muscular right-back murmured at him, and John grinned eagerly back, the same thought having flashed back and forth over his beery brain for an hour now - he nodded instantly and downed the last of his German lager in one go, dancing awkwardly on the spot and then exaggerating a yawn. See you upstairs in ten?' he asked with what he thought might pass as a winsome grin, making little gun gestures with both forefingers and lunging clumsily away from his boyfriend. He laughed to see Kyle cringe and roll his eyes at him, and backed away, bumping into two or three other men as he did - he was too drunk to be remotely discreet in his hurried exit from the bar, already thinking about the prospect of Walker's big strong prick.
No sooner was Phil over the threshold to Pep's room than the Spanish lothario was slamming the door shut behind him over one shoulder, sealing them in safe discretion, and stooping to kiss his boy fully on the lips. As Phil's keen hands slid onto his hairy chest, he wrapped arms about him and held him close, conquering his mouth with his tongue and forgetting to breathe for several ecstatic moments.
Once he had collected himself a little from this initial passion, he could step away, chuckling, and guide Phil properly into the room. `I have been waiting for that,' he said simply, licking his lips, and taking one of Foden's hands in his.
Guardiola's cock swung and tickled against the fabric of his robe as he crossed the room, as plump and semi as it had been through his long shower, still towelling his tall slim body in the bathroom when he missed Foden's first knock at the door. Now he was snatching his whiskey drink from the sideboard and giving the younger man a quizzical look. `Do you want anything to drink?' he asked, surprised at himself that he hadn't already given this some thought and mixed a gin-and-tonic for the Stockport beauty.
Phil seemed to give this a moment's thought, trailing after him with wide eyes and that same eager smile that he'd worn on the pitch, delighted to be back in action - but then, the innocent smile turning into more of a smirk: `No, no - you just sit back and enjoy that, and I'll enjoy you.' As naturally dominant as he always was, Pep liked the forwardness and control of his protegee saying this - and the definite pleasure that it promised him. He only smiled in agreement, and sought out the slightly grand armchair in the windows of the suit, sitting himself down imperiously with the drink in one hand and the robe parting gently from his chest and thighs as he did.
Here, he could sit and relax - much-needed relaxation, after the mental exhaustion of bringing the team into this second-leg fixture knowing that nothing was to be taken for granted - whilst Phil stood coyly in front of him, stroking the front of his beige pants, and then slowly peeling away the black sweatshirt and the garish t-shirt below, pale lean muscles exposed and free, and the fresh scar of his surgery showing down low in his six-pack... a visual reminder to Guardiola that he must go gently tonight, and be particularly careful with his beautiful youth.
His beautiful youth who was shirtless on his knees and grinning wickedly at him, angel to demon, rubbing his hairy thighs and parting the robe further until he had to pause and let Pep himself reach down and untie the waist-cord... revealing the heat of his crotch, the fat swollen meat that lounged from then nest of his silver-flecked pubes. Slowly, so beautifully slowly, Phil went down and opened his mouth, and as he licked the hardening shaft, Pep could only shudder and moan, and then knock back the rest of his whiskey in one gulp before tossing the cut-glass tumbler aside and shatter against a wall; his hands gripped tightly at the arms of the chair and his knuckles whitened, Phil's mouth closing about the head of his big powerful prick.
The rain was still a gentle patter, but one member of the lingering City celebrations had slipped outside with his vodka-soda anyway, and leant into the damp railings to stare over Munich as he drank it. He turned his back on the city and, instead, stared back through the steamy wet windows at the blurred silhouettes of the other men indoors, unsure why he was out here in the chill wind rather than loading up another bevvy at the bar - if this was a real piss-up with his old Leeds pals, he thought, he'd be the drunkest there, and the life and soul of the party. But here at City...
It was hardly any secret that Kalvin Phillips' big move to the elite club was not quite following the script, and he had seen masses of media speculation on his future already - there were bullshit rumours circulating that he might be headed straight back to Elland Road with his tail between his legs, and what he hated more than the emptiness of these stories was the fact that it would actually be his dream solution. It was so embarrassing, but all the stocky midfield player wanted was to undo this season and get back to his buddies in Leeds - that club had raised and made him, and he'd been a fool to ditch it for the baby-blue of Manchester fucking City.
