Part eighty-six: Sergio
Smoke and meat smells coughed up from the coals as he gave the cooking chicken and sausages a good poke with the tongs and shuffled from one sandalled foot to another, stereotypical alpha male at the helm of a midweek barbecue; a stereotype that drifted across cultures and languages. Sergio Ramos gave the meat another idle push about the grill, sipped lukewarm beer from a bottle in his other hand, and squinted across the garden party from behind his oversized sunglasses.
His reddish-brown hair was scraped back and his floral shirt was half-open over his defined, tattooed chest; it was a hot Spanish day in the luxury compound and again the resident footballers and WAGs were enjoying the seclusion of their community to enjoy the heat together, the Ramos family hosting once more.
As Sergio Ramos continued to attend to the manly duty of getting the chicken thighs, expensive sausages and slabs of steak to a beautiful balance of charred but not overdone, he was approached by the man of the hour. `Aha, birthday boy,' he trilled in smooth Spanish to his fellow countryman, putting down his finished beer to pat the other footballer on the arm and smile warmly at him.
Francisco Suarez, better known as simply Isco, passed a fresh icy-cool beer into his hand and, with the warm tactile manner of their nation, hugged him in the meaty-scented smoke of this corner, muttering his gratitude for the little party. The 28-year-old birthday boy stepped back and stroked his dark beard as he spoke.
It is excellent to be all together like this,' he added. I really appreciate the honour.'
It is nothing,' Ramos assured him with a nod. We have to celebrate our boy.' He clinked his bottle to Isco's and looked back at the grill.
`And is everything okay with you, cuqui?' the other Real Madrid player asked a little more quietly.
Sergio glanced his way, surprised at the gentle inquiry; he wasn't really aware that he was behaving oddly or differently, though he knew in his heart that tending the barbecue was an excellent excuse to subtly remove himself from the main group and enjoy his beers quietly without having to fully engage with others this afternoon. Fuck, he thought, have I been so obvious as that...? But no... Isco and he were unusually close, and the kind Spanish midfielder was quite perceptive.
Everything is as excellent as it can be in these strange times!' Ramos told him. Someone has to remain busy feeding the pack, no?'
But of course,' Isco agreed with a little laugh. Just checking, captain.'
`Why do you ask?' He tried not to sound too thoughtful or uneasy in the question, but that was hard. He overcompensated with a wide grin at the younger player, then turned back to shuffle some sausages around as they burst and browned above the flames.
Ah, you are just quiet,' Isco sighed, not quite Sergio level, you know? Hah. I don't mean to worry.'
Sergio smiled at him. `You're a kind friend, dear Isco.'
I try.' The birthday guest clinked their beers again. If you are sure, captain. Shout me if you need a hand, cuqui! I cannot wait to eat some meat... haha...' And he backed off, slugging back beer and flipping smoothly back into conversation with some of the other blokes, Sergio staring after him for a moment.
It was not like Sergio Ramos to overly analyse his behaviour or his decisions: he was a quick-tempered man who let his physical desires run hot and take him where they must. He loved his wife deeply but he knew his own appetites and needs and had satisfied them in whichever female company he could over the years. And yet... the recent Real Madrid poker night hung about him awkwardly, had left him thoughtful and a tiny bit insecure after all, denting his arrogance and certainties about himself.
`Eat some meat,' Isco had said lightly, and even that phrasing had put a little jolt through the Madrid captain's super-muscular body for a nanosecond. In that lingering awkward smile, he'd wondered for a tiny moment whether there had been gossip about what happened, if smiling joker Isco knew all about it and was teasing him... No, that was ridiculous. How could Isco know? And would he react with such sanguine humour if he DID?! Hardly. Ramos thrust away this uncharacteristic paranoia, irritated at his own overthinking.
Behind the discreet shelter of his sunglasses, he eyed the others. Gareth Bale looked fairly happy and relaxed, his white linen shirt open over his broad chest and his arm thrown about his wife's shoulder; he looked fully normal today, though there had been a couple of quite awkward encounters between he and Sergio in the two weeks since that night. After all, the Welshman had seemed typically British in his horrified reaction and desperate exit. Ramos had worried for a while that stupid Gareth would tell his wife and cause a fuss, but that didn't seem to be the case. And who was he to judge the Brit's prudishness when he was letting it bother him like this...?
