Part 387: Kevin's Choice
The new Kevin de Bruyne, post-injury, was different in more ways than just his hair: the lustrous red gold mane that he enjoyed sweeping his fingers through with uncharacteristic vanity. Everyone around him at Manchester City had commented on it, in their own different ways: a new lightness and boldness in the lauded midfielder, a less serious response to the pressure of his career stature. It was the longest gap the 32-year-old had experienced in his senior playing career, and so most of his teammates and friends put it down to the sheer joy of his comeback, a fine return to form in the Premier League. But there was a bit more to it than that, and all was not as calm as it seemed on the smiling ginger surface.
It was City's final day in Abu Dhabi before returning to the UK, their Friday night clash at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium looming ahead - a historical cursed away trip for the treble winners which this hot weather training camp seemed largely devoted to.
Kevin was red-faced and sweaty, as he was pretty sure he had been since the minute the squad touched down here; he was stomping away from one of the synthetic pitches with his boots off, socked feet leaving sweat-prints on bright fresh tarmac as he wove his way out of the action in search of an unscheduled cool break. He could get fined for slacking, he supposed, but De Bruyne had been working himself insanely hard all week, and he was sure the coaching staff would be happy to go easy on him.
Entering some shade from the still-hot late afternoon sun, the red-faced Belgian processed through the quieter zones of the luxury sports camp they were all but occupying to themselves, and glugged cold water from a bottle in one clammy hand. He pulled on the chest of the training jersey that was sticking to his body and then similarly tugged at the screwed mesh lining of his shorts where it hugged his loose heavy cock and balls, adjusting and briefly fondling the jewels within. Just this little bit of self-touch set his flaccid cock stirring and his hormones simmering, horny in the heat as most red-blooded men were; and suddenly he was looking for more than just cool shade, but safe privacy.
The City midfielder made a sharp turn into some of the covered area and then through some automatic sliding doors, enveloped immediately by satisfying air-con. At a water station, he refilled his bottle and then almost immediately drained it, finding a window that looked back out onto the row of small pitches where most of the other lads were still hard at work in assigned groups, including the one he had ditched. He stood there watching for a short while, but kept needing to pull and adjust at his damp top and the fit of his shorts, until he threw a frustrated glance in the direction of a disabled loo. Its unlocked door beckoned him with an invite of privacy and relative cool.
KDB plonked the emptied water bottle down on top of the station and gave a couple of furtive looks up and down the passage, then made a rushed movement in through the door, locked swiftly behind him. Instinctively and irritably, he peeled the City training jersey straight off, pulling its damp weight away from the thickset pale muscle of his torso, and dumping it down in a heap at the side of the sink. He examined himself in the mirror, enjoying how much more handsome he felt he looked with longer hair and slightly leaner features, then reaching down and giving himself a proper squeeze and tug through the front of the shorts - this was a bit mad, but he really needed to attend to himself so he could focus.
He pushed a hand into the sweat-sticky contents of these shorts, holding his fat semi and jostling his wrinkled balls, feeling the short soft growth of his trimmed auburn pubes. Mmm. He glanced back at the door, checking needlessly that he'd locked it, and then he pushed the shorts down past his hips, over his lightly furred thighs, dropped past his steely calves and then stepped clumsily over his socked feet.
Stood in front of the mirror, daring to admire his physique, the 5ft11 football hunk toyed with his cock and balls some more, bringing his cock to pink-headed erectness, and then spitting on his palm to rub full veiny life into it, feeling the soft pangs of frustrated pleasure - but not enough pleasure, not yet, not just this. Nope. He moved across the small square room and sat himself on the toilet lid, no longer facing the mirror; he kept playing with his hard-on, but he brought up one thick chunky leg and set an ankle against the disabled handlebar at the side, lounging into an uneasy posture on this porcelain throne - angled enough to let his other hand reach down and caress past his balls, onto the fluff of his gooch, in the heat of his own rear.
This, after all, was the secret to Kevin's new attitude: this was a man who, at 32, had discovered his own arse-hole.
