Date: Fri, 29 May 2020 07:35:11 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads part 112: Gifted Part 112: Gifted Phil Foden woke on his 20th birthday to a fussing at the bedroom door. He turned his head up from the pillow sleepily, confused at why his girlfriend was up already, and joined by his mother making a loud noise out in the corridor. He grimaced, instantly aware that it was his big day, but still craving a return to the vague dreams he'd been tumbling through 30 seconds ago. A voice, his girlfriend or mother's, became louder, more insistent. He lifted his squashed face from the pillow and looked across to the doorway, where he was beckoned up and out. The wiry 5ft7 footballer slipped out of bed, dressed in a loose grey vest and baggy black shorts, traipsing over to them with a wide yawn. He nodded half-awake thanks at their birthday wishes and followed them out across the large landing, down spiralling stairs into the ground floor of the large Foden family home. He was still adjusting to being up, and to the high-pitched fuss the women were making. His dad was up too, a rather excited grin on his face and his thick arms folded over the chest of his tshirt. What were they all on about? Foden ran a hand across his bleary eyes and followed as directed, out through the lounge and porch and into the alarmingly bright morning sunshine. He did need to be up soon anyway, he was on the `early shift' of today's group training at Manchester City. The plan had been for him to slip out quietly without fuss, saving his birthday celebrations proper for later in the afternoon and evening, a chilled family meal in his honour. Precious time with his little son. His girlfriend was yanking on his bare left arm and he felt his dad's warm hand squeeze one of his shoulders. He blinked his eyes and looked down the driveway, congested as it was by the four cars owned by this household -- HIS household, he had to remind himself with a chuckling sense of his own adulthood -- wait, four? He blinked again and rubbed the hand over his eyes, taking in the lined up gleaming metalwork in the morning sun. There was his motor, his dad's, his girlfriend's, and- at the far end was an extra car, parked at an odd angle at the foot of the driveway, a gleaming new Porsche. A gleaming green so dark it was almost black. A sleek and sexy number, something from a high-end men's lifestyle magazine, impractical and expensive to run, the kind of thing he'd hover over and fantasise about, knowing he could afford it but holding back out of some awkward, working-class sense of what was proper. It was wrapped in a thick pink ribbon up over its length and breadth, forming a gaudy bow at the top of its convertible black roof. Around him, his parents and partner were frothing with excitement, slapping and grabbing at him and probably making enough noise to wake his son and younger siblings -- and maybe half the estate. `Phil, who the hell could have bought you this?' demanded his dad gruffly. `It's gorgeous,' cooed his girlfriend covetously. `We're sharing it, right?' `Honestly, who will it be off?' his mum demanded loudly. Phil hovered there between them, staring down the driveway at this gleaming new possession, giftwrapped for his 20th birthday, glaring reflected sunlight right at him. He paused and gulped and felt overwhelmed into wakefulness. There was a large envelope of white paper tucked against the bonnet beneath the ribbon work, and presumably that would have all the details. But Phil Foden had a clear sense that he didn't need to open it to know who his special gift was from. He was pretty sure he already knew. Pep Guardiola was unusually absent from the City Training ground that morning. Well, not so unusually; the squad were split into five or six key groups for the time being and the coaching staff had to circulate between them accordingly, Guardiola doing his best to butterfly between pockets of talent and run the overall scheme of things. It was just one of his older assistants running the first slot of the day, Phil and company's slot. He found himself peering about the car park for a sign of Pep's recognisable motor, but no sign of it; he pushed shut the driver's door of his own car, having decided against deflowering the Porsche just yet. His family were intent on a test drive before dinner this evening, though. No sign of the Spanish footballer manager indoors either, at any stage of the meetings or training exercises that took place over the next couple of hours. And he kept his eyes peeled for a sign of him, constantly half-expecting to spot him at some quiet corner or watching sullenly form the shadowy sidelines. It made him distracted and ineffective in the first half of the morning's training and he was `punished' with extra press-ups and squats by the old-school Welsh coach they were working under today. `Tough luck,' Raheem Sterling chuckled at him, as he and the other three lads moved on to grab some water and take a quick break before the next round. Phil smiled back as if this was all just a good laugh; he was quite embarrassed that his mood was so noticeable and their stickler of a coach was picking up on it. Foden was more used to being singled out for praise, when Pep ran training for them, and though he found that embarrassing too, it was an attention he'd become perhaps quite complacent about. Once his extra