Part 373: An `El Classico' Rematch in Paris
It was an experience devoid of the heart-stopping excitement of last year; it was nice to be suited and booted and to get the admiring nods and handshakes of some of the finest figures in football, many of them distractingly attractive older men in designer tailoring.. And the club guidance about diet and alcohol on this brief trip to France had quickly been dismissed by the senior figures in his group, meaning he was tipsy on presumed top-quality champagne and had stuffed his face with ambiguous vol-au-vents since arrival. But there was plenty missing from Gavi's 2023 Ballon D'Or experience.
Last year had been one of electric tension, unable to believe the leaked information that he was to receive the same Kopa Trophy that had previously been awarded to his secret boyfriend - it remained one of the best nights of Pablo's young life, a wide-eyed 18-year-old at the top table of his international sport. It was a combo of those two things that meant he was enduring tonight's late-October ceremony in Paris with a mixture of quiet cynicism and glossy insincere enjoyment - a combo of not winning, and who wasn't here.
Aggressively competitive as he was, the 19-year-old Spanish boy didn't like to think he was petty or selfish about such prizes, but there was definitely a dullness to being here the year after he'd stood up there and collected a prize - in reality, he was now years from snatching an actual Ballon d'Or and his moment as the `golden boy' of world football was already passing, as if 19 wasn't still spectacularly young for the things he was achieving in the Barcelona first team. Like the rest of the small Barca entourage who he was seated with for the whole event, ostensibly here to support their Women's team and their club's favourite son Messi, he saw little chance of a win in his own name, and so felt like shiny glamorous filler at someone else's big night.
And that was the other thing - bosses back home in Catalonia had been fussy and stringent about simultaneously having a bright-faced contingent to represent their club at the event, but about limiting who exactly could go. And Pedri Lopez, it seemed, was at too crucial a turning point in his rehab and return to training, which meant that Gavi was on yet another overnight trip without the room-sharing comforts of his handsome boyfriend, or his soft tender lips, thoughtful mysterious eyes, strong curving cock, exploratory tongue. Gavi was furiously longing for the other young star's return to the Barca line-up so that it could stop being a logistical battle to spend nights together.
As it was, Gavi was just another young football player in black tie, swilling champagne and ogling at the legends old and new who bobbed through the circles of this major awards event, its glamour and excitement largely passing the teen by. He kept imagining the cosy night in he might have been able to share at Pedri's plush apartment if he was back in their great city and not sat here in this stiff awkward chair!
Still, the 19-year-old little stud managed to keep a plasticky grin on his dainty face and avoid the expressive belligerence that covered it throughout most football matches - until, that was, it came to the announcement of the 2023 Kopa Trophy.
For Jude, tonight was everything that it had been for his counterpart last year, a night of dizzying success that cemented what he already knew: he was really fucking making it in his childhood dream, and the whole bloody world could see it. From the moment he met his family at the hotel and was helped into his couture, he'd felt light-headed and even humbled - trying to strut the red carpet coolly and then be introduced to hero after hero was a test to the calm maturity that everyone celebrated in him. Everybody from his mum and agent to his teammates and rivals were telling him the obvious, that the youth equivalent of the Ballon d'Or was his, but he was frightened to believe it as the event unfolded - until, that was, he had clammy fingers about the prize itself and was stood grinning modestly out at the sea of dark suits and glittering dresses.
The only thing bothering Bellingham tonight was how it was passing in a whirl of unreality - would he even remember any of this tomorrow when he touched down in Madrid?
He'd held a couple of glasses of champers for the cameras, but he was actually totally sober on sparkling water at his coaches' insistence, and yet he felt drunk on the excitement of it all, lost in this galaxy of superstars. Big international figures of yesteryear clutched his hands in theirs and slapped him heavily on broad shoulders, whilst key stars from the Premier League back home would punch him playfully in the arms and chastise him for choosing La Liga, demanding to know if he really saw himself spending 10-15 years at Real Madrid instead of coming to stir things up in England's top-flight. A couple of members of the award-winning City squad were there in sharp dark seats and they badgered him and his parents playfully at the bar, their attractive WAGs shooting him big smiles that felt flirtatious - he was sure that Kevin de Bruyne's eyes were trying to undress him even as her grinning ginger-haired hubby told him that he thought about retiring every time he watched him play.