Sighing to himself, he rubbed a wet finger against his ring and felt the intensified pleasure of the other hand clutching his dick. Boredom and curiosity had led his fingers on a wander during the quiet nights at the start of his injury period, his wife refusing to service his needs when he wasn't physically up to making love; wanks just weren't doing enough for KDB, and so one curious digit had gone exploring. He supposed it had been on his mind for a long while, but the frustrated isolation of injury had called him further - and bit by bit, he'd learned to use some lube, and progressed sometimes from one finger to two, and deeper, firmer, more aggressively with himself. He'd borrowed a small vibrating toy of his wife's and brought that into play a few times before, panicking, binning it in case she noticed, and returning to the simpler pleasure of fingering himself silly.
Here was the truth, though - a finger wasn't enough. Kevin was facing up to something which had perhaps been gradually occurring to him for the past few seasons, ever since his first nervous forays into guy-on-guy fun. He'd been horrified when his ex-teammate Raheem Sterling tried to persuade him to put a cock in him, really, having first dabbled with young Tommy Doyle and his nervous wet blowies; Kevin had stalled prudishly at the prospect of taking things further and actually fucking a man. But now, finger entering his hole and pleasure washing through his entire body, he was beginning to understand what he really wanted: a man to fuck him.
He knew that it couldn't possibly be a `beginner's' option for a virgin backside, but he couldn't help but think about that cocky English lad's package as he began to finger himself and wank: just now, out in the group work, he'd noticed it again, the way Jack's package bounced and writhed in his shiny wet shorts as he bounded eagerly across the length of the field. He must know, Kevin thought, that wearing such under-sized kit just accentuated the monstrous weight in his underpants, and it often raised his eyebrows to see it, that and sometimes too the perfectly framed peach at the rear, brieflines cutting across each plump cheek.
Jack Grealish, who had supposedly been in some awe of Kevin when he arrived at City, had become a good friend to him in these couple of seasons: he enjoyed the lad's brash humour and charisma, but also his family-oriented sweetness and very genuine behaviour towards their fans. He was a hard guy not to love, but recently Kevin had struggled to see past the drooping monster in the front of his shorts and tracksuit. He was a well-hung sexy bastard and sometimes Kevin couldn't help but fantasise about something happening with him - he suspected wild-spirited Grealo to be at least a little bi-curious, the jokes he made, and so he thought it might be something he could make happen.
He fantasised about it now, circling a fingertip on his tight hole, and feeling it tighten at the prospect of big Jack's big whopper, swinging about in his shorts like that, but still he couldn't dismiss the sexy prospect of that 28-year-old Brummie guy's dirty knowing grin. Maybe, just maybe, Jack the Lad could be the one to fuck him...?
But then he also thought about his captain, Ruben Dias, in these matters - there was less suggestion of open-mindedness from the stern handsome Portuguese centre-back, but god, Dias was an impressive physical thing.
Kevin pictured him earlier today, arriving at breakfast - 6ft1 and incredibly broad-shouldered, his arm and chest muscles bulging through his shirt, and such an authoritative persona projected to the whole dining room of footballers. Ruben was a towering man in more ways than his height, and Kevin had always been very ready to defer to the younger player as City's usual captain, once just respecting his authority, and now... wondering about more than that.
He pictured him yesterday and on so many other occasions, undressing for showers: every muscle so defined and obvious across his sculpted torso and super-powered legs. He looked so incredibly strong and lean, and Kevin suddenly had a flashback to the 26-year-old defender's underwear photoshoot in the past - the pics had circulated briefly in the team's group chats with many silly edits and captions, just like Jack's fashionista antics did, and Kevin wondered if he'd been as fascinated by the big bulge then as he more openly was now. He pictured Ruben's long thick snake, soft and dangling, as he'd seen it in the showers in the corner of his eye, and wondered if... would he be able to... could he...
He shuddered, pushing the finger further into his hole and starting to relax it, but a nervous tension seizing the rest of his bulky body where it slid sweatily against the toilet lid and the tiles of the wall - he couldn't really be fucked by Ruben, could he?