Apart from anything else, Kalvin thought tonight, soused with vodka, he would like to undo some of the nastiness that City life had opened him up to. Drunk and hypocritical, Phillips chose to entirely overlook the fact that his first kinky experiment had come as a Leeds player in Croydon, noshed off in that shut-down strip club by that impish Welsh bastard; instead, the mixed-race Yorkshireman chose to blame it on his charismatic buddy Jack Grealish, thinking bitterly of what had gone on in Doha, with he and Jack sharing Daniel James' body and almost breaking their hotel bed as they took it in turns to push their cocks between his pillowy cheeks. Fucking hell.
Looking into the warmth and brightness of the bar, he focused on the fuzzy silhouette of Grealish himself, holding court with several others on the other side of the glass; Kalvin pictured himself lying in their last England hotel room together in Italy, exhausted and regretful, having put his dick inside Phil Foden, a lad he had to make eye contact with daily ever since - jesus christ, that was much worse than having dabbled with Dan James, who he might only bump into once in a blue moon according to the machinations of the football league. It was different having dicked a teammate, especially having shared him too with Jack, who was so effortlessly cool about this sexual adventure...!
Kalvin was much more troubled by his bi-curious dabbling, and it was helping to push him back to Leeds, which he was choosing to see as a world of wholesome masculinity and heteronormative stability. He thought of solid straitlaced teammates like Paddy Bamford and Jack Harrison and how this sort of shit would never go on there, for sure!
Still watching Jack through the window, Kal considered an exit and crashing in his bed upstairs, maybe being long-asleep before that Brummie lothario crawled back into their room and got any funny ideas - he'd offered Phillips a blowjob the night before, when they'd just checked in here, and been entirely unconvincing when he'd laughed it off afterwards, creeping the 27-year-old Leeds stud out, and making him wonder what was what. Ugh.
Worse than that - he'd been bantering a bit with Bernardo Silva in the locker-rooms after tonight's win, and tried to wind up the slight Portuguese star by shaking and grabbing him during their team photo. Several incarnations of the big group pose had made it onto social media, but Kalvin had quickly noticed that one of them, shared by he couldn't remember who, had caught the moment where he leaned in and grasped the 28-year-old by the crotch through his shorts! Jesus, he'd been hyper and tipsy, what a twat - and now that picture was out there, ready for him to get landed with all sorts of shitty banter from his Leeds mates. Ugh.
Full of sexual anxiety, the 27-year-old man stood at the window, gently showered with refreshing drops of rain, and considered the scene indoors; he was definitely not in the mood to sink any more drinks with frisky Jack, and risk his close interest. He thought back to their room at the England camp, and his short-lived exit to sulk in the cafe - how he'd returned to the suite and thrown his body into the fray, making use of Maddison's mouth and Foden's arse-hole, and... and lay there, sweating and dazed, then glanced in the wrong direction and caught sight of the most shocking thing: Jack Grealish on his back, pummelled down by the tall muscular physique of West Ham's Declan Rice. For some reason, that more than anything had freaked him out, and brought on this latest phase of frigid caution: just as he'd thought he understood the dynamic of their antics, he'd seen his dirty buddy taking it up the arse like a real bender, and felt more confused than ever.
Now Foden was pinned beneath the taller body of his manager, but trapped in the happiest of positions: lying on his back on the soft bedding, fed his master's cock from above, with Guardiola in 69, returning the favour with such lavish attention. Squashed beneath the hairy heat of the older man, Phil felt lost in a cloud of his scent and a satisfying closeness that he'd thought about often in the weeks of recovery - his lust for his Papi so much hotter and stronger than it had been in a while, he could shyly admit to himself. He felt awful that his attention had been so consumed by Jack for such a long period, but then his bond to this great man had always been there, tugging him along as he sulked and pouted around Grealish's free spirit.
But there was no point dwelling on the recent past, not with a mouth full of Pep's enormous cock, drooling about it and pushing up and down with his head to suck it deeply, as he had for a good twenty minutes crouched between Papi's open legs at the armchair. He strained to take as much of the length as he could into his mouth and throat, and he stroked his hands against lean furry thighs... whilst he his own cock twitched and trembled at the slow rolling sensation of lips and the clipped tickle of beard hair as it met his balls, his inner thighs, his trimmed pubes.