And eventually Jude Bellingham just had to pull himself away from this, overwhelmed. Feigning a need for the toilet that quickly became real, the 6ft1 midfield prodigy slipped away down the quietest route he could find, avoiding more inevitable congratulatory dialogues, and just disappearing into one of the outer passages of the ornate theatre venue, casting his eyes about for the gents.
In the roomy cubicle of the toilets, Gavi sighed huskily down the line of his iPhone, and nodded resignedly to the chirpy voice that met him. You aren't even staying overnight,' Pedri cajoled in Spanish, teasing him in an easy manner, as he had as soon as he picked up the call. Come on, stop being a moody fool. Smile for the cameras and I'll see you tomorrow at training, if you're not too hungover...!'
Gavi smirked a little at his boyfriend's teasing, but was slow to answer, sat down on the closed toilet lid and swirling the dregs of some champagne in his glass, nodding again as if the other lad could see. `I'm just bored,' the 19-year-old muttered for the dozenth time, and he could hear how sulky and ridiculous he sounded, hiding from the glitz of a ceremony that football players and fans would kill to attend. He rolled his eyes at himself and tried to think about how it had felt last year, but the nostalgia only threw tonight's dullness into further relief!
Stop sulking,' Pedri instructed him simply. I'm going to hang up on you, sexy.'
Gavi smiled just to hear that simple compliment, and he began to wonder how long he could hide in these upstairs toilets of the fancy theatre. For a moment, his other hand left the near empty champagne glass on the shelf to the side and slid across the breast of his blazer, toying just below his bowtie and tickling a few buttons of the starchy white shirt. Hmm,' he mused as it began to head south, thinking that perhaps Pedri wouldn't hang up if he cheered up a bit and started talking dirty... He didn't hear his boyfriend's next quiet comment down the line, hand paused halfway down his front, cock twitching in his suit pants and undies, as a door slammed and footsteps echoed and then he could hear a loud sigh and the tinkle of piss in urinal. Uh,' he mouthed, and the nervous tension in his voice must have been obvious to his listener.
I'll go,' Pedri said calmly and quietly, if you're not alone any more - just text me when you're all boarding the flight, and let me know you land safe, okay buddy?'
Suddenly too awkward to chat on the phone in the faux privacy of his cubicle, Gavi's only answer was a sort of awkward half-cough, and then the call bleeped out of existence in his ear, and he stood up from the toilet. The loos had been empty when he found his way in and dialled up his boyfriend, interrupting his night of TV bingeing alone, but the sound of another guest using the urinals made the teen very conscious of how risky it might have been to talk so frankly to Pedri - the sound of the guy pissing out there was so echoey that this cubicle would hardly have contained his muttered complaints and quiet little affections during the quick chat with his Barca hunk.
Now Gavi just slid the phone decisively into the inner pocket of his blazer, unlocked the door, and strutted out into the main chamber of the mens' toilets; he did so with a ballsy swagger and puffed-out chest, which was more to gaslight himself than to impress whoever had come in to make genuine use of the facilities. But his manner became more rigid and awkward as he stood there and spotted who was using the middle urinal, a distinctive profile even from behind - not least from the fashionable bagginess of his dress trousers, which looked ridiculous to Gavi but had been well-received on the stupid red carpet.
Gavi paused and stared daggers at the 20-year-old from behind, then moved quietly over to the marble block of sinks; he considered not washing his hands and just hurrying out of the bathroom, because he didn't want to have to force out stupid platitudes and join the general fawning over the new Madridista. Instead, he stood there with warm water rushing over his soapy hands, eyes fixed on the mirror, and then meeting Jude's as the taller young man arrived at the sink to his left.
`Hola,' the 6ft1 midfielder greeted quite brightly, his Spanish thick with jarring accent.