De Bruyne pictured them on that city rooftop the other summer, when the league title celebrations had... escalated. He hadn't got as wildly involved as some, for sure, but he'd had his cock sucked and then stood there, eyes wide, wanking his sturdy pale Belgian meat, and Ruben had also held back - the two tall broad guys jerking off as others went further. It was a faint scrap of memory now, the way Dias' hand had rested at his hip, grazed the curve of his bare white arse. A faint scrap, but stingingly vivid in its own way - had it been the sizzling suggestion of that brief touch that first made Kev become curious about this...?
But the point of that memory, he acknowledged, adjusting his clumsy positioning on the imperfect throne of an access toilet, was that Ruben had held back, like himself, and seemed less playful and adventurous than some of their league-conquering teammates: and two of them in particular struck Kevin as... well, up for anything.
Just the other day, during one of their relaxed evenings in the hotel grounds, a play-fight between the two burly English blokes had spiralled until they were practically ripping each other's clothes off, adding an awkward edge to the way the loose assembly of footballers laughed along with their banter and horseplay.
Kevin pictured them, pushing his finger slowly in and out of himself and restraining a groan of satisfaction: he pictured the taller of the two, dopey-faced and permanently grinning, and then the more rugged looks of the shorter broader Yorkshire guy. Stones and Walker, Walker and Stones, utterly inseparable and... two of the most hard-partying wild spirits of the Man City elite. Kyle alone seemed to have put his cock everywhere in Manchester and Cheshire, based on the stupid tabloids, and the 33-year-old Sheffield man seemed to have been very glad to fly out of England and escape all that media scrutiny after his latest affair/break-up/illegitimate child/whatever. And John, though seemingly more settled and content these days, had has his little scandals too, a pair of sex pests and horny philanderers, and... two of the more forward adventurers on that rooftop, he dimly remembered, the exact details last in a boozy haze.
Kevin fingered himself and stroked his shaft, picturing the way the two burly men had wrestled and fought in the courtyard, giggling like schoolboys, whilst the bulky 5ft10 right-back had fought to get his 6ft2 opponent into a headlock, all bulging biceps and straining neck veins. Grunts and groans as the fight continued and big Stonesy got the upper hand, almost wrestling the older lad to the ground, both of them wheezing out delighted laughs as the fight got rougher and fuller; Kevin had watched quietly from where he sat enjoying a zero-alcohol beer, ignoring the semi in his loose cotton trousers.
And like big muscular Ruben, he pictured the two of them in the changing rooms, ostentatious and unabashed in their well-defined bodies and generously endowed downstairs regions; two more English lads who didn't seem to mind the huge obvious bulges in their kit when jogging out into a game, just like Jack Grealish...!
He thought of others, his fantasy daydream blurred with serious consideration: a firm private determination to scratch this itch and try this new taboo. He tried a second finger but found himself too tight. More spit, more stroking, more focused effort to relax, contradictory but necessary.
He thought of the other big defender, 6ft3 Spaniard Rodri, and wondered if the giant 27-year-old had any kinks or curiosities, or was as blandly well-behaved as he appeared and sounded. Kevin found it difficult to imagine beyond Rodri's placid professional appearance, but he tried: he wondered what the tall defender was like in bed, how loud or aggressive he was with his beautiful wife, and how he fucked, whether he became as animalistic and playful as Jack or Kyle or John.
He thought too of his Austro-Croatian teammate, who like Rodri had been in his group for this afternoon's session: he supposed that 29-year-old Mateo Kovacic looked every bit as wild and sexed-up as Rodri looked serious and proper, and he wondered if the 5ft10 player had ever been adventurous or curious in the way that some Premiership footballers seemed so prone to. It was such a male-dominated environment, Kevin reminded himself nervously, it was no wonder so many of them... tried stuff. He tried to picture big Mateo going to work on his woman, and then on himself, but something about this latest little fantasy didn't feel right and he frowned speculatively as his mind roved on.
There was the younger new addition to the defence, of course, and he pictured the big broad grin on the dark furry face of the other Croat: the tall dark-haired beast who had joined their centre-back options from Germany last summer. Was Josko Gvardiol really just 22? He seemed far too developed for his young age, tall and broad and thickly bearded, but totally full of energy and bounce - how much of that energy and bounce did the Croatian centre-back take into the bedroom? That was more like it, the thought of big built Gvardiol seemed to arouse the Belgian more than Kovacic or Rodri, and he suddenly wondered if he'd ever caught the Bundesliga import giving him lingering stares or suggestive grins when they sat opposite each other at team meals or on the coach to away fixtures?