The 22-year-old could have remained like this all night, caught in the mutual pleasure of their secret love, utterly submitted to this man - but he knew what was coming, because soon Guardiola was not attending to his cock, but inching forward a little on his knees and his elbows, his cock repositioning and becoming harder for Foden to suck... just slapping against his cheeks and chin and trailing saliva and pre-cum onto his upper chest. Phil felt his legs clutched and parted and the mouth that had pleasured his long heavy cock was moving about to kiss and snuffle at his balls then his gooch, then further... until he was being pulled into position for a good rimming, that long muscular tongue going between his smooth cheeks and tasting his hole. Mouth free of cock, Phil whined with pleasure and eagerness, and then twisted so that he could kiss and lick at Pep's shaft some more, responding to the parting of his cheeks and the tickling rub of his tight hole, last fucked on England tour by several sexy men - Jack, Declan, Kalvin - who just could not live up to the simmering presence of his 30-year senior here.
Pep's fingers tapped and rubbed at his ring, rubbing spit into his hole and opening him up, and then licking him out again, making him growl and gasp, driving him as wild as it had the first time his Papi tied him to the headboard and introduced him to the taboo sensation down below - making him crave the full treatment that would be coming his way.
About four rooms away, another hunky man had his tongue between the cheeks of a similarly delighted bloke: spreadeagled on his front on the bed, Stonesy couldn't stop giggling and whooping with pleasure, and Walker landed a few dominant spanks against one of his perfectly globed arse cheeks, before digging in and tonguing his delicious hole a bit more instead, getting him ready for a solid muscular fucking that his cheeky behaviour was crying out for.
Kyle hadn't liked the old man' jokes much from his beloved John, after the awkward meetings he'd had with some of the club management lately - nothing from Pep Guardiola himself, he noted, and he wondered if the gaffer was too cowardly to address it head-on, or if the directives were actually coming from above. Old Pep had been pretty good to him in recent years, after their earlier tension and the time that Kyle went down on the Spaniard in his office; he suspected that the negative murmurs were beyond the boss's influence, and right from the top of the Man City hierarchy. Ageing' had been one of the clumsy words raised to him, and he knew that his days in this high-performing squad were numbered - this needn't be his last season, but the writing was on the wall. He was passing out of his prime, and his usefulness to the City agenda might reach its expiration. Fuck.
He sure hadn't raised any of this to Stonesy, the awkward questions and speculation at the club and by his own agent, echoed by vague reports in the media - his own reckless behaviour in a Manchester bar last month had hardly helped matters. After several seasons feeling utterly integral to this squad, Walker was facing the ridiculous fate of the early-30s footballer - retirement is already on your horizon.
As Kyle got up on his thick knees and positioned his throbbing erection behind John's perfect arse, there was a touch of resentment to his brutish strength - he was grudge-fucking as he buried his cock to the hilt in John's muscular bottom. Not a grudge against John himself for his daft drunken banter, but a grudge against the harsh realities of their sport - he wanted to spent the rest of his 30s here at Man City with his man, playing side-by-side and fucking wildly like this in hotels across the UK and Europe. He didn't want to be shipped off to some minor club, or to the winners of some nothing farmer league on the continent like the Bundesliga; or to already put to pasture back at his former home Sheffield United, as one tabloid was claiming, thinking ahead to City's clash with them this weekend, a presumed walkover into the FA Cup final.
Moody and unsatisfied, the 5ft10 stud ploughed into his John, wishing that he could fuck him like this forever, but already knowing that he might soon have to leave the younger hunk behind, and move on to the last chapter of his defensive career.
Just as Guardiola was turning over onto his knees and dragging Phil's strong slender physique into position, he caught sight again of the fresh red line of the scar, reminding him that he had to go carefully - it was a thought that slowed him down and made him stoop to kiss and hold the football stud for a few minutes, hesitating in the process of yanking up his satisfyingly meaty legs, forcing himself to approach only slowly and to slide the tip of his cock in against the rimmed-wet eagerness of the lad's hole.
He held them like that in missionary, halting his horny progress, and enjoying Filipe's mouth in long slow kisses that seemed to surprise and almost confuse his midfielder. Pep's hands slotted in behind his back muscles to hold him secure, pressing gently down against him, pausing to let their breath mingle and staring into his sharp eyes, then kissing him a bit more fiercely, and then planting kisses on his cheeks, his neck, scratchy and loving. All the while, as he did this, rolling his hips and pushing his cock gently at its target, teasing him without really meaning to, making him shaky and desperate before eventually starting to press the wet tip in against Foden's entrance. `I will be gentle,' he promised in a deep purr.
