Part seventy-eight: Three Captains
Hey big man,' read the text message flaring across the screen of the gadget, how u doing? Hope u keepin well in mad times, luv to the fam x' it continued. He smiled and put the device aside on the countertop, busying himself with the drink-making duties he'd adopted tonight, and wondering for a moment what could have inspired young Dan James to pop him a message this evening. Regardless, it was lovely to hear from the cheeky-faced youngster, who had been a welcome injection of energy and skill to the Welsh national side last year – he was disappointed now that the serious worldwide emergency had, amongst so many other things, put a stop to the games he might have enjoyed with plucky Daniel, friendlies and the postponed Euros tournament.
Gareth Bale turned his mind to the glassy bottles and mixers in front of him now, enjoying the excess and variety of his colleague and neighbour's home bar, and trying to remember the varied requests of the blokes at the poker table next door. The tall powerful Welshman whistled to himself as he cracked out some ice, mixed spirits, and flipped the caps on a few beer bottles, loading the various beverages onto a serving tray to take back through. He was already a little tipsy himself after two drinks, normally almost teetotal in his quest for peak fitness. Discipline had of course been weakened by the lockdown life, in this and many things.
Music and laughter tinkled through into the long open kitchen of the luxury villa, and Bale was about to follow it through when he remembered the little message from James. He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back across the kitchen to pick up his phone. He punched in a simple response: `all good now, such worrying time but staying safe here – hope u lookin after urself too, miss u little buddy! X' He pushed the kiss in out and then, in the lingering conservatism of south Wales, smirked at the open fondness of the habit, he NEVER put kisses on texts to blokes! Hah, had Dan put one on too? Silly twat. He grinned, shook his head, chuckled at the little cross on the screen, dismissed it completely. Nice to hear from the kid though, regardless.
Bale picked up the tray and headed through, following the merry noise to re-join the little soiree.
Spain was under tight lockdown, of course, and Madrid especially was almost shut down by the current quarantine, but HERE... Bale, and several of his well-paid teammates, lived in what was essentially a self-contained compound miles out of the city, though not far from one of Real Madrid's several top-notch training facilities. The compound was locked down from the outer world, they made sure of that, but the result was that the families inside continued to mingle and live as a friendly community, safe in the knowledge of the expensive virus tests the players had all undergone at the club before entering isolation.
Tonight was the latest in the ensuing social events the cluster of households had organised for one another, and though Bale was selfishly a little glad it wasn't HIS turn to host, he was greatly enjoying himself. They were all horribly worried about the outer world, but they were making the best of it, and looking out for each other – and as someone who had been a disciplined athlete since his early teens, Gareth Bale was finding something luxurious and relaxing in the dropped pressure of the indefinitely postponed leagues and tournaments.
A cosmopolitan, multilingual blur of manly banter erupted about the table as he delivered the drinks. Gareth grinned along with the joke, his Spanish good enough to pick up on the fact he was being referred to as their `wench' for the night. He shrugged off the silly joke with his wide, goofy smile, rolling his eyes at the masculine sparring, and passing bottles and glasses across the circular table to the gathered men. Their wives were having a parallel party a few villas away, probably a much wilder one, based on some of the resident WAGs, and a few designated losers had babysitting duty on their friends' behalf.
`Gracias, senorita,' cooed the Real Madrid captain to his left in his rasping Spanish tones, and then he delivered the punchline in the form of a swift noisy spank to Bale's backside.
Gareth couldn't totally suppress a little yelp of surprise but he quickly turned it into warm laughter, joining the general amusement of the group at Sergio Ramos and his gesture; the Madrid and Spain captain was guffawing into one hand, as incredibly pleased with his own simple humour as always, flashing a beaming white grin at the others for approval and then picking up his complicated whiskey cocktail to salute the `senorita'.
`Very funny, lads, very funny,' Gareth grunted in English, in no mood to provoke more laughter by trying to compose a comeback in Spanish. It had been seven years since he left London for Madrid, but he still had the vague sense of being the Brit abroad, the visiting fool.
With that, the 6ft1 Cardiff lad found his seat and took a long gulp of gin and tonic, pleased with his own mixing skills and the jovial mood of the night. He relaxed into his seat, casually glad that the jokey conversation quickly moved from his waitressing skills to the highs and lows of the night's poker playing. This made Valverde the new butt of the jokes, as the young Uruguayan had clearly never played before and was already losing out to the smirking, winking playboys around him.
Bale wasn't insecure enough to let a 21-year-old take over the gentle abuse in his place though, and soaked up the jibes and laughter as his own next few hands let him down and his cash on the table dwindled. He was shite at poker, he knew that, he didn't particularly care. He could remember being in Valverde's position seven years ago, a gawping newbie fresh from the UK, feeling completely out of depth in a sweaty Madrid apartment. He'd learnt that the winning was largely irrelevant. The camaraderie, the intense efforts to pull off ridiculous bluffs, and the fast-paced assessment of each guy's tells, that was the real fun... Well, those things, and the drinking.