Kevin shifted his position, lifting the one leg higher, arching his back more, letting his buttocks slide sweatily over the plastic lid; he tried again, managing to get two thick fingertips into his virgin hole, and emitting a long low moan of pained enjoyment. Two fingers felt so much, how did a guy really take a full cock...?!
He thought of another option, a less obvious one, but the player on their squad he knew to be most firmly into such naughty activity: young Phil Foden, a more manly 23 than the weedy kid who he'd first befriended. Had Tommy Doyle, before he left for Sheffield, ever known that his best mate was so kinky and open-minded...? Kevin was sure that couldn't be true, and the sight of Phil on all fours on that outdoor table, about to be shared by Jack and Kyle and John... fuck.
Just this morning, Kevin had crossed path with the prodigy midfielder, the homegrown talent of their international line-up, and noticed just how the youngster was looking more built and muscular, more developed and manly, less the Stockport brat who they had all bantered and protected like a little brother as he joined their ranks. As the only remaining senior player who Pep Guardiola had inherited when taking over Man City, Kevin considered himself part of the furniture at their elite club, but he supposed that his time in the youth academy made young Phil the longest-serving player in this team.
The 5ft7 Englishman had seemed to be arguing with the boss when Kevin passed them on his way out - or not quite an argument, certainly no shouting, but a stern disapproval on Guardiola's face, and a brattish pout to Foden's - a disagreement of some kind between the gloried manager and the up-and-coming star player. Kevin hadn't given it much thought, knowing how Pep's demanding nature and pursuit of perfection could cause such tensions between manager and egos - though he himself had been too mild-mannered to ever clash with the boss, and he'd always seen his friend Phil as the boss's Golden Boy.
But as Foden strode on out ahead of him, de Bruyne had found himself unable to stop checking out the broadening shoulders and firm pert backside, then, catching up with him as they both ran out, the bouncing bulge in the front of his fresh shorts - less ostentatious than Grealo or Walker or Stones, but very much there, and tugged and rearranged in swift movement by a surly-faced young Phil, who ignored his attempts to start a conversation, clearly in a mood about his disagreement with the gaffer.
Panting now, Kev continued to finger himself with two digits up to the knuckle, his face strained and red and dripping with sweat, whilst his other hand pumped his dick in long slow motions, bubbling pre-cum oozing - he thought that there was something much less intimidating about young Phil than the other guys who had cycled through his mind, the other `options' in this squad of muscle and testosterone. He knew that young family guy Foden was into more dirty fun than anyone would guess, though he supposed not quite in the way he was looking for...
The 32-year-old felt frustrated and angry at himself, roving through these supposed options as if any of them would automatically want to fuck him should he offer his big white arse to them - he was sure lots of them thought him a dull ginger brick! All tense and jangling, he tickled his hole with two fingertips and wanked his cock more rapidly, eager for the satisfaction and release that was coming his way. Various sexualised images of his City teammates in their sweat-dripping training gear out on the astro-turf rolled through his mind's eye, from bulging Grealish and broad-chested Walker to pouting Foden and big grinning Gvardiol. He pictured a flex of biceps from smiling Dias and a cheeky wink from Kovacic and the hard serious stare of Rodri - and the whiskery bearded features of little Bernardo Silva, who'd also been on that roof terrace of sin and transgression.
Kevin shot his messy watery load down his ginger-furred thighs, panting loudly, and remaining tensed in that position for two long minutes, letting his heart rate recover. And then he was at the sink, scrubbing his hands, washing his face, wiping spunk from his thigh, but unable to do anything about the dripping sweat that rolled over his pecs and tummy and down the backs of his calves. His dirty sweaty kit felt chafey and uncomfortable against his pale pimpled skin, and he really wasn't up for a couple more hours of training before he could get an ice-bath.