`You don't need to be,' Phil claimed in a wobbly voice, but Pep would ignore this - he had watched with great anxiety as his recovered player took to the pitch here tonight, and gritted his teeth at any body contact that came close to the plucky midfielder. He wanted to make sure that Phil continued to recover and reach peak fitness, and so he held him very tightly and securely as he eased himself in, gasping out loudly at the tight hold of that English ass on his meaty Spanish cock. He swore in his own language and thanked god for putting this beautiful boy in his path, so hot and willing, years after he'd been betrayed by his last Golden Boy and that scoundrel Ronaldo.
His knees throbbed against the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, a sensation that dulled against the fullness of his mouth, the sour manly taste, and the taboo thrill of doing this again for the first time in many years - almost the first time since he had moved to the UK, joining Manchester City and becoming part of Guardiola's squad. He'd never thought to be in this position again, in all honesty, though the thoughts had come and gone since last summer, since that celebration party on the roof terrace - Bernardo had been surprised to find such kinky and open-minded attitudes among his teammates, especially the Brits, and he'd been greatly amused by the sordid action on that Manchester rooftop under the sunset.
Had it been important for him in signing his new contract and staying put...? No, not really. But... it might have helped. Silva, 28 and ambitious, had wondered if his spell at this Premiership club was at an end, out of steam, challenges completed... but something this summer had left him curious about taking it further, and seeing what else lay ahead in his sky-blue shirt, playing under Guardiola. And if part of that curious something had been the cheeky insights of their summer party after the open-bus tour, then... So be it.
The dark swarthy Lisbon man opened his mouth as wide as he could to take in the thick veiny prick and he steadied himself against the tree-trunk legs of the 6ft1 beast, his roommate and now, in this intimate moment, his secret lover - a moment that perhaps neither Portuguese man would ever refer to again, not tonight or in how many seasons more they played together - perhaps not even if they reconvened on their national side, where it was almost common knowledge that half the players had fellated Cristiano Ronaldo at one point or another.
Mouth full of cock, Bernardo Silva rolled his deep brown eyes up, taking in the momentous musculature of the bigger man's torso, and staring up to his brutish frowning face, the only man in history to ever look so angry about getting a blowie - and 25-year-old Ruben Dias glared fiercely back at him, as aggressive and unpredictable as he'd seemed all night, and now feeding his mighty erection into Silva's unpractised lips, giving no real sign that he was even enjoying the oral attention. Bernardo found he didn't care - his countryman was a big sexy beast, and it had been ages since he tired this, and he was pretty determined he was going to get a naughty mouthful, consequences be damned!
Phil groaned and groaned, held entirely by his manager's strength, feeling the cock slide in and out of him, opening his arse up, reaching deep into him, then pulling away, then back again; a slow rhythm, almost frustratingly so, and yet such deep satisfying pleasure that his cock felt like it might blow cum against Pep's furry tummy at any moment. He held on to the tanned brown body of the middle-aged stud, reaching for kisses with his mouth and glad when this was repeatedly reciprocated; his fingers scratched at Guardiola's bag with such ferocity, and he fantasised leaving claw marks there that could be found by his jealous wife, really marking his territory and claiming this gorgeous 52-year-old Spaniard as his!
But then his Papi began to pick up rhythm and rock him a little more firmly into the bed, and Phil just cried out Yes, yes Papi' and Harder!', until he was silenced by more kissing, and Guardiola really began to work his body - still in this missionary possession, with Phil's legs jutting up into the air and his entire being rocked by each juddering thrust of the 5ft11 football manager. His cock and balls ached with the frozen closeness of his orgasm, feeling that Pep too was heading for such a climax - he could tell from the heavy breathing and the intensity of the hold, the increasing force with which that big cock entered him, deeper and deeper!
Yes,' he could only whimper, and Pep growled into his ear, Filipe, my boy...!'
Riyad Mahrez left the bar with few players left standing, and the 32-year-old could barely walk in a straight line as he searched the hotel for his room. Through the doors he passed, the French Algerian heard snatches of music or TV, or the occasional raised voice of a teammate, usually able to place and identify them because he knew all squad members so well - he stopped to laugh at the door of what must be Walker and Stones' suite, hearing one of those Yorkshire buggers mouthing off loudly at the other with a string of expletives. If the two weren't such massive shithouses, Mahrez might assume there was a big argument going on, so loud and raised were the voices, but he knew it would just be some ongoing joke between the two burly defenders. On he went, passing more ambiguous noises and heading for his own suite, where he knew boring Kevin de Bruyne, Mr Two-Beers himself, was likely to be fast asleep.
