Part fifty-three: Room 321
Phil Foden sat silently at the centre of a long dinner table and listened half-interestedly to the guys on either side of him discussing Leicester City's recent form, all minds on the game tomorrow. The 19-year-old midfielder had been hearing nothing else all week in training and had been doing his damned best to keep his mouth shut and maintain a low profile of late. The Stockport lad knew that his bright future at Manchester City depended on calmly weathering this recent scandal and easing his way back into Guardiola's good books.
Young Phil knew he had been something of a golden boy at the squad, and he'd always done his best to stay humble and reserved in spite of the hype. Back in the day, when he'd picked up his Young Player of the Year Award, it had been tough not to get dazzled by the limelight, but he'd done his best. He'd always kept out of trouble, well, other than getting his missus up the duff when they were both 18, admittedly; but that wasn't exactly weird in Stockport, and he was doing his best to be a good young father in spite of the busy circumstances. There had been no unnecessary scandal around any of it. He had kept his nose clean and worked hard. And now...
Picking at the leftover pasta on his dish, he looked up and down the table to the two players he sullenly held responsible for his recent shade: Kyle Walker and John Stones. Both lads looked pretty casual tonight at the evening meal in their Leicester hotel, though he knew they'd been bollocked heavily by the bosses, fined and chastised; Phil himself had received no OFFICIAL sanction, he reminded himself, though the gaffer had barely looked at him since that night. He cowered at the memory and took a last, tasteless mouthful of his dinner.
Keep your head down, he told himself for the hundredth time. Keep your head down, keep working hard, do as you're told: you'll be back on the starting line-up in a month or two. You'll end the season on your way into your prime, your 20s. You will be the Man City hero they predicted! The little self-affirming voice in his worried head dissipated at some interruption from the lad on his right, Raheem Sterling, who was quizzing him about what he thought of various Leicester big names.
Me, I think Vardy is a total dirty bastard,' Sterling confided with a rough laugh, absolute filth on the pitch – and off it, I heard.' He nudged Foden and gestured to the guy beyond him, to include Aymeric Laporte in their conversation. `There's some funny rumours about that bloke going around, you know,' the young Londoner told them in a mysterious tone.
The 25-year-old Frenchman on Phil's other side gave Raheem a dubious look, and Phil forced himself to take interest in their dialogue. `Rumours?' Foden asked distantly, putting down his cutlery and squinting at Sterling.
`Yeah,' the 26-year-old told them with a knowing look on his face.
But exactly what sordid gossip Sterling had picked up on the grapevine was not to be shared tonight, as there was a rough clapping of hands from the end of the long table of dining footballers and their attending staff. At its head, Pep Guardiola had got to his feet, dressed down casually for the evening in a simple sweatshirt, not the usual sartorial peacocking of the lauded manager. Phil turned and made a performative gesture of attentiveness – he ALWAYS listened carefully to what their boss had to say, anyway, but he knew right now he needed to look even more focused and committed. He could tell some of the others thought him a bit po-faced and sycophantic, but he didn't care. He had utter respect for old Pep, and he needed the boss to forgive him for his... indiscretion.
It was hardly Pep's greatest pep talk, but it was kept short and focused, and there was a lot of nodding and muttering from the players. City's financial misconduct had been all over the press this week and Guardiola had some firm comments for all of them on how tomorrow's game needed to be a display of their talents and quality, heads held high to ignore the furore. Vague threats of relegation and other sanctions were being touted by the papers, but they must be ignored, and all that would matter would be tomorrow's score-line. At that point, the lads applauded their imposing leader, and some banter ensued about how many hat-tricks their talismanic Aguero might grab against the Foxes. Phil laughed along with this and watched the handsome Argentine take his bow but felt none of the playful arrogance washing over the players.
It was a pretty swish hotel, this one, and after dinner there was some R & R time for the squad, winding down after dinner before a strict curfew. Phil stood at the corner of a pool table nursing a pint of soda water, eyeing the watch on his wrist and keeping the curfew in mind: an early night for him, perhaps, and maybe Guardiola would notice that he was being extra-cautious.