And there was the instigator himself: Eden Hazard. The short Belgian player was sat on his haunches next to the lounging figure of his wife, whose back he was idly stroking as he chatted enthusiastically away to a couple of the others, animated and pleased with himself. Hazard had been even more outgoing and confident, if anything, since what happened; did he think he had one over his teammates now and could really settle in...?! Ramos remembered with a mixed thrill and regret just how eager the little guy had been that night; so fucking excited by the stupid porno, and then equally excited to get on his knees and... fuck.
The sunglasses were perhaps not so discreet after all. As Sergio stared across the heat haze of the barbecue, Eden looked up, and his beady little eyes darted this way. Their gaze met for a moment and a cheeky, suggestive smirk spread between the frame of the other man's neatly trimmed beard. It was just a brief, innocent smile, but it felt loaded with memory and knowledge. Standing beside the barbecue as king of his own land, Ramos returned the smile carefully; a confident, surly grin of relaxed self-control. A lie.
After a safe moment, the Madrid captain and vicious defender turned back to his job; aha, fucking hell, half of the meat was burnt now. He stabbed irritably at it and tonged what he could onto a platter, then shouted out to the others to come and collect. He scowled as he began to serve it, unhappy to allow himself to be distracted and uneasy just because of a simple blowjob... from a guy or not, it was just a bit of sexual satisfaction, what did it matter?
The problem that was getting to him, of course, was the memory that it was not his first time...
2005 and a different garden party, a different barbecue. The same smells -- why did smells conjure memories so easily? Grilling meat, sickly sangria, sweat laced with sun-cream. An overwhelming cocktail of late summer for the senses in the gardens of Bernabeu's mansion; the then-President of Real Madrid was throwing a pre-season party for his squad and staff, a smart casual fiesta before everybody got down to the business of winning La Liga.
2005 Sergio was a different figure: gangly, almost, a little goofy. His long dark hair pulled back and greasy-looking. He was 19 and had yet to kick a ball for the great Spanish team, freshly signed from his home Sevilla and nervously excited about the next stage in his professional career. He already had something of a reputation as a vicious player, a steely defender who had injured several much stronger and more experienced players in his first couple of senior seasons... But here amongst the luxury of Real Madrid, he felt a gawky teenager out of his depth. How could he know then that he would still be at the club 15 years later, its feared and respected captain and the biggest name in Spanish football...?
In front of him, the legends Luis Figo and Ronaldo himself were deep in chuckling conversation with a club executive; they had all greeted and acknowledged the 6ft youngster a moment ago but were now deep in conversation about an incident last season, slipping fluidly from Spanish to French to English. Back then, Sergio had lacked vocabulary or confidence in anything other than his native tongue, so he just smiled and nodded along, feeling slightly excluded.
It was somewhat intimidating just standing toe-to-toe with these icons -- far more so in this social context than in La Liga clashes on the pitch. Ramos lingered there a minute more then, largely unnoticed, slipped away from them. He was not a young man used to feeling intimidated or inferior and he was not enjoying the new sensation.
The 19-year-old centre-back drifted through Bernabeu's garden, turning his eye to a different feature of this afternoon's party: the dozens of beautiful women on display amongst the expensively tailored men of Real Madrid. WAGs, mostly, and so in theory off the menu: the beautifully styled and manicured wives of the well-paid Madrid players, their perfumes like an irresistible siren call to the hyper-sexual youngster. They were mainly distinctly older than Sergio, but that was no turn-off -- he loved a mature woman beneath his tanned lithe body, they appreciated his well-endowed piece even more than greedy girls his own age. There were younger beauties here too, the daughters of some of the older men -- young, but not much younger than himself. If he played his cards right, perhaps he could end the evening inside some privileged 18-year-old rich girl or doing her mother doggy-style while the husband quaffed spirits and smoked a cigar. Sergio could not help but lick his lips at the prospect, prowling the garden party with his half-formed agenda of seduction.
There was a third option, of course: hired help flitted amongst the distinguished guests like barely noticed summer insects. But a number of them were rather attractive women around his own age, figures accentuated by the monochrome uniforms that didn't cover much of their legs. Ramos found himself ogling one particular waitress, picking up a fresh champagne flute from her tray then letting his hungry eyes follow her across the lawn.
