Part 365: England Camp, Day Four
He'd been bleary and contented in the salt-skin aftermath of a late afternoon session: his head resting on the bristling stubble of a tanned chest, one finger circling the dark nub of a nipple where it rose from the soft pectoral muscle of a less athletic chest. One of his Papi's furred arms was slung about the smooth warm skin of his shoulder in a lazy fashion, and he was trying to recognise from the gentle rise and fall of the football coach's breathing whether Pep Guardiola had drifted into post-coital sleep or was thoughtfully half-awake like he was after their blissful fuck. It had been a relatively spontaneous post-training arrangement, compared to the meticulous planning that their alone time increasingly required... and all the more passionate and satisfying for it, too.
Pep's inquisitive Catalan accent broke the quiet of the club-owned apartment, answering Phil's idle mental question about his consciousness: `This international break, when you go away...' The sentence trailed off in the quiet stillness of their sporadic bedroom, and naive curiosity roused the 23-year-old football prodigy further into awake. He twisted his head a little and let his circling fingertips pause and drop. Pep was staring at the ceiling in an ominously serious fashion, but their eyes met, and Phil quailed at the seriousness with which he was being regarded.
`Yeah?' the Stockport lad murmured, trying not to sound as worried as he was.
Guardiola just breathed out heavily and seemed to consider for a while before picking up his point. When you're away,' he seemed to think aloud, I would just like...'
`What?' Phil asked quite sharply, hanging on his Papi's words.
Another of those long huffy breaths, and then a roll of the hot body beneath his, pulling arms more firmly around him, hugging him in close but preventing their looking in one another's eyes. If young Phil had been able to see the Man City manager's grey-bearded features, he might have seen just how painfully worried the middle-aged man was about keeping hold of this beautiful young scally stud.
Don't let any of them at you,' Guardiola muttered, his voice and his body full of tension. I know that in the past it has been... Well, I have encouraged you to... But... not this time, Filipe, not now, I ask of you...' Phil was quiet not because he had any instinctive objection to this request - over the coming days he would really warm to Pep's request and become quite excited by the implied monogamy, even if both of them continued to sleep with their female partners all the time - but just because he was so surprised by the idea and by the heaviness of the tone. Is that okay?' he was asked. Guardiola sounded both tender and a little uncomfortable, and it made Foden answer quickly and eagerly. Of course,' he promised quietly into the warm shoulder muscle of the older man.
Of course he could go without any daft fun on the England camp - it was never something that crossed his mind particularly anyway...! He was so fixated on the affectionate power of his coach and Papi that he rarely thought ahead to the other playmates he'd picked up at City or the Three Lions, not really, and so he had absolutely no problem with the manager's wishes.
Nobody can put their cock in you,' Pep added unnecessarily, his voice deep and commanding, and Phil shivered almost excitedly at the force in it - Yes Papi,' he whispered, kissing softly close to his neck, and feeling Pep's large hands run up and down his back, settling at the base of his spine, holding him tightly here. Yes,' he repeated, just as Pep added, Nobody can fuck you, not your mouth, not your bottom, okay?' and he insisted more firmly `Nobody!' before beginning to kiss his way down the chest and tummy, deciding to calm whatever stress his daddy was holding in the best way possible, his lips guiding him down past the waist. Once he was kissing the big heavy cock that had already cum inside him twenty minutes ago, Guardiola could just moan and purr, the seriousness gone with the request and agreement, and Phil gave it little more attention.
Until now: Thursday, Day Four.
The temperature had crunched past 30 and a whistle had blown - the gaffer was calling time on outdoor work in the sun after a patchy morning, and was giving them a few hours off before scheduling some group sessions in the air-conditioned gymnasiums. For all their blokey bravado in the past few days, not one of the blue-kitted England players made any laddish protest at the changed plans, their relief obvious on their shiny faces as they trudged off the field and in through the open double-doors into their changing suite.
Foden himself was one of the first indoors, really stomping his boots for a few paces before taking hops to yank them off one at a time, and then grasping a towel to run against his face and neck, shocked at how soaked he was with perspiration, and how good it felt to be off-duty and here in the shadowy cool of this spacious locker-room.