This was, after all, their first away trip since the Spurs game, the night when Foden had fucked up.
He looked a little sourly over to where Walker was in the middle of taking a shot, leaning over the table to get his angle right, and making some lewd joke at his opponent, Benjamin Mendy. Foden was well-aware he had made bad fucking choices that night, but he wasn't harsh enough on himself not to feel a certain amount of spite for the two older blokes who had led him... astray. He knew it had been mostly Kyle's plan, that was for sure, the guy was a real slut of a man. Only last week, the team had been cracking jokes about the revelation he'd managed to get yet another social media tart pregnant during a brief break from his missus. A lot of the jokes had compared him to Foden, with some stupid banter about which of the pair was more ridiculously fertile and needed to be kept away from the other lads' wives and girlfriends.
The 19-year-old footballer felt a burst of annoyance at sleazy Walker and backed away from the little huddle at the pool table, unable to watch the Sheffield brute joke about and enjoy himself, utterly shameless in the wake of his latest scandals. From the smirks and sniggers Phil had picked up in training lately, the shared prostitute incident hadn't remained exactly as secret as he might have expected, or Guardiola might have wanted – and it was hard not to believe Kyle himself would have put the word about.
As Phil left that corner of the hotel's communal lounge area, he ended up bumping straight into big tall John Stones, almost spilling his soda water down the front of the man's hoody, and colouring in his cheeks with annoyance at the little collision. John grabbed his arms to steady him and fixed him with a piercing look.
`Everything okay, Philly lad?' the Burnley bloke asked, beaming down at him.
`Er, yeah, great,' Phil said, and he shook off the other man's hands from his fairly skinny upper arms, annoyed at his own distracted state and that he'd wandered into this prick, of all of them. He didn't think Stones was QUITE so responsible for what had gone on, but he'd been part of it, another smug older player with less to prove...
You sure?' John asked, insistently. Hey, you're not half as in the doghouse as I am, trust me...'
`Let's not talk about that,' Phil muttered in his local Manc accent, shrugging away from the bigger player and glancing back to where Walker was whooping and cheering at his third victory in a row at the pool table, spanking Mundy and high-fiving a couple of other guys about him. He scowled distantly at the sleazy figure of his older teammate, then noticed that John too was looking over that way with a slightly irritated look on his model good looks.
`He's such a humble winner, huh,' Stones muttered in a frustrated voice.
Phil looked at him in surprise. Those two were always as thick as thieves. Perhaps the prostitution scandal in that hotel room had brought more consequences than he realised, if it had caused some falling out between these two lads! He sipped his soda and shrugged his vague agreement. He is beating everyone he plays,' he commented noncommittally. How come you aren't there challenging him, eh?'
Huh? Oh, er,' John said with his own vague shrug of the shoulders. We're not attached at the fucking hip.'
Phil squinted a bit at this odd reaction and scratched his chin. I did hear you weren't allowed to share a room any more after last time,' he said, a tiny bitterness in his tone. Probably for the best.'
Stones was still staring, quite intensely, across the room, and resting his hands at his hips. Hmm, yeh, something like that,' he grunted. Good to get some space from him.' Then he turned, seeming to remember Phil was next to him, and gave him a more earnest look of apology. I am sorry you got in trouble cos of us,' he said in a low voice, it was just meant to be a laugh... we never thought...' Sigh. `Well, never matter. You'll be fine. You didn't even get a fucking fine like us. So...' Shrug.
Phil knew this was true, but he was irked by the dismissive tone – the same patronising attitude he always got from the more experienced blokes, the same attitude that had spurred him into joining their dirty antics in the first place! He rolled his eyes at John's unconvincing apology and walked off to ditch him, checking his watch again.