He was drawn into a few more conversations by his new teammates, all with a similar pattern of excited greeting, affectionate compliments for his talents and potential, then dialogue slipping rapidly away from him to shared experiences and jokes that he couldn't and wouldn't take interest in; or casual shifts in language amongst the cosmopolitan crowd. He would really need to learn more English if he was going to make his mark in this squad!
There she was again: a petite red-haired waitress he had singled out an hour ago. He watched her between the suits and dresses of his fellow guests, admiring the curve of her bottom and the gentle rise of her perky little breasts. 21, perhaps? Sergio had been pleasuring women since his early teens and a couple of years' age gap was nothing to him, barely a challenge. He knew his height and physique made him look older than his teen years anyway -- and his bedroom talents certainly put him ahead of his age category, hah.
He made his first contact with her: a gentle grin over the buffet table at the far end of the lawn, impaling an olive on a little cocktail stick whilst she picked up a stack of dirty finger-plates. A tiny blush coloured her cheeks and a few seconds' eye contact was enough for him to confirm the attraction was roughly mutual. He lingered by the table and watched her work; every few minutes she would look back his way, catch his eye. In his dark grey suit trousers, Sergio's cock was already twitching in anticipation of what fun today might bring. If he could get his way with her soon, maybe he'd fuck a second woman before the sun was down...? The thought of the challenge overshadowed his youthful imposter syndrome at this party of footballing legends.
Fifteen minutes later, he was following her indoors.
The countryside home of the Madrid President was ridiculous in its grandness. Ramos had to slip between stone pillars on the rear terrace as he followed the smirking young woman in away from the early evening glow of the gardens, and into a high-ceilinged corridor where a few guests were congregating away from the main event; Ramos was so intent on his feminine prey that he did not for one second notice one of these guests turn to look his way, or separate from the conversation he was in, follow the young newcomer's movement down the corridor of black and white tiles and art-laden walls.
Ahead of him, the waitress disappeared from this long central hall. He made a beeline for the same doorway, following her into a lesser side-passage and past entrances to a big kitchen area and an unused formal dining room, and then... She was pausing at another door and turning to flash a cheeky smile down the corridor at him. Oh yes.
She twisted open the door of the larder and slipped inside and he closed the distance in a few rushed strides, pulling into the shadowy cupboard after her and congratulating himself on reading all the signals so well. Up close, she was even more attractive than he had imagined, perhaps a few years older after all, mid-20s... she smelt good. Felt good. Tasted good.
He grinned as her hands slid beneath the folds of his dark suit jacket and stroked him through the thin white fabric of his shirt; let his hands find the flesh of her tits through her starched apron. He kissed her neck and cheek and lips, and a few giggling words passed between them, but there was no need for conversation. He slipped a hand under the skirt of her uniform and felt how ready she was, how damp she was in her knickers already. His cock was well on its way to erection in the front of his suit trousers, and she had found it; he saw the familiar thrill in her eyes at encountering its size.
It had taken Sergio a few years to realise how lucky he was down there, but once he had, he had fully enjoyed the power and privilege of his equipment.
His fingers pressed firmly at her cunt through the lacy fabric down there, brushing and stretching it slowly aside to touch her skin-to-skin -- she shivered against him and pushed back into the shelves with a clatter, this and her moan firing jolts of desire and power through all of Sergio's tall lean body as he pressed his crotch into her grasping fingers and pushed his tongue into her mouth and-
The woman who opened the door then was aged and fierce-looking; some sort of manager. She didn't immediately say anything, just stood there holding the store cupboard door ajar. Frosty and wide-eyed in her starched uniform, a wizened figure of authority just glaring at them both. Sergio paused and was momentarily amused, but the girl beside him was quicker to react and see the problems for herself. Namely, her job security.
Harsh muttered Spanish was exchanged between the women. Sergio felt his hand batted from her crotch and a hand of hers leaving the tight muscle of one of his buttocks as she disentangled and gabbled her excuses and defences at the feisty manageress. Ramos felt immediately forgotten as the two women argued in heated but quiet voices, and he smiled nervously from one to the other. He wondered if the senior catering lady even knew he was, a new face on the scene after all. He stood beside them, letting the door fall shut on their cupboard of love -- he sensed a metaphorical door was falling shut on the opportunity for quick fun here too, and made a swift exit.
He murmured his apologies to one then the other woman, holding up his hands in a defensive gesture, but was ignored; the older lady was lecturing the young waitress and their voices were raising in bristling fury. Okay, okay, not a scene he wanted to be near to... He skipped his way back down this quiet passage, past the kitchens, back into the central hallway at the heart of the Presidential mansion, and...