Riyad paused when the next door burst open and an occupant of the room came puffing out into the corridor, faffing with the waist of his pants and shoving/tucking the tails of his thin short-sleeve shirt inside. The 5ft10 winger paused, eyebrows raised, and came face to face with the tall moody presence of Ruben Dias, who gave him a silent stare and then fiddled with the disturbed collar of his silky shirt, tanned face tinged with red.
What's up?' Mahrez demanded in his silky French accent, holding out both arms and greeting the big centre-back warmly. Is there a problem with your room, buddy?'
`What?' grunted the Portuguese player dismissively.
Your room,' the Algeria player repeated more slowly, staring critically at him, then nodding at the slammed door next to him. What's got you storming out and about? Where's Bernie?' He stared curiously at the hotel room door and in front of him Dias just grunted; the bigger man was then pushing moodily past him, seeming to mutter in his own language. Mahrez paused and looked over one shoulder before dismissing this as just more drunken behaviour like the fuss downstairs - the little almost-fight that had seemed to break out between Grealish and Phillips before one of them stormed off to his room, and the other started ordering even heavier drinks at the bar. There was something very odd in the air tonight, Riyad thought, and it was more than just the relief that they were progressing through to the Semis of the UEFA Champions League.
Guardiola came inside him and held him tightly beneath his hairy front, balls-deep inside the perfect pert arse, pumping his cum inside his Golden Boy, utterly breathless and ecstatic; his arms wrapped about the sweat-sticky skin and his mouth tickling kisses against the side of his neck, listening to each reedy gasp from the scally lad's mouth for moments that felt like a perfect eternity.
And then he withdrew. He did so carefully, even though his resolution to go gently with his lover had been somewhat forgotten in the powerful thrusts of his climax. Pulling his cock slowly out from the release of those tight young muscles, and kissing Phil on the mouth again whilst murmuring soothing words to him in simple Spanish that he should understand. He reached down to grip and pull on Foden's cock as he lay over him, nuzzling their faces together and letting his own hairy features scratch and tickle across the smoothness of the 22-year-old's face.
`You felt amazing,' he hissed earnestly.
His Filipe just nodded in a shaky way. It did,' he agreed almost limply, his face shiny with fresh sweat, a dazed look about him. He moaned as Guardiola played with his prick, rubbing the sensitive tip with his thumb and pulling the foreskin further back. Oh god,' the footballer purred for him, eyes rolling, `ohhhh yes, Papi...'
Down he went, kissing over the firmness of Phil's chest, then a daring zigzag of pecks over his abdomen until he was taking that fat erection on his tongue and sucking him again, hunched over to do it, his firm warm hands still pinning the youngster's hard body to the bed, not wanting him to move a muscle - just to let Papi do the work and finish him, lips pulling up and down his shaft and tongue swirling about the head. He stopped with his face over it, tongue extended to lick the tip, and he stared with fierce intensity up the boy's pale body, looking at his wondering and joyous face - every time was like the first time for Foden, he thought, and that in turn made him feel young and exploratory, even at 52. He smiled assertively at his Golden Boy and went back to work.
In the darkness of the hotel room directly above them, a simple rectangle of light glowed in the dark, and the suite's solitary occupant was taking full advantage of an empty second bed - he wasn't sure where his roommate, Philip Foden, had gotten to, but he wasn't going to worry about it, when it meant he could attend to his erection, jerking off frantically under the covers and letting the sensitive tip of his slender prick rub repeatedly against the duvet until he was incredibly close to shooting. With nervous eyes, the 23-year-old Argentine kept glancing sharply in the direction of the empty bed, and then at the door, unsure if Foden was drunk asleep somewhere else, or due back in their shared room at any minute - Alvarez was no risk taker, and yet the uncertainty added an extra frisson to his midnight wank, ready to empty loaded balls and make a mess of his thighs.
On the glowing phone screen was a cropped image of another lad's big weapon, gripped tightly and tip glistening with pre-cum. It was one of several of the dirty pics he'd been sent by his boyfriend, as Enzo Fernandez did quite regularly - it was exciting that the international teammates were both based in England at last, as planned, but the schedules of their different major clubs meant that the young pair had barely seen each other since Enzo's debut at Chelsea. And thus... the discreetly shared intimate pictures between them, all Fernandez's idea and something Alvarez was much more nervous to try.