A few of the others were lounging about a cluster of sofas and armchairs watching TV, and he made his way over to join them, ready to kill a short bit of time before heading up to bed. He tried to shift his mood, quit sulking, forget his resentment. He liked Kyle and John really, he didn't want to be stropping at them like the stereotypical teen he hated being labelled. It was just tough to relax and enjoy his work here when he felt under such scrutiny and pressure and had so much responsibility back at home at such a young age.
He was just about to slump into a free spot on the sofa beside Sterling, when a gentle tug on the sleeve of his jumper alerted him to another interruption. This time it was Kevin De Bruyne, his roommate, a cup of coffee in his other hand. The smooth Belgian gave him a curt nod before speaking. `Philip, quick message,' the serious-faced older defender, leaning in.
`Er, yeh?'
`Slight room adjustment,' the 28-year-old told him.
`Oh?'
A slightly bored sigh from the Belgian. Yes, I am to room with Kyle,' he said, without relish, as the chief is a bit... worried about his behaviour. Apparently.' The strawberry blond guy rolled his eyes and sipped his cappuccino. `So we will not be "roomies", as you English say.'
Right,' Phil said, surprised but unfazed by this, a little curious at what the new plan was. So who am I rooming with then?' He found himself looking back a little anxiously about the room, unsure who was going to be lumbered with now. De Bruyne was quiet and serious but decent company for Phil, and perfect for keeping out of trouble...
The older bloke made a funny face, rubbed at his tufty ginger goatee, and leaned in close before saying anything. You are to stay with Mr Guardiola,' he said simply, though it was obvious in his eyes that he found this news as odd to deliver as Phil did to receive. They stared at each other for a long moment. Apparently,' Kevin continued softly, `I did not do a good enough job of keeping you away from... mischief! Huh.' Another slow sip of cappuccino, and then a lick of its frothy milk from his light moustache.
I'm... rooming with the gaffer?' Phil asked, taken aback. But...'
That is what he said,' De Bruyne confirmed in a slow, uncertain voice. If you want to complain then – you know – complain to HIM, not to me...' He patted Foden on the shoulder. `At least you do not have to listen to that rough man and his snoring, huh.' And with that the Belgian strode off, and left Phil dawdling behind the sofas. He stood there for a minute or two, turning this odd information over in his head. It was unheard of, wasn't it? And quite embarrassing, the more he thought about it: he was so untrusted that he was going to be roomed with the fucking manager himself? It felt like a detention or something.
He decided that after this turn of events, he couldn't face muscling his way onto the sofas and joining the other blokes who were watching some banal shite, or heading back to the pool tables, or trying to make conversation with the lads lined up on barstools supping soft drinks and discussing their plans for a free Sunday off. Foden marched out of the relaxation lounge and across the marble surfaces of the hotel foyer, trying to work out if there was any chance this was a joke (unlikely) or a misunderstanding (even less likely) on De Bruyne's part. The teenage prodigy reached the reception desk and met with the smiling lady there. Can I have my room key, please?' he asked, unable to hide the youthful tremble from his voice, feeling so chastised by the rooming arrangements that Kevin had just shared with him. He watched as the receptionist clicked about on a tablet for a few moments, mumbling to herself about a last-minute change, and then – Oh yes, Room 321, that's... odd, but... here...' And with one of her bright, false smiles of rouged lip, a heavy keyring was dropped into his waiting palm.
Even the fucking receptionist had noticed and thought it weird, he grumbled to himself in the lift on his way up to the third floor of the expensive suburban hotel. From what he'd observed earlier, most of the other lads weren't even on this floor, never mind rooming anywhere near Guardiola tonight! He clutched the key tensely in his hand and made his way down a long broad corridor until he found the right door. He hesitated before opening it... Presumably the gaffer was already up here, and he wondered what lecture or monologue he should expect from the gifted but intimidating City manager.
After a few moments' procrastination, Foden turned the key in the door and let himself in. A TV was on, but silenced, and some Spanish music was playing quietly somewhere, though the room seemed momentarily empty. It was bigger than Phil had expected; he hadn't seen the suites downstairs that the other lads were sharing, but this was certainly more spacious and luxurious than normal. Oh right, then, this was how managers lived it up on away games, was it?