To the drinking, he thought with treacle-like senses, slurping down the last of his gin and tonic and realising how quickly the night was passing. In front of him, Modric was dealing a final few hands and the gents were quietly assessing their remaining funds. They always played for real money, crisp wads of freshly printed notes handled possessively about the table: figures that would be disgusting and arousing to ordinary blokes but were comically small fry to the men on Real wages here, even a newbie like Valverde. Bale's Welsh roots sometimes balked at the decadence and showiness of how men lived and behaved here on the edges of Madrid, but it was his world now, after all these years. And every now and then, the ordinariness of English or Welsh life called to him, but his wife and kids were settled here, HE was settled here. There was much to love in the Spanish culture and the big-money lifestyle of La Liga.
The night wore on and, eventually, seemed to end, in a serious of half-joking confrontations between the others. Lost money, swaggering celebrations, reluctant handshakes. As time was called on a final game, Bale realised just how drunk he was feeling, and he grinned stupidly into a refilled glass on his way back from the kitchen. One last nightcap, Ramos had put it, taking control of his own home bar and slapping the backs of each guy forcefully in his drive to keep up party spirit.
The Welshman stood between the kitchen and the big dining room, enjoying this strong final gin, and mentally tallying his minor losses. He hadn't made a profit at a night like this in months, maybe years! He tugged gently at the collar of his black shirt, warm in this and his pale chinos. He made his way through into the big glassy square of the villa's downstairs lounge, with distant views of the city glimmering in the centre of a dark vista.
He could hear Valverde making a fuss, refusing a drink, pissed off at himself rather than anyone else. And Modric too seemed to be exiting, traipsing past Gareth to collect his denim jacket from another chair, grumbling to himself about Sergio being as big a cheat at the poker table as he was in a football stadium. Bale hooted with generous laughter at this dig, enjoying the familiar rivalries and in-jokes of squad life.
He placed himself on one of the white leather couches and stuck his big feet up on a stool, stretching his back muscles and sipping the G&T again – bloody hell, Sergio made them strong, didn't he?!
In came Toni Kroos, the level-headed German still sipping from a beer he had been nursing for some time, sliding into the parallel sofa and picking up a remote for the huge flatscreen TV. After him came Eden Hazard, the newest of the Real men at tonight's gathering. The short stocky Belgian was still in his first, now incomplete, season of La Liga, fresh from his successes at Chelsea in recent years. Laughing something at Kroos in German, he flung himself down at the other end of Bale's couch and lifted his feet up onto the same rest as he found a relaxed position.
Gareth smiled thinly at both men, quite used to moments like this. He had done his best with Spanish, but to be British was often to feel out of touch – so many of the European gents shared and overlapped different languages here, and being the only UK lad on the side could be momentarily isolating, even if almost everyone could speak strong English when they chose. The tall muscular striker smiled to himself at a familiar thought, and he interrupted them.
`Don't mind me, lads,' he barked out playfully, but in Welsh not English.
Kroos looked his way and burst out laughing, familiar with this trick, and always bonded with Bale by their arriving at the team at a similar time, newish together back in the day; Hazard, though, turned his dark handsome features and stared incredulously at the chuckling blokes. `What nonsense is he speaking?' the Belgian demanded with a stern frown.
Just a spot of Welsh,' Bale informed him coolly. We all have our own languages when we want to.'
Aha,' Hazard responded slowly, I see your point. Apologies, Gareth.'
They were joined by their host, who had a bottle of tequila tucked under one arm, and a short tower of shot glasses clutched in the other hand. He flashed his toothy white grin at them one at a time, laughing off the varied groans of dismay before placing the glasses down on a central glass table and pouring generous measures out. It is tradition,' he rasped happily, I insist... I insist...'
`Have those losers gone?' Kroos asked calmly.
`Yes, no drinky for them,' Sergio sighed, passing the tequila shots about.
`It is late,' Bale pointed out fairly.
Yes but we can sleep it off tomorrow,' Eden grumbled, spilling some tequila on his hand as he waved demonstratively and screwed up his face at the other two's departure. Pah! To our good health, senors, to our good health, and to the health of the world.' There was some hearty agreement to this, and the four men knocked back their tequilas.
Oh for fuck's sake,' Bale laughed, as Ramos immediately began to refill the glasses. No more, Sergio. No more.' He shook his head, which span, and rubbed one hand at his temples. He could already feel the morning's hangover that would make him irritable with the kids. He took the glass and knocked back the nauseating spirit all the same, and reclined further back on the squeaking white leather of the couch.
It was that point in the night: the short stroll to his own villa, the necked pint of water, the headachey cuddles with his wife, it all seemed too much effort. He knew he'd drank too much, he knew he'd been crap at the poker, but he was in a fuzzy headspace where the decadence of the night could last forever. Across from him, his German teammate was flicking through music channels and singing badly along to a few current hits; Hazard was animatedly boasting his victorious winnings, fanning Euro notes at their captain; Ramos was sprawled in a designer armchair by himself, eyeing the club newbie with indulgent patience.