Gavi was as moodily quiet as he'd remained on the phone, just staring back at the other player's reflection, and then jerking his head that way to stare at him properly; if he'd managed to hide his almost comical scowls during the ceremony, he was failing now, pouting sulkily at the new Kopa winner, and furrowing into a frown. A soft half-laugh slipped out of Jude's lips and he spoke again in awkwardly accented but surprisingly accented Spanish - `Is there something on my clothes?'
Gavi just stared frostily at him and Jude's smile faded. Gavi backed away from the sink and in a moody rush of blood to the head, turned and just spat at the ground near his successor's shiny shoes. Well done,' the 19-year-old snapped in ferocious Spanish, and enjoy the rest of your night.' He shook his damp hands at the sink and moved away to the cloths at the side, ready to dry them and stalk moodily away from this jumped-up Englishman - he was burning up with much more than his boredom at the night, the memories of El Classico fresh in his heart. He wiped his hands quickly and turned to make for the door - but suddenly Jude was blocking that path, overtaking him in a couple of long strides, and now looming over him.
Gracias,' Bellingham told him in a dry voice, his lean face deadly serious, slipping then into English. What the fuck's your problem, short-stuff?'
Jude didn't think he'd been particularly rude to the Barca youth during Saturday's game: nothing more than the slight banter he'd share with an opponent back in the Bundesliga or in his Birmingham early days. Sure, he'd laughed when he'd bested Gavi in tackles, and he'd celebrated as openly as always when he scored his inevitable brace of goals. He'd traded ambiguous remarks in the younger boy's ear when they passed in quiet moments, but he'd only returned the scowling antipathy of the Spaniard - the game between their clubs was a massive one for La Liga and surely a bit of banter and fighting talk was all part of it, they were all at it...! And Real Madrid had won 2-0, so of course Gavi just represented all of Barca's bitter resentment - a fallen giant, a club much reduced in recent years, and this angry little puppy was going to hold that as a grudge...!
So the Brummie youth laughed calmly and stood there, glowering back at Gavi's moody face, and blocking his path to the door. When his question went unanswered, he repeated it to the best of his ability in Spanish, though he wasn't sure if his choice of curse words had the same impact. He smiled coolly and held his ground, unintimidated by this diminutive rottweiler of the Barca midfield. He'd had his banter on Saturday, but so had Gavi, full of muttered comments, some of them perhaps not meant to be understood by a green English migrant, and the little tit had even thwacked him on the arse at one point in a patronising and dismissive manner. 5 foot nothing and a complete Napoleon about it!
Are you just pissed because I got your prize?' Bellingham demanded then, finding the quiet awkward but not wanting to show it. You know they give it to someone new every year, don't you? That is kinda the point, hey.'
Gavi's English didn't seem to be great, but he'd understood the point. Forget it,' he muttered in his own language. Forget it.' He muttered a couple of other things but for all his speed of learning, Jude didn't follow them. Gavi went to push past him but he couldn't help but block him with one arm, pushing a hand at his shoulder and confronting him. Or is it El Classico?' he demanded, a bit more forcefully. All that trash talk from you and we still won.'
Gavi really scowled at him and he looked like he might spit at the ground again - Jude Bellingham, the new contender for the crowns of Messi and Ronaldo, wasn't fucking standing for that. He grabbed the 5ft8 footballer by the jaw, holding his face commandingly and tilting it away so that Gavi's spit just bubbled stupidly at his lips. He let go and the shorter guy stumbled awkwardly back from him, face flushing. Jude almost struck him with a proper blow to the face, riled by this stupid confrontation and thinking just what a moody prick his opponent had been at the game on Saturday, but stopping himself - bloodying the nose of a Barcelona youth was hardly the kind of behaviour he wanted entering into the burgeoning legend of his own career, and he tried to relax the automatic fists that his strong hands were forming at his sides.
Gavi stared at him again but the kid looked embarrassed now, and suddenly younger - there was just a year between them, but height and temperament made Jude feel older, more superior to the hot-blooded Spaniard. He opened his mouth to speak and then noticed something, the odd angular crease in the front of the other player's more tight-fitting suit trousers, exposed as his jacket shifted open and he tried to steady himself to rush past. Unable to stop himself, Jude let out a little barking laugh, and shifted position to keep blocking Gavi's exit, emphasising his superior height.