He drifted into the centre of the room, and then the door to the suite's bathroom opened, and Pep emerged in the middle of drying his face on a towel, a hotel-branded dressing gown over his silk pyjamas. It was an odd sight, somehow, the 49-year-old Spaniard, who Phil could only ever quite picture in slim-fitting dark suits and the sporting gear of the training ground, up here in his bathrobe and silks like some Latin aristocrat. The handsome, tanned face of salt-and-pepper bearding gave him a thin, grim smile, and a nod.
`Good evening,' Pep welcomed him a little sternly.
`Evening,' grunted Phil a little shyly.
You must be thinking... "what the hell",' Guardiola guessed accurately. He smiled a little more freely at Phil's inevitable expression of panic and bewilderment, and then sighed. Philip,' the Spanish manager said, always pronouncing the two syllables in a strangely pitchy way so different to any native speaker, `I need to keep an eye on you. After last time, eh!' A rough laugh then, and a shake of the older man's head: concerned, but not angry.
`I've apologised repeatedly,' Foden said quietly.
You have,' Pep agreed. But you are young and foolish.' And with that, apparently, the formality of the conversation was over. Tightening the cord around the waist of his robe, Pep moved across the room to lower the volume on a Bluetooth speaker, and went to the desk and chairs at the far end of the room, positioned by the generous windows overlooking the city of Leicester. A laptop was open and a variety of notebooks and documents were spread across the table.
Phil stood watching as Pep took a seat at his desk, feeling again like a naughty schoolboy, dismissed. He dumped his kit bag at the foot of the nearer double bed, and looked around him, taking in again just how spacious and more refined this suite actually was, nothing like the often cramped shared rooms footballers tended to be given on these trips, even at a big-money club like Manchester City. He had a good look around him, huffed a bit, and then pulled off his jumper and trainers and flopped onto the bed, pulling out his phone to check messages from the family.
Make yourself at home,' called Pep's voice distractedly, I have some work I need to do before I call it a night... but do not mind me. Relax yourself. Just... stay out of trouble, hah!'
Phil looked over his way with a mixture of annoyance at the implication and growing appreciation for the gesture. Was this a punishment, or a protection? All he'd wanted was to keep his head down, and out of trouble, and keep the gaffer happy, so... Well, was this really such a shitty outcome for the night? He sighed to himself, and tried to make himself comfy. He popped some music on his phone, pulled on his headphones, and spent some time catching up on messages to his girlfriend, who bombarded him with pics of their baby boy, and the rest of his family and hometown pals. As the evening wore more fully into night, he made himself a cup of tea, tried to read a crime thriller he'd been bought for Christmas, and generally kicked about the room – all the while, Pep hunched over his desk, humming to himself, and made two or three short phone-calls.
After a while, Foden found himself yawning, and decided bedtime was approaching. He pulled his jumper up and off, keeping on his thin white tshirt, and went into the bathroom to strip off his tracksuit bottoms and pull some jogger shorts over his undies. He brushed his teeth, washed his face, stared at his slightly spotty complexion for a few vain moments in the mirror. He felt his mood lightening: maybe he would make the pitch tomorrow after all, if the boss was THIS interested in his wellbeing!
When he went back through to the main room, Pep was getting up from the desk, a weary look on his lined, handsome face, and Phil felt a surge of empathy for the big boss. Of course he knew how much pressure a Premiership manager must be under, but Pep rarely showed it; tonight, he looked older, and harassed. This week's media storm must have been really shit for him, Phil realised, and his own prostitute antics with Walker and Stones seemed trivial and irrelevant by comparison.
`All good, chief?' Phil asked as he approached his bed again.
Oh, yes,' the Spaniard said in a distant voice, everything is... under control.'
`Yeh? Glad to hear it, er, sir.'
The older bloke chuckled a bit, switching off the lamps at the desk and turning off his music too. Sir?' he asked a little teasingly, then muttered something to himself in Spanish. Pep will do,' he said forcefully. `As we are... "roomies", after all...!'