Shouts of the same sentiment echoed around him as the lads escaped the heat, and Phil found himself very glad that the changing facilities here were more open and capacious than the standard intense team space of a Premiership football stadium. It meant that he could slip through the rows and find his own space by his locker with ease, free to wriggle out of the sweat-drenched training shirt and clingy blue under-armour, dropping both damp polyester rags onto the bench below.
`Fucking hell, I'm MELTING,' complained his own teammate Kalvin Phillips nearby, letting out an anguished noise to accentuate his hyperbole.
`This heat is the worst,' someone else confirmed from the other direction - it was Arsenal's new talisman, Declan Rice, his top whipped off and now slapped stupidly against his locker door with a whip-crack noise for emphasis.
The chorus of frustration was punctuated with humour and relief, though. Do you think we could just spend the rest of the day in ice baths?' he could hear Newcastle's Kieran Trippier demanding loudly, and Kyle Walker was booming out Who's up for the local Wetherspoons for a couple of hours?'
Phil chuckled weakly to himself and sat down to roll down his socks and unstrap his shin-pads. He realised he was still panting as he did so, the heat making him far more tired than he should be after just a half-day of training, at the peak of his early 20s fitness. He wondered how some of the older players weren't even more distraught than him, and marvelled at the athletic fitness of the men around him. Well, `athletic fitness' was one phrase for it: sexy as fuck bodies was another.
It was a daft stereotype, but not one without truth: the heat was making the Stockport man as horny as hell, and he had found himself thinking on Pep's demand more and more as each day of the week passed by. Subtle half-hints had, he thought, been passed his way from some of the usual suspects, the oversexed testosterone bombs that dominated this intimate squad... and a coyly smiling Phil Foden had refused to take any of the bait or show even the faintest flicker of interest. But today...
As he sat there in his own sweat-soaked shorts, resting his wet back against the cool metal of his locker door, he was passed by the stomping gait of loud-mouthed Kyle, who was still shouting out jokey invitations to the pub. The City right-back was already down to his skimpy compression vest and a pair of tight long-legged UnderArmour trunks, and Phil's eyes were drawn to the gleaming shine of his caramel skin and tattoos, and the huge presence of his big glutes in the back of the tight black shorts. Walker stomped on past him towards where Chelsea's Conor Gallagher was at his locker, pausing to land a striking slap on the shiny bare back of the other 23-year-old - Phil watched half-interestedly at the way Conor flinched and jumped and then forced a laugh, his eyes more interested in the perfect view of Kyle's big arse as the sweaty defender marched on.
But Phil's eyes were drawn inevitably back to the compact musculature of the 6ft midfielder, and he couldn't resist staring as the Chelsea player's shorts were pulled down, his body bent slightly forward... a pair of navy blue sports briefs only half-covering the pert roundness of his cheeks as he did so. Phil yanked his vision away from the undressing lad who'd once been a good buddy on the younger England squads, and scolded himself for such open perving when he was trying to be a good Golden Boy.
For the first time, he couldn't help but resent the promise he'd made to Guardiola, and think back defiantly to how different the issue had been when it was the Qatari World Cup, for instance, and Pep himself was engineering hookups for him at camp Argentina, double-teamed by Messi and his `bodyguard'! Why couldn't he have a bit of that fun now, sweating and suffering here with his countrymen? But, he reminded himself, he'd readily made his promise, and he had to stick with it!
Directly opposite him, the devil was at work to tempt him, because big Crystal Palace goalie Sam Johnstone was in the process of stepping out of his shorts, wearing just pale grey briefs, and the vivid sweat patches down his arse-crack and at the sides of his floppy bulge were dark and obvious enough to lock Foden's eyes on the big Lancashire bloke's downstairs assets - whilst just a couple of feet further to the right, the younger goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale was the first in this aisle to drop his pants entirely, kicking boxer briefs aside and airing his dangling cock and balls and strawberry blond pubes for a moment before the off-white towel obscured this view.
Jesus, get a grip on yourself...!
Phil got back up and faced the locker, conscious of the swelling in the front of his shorts, but pushing them down nonetheless, glancing cautiously down at how obvious the bulge was in his own designer briefs, then wrapping the towel about his waist in a hurry.