He tumbled back through the house, adjusting the lapels of his loose-fitting jacket and trying not to look flustered, then remembering the sizeable semi bulging diagonally across the front of his pants. He stumbled to a halt at this thought, hesitating in the shadow of the sweeping staircase dominating this end of the hallway, and staring down its monochrome tiling towards the terrace doors. A figure seemed to melt out of the décor two yards from him, separate from the vague huddle of older men and women near the doors; Sergio started for a moment, not having noticed the gent in his hurry, then started again in recognition.
A handshake was being offered. `Buenos dias,' came the friendly Spanish, sounding alien and uncertain in an English accent.
Sergio stared at his new teammate and grasped the hand, shaking off the deer-in-headlights look form his face and tightly squeezing the hand in his. David Beckham,' he breathed out in surprise and admiration. Wow -- it is er, how you say, good to meet you...!' The furtive tryst was immediately put aside in his head at yet another startling introduction on his first evening as a Real Madrid guy.
Of course, the blond-haired Englishman looked slick in his darker, closer-fitting suit, navy blue linen hugging his athletic physique like he'd stepped out of some luxury brand advertisement. His smile dimpled his tanned face and his hazel eyes sparkled with a friendly charm as the two men shook hands and nodded at one another.
Feeling ever more the scruffy teenager when faced with this dapper Londoner, Sergio grabbed again at the lapels of his uncomfortable blazer and then pulled back some of his sweeping dark hair with one hand. His English was crap and it suddenly felt even crapper. `You are a hero,' he said, finding the right words, then laughed at himself; it probably sounded ridiculous. And he hated to be so fawning and sycophantic, but... it was kinda true! Beckham was a guy he looked forward to playing with here. Partly due to his midfield prowess, but also because of his celebrity profile. In his most ambitious moments, Sergio could see himself as a Spanish equivalent, a figure whose every haircut and fashion choice was big news to the adoring public. He flashed a broad, goofy grin at the older footballer and let go of his hand.
Beckham, his smile twisting ever so slightly, nodded from them to the side-door from which Sergio had just burst. `All okay down there, buddy?' he asked in a quiet, friendly voice.
`Er...' Sergio hesitated both for lack of the right vocabulary and out of embarrassment at how to describe his short-lived escapade -- he then faltered even more when he saw the alert, critical glance this 29-year-old English hero gave down the front of his shirt and towards his crotch...
Fuck! Of course, his misplaced excitement was still quite visible...! He turned his back to the rest of the hallway with a crooked grin of bashful humour on his face, and tried to measure how appalled or judgemental this married guy was to see his obvious arousal on show -- surely Beckham could guess exactly what he'd just been up to, or at least trying to get up to...
`My my my!' chuckled David quietly.
And then she passed them: the waitress herself, a grim look on her face as she pointedly fail to look at or acknowledge Sergio on the way past. Behind her came the senior woman, who certainly did not fail to look his way: her glare was both withered and withering. Sergio was not really cowed by this female scorn, in fact he had to hold in a little snigger at the situation, though he felt some awkwardness when he glanced back towards his new colleague.
I see,' David said softly. I see!'
Sergio laughed hoarsely. I, er... well -- I only 19, eh... hah...' He added, in his own language, A man has his desires, no?' He saw that Beckham's Spanish was as shite as his own English right now. The two men laughed and smiled at one another in recognition of the barrier.
Then David's hand was on his upper arm in a casual gesture of support; his head tilted and nodded to the stairs. `Let's get you out of view for a moment, eh?' he said, and Sergio didn't quite follow the turn of phrase until he was being very gently steered across to the bottom of the steps. Well, clearly Beckham felt quite at home here two years after exiting the English Premiership, if he was happy to wander off upstairs in the President's home! But, Sergio quickly concluded, what a good idea -- he couldn't well trot down this hall right now with the prominence in his suit pants, could he? So he and David silently made their way up the staircase onto a carpeted landing. He was steered by the older man's gentle touch to the left and up another flight of steps onto the first floor proper, safely out of view from the guests below.
Gracias,' he hissed between chuckles, staring down the stairwell then back at his saviour. I -- er -- very embarrassing me...' He laughed again, scratched at his smooth chin, and took a few steps ahead down the room.