`Que?' snapped the 19-year-old.
Jude smirked and said nothing, just nodding downwards, and then reaching down to grab himself through the baggier crotch of his own outsized pants. He stood over the shorty, chuckling to himself, and thinking that he was really going to have to work on his ego if the world kept falling over itself to suck his dick.
Gavi hadn't realised that, after Pedri ended the call, his bored teenage horn hadn't continued to swell in the front of his tight pants; after all, he was having trouble processing anything about the tall English newcomer as anything but aggravating and smug. From his towering height to the delicate scent of his aftershave, from those obnoxious trousers to the thin smirk of his lips... he was just a big infuriating bastard, an entitled prick who had crashed into the Spanish league as if he owned the place, and...
And yet Jude's hand was on his shoulder, steering him back, and the 19-year-old was doing nothing to resist - in fact, he was reaching scrabbling hands to his side to push open the cubicle door that he'd shut behind him, and almost tripping over himself as he hurried backwards into it, eyes wide and lips trembling. His knees were bending almost of their own accord, lowering expensive black fabric to the polished floor, and his face held once more in Jude's strong grip, stroking and grasping his jawline, and angling it up to stare into his smirking features. Gavi knelt submissively on the cubicle floor and the Kopa prize winner towered luxuriously over him, doing nothing but grinning.
`Good boy,' the Real player said in silky Spanish. It was the same smirking patronage that had come through his banter in El Classico, riling up a teenager who took the slightest tickle into aggression once he had his footy boots on. Gavi's entire playing style depended on his surprising ferocity, his willingness to throw himself into conflict with men twice his age and almost twice his weight. Now the terrier was tamed, kneeling silently in front of the new king, and practically drooling. His brain exploded with conflicting feelings, his frustration at everything about tonight not combatting an almost primal need to taste the rising alpha of world football. He thought about that moment of indignance on the pitch on Saturday, slapping a cheeky hand against the taller lad's backside as if to congratulate him, trying to put him down or make him uncomfortable - but just feeling the hard resistant muscles beneath his spank as he strolled away, and seeing the utterly unfazed cool in Bellingham's gaze as they ran separate ways on the pitch.
`Good boy,' Jude repeated smoothly, in English now, and Gavi nodded silently, mouth open, eyes wide and glistening. He licked his pouting lips and rose on his knees, watching Jude's hands make light work of cummerbund and zip fly - and there it was, big and actually still flaccid, hanging out of the front of the black fabric, waiting for him. Long, pendulous, caramel brown but intensely pink at the tip, dormant but waiting to be woken with a kiss. Gavi breathed deeply, still infuriated by perfumed smugness, and dove in to taste it, falling under Jude's spell.
Bellingham groaned quietly and stood in the same superhero posture with which he celebrated each inevitable La Liga goal. He felt the hot wet mouth close about his heavy cock and relaxed into it, feeling the skin tighten as his weapon swelled and stiffened. Soon Gavi was gobbling over it and trailing spit up and down the shaft, a talented little cocksucker if ever there was one! He reminded Jude almost of Phil Foden in Doha, noshing him off with red-faced enthusiasm only a few nights after Jude had been welcomed and initiated by that king of sluts, Harry Kane.
Jude wished he hadn't had to leave the shiny Kopa trophy with event staff after the photographs were done, he wished he had it in one hand, held coolly at his side, one of the night's prizes, and the other this slut on his knees - last year's winner, Spain's bright young thing, now choking on his big Brummie hard-on, eating him up like the entire fucking world of football, ha. The sudden lewd toilet action was something that the 20-year-old stud could feel only as MILDLY surprising; of course he was getting blown, just like he deserved, just when he'd needed a short break from the applause and attention of the main event. And when he'd shot his load, he thought, he'd swan calmly back into it with just a faint glow in his cheeks, and he'd shake hands with Gavi's Barca teammates, and gloat to them too about how Madrid had thrashed them two days ago. Gavi was sucking his big black cock on behalf of the whole of La Liga, he thought, and then he told himself Yep, this ego is going to get out of control, for sure.