But tonight, panting to himself, the 5ft7 forward creamed against the cotton of his bedcovers, staring lustily at the naked selfies he'd been sent by Enzo, and wishing he had his beautiful Argentine boyfriend here with him in bed, as together as they'd been in Qatar on their journey to World Cup success - a togetherness which had only been heightened by the drama of judgmental Sergio Aguero! Neither Julian nor Enzo knew what their great hero, Lionel Messi, had done to shut Aguero up and make that danger go away, but they were both deeply grateful to Leo regardless. Their young love had begun several years ago now, but sharing the World Cup together had really allowed them to step up from curious playmates to an intensely devoted couple.
Glad of his roommate's mystery absence, Julian groaned and yanked on his messy wet cock, spurting more of his juices under the covers, and staring hungrily at the big hefty cock of his absent partner, wondering for how much longer he could wait - if it remained quite so difficult to rendezvous with his Fernandez, would he be able to remain so fiercely loyal and faithful to the other Argentinian...?
Phil unloaded a week's build-up of cum, spunking into the grateful mouth of Pep Guardiola, and trembling between the bedding and the strong hands on his hips. He cried out loudly, perhaps too loudly, until Pep was kissing back up his body and then snogging him again, wrapping arms about him, holding him tight - the young player grappled back, wanting to touch every inch of the warm body, wanting to just wrap entirely against him and interlock with this magnificent man. He was still trembling, not just with pleasure but with a sort of nervous tension of anticipation - he had been building up to the physicality of this reunion between them for so long, after all.
But in Pep's embrace, he calmed and stilled, almost laughing at his own nervous disposition in the throes of passion and in the afterglow of completion, his hole throbbing and his cock sensitive, balls emptied and muscles stiffening. More kisses came rushing to his mouth and he twisted and angled his body to receive them, grinding against Pep's hairy strength even as both men were spent and emptied, as if he was already craving a round 2 that neither of them really had the energy for.
As Guardiola finally let go of him, Foden was left straining into the air for a last kiss, feeling abandoned and cool as the other man's body left his - but the 52-year-old, stark naked and dick swinging, was leaping from the bed simply to get their drinks, humming to himself in a way that was jovial and relaxed, and made Phil smile deeply. Nudity and big swinging cock aside, he wished the world could see this side of his Papi, so playful and relaxed, away from the moody intensity that his job often required. He thought about how many of his City teammates perhaps felt cowed and awkward around their tactician leader, and his smile deepened: no, he didn't need anyone else to see this more relaxed side of Pep, because it was all his, this whistling and cheery figure, more soft and human, and his eyes followed him across the room. The robe was back on already, and he wondered if Pep was in some way insecure about his slender ageing physique, when it was still so firm and hot, a mature Adonis in the scally lad's eyes.
Phil pawed at his own body and rolled into a more comfortable position on the bed, catching the towel that he was tossed; he rubbed its soft embrace over his sweaty face and chest, and then across his slick crotch to wipe away what was left of his messy load and Pep's drool. He sat on the edge of the bed, taking his ice-heavy G&T, and wondering if there was some lie that he could use to avoid returning to his roommate and just staying overnight under these sheets with Papi instead.
Guardiola stood over him, smiling silently and taking a drink. Foden grinned back at him, sheepish and satisfied, and tasted his own, starting a little at how strong the older man had made it, but just nodding his grateful approval. It was a perfect moment, safe and happy in this secret bubble with the head coach, and so he wasn't sure how he went and spoiled it, but he did - pulled back and cuddled as Pep rejoined him on the bed, pressing their backs and shoulders into a mound of ornate cushions, arm about his neck, icy glasses clinking between their hands: `I can't believe you don't ever look at any other players on the squad instead of me,' he thought aloud in an absent murmur, still pinching themself at his perfect affair with this man, singled out among all the studs of the City squad!
It wasn't much of a pause, but it was there - just a second or two too long, the slightly wary look on Pep's lined face, the two of them staring closely at each other and Phil's bright smile freezing awkwardly on his sharp features. And Pep laughing then, awkwardly, and clearing his throat - `What makes you say that?' he demanded, a guilty edge to his voice and his averted eyes, and Phil felt a little lurch of horror at his own clumsy comment and the ominous truth it might have revealed. Even as he sternly told himself not to overreact and spoil things, he felt his hand reach over and grip a bit more firmly at the warm hairy muscle of one thigh, holding onto Guardiola as if he was about to lose his club daddy; who else did the iconic football manager have his eye on?
`Silly boy,' Pep was chuckling, but too late - fractionally too late, but enough to make Phil worry, and sink away from the satisfied euphoria of their quick urgent fucking - he was the gaffer's special Golden Boy, but... for how much longer?
'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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