He looked himself down in the mirror with the same mingled satisfaction and regret as came after these augmented wanks, feeling dirtied by the act of playing with his bottom, and troubled by the desperate cravings that told him he needed to take it further - the fantasies of being fucked by Jack or Ruben or Mateo faded into the background again and, without much feeling, he could even resolve to himself that he would give up the prospect, stop taunting himself with this idea of giving himself over to another man's phallic power.
He checked the mirror: he looked a sweaty mess, but he had when he scrambled into this disabled loo. A last wash of the hands and face with cold water, still beetroot in the cheeks and brow, and he unlocked the door to leave. Turning the corner, he stumbled straight into someone else, someone who smelt of aftershave rather than sweat, who exuded a cool calm rather than overheated testosterone - and whose proximity to the corner meant that Kevin was stumbling right into him, almost rubbing his sweaty presence against his polo-necked t-shirt and pushing hairy arms. Their faces had brushed very close and for a second Kevin felt someone else's breath mingle with his as if the dangerous prospect of a kiss was floating on his near horizon - he opened his eyes and stared into those of the other man, matching his 5ft11 height, an intense moment of surprised stare between them.
And then de Bruyne was shuffling back, blinking dizzily, surprised that neither he nor the other man had gone tumbling over as they mindlessly walked straight into one another - Ah, Kevin,' drawled the Catalan accent of the older man, and his manager stared patiently forward at him, still close, still calm, gently smiling. These are yours?'
The ageing Spanish football coach stood in front of him with a water bottle in one hand and a pair of unlaced boots held up in the other, proffered forward. I was about to become very angry at someone for leaving their things around,' Pep Guardiola explained in a bemused voice, but I see you were just, aha-' He nodded across to the ajar door, and Kevin gawped dumbly at him as if he had just been caught wanking and fingering - but he also felt grateful for the calm authoritative presence of the 53-year-old former player, the manager with whom he had worked so closely and so well for all these seasons.
Yeah, mine,' the Belgian told the gaffer after an awkward pause. Sorry-'
No problem,' Guardiola assured him, handing them over. Are you well?'
Yes, yes,' Kevin rushed, although he was sure his awkward daze must show on his red face- He was cut off by the Spanish man, who planted a firm caring hand on one shoulder. You look too hot,' Guardiola told him. Is today too much? Do you need to finish early? Hey?' A squeeze and a rub to the shoulder and then the clammy side of his neck. You are working too hard this week - remember we need to look after you, my Kevin!'
Still dazed in the wake of his orgasm, de Buryne smiled weakly and nodded back at the gaffer, holding onto his boots and bottle, and enjoying the reassuring touch of that experienced hand, sad when it patted his outer arm and left him. He stared thoughtfully at the boss, the golden-tanned and silver-bearded handsomeness of the 53-year-old, the beginnings of a new thought entering his overheated brain, then cut off as Pep began to speak quickly to him about some new strategy for Friday, some new plan to break their Spursy curse on away fixtures at Tottenham. Kevin just nodded vaguely, until Pep paused and laughed.
You need a siesta,' the boss said. Or a massage.' He nodded away behind him. Go. Finish early. You need to cool down and recover - I will explain to the others. Go on.' And then he was pulling in for a hug, in spite of the sweat that dribbled down Kevin's neck and arms, seemingly unconscious of the way it marked and stained his expensive shirt. You are our treasure, KDB, and we must treat you well.' It was a strong and lingering hug and one Kevin felt intensely, sad again when it ended and the chief was pulling away from him with a vague grin - the two men seemed to be looking at each other differently, sizing one another up, but Kevin's overactive imagination might be projecting that.
He took slow steps away, still nodding. `Thanks, boss - I really do need to cool off.'
You go do that,' Pep instructed. Leave it with me.'
And with that, the City coach was striding away, lean and tall and elegant, and the overheated Belgian watched him go before trudging thoughtfully in the direction of a cold shower - his thoughts were scrambled and full of post-wank regret, but they were also parting and reforming to accommodate a new idea, a new option. Oh, though the most daring corner of his brain, what would it be like to be fucked by a man of Pep's confidence and experience...? The rest of him shot down this stupid idea and he told himself firmly that what he needed was a cold cold shower and a lie down in a dark room - nothing else!
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