As he often did when drunk with his teammates, Bale counted his blessings. A move out here could have been a fucking nightmare, so many British players sank in European leagues, home to the Premiership with tails between their legs. He was proud of the life he'd built here, and he enjoyed swatting away the intermittent poaching from English clubs desperate to lure him back to British turf. He grinned contentedly and listened as the other men slid from Spanish to English to German and, at one point, French, but that was just Eden ranting overexcitedly about how much he had fucked Valverde in the face with his superior poker skills. Alright, chill out, Bale thought, or said, it was hard to tell which by this stage.
At some point, Sergio had seized the television remote from Toni. The 6ft Spaniard strutted back to his armchair, flicking through some channels, and tossing the tequila bottle to Eden. `Pour some more, eh?' he said.
Hazard sniggered and made noises of reluctance, but did so. Kroos refused his shot, to much sneering from the other two, and Bale stared nauseously at the translucent yellow liquid being sloshed out by the Belgian. Ugh, really?' he asked groggily. I might have reached my limit, fellas. Ah... Eden... haha...' He clumsily took his fingers around the shot glass and looked apologetically at Toni, feeling almost as if he was betraying the other guy by giving in.
Still a no from me,' Kroos announced in his clipped German accent, an adamant frown on his lightly tanned face, running fingers through the blond sweep of his hair and wrapping his tattooed arms about his chest defensively. My head hurts already!'
Ramos muttered some Spanish insult that Bale suspected was more offensive if you understood all the connotations, but they all laughed lightly anyway. Bale looked up at the huge TV screen and raised his eyebrows in surprise at the channel their host had settled on. Was this a...? Yes, this was definitely a... Err, Serg,' he laughed hoarsely, do you pay extra for this channel, or...?'
Hazard gave a high-pitched little laugh of mischief. `Porno? Muy bien,' he exclaimed.
Kroos was frowning and shaking his head. What is wrong with you, Ramos?' he demanded a little prudishly. Have you not SEEN the woman you married, eh...?' He turned with a hint of teasing in his serious face, and began to mime the prodigious bosoms of Mrs Ramos, provoking gruff laughter from the others. On-screen, a more convincing pair of tits had just been exposed, as the attractive young maid by the pool seemed to find her clothes magically dropping off in front of her wealthy employer, who was stroking his crotch and staring obscenely.
Ramos was just cackling to himself and wafting the front of his loose-fitting woollen top, toying with the gold chain about his neck. She enjoys watching it more than I do,' he announced teasingly, waving at the screen, she is happy for us to pay – perhaps I should add a password to the channel, however! Ha ha...'
Eden was biting his lip and leaning forward a little in the couch, watching with interest as the miraculously naked blond in the video began posturing and exposing herself to the boss. Bale laughed a bit then, amused by the almost boyish interest the 29-year-old married footballer had in this seedy clip, compared with the puritan disapproval of tattooed 30-year-old Toni sitting opposite them. Sergio was still cackling delightedly to himself, presumably he was just leaving the porno channel on to provoke and entertain. Gareth found himself looking back at it, sizing up the 20-something performer and her almost cartoonishly attractive physique.
He'd never been much into porn, to be fair. Not to be arrogant, but he'd never needed it as such. Tall and athletic from a young age, and marked out as a prodigious talent from his early youth teams, he'd never gone short of pussy – and he'd met and fallen for his wife over ten years ago, though they had only just recently officially married. He was still wild for her, he was proud of their sex life even after a decade and three kids. Gareth wasn't the kinda guy who needed to wander onto crappy web searches to find his stimulation!
`Put it off,' groaned Kroos dismissively, waving a hand at the TV.
Relax,' cried Ramos intently. Relax, you stuffy bastard...'
The German frowned and waved his hand at his captain instead, dismissive. Stuffy!' he laughed back. I will go home and fuck my wife hard tonight – while you three stare at this plastic rubbish! Hah!'
`Go then,' responded Hazard bluntly. His small shifty eyes flicked from the screen to his teammate, and then he sniggered and began pouring more tequila into the glasses, watched eagerly by Sergio. Bale grimaced at the thought of another shot, and ran a big hand over his flushed face.
I will,' their midfield colleague said, rising up from the sofa and adjusting his dark jeans and baggy tshirt, shaking his head at Sergio as if really quite shocked by the casual pornography unfolding beside him. The young maid was now sitting on her employer's face, as you do when you run out of household chores to carry out in the nude. Kroos looked back at the screen, wrinkled his nose, judgementally, then turned Gareth's way. Are you coming, Bale?' he asked.
Gareth paused indecisively. It hadn't actually occurred to him to go anywhere. Yes, it was late in the night, the party was winding down... but a drunken lethargy had taken over his aching muscles, and this sofa was so impossibly comfy. But still, he couldn't face another round of the sour tequila in his mouth, and he wasn't sure he was sober enough to make much conversation with the other two, so perhaps he ought to-
Fine,' snapped Kroos curtly, irritated by his hesitation. I shall leave you three... wankers!' The usually placid German winger strode past the television and left the room, exiting the dwindling poker party just as the other two had shortly before. Bale watched him go with a vague sense that he really ought to climb up himself and head after him too, get home to bed, call time on this decadent weekend shindig.