At first he just stood there, presenting himself like a trophy, or like he was celebrating a penalty, but then he reached down and slid his fingers through the short silky turf of Gavi's chestnut hair. He held his head and fucked his mouth, unable to get his whole length in there but enough to choke and gag the lad, enjoying the splutters and gulps; he withdrew his cock and whipped it against one cheek and then the other, then wanked its wet tip against plump lips. He smirked down into Gavi's wide brown eyes, drooling a small drop of spit right down against the tip of his member and over Gavi's quivering lips - then he pushed his dick back in and let the youth go to town on it, sucking him quite expertly, making him wonder how many cocks the sulky bastard had eaten at the Nou Camp!
Previously, Jude would have settled for this, this would have been more than enough. Previously, after all, he'd felt so new to this, and a little intimidated. There had been a time when Jude was naive and prudish, the nervous sidekick to illicit experiments of his friend Jadon Sancho. But then there'd been Kane by the swimming pool, and Foden, and Trent and Hendo, then his German Turk pal at Dortmund, and... he pictured trembling Kalvin Phillips in the night, sucking him off and thinking he was asleep! He pictured that Scottish thug Kieran Tierney, swaying after him into the Glasgow alleyway. He pictured those sturdy pale cheeks parting for him, and he knew he needed to fuck again.
Gavi thought it was over, thought he might be left here, humiliated with spit and pre-cum on his boyish face - but as he was hoisted quite roughly up to his feet, he saw the determined and excited glint in Jude's eyes, and he knew otherwise. He was flipped against the firmer wall of the corner cubicle, the one that was all shining beige porcelain, and he felt Jude's fingers clutching his hair again. Just like on the pitch, the taller guy was leaning in close and whispering hotly in his ear. He said something in English that Gavi didn't understand, and then attempted it in Spanish - `You are going to have me inside you', or something close enough.
Gavi nodded in spite of himself, shocked at the furious urgency of his agreement, at the speed with which he shucked his Gucci blazer and let it fall aside, feeling Jude's hands undoing his trousers for him at the front. He shook and whimpered and hoisted up the tails of shirt just as the bigger boy pulled down his taut trousers and the white CK underpants underneath. He felt his own plump rear exposed, just as it had almost been that time when he skidded clumsily across the turf, and he pushed it backwards, wanting it to impress and excite this young king. When Jude grabbed and spanked it, he moaned and yelped, and thought again how this cubicle was not soundproof, but didn't care any more.
The sound of spit, and he knew he needed to say something urgently - he imagined handsome Jude drooling down onto that big brown cock, and he whispered out the Spanish for virgin!' several times, hoping that the big lad's oddly impressive language skills were up to that. Just as he Jude chuckled hotly in his ear, Gavi once more yelped Virgin!' emphatically, unaware the word was almost identical in both tongues, then experienced a giddy hit of relief as he realised Jude had already understood - it wasn't the thick hot tip of his meat that Jude was sliding between plump pale cheeks, but a single spit-wet finger. Gavi felt the fingertip on his ring and he whined his consent.
Jude hadn't believed what he heard the brat say about being `virgen, virgen!', not with cocksucking skills like those, and yet once he was one finger in, he knew it - wow, he'd never fingered anything so tight. It's not like Kieran had been loose and easy for him, as he quite nervously entered his first male backside, but Gavi's bottom was vice-like, and he had to pull back his finger and spit on it some more. Then, over-excited, he reached around and made the pouting poser lick it for him, then shoved it back into him. Even this he loved, pinning the 5ft8 rottweiler to the wall and parting his cheeks - this'll teach the uppity arse-hole for trying to pat my bum in El Classico, ha!
Jude pulled the single finger in and out, still questioning whether the gasping slut hadn't been passed around by the dominant blokes at Barca or Spain, but trying to loosen and prepare the tight `virgen' ring that clamped about his own digit - and wanking impatiently at his member with his other hand, so furiously ready to feel the ultimate pleasure like he had as he topped the grumpy Scotsman that late summer night.