`Cold showers!' he heard James Maddison insist loudly from the communal block, and a hearty chorus of agreement echoed as other men strode through to wash off the sweat - and Foden just paused where he was, unsure he could handle the close proximity of all those sweat-grimed bodies disappearing into the steam and lathering up with soap suds. Clutching the knot of his towel and hoping his semi wasn't beginning to tent through his pants and against the towel, he scuttled out of his aisle of lockers and caught sight of some of it: the big hairy arse of Harry Maguire as the massive Man Utd pariah marched through with a towel over one shoulder, and the swinging dick of Declan Rice as the newly super-confident defensive midfielder came marching past with his own rolled towel under one arm. Phil took a deep breath and diverted from them all.
Showering alone was an odd inverted taboo in their world, to some extent, but it wasn't unheard of - every squad seemed to have the odd fella who preferred a solo wash rather than the banter and horseplay of showy communal spaces - but Phil knew that his decision might raise a hint of interest from some corners, perhaps. Still, it was for the best, and Tottenham's new hero Madders was 100% right: COLD SHOWERS.
It felt good, the icy blast and the puritan quenching. The dirty thoughts could run down the plughole with the sweat and dirt, and Phil's world stunk of institutional soap, rather than the manly musk of Johnstone's undies or Rice's vest. It felt so good that he stayed in there much longer than a player might typically endure the cold blast, taking brief pauses when the cold was too much before twisting the knob and rinsing down over and over. Eventually his lithe 5ft7 figure was a mottle of summer tan and bright pink flush, and he just stood there to drip-dry, palms to the wall and head hanging a little as he resisted the vivid mental images of swaggering Maguire and stomping Walker, big daddies of the England fold.
When he emerged back into the main changing room, Phil kept his head low and did his absolute best to avoid seeing the way that Fikayo Tomoro rubbed a towel across his chest and left his lower half excitingly exposed, or the aggressive manner in which Lewis Dunk dried his privates and his arse; he averted his gaze from the hurried dressing of Gallagher and Johnstone at nearby lockers, and just returned to his, cooled and refreshed, and glad that they had some free time to nap or relax before lunch and more work.
He dropped his sweaty briefs down with the rest of his grimy gear, nudging it together with a bare foot, and then loosening his towel to dry his thighs and crotch and up his firm six-pack and developing chest. Around him, the space felt bigger and bigger, because the refreshed men all seemed in a hurry to move on - there were shouts of FIFA tournament' and others loudly calling shotgun' over physio massage appointments. Phil was happy to be ignored and left behind for a change, thinking that he would slip away from here and go back to his room for a quiet nap without Eberechi Eze's snoring.
Naked and dangling his towel about his slim shoulders, Phil sat briefly down on the bench, really taking a moment to breath before rifling through the locker for his clean gear. A vague presence made him look to the left and notice a looming figure at the corner of the aisle, resting against the furthest locker - Phil was mildly surprised to see his captain there, and he raised his eyebrows in vague acknowledgement of new Bundesliga striker Harry Kane. For a moment, he thought nothing of it - they were all just fatigued and dazed and captain Kane had as much right to be slouched there with his arm to the cool metal as anyone else, with everybody else seeming to have cleared out. But then Phil blinked and looked properly at the much taller man, seeing the soft pensive expression on Harry's long face, and the almost calculated pose of his lengthy muscular torso and arms, his towel tied low about his waist, low enough to reveal an inch ring of paler skin where his tan ended.
`Alright, skip,' Foden murmured, staring back at the older man.
For a long moment, Kane didn't say anything, but he brought one hand up to stroke the light brown beard of his jutting chin, and Foden became self-conscious about his spread legs and naked body, grabbing at the hanging towel and beginning to slide it from his shoulders. `Leave it,' came Harry's thick Walthamstow accent, taking a step into the aisle of lockers, where they were screened and alone. Instinctively and unthinking, Phil obeyed this, and Harry Kane took two more steps towards him.
Oh, fuck: it was one thing resisting the unsubtle hints of leering Kyle Walker over salad dinners, or trying not to make eye contact with a smirking Declan Rice in the shower, and forcing himself into solitary cold showers when the heat was driving him wild, but... Here was the England captain himself, a tall commanding figure with the towel practically falling from his waist, towering over him in this narrow canyon of lockers, with the last footsteps of their teammates dying away... Pep's Golden Boy was no longer fully sure that he could resist temptation and keep himself `pure' for Papi. His world stunk now of the Givenchy aftershave that poured off the 30-year-old striker's washed physique, and it clouded his attempted chasteness in an instant.