`Fuck him,' chuckled Sergio from his louche pose on the armchair.
Yes, fuck him,' agreed Eden heartily, passing a shot glass to the Real Madrid captain and then offering another Bale's way. Stuck up German prick. Hehe.'
The Welsh striker stared down at the offered glass and its oily contents, his head throbbing and his tongue sticking distastefully to his palate. What was one more when you felt quite this fucked? He took it, rough fingers brushing Eden's, and he knocked it back in unison with the other men, all of them blinking and retching a little at the powerful taste, even seasoned Sergio who seemed to be composed 90% of the fucking stuff right now. Bale examined the other two in their reaction, Hazard wiping his stubbled mouth clumsily and Ramos finally screwing a lid on the bottle as he stretched and twitched his dark-tanned face.
Three international captains, Bale thought idly through the fug of alcohol, three football heroes, and look at us... what a hot mess!
And on screen, beside them, the tanned body of the girl was contorting into some uncomfortable position and being railed by the suit-wearing man, both actors grunting out Spanish profanities and working up a sweat for a viewing audience. Gareth blinked dizzily at it and undid a top button of his black shirt, unsure if the room was getting hotter or if the ridiculous clip was making him feel so sweaty all of a sudden. Or was he actually just sweating out neat tequila? That also seemed plausible.
`I've seen this before,' Sergio commented in a dry, weary voice.
`It is hot though,' muttered Eden, following it with a mitigating chuckle and shrug.
`Si, it is,' their host agreed despite his criticism.
`Yeh,' Gareth said, but vaguely, blinking again. It was, but it was – well, it looked so artificial and soulless. It was nothing like the grunting, passionate intercourse he loved with his wife, the wild nights trying to muffle each other's screams and only really losing control when away from home in some five-star hotel. Sex to the Welshman was rapid and spontaneous, aggressive but egalitarian; the shite on screen seemed saccharine and unconvincing. And yet... her body...
`What would you do to her?' asked Sergio thoughtfully.
Everything,' Eden replied instantly, still leaning forward in the couch, more like an excited child than an international icon approaching his 30th birthday. The Belgian rubbed a sweaty palm over his lightly haired chin and licked his upper lip. I'd fuck her senseless, the dirty bitch. Look at her. Yummy.' He added something else in either Dutch or German or Flemish, which sounded all the filthier for its alien syllables.
`Would you fuck her, Gareth?' Sergio asked sharply.
Gareth tore his eyes off the screen, where doggy-style fucking was spilling paperwork from a desk, and looked over the room at Sergio, who was staring intently his way and shifting positions in the arm chair, pulling up his sleeves to reveal some of the intricate tattooing there. Gareth found the curious twinkle in his teammate's eyes almost alarming.
Perhaps,' he said evasively. I'm not sure she's my type.'
`You prefer brunette,' Ramos said or asked, it was unclear, but his grin was playful and curious.
`I would fuck her whatever colour hair she had,' Hazard interrupted them, sat halfway between them, slumped in the same couch. As he spoke, he pushed a hand down the front of the elasticated smart-casual charcoal trousers he wore, as if to prove his point, fiddling with himself within the fitted garment and pulling his other arm up behind his head. Gareth stared in surprise at the wandering hand then noticed Sergio looking to; their eyes met as they flicked away from Eden's bold transgression.
Instinctively, Gareth wanted to comment on this, make a joke of it, rib the Belgian goal machine for his public fondling, but... well, he actually felt awkward drawing any more attention to it, and he felt so drunk and lazy, he could hardly even be bothered to slide further down the sofa away from the randy bugger! Instead, he looked again at Sergio, found that the 6ft captain was again watching Eden instead; watching as the ex-Chelsea player felt himself up openly and confidently and stared obliviously at the TV.
`Jesus,' Bale exclaimed eventually, shaking his head, then laughing.
What? I'm excited, horny, whatever word you want to use.' Eden glared defensively at him, hand still stuffed down the front of his trousers, then looked almost in appeal at their host. Do you mind?'
Ramos just laughed deeply and lounged back. Not at all Eden,' he said. Gareth, do YOU mind?'
The Welsh beast opened and closed his mouth and tugged at his shirt collar. `Well I don't fucking care, obviously,' he said, because it seemed like the most open-minded and relaxed response needed; his tone and swearing betrayed his tension. He was sick of always seeming to be the stuffy Brit here, the reserved one, he wasn't even fucking ENGLISH, and yet...
`It's so HOT tonight, no?' Sergio was saying then, and when he looked up, the older man was pulling the thin white top off and throwing it back behind his armchair, stretching out shirtless and flexing his arms. Gareth stared for a moment at the insanely ripped physique of the man, though it was a particular familiar sight after the past few weeks: the gardens of their villas touched at one end and many a hot day had greeted Gareth with the sight of his heavily tattooed neighbour working out in the smallest shorts he could find, as usual. Sunlight gleaming off tight brown muscle as the vain defender worked his body in a variety of gym set-ups around his big garden. An inch shorter than Gareth, but insanely fit at 34 and nearing the end of his prime. Gareth blinked his eyes and pulled them away; there was something about the detail and network of Sergio's innumerable tattoos that always drew the eye across them, trying to read that snatch of Latin or decode that little bit of awkward artistic symbolism.