When he tried two fingers, it was a real struggle. He spat heavily onto his two fingers and ran them back and forward in the warm soft crack, losing track of where Gavi's hole even was. Muttered Spanish failed to register for him, whatever else the Barca slut was telling him. But he got them in, two fingers stretching and entering the player's backside, and his own cock absolutely throbbed with expectation - god, this was going to feel UNREAL!
He had to shift Gavi into a new position, bent over and face pressed on top of the cistern. He pushed the white shirt further up the teen's back, enjoying the dense muscular strength of the smaller body. He pushed the white undies and trouser waist further down solid thighs, and paused to give a couple of good spanks to the bare cheeks, leaving red hand-marks on the Barca backside - he found it oddly beautiful in a way that he hadn't paused to appreciate with Tierney, the full pert muscles of the 19-year-old's rump making him look like some big booty porn bitch.
In went two fingers again, more roughly, more demandingly - he felt like he was already close to cumming and he had to play with his cock in slow controlled strokes, though he just could not force himself to stop properly. He was utterly thrilled by not just Gavi's aching tightness, but the way the stocky little midfielder groaned and gasped for him, muttering contradictory Too much!' and Oh yes!' with alternating bursts of breath - and it was the mumbling speech of the other Kopa prince that finally broke Jude's paper-thin patience. He pulled his slick fingers away and spat noisily down between the spread cheeks, then again on the shaft and tip of his painfully hard member. `Brace yerself,' he grunted at Gavi and he pushed the head of his cock between those cheeks, rubbing it at the lad's crack with such little sense of entry that he might as well be trying to fuck a wall.
He pulled away and tapped two fingers over the arse-hole, his other hand gripping hard at the waistline. Then he pushed in again, more sure of where the tiny entrance was, angling his cock as carefully as he could, really desperate to feel those muscles clamp about his weapon - he gripped both hands at Gavi's bare hips, feeling the tremor and intensity of the tight-muscled body beneath him, and thrusting forward as best he could. Gavi's cry was a little more pained, almost enough to make him stop, but then the groan sounded more pleased, and he picked out huge' and jesus christo' among the rushed breathy muttering that largely outdid his beginner Spanish. And moreover, really stopping him from admitting defeat, was the changed feeling, the sense of a change - he thought he could feel it accepting it, could feel a new pressure against the head of his cock, as if he was just about, just about, getting the tip in... And then, just as he began to feel the strength of this muscular backside relent to his dominance, just as he thought he could feel the tightness open for him, squeezing at his cock-head, just as he almost got exactly what he wanted-
No,' yelped Gavi's voice more forcefully, no, no, no, stop!' Not a coquettish too much' or it's huge', but a definite refusal. Jude bit his lip unhappily and pulled awkwardly back, his cock throbbing and balls on fire; Gavi was sliding awkwardly sideways off the toilet, pants at his knees and shirt hanging huge and baggy. When he turned his face his eyes were shiny with tears and Jude felt a surge of guilt - had he pushed too much for this? No! The cocksucker had been gagging for it-
I'll go slower,' Bellingham found himself hissing, an almost begging desperation in his own Brummie voice. We'll find proper lube, I'll try-' He was instantly embarrassed by the need in his voice, the urgency and greed - none of his cool domination there any more. But Gavi probably didn't understand what he was saying, and was paying him no attention anyway as he wriggled about, pulling up CKs and forcibly tucking his shirt up into the pants he was zipping up, his face bright red and shiny tears running down his puffy cheeks.
Bellingham was confused and annoyed and several other emotions, but he snatched at the lapels of the blazer as Gavi tried to fight into it. Hey, hey,' he hissed. Stop - did I hurt you? I'm sorry, look, I'm sorry - I didn't mean to-'
`No, no,' struggled the Spaniard, writhing against him uncomfortably, the roomy cubicle reduced to a tiny prison as their two male bodies fought for space, and Jude's big hard cock swung between them. Teary-eyed and trembling, Gavi was back in his disarrayed clothes and falling away from him, snatching for the door-lock; Jude was just confused and guilty and kinda embarrassed, needlessly ashamed of his own need to fuck a tight laddish arse, gutted that he'd felt just the tip enter.