Phil smiled awkwardly at this and pulled himself up onto his bed in his tshirt and shorts, checking his phone one last time then shoving it down beside the bed to plug into its charger. He watched with one eye as Guardiola pulled off his robe and sat on the other bed in the loose-fitting dark blue silk of his pyjamas. The two men turned to look at one another, as if both really acknowledging the oddness of their room-sharing, the 30-year age gap, the awkward scandal that had led them here. Phil considered another apology for his stupid actions that last away trip, but what was the point? How many times could he apologise to his boss, try to shift the blame, try to justify his rash decision and stupid transgression...?
`I do remember what it was like to be young,' Guardiola said then, interrupting his thoughts.
Phil shifted forwards a little to the side of the bed, looking his way, thinking over this comment. `How do you mean, boss?' he said quietly.
Pep just smiled to himself. I do get it,' he continued. That night. With the erm...' He seemed to struggle either for the English word, or for the right euphemism, but Phil chuckled uncomfortably and then they both laughed. `It is difficult, being a hot-blooded young man, a footballer, and having to deny your... urges, before games.'
We manage,' Phil replied instantly. That night, gaffer, it was just – a bad choice – I mean, I really thought that...' He grunted, annoyed by the weedy sound of his own pleading voice. `I got carried away,' he said hotly.
Pep just nodded. Of course, of course... you are nineteen!' A slight scowl from the silver-bearded man opposite him. Those two... Well, they should know better, they should...' Again, he looked like he couldn't quite find the right phrases or idioms. He settled for a wise, knowing laugh. `I do remember the hot blood,' he summarised in a sympathetic tone that made Phil feel incredibly relieved and understood after all.
`I was very stupid,' he said, hanging his head a little.
Yes,' Guardiola agreed, but... mostly you were young, and... fiery.' He sighed. You know you can just...' Another slightly awkward laugh from the long-retired Barcelona defender. Please yourself, so to say...'
Phil took a moment to add up the awkward phrasing and then he let out an embarrassed little snort of laughter. `Sir!' he protested through his embarrassment.
Pep waved a hand. Such Englishness,' he said dismissively. If you cannot abide by a sex ban, you can enjoy yourself without...' He mimed the reckless spending of money like some gangster from a music video. Fools, fools. What did she even cost?!' He laughed heartily, and got up from his bed to switch off the rest of the lights in the big spacious suit. Phil watched him with embarrassed but amused eyes, listening to his wheezing weary chuckle. Next time, please do have a "wank", Philip,' the Spanish manager trilled in a playful voice, lighter and more friendly now, `rather than getting in outside "help"... It will cost a lot less in NDAs and wage fines!' He flicked switches one by one until all that remained was the single lamp between the two big beds, and he returned down the gap between them and sat down closely opposite to Foden.
I'll keep that in mind!' the youngster told him, mortified but titillated. Although,' he pointed out, `it's not like I can just do that tonight, is it?!' And with that silly little gambit of a joke, he pulled his legs up and away and yanked up the heavy, expensive sheets of his bed, which felt so much more comfortable than the cheaper hotel beds these places usually used en masse. Fucking luxury up here, it really was. He listened to Pep's gruff laughter as he slid into bed and rested his head back on the pillows, and realised the man was still sat at the edge of his bed watching him.
`Why can you not?' Pep asked with bemused bluntness.
Phil turned to look properly at him, an awkward half-smile on his face. `Sir!'
`Pep.'
`Er, Pep... hah. I mean... I'm not going to... toss one off while... I mean, you're just... Hah... Sir!'
The manager chuckled and stood up but didn't really move from the gap between their beds. Phil stared at him in the dull glow of their remaining lamp. `You do whatever you need to do, Philip!' exclaimed Pep's voice, just before the click of a final switch and the last light vanished, drenching them in darkness. Phil laughed weakly at this comment, but he didn't hear a responsive chuckle from the manager: had he actually fucking meant that?!