It is hot,' Bale agreed. Can we open a window?'
`Just take your shirt off!' Ramos suggested with a gruff laugh to his voice. And then, lounging back, he ran both hands down the chiselled washboard of his decorated abs and teased fingertips at the waistband of his black skinny jeans, half-echoing Eden's more easy-going fumble.
Look at her titties bounce,' Hazard said, drawing the other men's attentions back towards the screen with a little groan of relish. Wish she was bouncing on me right now – so horny, so fucking up for it... hah!'
`We can tell that,' Bale said drily, fumbling with a couple of buttons and giving the other guy a dubious look, shifting uncomfortably on the squeaking leather; inadvertently brushing his knee against Hazard's as he did so. His eyes flicked up, and he saw that one of Sergio's hands was now tucked halfway into the front of his tight jeans, and a challenging grin had curled on his lips. There was always something complacent and daring in Sergio's confidence, the ease of a man who had sat on a throne here for so many years, a player at Real Madrid for nearly half his life! The 34-year-old let out a sleazy laugh and waved his free hand encouragingly in Gareth's direction.
Bale silently fingered down the front of his shirt until it hung loose, but he felt no relief; he was burning up, he could feel the hot embarrassed blush in his chiselled cheekbones. The groans and squeals from the TV were making it worse. Second by second, their volume increased, and it took him a moment to see that Ramos had the remote and was dialling it up for his own enjoyment.
Eden looked between them then, shifty, and suddenly pulled up on the crisp white tshirt he wore and dragged it up and off; he was noticeably less defined than either of the bigger men, his pale body toned and curvy instead. As soon as the shirt was off, both hands dove into the front of his elasticated waistband and he kicked his feet back up onto the shared stool, and Gareth felt an almost sympathetic twinge in his own crotch. Which was odd, cos this shitty video was doing NOTHING for him, was it? It was crossing his mind what he might get up to when he got back to his own villa, though, providing his wife was conscious enough to get excited... he suspected that might NOT be the case, judging by how these prosecco-fuelled girly nights often ended!
God,' groaned Hazard thoughtfully, imagine if she was HERE... we could share her...'
`Spit roast, I think you say in English,' sniggered Ramos.
Guys,' laughed Bale uneasily, we're all a bit pissed here...' He turned slightly, the shirt falling more open, his head spinning drunkenly.
You can't spit roast three ways,' Hazard pointed out, as if from experience; Bale dreaded to think what this randy fucker got up to in his Chelsea days! I would be fucking her beautiful behind,' he continued in almost rhapsodic tones, then gestured with an elbow to the Spaniard, `and Sergio would be ramming it in her mouth... Gareth, amigo, what would you...?'
Guys!' the Welsh gentle giant protested with a bashful groan, rubbing his face and pushing the empty shot glass away form him, smearing a trace of its sticky contents on the leather. This is getting a bit much isn't it...?'
Sergio loomed up from his seat, shrugging his shoulders whilst also reaching down and yanking open the buttons of his flies. Relax,' he said again. I feel good, Eden feel good, you feel good... and SHE... well, she feel reeeeally good...' He gestured playfully at the screen, where the pornstar was facing them all, her twits singing, railed from behind by her co-star, practically screaming out her expensive lust at them from the big HD flatscreen, the sex show seeming to fill the room, which span and whirled with too much tequila.
And then, when Bale lurched to the right a little and looked over, he started in shock: Hazard's restless hands were no longer inside the front of his charcoal trousers, but they had been pushed halfway down his thick footballer's thighs, and the short 29-year-old Belgian was casually tossing himself off, dick out on view, back stretching against the white leather, lips trembling with an almost attention-seeking little moan of pleasure. Oh yes,' he whimpered, I would love to be fucking her now...'
Gareth tried to say something but for a second time tonight, he couldn't manage it, too overwhelmed by the drunken atmosphere. He looked up, and Sergio was still standing in front of them, by the glassy coffee table, but his black skinny jeans were down about his knees, and the ripped muscular defender was fondling the front of some tight black designer briefs, staring with weird intensity at Eden's self-pleasure. He muttered something to himself in Spanish that Gareth only half-understood, picking up the words `naughty boy' somewhere in the middle.
Bale pulled his leg further from Hazard's, and he leant heavily on the back of the sofa, as if to pick himself up and fly out of the room as quickly as his talented feet could carry him. He rubbed at his chin and his cheek and his temples and tried to let his drunk thoughts settle. A squeal from the TV was distracting; a change of position from the performers, a better view of her cunt now. Wow. Now that WAS intense.
More intense: his eyes swung back and – fucking hell – the black briefs were inched down, stretching taut between the visible muscle of Sergio's lean thighs, and the 6ft defensive warrior was stroking on a long thick chorizo with a leer on his face. The complacent fucker wasn't even bothering to look at the TV, he was probably just so turned on by the thought of his own exposed physique and art gallery! Jesus Christ...