`I take it the old crone interrupted the fun,' was all David had to say in a wry tone.
Up here, another grand hall sat on top of the entrance room below. A host of big doorways led off into the different wings of the palatial home, but ahead of the men was a long set of grand windows overlooking the gardens -- Sergio gravitated to them, enjoying the new perspective on the decadence below. He pushed and tugged irritably at the front of his trousers then leant his hands onto a windowsill as he stared down at the gathering. David's soft footsteps followed him across the huge landing and joined him at the same window. A gentle pat on his shoulder.
`You enjoying the party?' Beckham asked.
`I have good time -- but -- very new here, so... Not easy.'
`I'm sorry my Spanish isn't better, mate.'
`No your fault -- I should better English, and...'
`It's your country,' David laughed gently, and patted -- no, stroked -- his shoulder again. Sergio glanced at him appreciatively, pleasantly surprised by the calm humility of this iconic player, then looked back out of the window at the party below. Despite his current awkward predicament, he was already scanning the women on show.
You got all excited,' he heard Beckham comment now. All excited and nothing happened?'
Sergio glanced to his right again, sniggered. `Si... We were...' He searched for the word.
`Cock blocked,' muttered the Englishman with a laugh.
Sergio turned the phrase over in his mouth. `Cock block. Hah. I like it.'
And wow...' David was looking down again, so he did the same. Quite a cock.'
`Hah! Gracias... er... yes... si... lucky boy... hah...' He grinned foolishly down at his package then to his right, pleased to have it noticed and commented on even in these slightly odd circumstances, just as pleased as he had been pushed it into the greedy hand of that hot girl downstairs minutes ago, his own fingers finding her slit. But then, and this was much more unexpected, David was reaching over and giving his tented trousers a soft pat.
Aha,' the young Spaniard exclaimed in surprise, holding himself still against the windowsill and looking down at the hand of the other guy now closing about the form of his semi. Yes -- quite excite by lady -- no go away, so...'
`You don't mind, do you?' asked Beckham in an oddly syrupy voice, feeling very close beside him.
Er -- no, no -- He began to say something else in Spanish but knew this guy wouldn't follow it.
`Really quite big,' remarked the England captain at his right.
`Si,' chuckled Sergio hesitantly.
`You're looking out there thinking about who you're going to try and fuck next, huh?'
Sergio laughed and finally blushed somewhat. `Maybe...'
You need to be more careful.' The hand was taken away -- was that a relief or a disappointment? Sergio felt hot under his shirt and jacket, and frustrated by the near-miss of that almost fuck in the storeroom below; god she would have felt so good beneath him. He eyed David thoughtfully, hearing his advice repeated. You got to be careful,' David continued, `when you're a guy like us. A big deal. I mean -- a big sports star and a... BIG deal...' The hand was back. A few loose fingers tickled against the outline of Sergio's almost erect member. He giggled because it was the only reaction that came to him.
`A guy need to fuck,' he answered simply, and enjoyed the bright smile it earned from Beckham.
A guy does,' David agreed. But -- a quick shag in a cupboard? Quickly front page news. Screwing teammate's wife? Quickly a transfer to a lower league. Putting your prick in the noisiest bimbo at the party? Public scandal before you know it.' He spoke slowly and deliberately and Sergio followed most of it. He nodded his head gently then looked back down at the confusing sight of Beckham's hand stroking the front of his pants.
`Hmm,' was all he said.
`You have to take care,' Beckham almost whispered, repeating the wisdom for the third time. He looked out of the window too and side by the side the two athletes perused the milling couples on the lawns below, all stylish linen suits and sleek maxi dresses. More champagne was being and served and it looked like somebody was giving the first in a series of speeches beneath the shade of the nearest trees. David's hand was still on his prick.
Sergio let out a long huff of breath. `So horny,' he grunted, as if needing to explain the firm erection spreading across the fabric, tensing its material against his length and girth; it didn't occur to him that he really wasn't the one needing to explain himself here. He watched two of Beckham's fingers trace his cock slowly, even though the man seemed to be staring idly out of the window in the same predatory way he was.