Foden lay there quietly, pressing back into the soft pillows, letting his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness of the room. He realised that in spite of the context, he actually was feeling a bit horny. Realistically, he often was: he hated being stereotyped as a teen, couldn't wait to turn 20 in a few months, but he knew his hormones were still crazy at times, and his sex drive could make him very restless and irritable, since with a one-year-old, he and his partner were hardly free to go wildly at it all the time. No wonder he'd given in to Walker's dirty little scheme so readily! As he dared to entertain memory of that beautiful hooker in the hotel room, he rubbed the front of his soft jogger shorts gently, feeling himself up, and picturing that dripping fanny in front of him as he'd fucked her, with the two bigger, older lads opposite, and...
`And do you mind if I also... please myself?'
The Spaniard's jerky speech and shocking question lifted through the dark, and broke Phil's frenzied train of thought. He lay there, a hand against the front of his shorts, and he looked over towards the other bed, though his eyes were not used to the dark yet and he could only make out the vaguest outlines in the room. He gulped, and responded as quickly as he could. `Oh, of course not, it's er, it's your room, boss, so... erm...'
Thank fuck,' came Guardiola's blunt reply. I really really need to.'
`Hah, right...' Phil lay there awkwardly, taken aback by this statement, but also realising that, well... fair enough. Pep was a married man, away from home. Sure he was 30 years older but he was still a bloke, and... God, how weird though, to think of someone as intense and serious as Pep Guardiola ever needing to just...! Hah...
`Sometimes you just really need it, yes?'
Phil let out another nervous chuckle. Sure,' he agreed, sliding his hand down the front of his shorts and underpants, finding the twitching flop of his semi and giving it a gentle tickle, reaching about his tight balls. Sometimes, yeah.'
`Perhaps not sometimes for a lad of... your age!'
`Er... hah... quite a lot yeh, sir...'
`Pep.'
`Yeah, Pep... sorry.'
He could hear the gentle rustle and stroking, of either those silk pyjamas or the bedsheets, and it jolted him with an odd voyeur's thrill, and a self-consciousness as he stroked on his own stiffening prick, lying there, easing his shorts and boxers down a bit to get it out under the duvet. Fucking hell, this was an odd turn up for the books, but... well, yeh, fair enough!
Foden stroked his cock, feeling its familiar length and thickness against his stiff fingers, pulling gently on the head and tugging back the foreskin then running his fingers down the shaft to his tight, loaded balls (how many days since he'd cum now?). He sighed a little to himself and let the tip of his dick brush sensitively against the bedding above. Was this too weird? Could he really wank off with his fucking boss lying four foot away, doing the same?! As if in answer to this question, out of the dark, came the faint but deeply masculine groan of Pep `pleasing himself'.
For some reason, Phil couldn't help but comment on it. `Sounds like you're enjoying yourself there, chief!' he whispered into the shadows, then sniggered a bit.
A throaty laugh responded. Oh, yes, sorry,' Pep's voice said, then another laugh. You don't mind my moans, eh?'
`Er, no, of course not, but...'
`Good. Good.'
Why the fuck did Phil now find himself imagining how big or different the Spaniard's cock was?! That was an odd thought. In response, he thought again back to that hot, sweaty foursome with the prostitute. He'd seen more than he bargained for of Kyle's dick and especially John's, that had looked huge, but it had been quite intimidating for him really, and yet... His confused thoughts were interrupted by another groan from the other bed, deeper and firmer this time.
God,' Foden muttered, as much to himself as the other guy, you know how to enjoy yourself over there, boss! I mean, Pep... hah...'
This comment, which Phil immediately regretted, was met with laughter, and then an uneasy silence in which Phil tried and struggled to fully rouse his erection and get going. He felt so self-conscious and uncertain. The next couple of little grunting groans from Guardiola were, like seeing John and Kyle naked, more intimidating than encouraging, some striking assertion of masculinity that made him feel younger and more weedy than he was.
`You are not having fun over there?' Pep asked, and the silky rustling sounds paused.