Come on,' groaned the Spaniard invitingly. You no excited, Gareth, amigo?'
Yeh,' drawled Eden, a foot from him on the couch, pulling back and forth on his very erect tool, just have a play... it's only a laugh...' There was an amusing London twang to Hazard's English, he noticed again, too many years at Chelsea.
Gareth sat stiffly on the couch, surprised by the little throb of anticipation he felt between his legs. Well, he figured, there was no way he was getting a shag tonight. A hungover humping was the best this weekend would offer him, around the decadent gendered partying their little community had organised. A wank wouldn't hurt. But in front of these two blokes?! He uneasily stroked the front of his chinos and glanced back at the screen. Oh but of course, a second girl had arrived to join in, a curious neighbour. That happens ALL THE TIME.
Get it out,' urged Ramos, standing tall and playing with his stretching, veiny tool. Mmm...' He murmured inaudible Spanish to himself and dragged back on his foreskin. Gareth's eyes fixed for a few seconds on the apparent size of the arrogant defender's piece, and he blinked in alarm at its growing proportions.
Eden either read his mind or had the same realisation: `El Capitano... fucking hell...!'
A slow, smug laugh from the long-established Madrid hero. El burro,' he purred. The donkey', Gareth mentally translated, with a nervous and intimidated gulp.
And you?' Hazard grunted, turning his attention to the left suddenly. He was still toying with his own nob, which was an average-sized boner, comfortably fitting in his palm as he pulled idly on its length beneath neatly trimmed pubes. Are you a giant too, Gareth Bale?' An almost nasty, challenging laugh from the Belgian bloke.
It was the tone of laddish dare that pushed Gareth (or that last tequila shot, one of the two) to wrench open the button flies of his chinos, where his hand had been hovering hesitantly, and start pushing the tailored cream trousers down his muscular thighs a bit. He lifted his strong arse a second to get them and his grey boxer briefs away, and out came his semi. Gareth knew he was well-endowed in that department, though seeing Sergio's dangerous weapon handled just a metre in front of him was a challenge to a lifelong self-assurance in this department.
Big,' Eden was saying in an evaluative monotone, but not as big as El Capitano, hah.'
`Let it get hard,' Gareth grunted back, affronted by the almost bored tone of his teammate and the leering chuckle from their captain. Captain! They were ALL captains, all fucking leaders of men. Gareth thought about how powerful he felt back in Wales when leading those blokes, he always came back to Real with a seed of resentment, just one of Sergio's senors. Provoked, he took hold of his fat Welsh sausage and stroked down its length, letting his little fingers brush and tickle at the spread of his ball-sack.
But as he sat there, absurdly determined to get rock-hard and show off his girth and length to these seedy buggers, something even odder happened: he saw through a gin haze as Eden glanced back and reached one hand out towards Sergio, stood in the space before them, and ran two fingers along the veiny rod of his manhood. Gareth saw, wide-eyed, the note of surprise or concern on the Spanish captain's face, a tensing of his ripped body, but no effort to dismiss or fight off Eden's wandering touch, none at all!
In fact, Ramos just laughed, a little tinkling laugh of surprise and approval, one hand sliding up to run fingers through his greasy auburn hair, the other hand settling somewhere about his naval. His dick quivered and twitched, and Eden stroked it again. `So huge,' gasped the Belgian national captain, looking... mesmerised. A scream of delight from the TV screen that caught all of their attention, but Gareth glanced back, and even as he stared hungrily at the porn, Eden Hazard was slowly but surely wrapping his fingers around the donkey dick of Sergio Ramos.
`Shit, guys,' Bale grumbled uncertainly. He realised he was squeezing his own cock too tightly as he said it, but also that it was fully hard now. He glanced down at it, as if for reassurance, finding some weird comfort in the tall stretch of his Welsh prick, remembering the squeals it had plucked from many hot girls back in Cardiff as a teenager before the loving monogamy of one pussy forever.
`Move up, Eden,' intoned Ramos with an air of authority.
Hazard was sliding over the sofa then, his big pale buttock cruising over the leather until it was uncomfortably close to Gareth, so that Sergio's muscular frame could sink down into comfort on the other side of him, Eden's hand never actually leaving his dick. The three of them on one sofa now, and... fuck, fuck, fuck... Eden's other hand resting exploratively halfway up Gareth's thigh. He pulled his torso back, his hand slipping from his erection, and he looked questioningly at the porn on the screen, as if for guidance: the two girls were fingering each other and licking on the one guy's dick, which was fat and ridiculous-looking and yet... probably not as long as the thing between Sergio's ripped thighs?!
Ohhh,' sighed Ramos, just out of sight, ohhh si, si...'
Gareth blinked dizzily and watched Eden's hand shift over, tips teasing against the shaking flesh of his own boner. Yes,' murmured the midfielder, you ARE a giant...' And then it was happening. Eden was wanking them both now, wrapping his clammy fingers around Gareth's straining boner and, judging from the groans, tugging more heartily on their mutual captain. Bale sat there in terrified wonder and watched it happen as if from far away, barely conscious of just how good it felt to have a new hand on his meat after all these fucking years...