`Leave it?' Phil echoed in murmured, gripping the folds of the towel where it came down about his strong young shoulders, and denying the urge to yank it down and cover up his bare cock and balls with it, nestled between his open thigh muscles.
Sure,' the captain mumbled. I'm enjoying the view.'
Wow. This was bold, blunt, exciting. Phil just stared up at him, overshadowed by the height and build of the former Hotspur. His England captain. God, how would he resist leaning forward and opening his mouth wide when that towel fell inevitably away and the sexy older bloke demanded what he'd come over here for... Who'd been chatting about him to Kane, he wondered, was it Walker or...?
What happened next took him by surprise, although it made a few dirty jokes he'd overheard in the City locker-room make more sense. Harry did let loose his towel, parting it at his hip and cascading it to the floor, his stiff member and tight balls exposed beneath the crown of auburn pubes; but he also bent his knees and sunk into a tight squat, brought level and then lower than seated Phil. The captain's hands landed on his lower thighs, just above the knee, and Harry stared seriously at him before bending further, and - ohhhhhh, yes.
It was only after several moments of quiet wet pleasure that Phil had enough sense to tense up and lay his hands questioningly on top of Harry's: guilt and duty were catching up with the excitement of the scenario and his quick fetishisation of Kane's mighty status as the captain and England's legendary striker. However... what had Papi actually said? Nobody could... put their cock in him? Nobody could... fuck him? Well...
Down between his open legs, the mumbling giant at the head of the Three Lions was squatting low and stooped forward, bobbing up and down on Foden's sizable erection, sucking him with almost as much warm gusto as his loving and possessive club manager, and he himself was just pinned to the spot by pleasure, pressing back into his locker and holding tightly onto Kane's larger hands where they grasped his thighs. The lips and tongue worked rapidly but quite skilfully up and down his prick, pausing just long enough each time to really tickle the tip, and breaking away at intervals to spit heavily against the side of the shaft to lubricate the generous oral attention.
Holy shit,' the Stockport scally huffed. You're so good. Hmmph. Mmm. Ohh. Shiiiit.'
This had to be okay, he thought, it wasn't what Guardiola had asked him - he hadn't said anything about where HE could put his cock, had he? Nope! Doubts would soon creep into this analysis and make him question whether he was a traitor, but for the minutes that followed, he just sat there, the small but well-hung recipient of the big man's lusty gobbling. When Kane stopped and just held his hand around the wet shaft, Foden expected to be told it was his turn to get a mouthful, and he wondered what he'd say to this - but instead, the mumbling East London tones of his skipper just huffed out, `Cum for me, mate' and went straight back to work. Wow.
And so he did, though it took many more minutes of this, really writhing back against the locker and moaning loudly enough to pray that nobody was left in the spacious changing rooms after all. As he got closer, he began to thrust up, tightening his pert cheeks and lifting his hips from the bench to push his meaty cock further into Harry's grateful gob. And then he was spurting on the captain's tongue and smearing his greasy load across the tache and goatee of reddish-brown hair that framed that cocksucking mouth. Phil gasped and moaned, fresh sweat and heat spreading through his wiry body, and the cold shower calling to him all over again, whilst Harry panted and spluttered, and kissed drops of cum from the stubble of his shaven pubic trail.
`Oh shit,' the City boy moaned again, bewildered and dazed, but his captain had nothing to say, just deep growling breaths and a few more kisses to the cock - and then he was up, towering over him again. Phil rested, eyes half-closed, and took a minute to realise that the bigger man was wanking over him. He remained still, holding back the urge to reach out and grab Harry's dick or apply his own skilled mouth - he just sprawled there, cock trembling, and let the drops of the striker's jizz fall messily against the lightly tanned muscle of his slim torso, mixing a little with his own around his shaven crotch.
After cumming, Harry remained briefly above him, one long arm shoved hard against the locker, so that one deeply hairy pit was excitingly exposed. Phil gasped and recovered in his shadow, and then couldn't suppress a bemused smirk as all Harry had to say was, `Thanks, kid', and then muscled away - towel abandoned and peachy bottom on show, his 6ft2 figure strutting away and disappearing around the corner, mouth being wiped on the back of one arm. Phil stared after him, blinking, and then looked down at his drooping cock and the pale slicks of semen that dirtied his body.
The promise was intact, he told himself. Just about.
Oh well. Time for another cold shower.
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