`I can tell,' commented Beckham distantly. Sergio looked at his handsome profile. Ten years his senior, albeit a little shorter. His hair was a sleek mane of highlights and his stubble was fine and downy. He looked more like a film star than a midfielder. A vain inner voice prompted Sergio to, at some less awkward moment, ask him for some hairstyling tips. As such idle thoughts of improving his image paraded across Sergio's mind, he felt the fingers of David's left hand move up slightly; the button across the top of his pants was undone and then the zip came down with a very gentle sound. He didn't look down this time, but kept his eyes on David' profile.
`Er -- Senor Beckham -- I -- you...' Language skills were abandoning him. He felt the fingers on him again, but this time through the thin silky material of his boxer shorts, not his suit trousers. David's head tilted a little and their eyes met again, stood side by side in the empty landing.
What?' Beckham asked quietly. This is okay, isn't it? Two gentlemen of our status? Huh.' And the Englishman's hand was pulling his wood out into the air, releasing it as it should have been in the cupboard below. Sergio breathed in sharply then let it out in a slow sigh; any hand felt so good on that aching tool after the frustration of being interrupted! `Cock blocked', hah.
You need to be MUCH more careful,' David was telling him in the same low, silky voice. You cannot be sticking THIS thing in any hole, chico. No, no... You have to watch where you step.' Sergio wasn't following all of it. `Talented young guy like you... don't let no risky decisions land you in hot water. Oh no. Just take care, look after yourself...'
Sergio laughed. His own voice sounded strange to him. Heat takes me,' he said clumsily. When I need to fuck, I need to...'
`Then fuck my hand now.' David's voice was almost a sultry whisper now. His left hand had really curled about Ramos' donkey dick, even though the rest of his body language was incredibly relaxed and casual, as if leaning into the window with a cocktail just watching the party drift on. But his left hand had a tight grip and his eyes were full of excited urgency.
`Fuck your hand...?'
`Go on. You need to get this thing down now.'
`But...'
David took his hand away -- fuck, that had felt good -- and lifted it briefly to spit on his palm and fingers. Back down. Curled about cock once more. Sliding back and forward very slightly and very gently. Sergio fell into rhythm. Hands pressed to the sill, he slid his hips gently forward with the motion of David's hand, fucking his tool into the formed hole of fingers -- and then back as David pulled back, working his spine a little to stretch back on his heels, and then forward once more. Ohhh. Tight grip against his throbbing meat, just like her pussy would have felt.
The view made it feel better, he decided. As he slid back and forth into that strong grip, he looked down at the crowd and thought about all those hot married women he'd loved to throw to the floor and pile into. He saw Beckham's own popstar wife at the centre of it all. Not quite his type but imagine cuckolding this dapper gentleman! Phew. He had to bite his lip to hold in a little sigh of lust, but some of it must have escaped; he heard the warm chuckle of mockery.
Go on,' urged Beckham, keep at it...'
`Mmm... si...'
This won't get you in trouble,' the English footballer was murmuring. Nobody needs to catch you out up here. No silly waitress getting upset. No newspapers. No pregnancies...! Heh...' The grip tightened, Sergio quickened the strokes of his thrusting hips. `That's it, chico. That feel good? Yes, yes I know it does, go on...'
Sergio gripped the sill more tightly and tensed his long arms, balled his heels into the carpet, closed his eyes and shut out the party view... he fucked the hand at his crotch as if it was a pussy, feeling the strong wet fingers curl about his length as he pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled. Oh,' he gasped. Jésus Christo...' He let out a flurry of hot rasping breath, felt his balls tighten, his dick throb against that strange touch. He sighed again, slumped forward. `Fucking hell, that was madness!' he burst out in Spanish. David must have understood enough words or tone to laugh.
Beckham lifted up his left hand between them and they both looked at the streaks of cum on his palm. With a strange grin on his face, the goody-goody supermodel footballer reached over and wiped his dirtied paw on the expensive patterned curtain hooked up beside them, casually smearing Spanish seed down it. The stain was lost in the noisy old-fashioned pattern. Sergio let his mouth form a silent `o' of shock and then he burst out laughing.
Put it away then,' David teased. Before you put an eye out with that thing.'
Sergio clumsily grabbed at his sensitive nob, feeling like he could wank and cum again he was so excited, but he pushed it inside his silky boxers and began zipping up the trousers. He wiped a jacket sleeve over his clammy face, realising how much he was sweating. He tucked his shirt back in and shook himself to try and feel a bit less flustered. He caught Beckham's eye and laughed yet again, a little overwhelmed by what had just happened.