Hazard still had his eyes fixed on the screen, he seemed to be drinking in the comically exaggerated filth of it, but his own dick swayed neglected whilst his hands rubbed at the two bigger blokes. One at a time, he pulled his hands back, spat in the palm, returned them to the nobs of his teammates. Sergio's groans were loud, confident, almost as performative as the Spanish girl on the screen; Gareth's grunts were half-suppressed, tense, reluctant.
`Stop,' he barked, finally finding the wherewithal to pull a hand forward and brush the other lad's knuckles off his tool. He took over the strokes and was annoyed to find how numb his dick felt to his own clumsy grab, by comparison to the sordid thrill of another lad... But Eden, unfazed, was left-handed jerking himself, and leaning over a little to get a better angle in his handjob for writhing, grunting Sergio. That's when it got weirder, and Bale spent another moment wondering if he should get the fuck out of there – Ramos was rubbing at one of Hazard's bare shoulders and then, muttering something under his breath, pushing forward and down. Off the sofa slid the Belgian, his big rounded butt slipping over the leathery precipice, and his body folding down onto the rug at their feet, pushing the footrest aside... what the hell?
But curiosity had a mind of its own. Dick in hand, Bale slid to his right a little to see better, edging close to Ramos; in turn, the Spaniard spread his bare legs, lifting his knees, and so now the bare skin of the Welsh and Spanish captains' legs were inches apart. Hazard was on the floor at their feet, and he was taking the huge rod of tanned flesh in both hands and pulling tightly on `El Capitano'. Fucking hell. Was he about to...? Was he really gonna...? Oh shit... Bale drew in a sharp breath and let his eyes widen in shock as he watched it.
Lips barely parted, Eden lowered his pouting face forward and kissed the pink, glossy tip of his new captain's cock, then flicked out his tongue, and swirled it across the head, wiping up some froth of pre-cum as he did. Gareth felt a conflict of horror and fascination; he was scowling in prudish disbelief but he was also leaning closer, and resting one hand on the tight muscle of his teammate's shoulderblade, craning his neck to watch as Eden took the dick in his mouth, not without difficulty, and slid forward over it.
Oh yes,' moaned Sergio, and something about his choice of English over Spanish told Gareth that some of the sounds were for his benefit, as if to put him at ease in this surreal moment. Oh yes, bitch... good man... new boy done good... hah... mmmm... satisfy your captain...' He turned his head, flashy white smile like a toothpaste ad, one lewd wink of discretion. Gareth gulped, let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding.
Bale tossed himself off, and his eyes roved greedily from one thing to another... from the tensed, gleaming physique of Ramos, purring and twisting at his side... to the hunched pale shoulders of Hazard and the tightly closed eyes beneath his bushy dark brows, his reddish lips dragging backwards and forwards over the first few inches of that monster... to the screen, yes the screen, where he SHOULD be looking, at the sliding wet fingers and quivering lips (which lips?) and playful squeals and... fuckkkkkk... Gareth looked sharply from the three-way on the screen to the reality beside him, and did so just in time: Eden had lunged over, started wanking Sergio's slick wet nob, and his lips were looming towards a new snack.
It happened, or didn't happen, in slo-mo: for a delicious second, Bale allowed himself to crave the oral sex, the newness of lips and a wet tongue, the blowies he rarely received any more since their relationship matured, and yet... This was Eden Hazard, a bloke, a fellow footballer, a lad he trained with day in day out... Fuck no! He intercepted, pushed at the lad's face with his free hand, growled his dissent. And then Eden was lurching back, smirking, and bringing an open bottle of tequila up to his lips instead.
`You no know what you're missing,' hissed Sergio's voice, teasing and firm.
Eden had accepted Gareth's refusal of oral, but his hand was back, and the Welshman didn't stop him. He just sat there, frozen by panic and desire, and watched his dick jerk and twist at the slippery fingers. And Hazard's head, bobbing once more, noshing instead of Spanish meat. It was Ramos, now, grasping at Bale's shoulder; reaching over and squeezing it tightly through his open shirt as both big tall strapping men pressed back into the leather and let their erections be serviced by this most surprising of sluts. Behind Hazard's frantic work, the porno scene climaxed, came and went, flicked to credits and cheesy music, all unwatched, unheard. Gareth and Sergio just stared with glassy eyes at the magic being worked by Real Madrid's star signing of the season, a man so full of surprises...
And then Hazard, sitting back on his haunches, bursting out with crazed laughter, his lips and chin glossy with drool. He snatched up the tequila bottle, almost empty, and took a swig. Ramos snatched it from him, threw back a mouthful, and pressed it into Gareth's hand too. He gripped it limply, unable to face another drop of the insanity-fuelling liquid, and watched as Ramos got up to his feet, arse bared to him, and grabbed Hazard's face. Like something from the porno, El Capitano pushed his cock between trembling pink lips and began to fuck that serious face.