And then the Kopa winner was alone, the cubicle door slammed shut in his face, and he rocked on the heels of his black leather shoes. His chest heaving with overwrought breaths, the big sexy footballer looked down at the way his shiny wet cock still stuck out from his open fly. For fuck's sake. He re-locked the door, spat in his palm, and grabbed hold of himself - he'd have to sort this out before he floated back into his adoring public.
Cold water splashed on his face, Gavi fled the bathroom without stopping to fix his ruffled hair or disturbed bowtie, or to tuck the last knot of shirt into the waist of his suit trousers. The blazer was only half on as the 5ft8 midfielder scampered awkwardly down the corridor, heading away from voices until he was going up another flight of stairs and hiding on the landing to a floor not in use tonight. Here he could find a windowsill and lean heavily onto it, gasping for breath and trying to ignore the painful burning sensation in his arse-hole, all but deflowered by Jude's powerful insistence. It had hurt like hell, even just the fingering, but that had hardly been the problem - he had been electrified with an excitement akin to this night in 2022, winning the Trophy himself.
Safely alone, he cried loudly and clung to the windowsill, and then cursed himself in angry whispers. The amount of times he had put Pedri off, refusing and delaying and procrastinating! The ways he'd wriggled out of the inevitable, promising his boyfriend that they would do it soon, but `soon' never quite coming...! The times he'd watched that crestfallen expression cross Pedri's thick dark brows and nervous handsome face, as Gavi prevaricated away from giving up his arse to the other Spanish starlet. And here he was bending over for the Englishman like it was nothing, ready to go through that pain for someone he didn't even like-! He sobbed and fidgeted and thought how stupid and messy he would look when he eventually headed downstairs. He'd been drunker than he realised, he supposed, even when he rang Pedri, never mind when he spat at the feet of the Real Madrid superstar.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Angry with himself, Gavi felt his erection fade away unattended, and his bottom continue to sting, and he shakily took the phone out of his pocket. Just as when he'd strayed before, stupidly allowing himself to pleasure a couple of other older men in moments of frustration or resentment with his Lopez, he couldn't even fathom the idea of keeping a secret - he was hitting the buttons and calling Pedri before he even knew what to say. The other Barcelona player had answered the phone in seconds, but Gavi just cried down the line - `What is it? What's happened? Gavi, talk to me!' But Gavi couldn't talk sense to him, he was just so angry with how he close he'd come to letting someone else take his cherry.
Gavi was angry and sobbing, but Jude was grunting quietly and spurting stream after stream of silvery-white cum on the green-painted interior of the cubicle door, firing his cum freely there and letting it dribble down the paintwork in thin trails. Controlling his breathing, the 6ft1 hunk continued to pull gently on his aching cock, and finally slowing to a stop; he reached for some toilet paper to rub across his sticky hand and then to dab along the shaft and head of his mighty Madridista cock. He'd come so close to a greater satisfaction, so the solo orgasm felt anti-climactic, despite the messy evidence.
Washing his hands and then his face in the sink and at the mirror, Jude was still confused. Had he pressed himself too hard at the youngster? Had he misread the burbled Spanglish between them? He was frightened by his own forcefulness for the first time, and questioning the rapidly expanding ego that had brought him here. But he was also sure Gavi had been up for it and totally complicit, so he was daring to question what else the sulky teen was upset about - he really was a virgin, that was for sure! But he did his arse already belong to somebody else?
Bellingham was confused and annoyed but not ready to let anything ruin tonight, El Classico and Kopa victories still all his. He tidied himself up in the mirror and admired himself, only momentarily dented by the revival of two thoughts: as hot as he was, he'd been refused by tonight's attempted fuck; and worse, he was so consumed by lust after Kieran Tierney that he'd lost his cool and begged for it. Fucking hell... he was in deep now.
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