What I'm trying to tell you,' David said then, in a graver voice, is that one has to be really fucking cautious in this day in age. We footballers, Ramos... People expect saints. They need to GET saints. You can't just swing your cock around and hope for the best. Do you follow me?'
`Er...'
There are ways,' David said, dropping his voice, of making sure you don't get in that kind of trouble. Girls like her...' Nodding downstairs. `Trouble is easy to find, if you catch my meaning. So one has to... Are you following me?' An odd, curious smile on David's lips, a mischievous gleam in his eye.
Sergio nodded his head. `Si -- I think -- you saying I should be careful. I get you.'
A tinkling little laugh from David Beckham and a gentle shake of his head. No,' he sighed, I'm not sure you do. But that's cool.' And then he was patting him on the lower back in a more casual laddish manner and backing off a step or two. He adjusted his own linen blazer and shirt collar and backed off, looking totally cool and unfazed.
Sergio opened his mouth to speak, to ask a dozen questions, but what even were they? What to say? What to ask? What to think? He blinked and pulled some hair behind his ear, and then glanced back out of the window at the party they both needed to re-join. Then he stared long and thoughtfully at the handsome, ambiguous figure of the man who'd just... what, jerked him off?
Come on,' Beckham said in a voice laden with normality, let's not miss out on bubbles.' And off he walked, padding across the garish carpet towards the stairwell. Sergio turned to the windows and his eyes found the little smear of his juices mingling with the ugly floral print. He backed off, blinking, spun on his heel, followed the older guy to the stairs, shaken but satisfied.
`What, am I not getting any more of your sausage?'
The question, playfully asked in the clipped Northern European accent of the short guy opposite him at the table, broke through Ramos' thoughts and memories invasively. It brought him back to the present with an ugly jolt and he stared over the garden picnic table at the Belgian, seeing the filthy smirk on his lips and the obvious double meaning of the innocent request.
Sergio pushed the platter across towards Eden Hazard, who immediately speared a couple of well-done lengths of pork and returned them to his plate before greedily lathering them in sauces and turning to plant a kiss on his wife's lips. Sergio leaned back where he sat, his own partner's long arm snaking about his warm back and stroking his muscular shoulders where they sat leaning into one another.
Daydreaming again!' remarked the voice of Isco, at the end of the little table gathering. This is my birthday party, old man -- stay with us, won't you?! Hah...'
Sergio looked around at the gathered friends and laughed apologetically, stroking his dark gingery beard. Then he took some drink requests and slipped out of his wife's tender cuddle, marching back towards the villa and shaking off the 15-year flashback that had floated back to him in the afternoon sunshine.
He and David Beckham had become close friends. England's golden boy had only stayed another couple of seasons at Madrid before joining LA Galaxy and making yet another profitable leap into the unknown, but in those early years of Sergio's Madrid career, the older man had been an important friend and ally. They had remained close friends ever since, sharing holidays once or twice and making sure to reconnect whenever their travels overlapped.
In all those years, he thought, nothing else so unusual had ever occurred like that first meeting in the President's mansion. No, not once! Until Hazard's dirty lips, no man had ever touched the Ramos snake other than Beckham that sweaty evening in the quiet first floor windows. It's funny, he reflected, how you can put a memory aside so entirely: this was the first time he had raised and questioned that oddly vivid little scenario in all these 15 years.
There had been moments, he supposed. Late night pauses or strange sporadic intimacies, in quiet bars and casinos or on walks by the beach, where he'd felt his older pal give him a lingering look, almost evaluative or curious, just as he had on the landing when he tried to counsel him about taking care with his exploits. And many times, in the early years, Sergio had turned over the odd words of a conversation he had never quite understood. `There are ways,' David had explained after allowing his curled palm to be a substitute pussy. There are ways.
Sergio paused in the doorway on his way back out carrying a tray of cool drinks. Had that been a strange one-off introduction, or had Beckham been suggesting...? The implications spiralled out in Sergio's mind. Why had he never questioned it more at the time? Had he really just been so young and horny and reckless...? Had he been disappointed by how mundane and manly their friendship turned out to be...? Had he been waiting for this revelation all these years, and that cheeky little Belgian had just opened a door...?
Someone at the picnic table shouted impatiently his way, probably Isco, and he plastered on an easy-going grin before striding in their direction, putting all thought of the surreal poker night aside, never mind long-buried memories of another lifetime.