Before he knew what he was doing, Bale was up on his feet, dropping the tequila bottle and letting its sickly dregs stain the rug. He stood side by side with his fellow captain, his broad muscular body tensed, his top-knot wobbling where it rested on his head, his cheeks burning red. He reached down and jerked furiously on his aching nob, 6ft1 of Welsh muscle, and stared into the space between their bodies, where Hazard gagged and spluttered.
Gareth and Sergio's eyes met, sparking with intensity, and the blowjob was cut short.
Eden's head lolled, eyes wild with some manic hunger, lips open, tongue out. His hands grasped the base of two quivering thick cocks, and the two footballing beasts came seconds apart. First Bale, spurting creamy white goo against the side of Hazard's face, splattering his dark facial hair; then Ramos, firing a flash of milky seed over his lips and nose and some on his forehead. And then more, weaker little spurts from both big dicks, and Hazard's little tongue circling his mouth to taste it.
On the screen, Gareth noticed in a daze, a new short porn film had already begun. It looked worse than the last, fake tits and everything plasticky on her and him. He closed his eyes, felt his sturdy body sway, rested a hand on Eden's shoulder. The short guy on his knees was panting and gasping; he realised he was finishing himself off, wanking at their feet, cum still dribbling around his face where the bigger men had let it fall. Fuck, Gareth thought in horror, what the fuck have I done? He clasped both hands to his face and staggered back, almost tripping with the chinos and undies around his shins.
He heard a little hoot of laughter from Sergio and then a leathery creak as the tattooed stud flopped back into the white couch, briefs around his ankles and satisfied cock swinging heavily from between his leg muscles. Gareth looked down, and saw Eden curled on his side, cum all over his hand and thigh, flopping loosely into the shaggy fabric of the rug, eyes closed as if passed out, wasted.
Gareth Bale left as quickly as he could. He didn't know what to say to either of them. His shirt still hung open on the way out into the still warm air, buttoning up his chinos as he crossed a broad patio and pushed open a gate. He strolled through the irritatingly warm night, tugging his shirt closed, finding two of six buttons had actually ripped off in his earlier clumsy haste. He reached the door of his own villa, fussed with a key, remembered it was unlocked. Security was so good on the compound that such precautions were needless. In he went.
Pint of icy water. Second pint.
He stood in his own kitchen, hands pressed to the kitchen counter, head spinning, gut churning. He was going to be sick. Too much booze. Too much... everything. He closed his eyes, but when he did, he could see their bodies: smug, satisfied Sergio Ramos collapsing onto a white leather couch, all tats and definition, and the pale curvy shape of Eden Hazard curled up at his feet like some fucking lapdog, big arse out to the world. He poured a third pint of water and went upstairs.
In his sleep, he dreamt of lurid porn. Cheesy 80s background music, faux Miami sets of cheap furniture. Tequila was being passed around by everyone. The director was his own wife, a fake moustache on her lips and a manly outfit on as she wagged her finger and shouted commands. And he was the pornstar, the bloke, the guy in the suit. He was fucking the blond chick. Slap, slap, slap against her big tanned booty. But then she turned and looked at him, and her hair was a wig, and the face beneath it had a stubbly dark beard: Eden Hazard grinned excitedly at him. He looked around for support, but that director... that wasn't his wife, that was... frenzied, cackling Sergio Ramos, fondling the front of his briefs!
Gareth woke with a start. His whole big body was drenched with sweat. Next to him, he could feel the warm weight of his beautiful wife, curled against his chest muscles and a hand lying somewhere about his limp dick. He let his breathing slow, and stared at the ceiling. A dream. A mad dream. Had it all been a dream? That would be great... But no. No, he could taste the tequila in his mouth. It had happened, it had all happened.
Those two were fucking mental.
But they'd all been drunk, they'd let it get out of hand. He pushed the worries away, told himself he'd been controlled enough, stopped it when it could have been... worse. He didn't need to worry. It would be forgotten in the morning, by Hazard more than anyone! Think of other things, he told himself, think of more innocent things, think of tomorrow...
Tomorrow, yes, he thought gladly. Tomorrow... Well, he thought, we'll do a group video chat of the Wales lads, he decided, thinking back on that innocently kind message from young Dan. Yeah, a wholesome laddish group chat with the Wales blokes over Sunday brunch, that would be fun. He thought of cheeky, smiling Dan James, a picture of cherub-like innocence, a world away from this decadence and danger! Thank god. He was soothed by it, and after a while, he fell back to sleep, sweet dreamless sleep.
OKAY, OKAY... I CHEATED! I KNOW THIS STRCITLY ISN'T A PREMIERSHIP LADS STORY, BUT WHAT THE HECK. HOPE YOU ENJOYED! FEW GUYS WHO'VE BEEN ON MY MAYBE LIST FOR A WHILE... LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA SEE MORE. THE LOCKDOWN SITUATION IS MAKING THE STORIES MORE CHALLENGING, BUT HOPE I'M KEEPING YOU THRILLED WITH THESE DIFFERENT ANGLES ON IT. REQUESTS AND FEEDBACK ALWAYS WELCOMED.*