Phil didn't actually know what to say to that! `Er...'
Don't be so English,' chuckled Guardiola's voice. Relax. Enjoy. Let go.' More uneasy silence, as Phil pulled clumsily on his dick and rubbed a little at his bollocks, and then, `Spit in your hand, Philip, try that, eh?' He paused, but followed as suggested, spitting twice into his palm and then sliding it back against his sensitive prick. The natural lube didn't do a lot, but something about the interaction, the encouragement, certainly did the trick. He let out a very slight groan of self-conscious pleasure as he pulled back on his hard-on, and he heard Pep chuckle a little again. The manager muttered some encouraging phrase in Spanish that meant little to Phil, who had always been shit at languages.
`Thanks boss,' Foden mumbled and half-groaned again.
`That sounds better, Philip...'
`Er, yes... hah... erm...'
`Mmm, yes... Mmm...'
Yes, those moans were intimidating in their throaty relish, their deep Iberian passion, but they were also... exciting. Suddenly Phil wasn't just imagining that scene with the prozzer, he was almost picturing Pep joining in, instead of putting a stop to it! Alongside his hazy mental images of big meaty Walker and taller, paler Stones, he could just about imagine Pep getting in there, getting involved, and the pitchy squeals of that sexy girl on the bed, and... Unintended, a louder and wilder groan of his own pleasure sounded from his parting lips, and he heard a murmur of approval from the other bed.
Si, si,' groaned Pep, Philip...'
`Ohh... yes, boss...'
`Philip?'
`Mmm... yes... boss?'
`Are you close, Philip?'
`Mm-hmm...'
`Si, me too, yes... mmm...'
Foden could hear the frenzy in Pep's voice, in the rustle of silk, in the gentle creak of both their beds beneath them. He pulled energetically on his ample young dick, squeezing his eyes shut, and... Then came the sound of Guardiola's orgasm, a real guttural noise, a bestial moan that might have been quite alarming if it hadn't been so long in building up... and listening to it, Phil felt transported to a different set of bedsheets, that whore in front of him, but he wasn't the one fucking her, PEP was, and Kyle and John were there too, and... Oh yes,' he yelped, and spilled his load messily against the bedding, oh yes,' and grinding his head back into the pillows as he came, loud raspy breaths sounding from the next bed as Pep recovered and burst into heavy slow chuckles of pleasure. Phil groaned quietly and twisted his body and squeezed his cock.
Well done, well done,' breathed the manager's heavy voice in the darkness. Excellent work.'
Phil let out a strangled little laugh, smearing his cum-damp hand against the sheets by his thigh, catching his breath. Fuck. Er yeh,' he sniggered, er... thanks hah... cheers boss... phew...' He let his lean young chest rise and fall, took his time with each gasping breath. He could hear the purr and wheeze of Pep's more frenzied breathing, either because of age or because his masturbating had been much more forceful.
`I must... wash my hands... hah...'
Phil turned then, staring into the dark, as Pep's figure emerged from bedding into the space between their beds, a vague silhouette: the silky outline of his pyjama shirt could just be made out from behind but... beneath it, there was JUST enough light to make out the fleshy curve of his behind and bare legs, naked as he left his bed... Phil squinted but could make out no more, and then stopped to wonder why the fuck he was even trying! He squeezed his eyes shut and lay back properly, listening to Pep's footfall and the click of a bathroom light, the rush of water... He let his breathing slow and turned over, back to the other bed, and when Pep returned from the bathroom, still chuckling to himself, Phil feigned deep sleep, letting his breathing become quiet.
He heard a last little burst of quiet, warm laughter form the middle-aged Spaniard before the heavy flop of him falling back into bed. Phil lay on his side, the cum-stained sheet brushing damply at his hip, and he fought away the mental images he had let build up in the moments before his orgasm: the naked prostitute, legs spread... the naked men about her, muscles heaving, cocks bared... one by one, John, Kyle and Pep, going for it and pumping their pricks into her... and then that distinctive roaring groan of Guardiola's powerful climax.