reps were done, he jogged wearily out of the harsh sun and into the shade with the others, grabbing up his water bottle and knocking some back. Silva and Zinchenko were cracking up laughing at some shared joke, Garcia was chatting away to the coach about some injury concern, and Sterling was squeezing a thin jet of water from his rubbery bottle to cool down his sweat-shiny face. Phil fell into place beside him, still guzzling, and began stretching out his lean arms. `Good innings,' Raheem said quietly, nudging him with his elbow. `Yeah,' Phil gasped through a mouthful of water, `bit harsh, but...' They both chuckled a little, with respectful glances across the patch of tarmac to check the coach himself wasn't listening. Foden shrugged his shoulders humbly. `I'm sure I deserved it.' Raheem scoffed. `I'm sure you were doing your best, mate. You always are.' He grinned. `Everyone's fave homegrown star, ain't ya. Don't see the papers hounding you with bullshit like half of us...! Mind, you ARE white...' `Oh ha ha,' Phil said with a sympathetic frown. `You know you're one of the most popular lads on the side, buddy -- never mind that, the national fucking team!' He copied him, squirting a bit of cold water on his brow and letting it run over his face. It was a scorcher today and he was glad he was on this earlyish session, not trying to train at midday or in the afternoon haze. Even now, it was clammy and too much. Raheem leaned in closer with another nudge, and he thought for a second it was going to be some petty dig at the annoying draconian coach. `Hey,' Raheem whispered, `you are in for tonight, aren't ya?' Phil stared back at him, a little puzzled. `It's gonna be fun, I know it ain't strictly LEGAL, per se, but...' The winger sniggered a bit. `Tonight?' Phil asked, and as soon as he did he saw the stiff awkwardness in his teammate's expression. Foden felt particularly confused given that it was his own birthday, and he knew very well what his evening plans involved: an excessive homemade cake, a marathon of his fave movies, a BBQ in the garden, hopefully a decent shag before bed... `They didn't invite you,' murmured Sterling awkwardly. `They?' As soon as he asked this, he knew who `they' were, since he was fully aware he shared his birthday oddly with two other City stars. `Right... John and Kyle are having a... party?' He was speaking quietly but he saw Sterling's alarm at even that volume and dropped to more of a whisper. `A party at Stones' place, right...? Oh...' `Mate,' Raheem said awkwardly, `I can't believe you aren't invited, must be an error...' Phil shrugged and resisted pointing out the obvious; he wasn't exactly hiding his 20th birthday but he hadn't made a big fuss about it (unlike a couple of others...) and he was in no rush to point it out to these lads here today, just as he had been in no rush to drive his sparkling new Porsche to training. He felt himself blush a little, though they were all flushed from the heat and exercise, so it was probably less obvious, and he tried to look cool and disinterested. `Yeah, an error, or something,' he said vaguely. No error, he knew that -- he could immediately tell why he hadn't been included in the furtive invites, unlike Sterling here. He knew that many, and those two more than anyone, saw him as Pep's Golden Boy. And he could name which birthday boy in particular would have made sure of that. Phil hadn't spoken very much to Walker since slipping away from his apartment on that night of sin and betrayal; he'd felt too guilty and embarrassed. Watching the older bloke's name dragged through the tabloid mud over his lockdown transgression, whilst his own involvement was a hushed secret that didn't even seem to have leaked amongst the City ranks... Fair play to Kyle Walker, if he DID resent Phil's escape (and he was pretty sure that was the case) then he had not resorted to pettiness and dragging anyone down with him. Nobody seemed to have the faintest clue he'd been there that night with the two treacherous hookers, not a single lad. Except, he surmised, Walker's crony and fellow birthday boy, perhaps! Well, he thought, they have such low opinions of me. I'm hardly gonna tell Pep Guardiola about a party I've not been invited to... His flush of bitterness and disappointment must have shown on his face because Raheem now looked guilty and uncomfortable. `Hey,' he said slowly, patting Phil on the arm, `I'm sure it IS an error... and, look, mate, I don't think party is the right word, to be honest...' `Hmm...' `Like, how much of a secret party can it be?' Sterling laughed quietly. `Under all these rules and all that scrutiny. I'm taking a bottle of rum but you know me -- I'll probably stay chill and happy in the corner and get landed with some boring cousin of John Stones, whose accent I'll never understand, haha! I'm no party animal, am I?' Phil grinned, cheered by Raheem's efforts to console him even if he suspected it would end up a fairly rowdy affair, given that it was Walker's 30th and the brash defender had been lapping up attention over it for the whole fucking week. If he even remembered it was Stones' birthday too, Foden would be shocked! `A couple of drinks to be sociable,' Sterling was saying in a slightly distant way, seeming to recover from his discomfort at what he'd let slip. He eyed the others nervously though and it made Phil wonder who had and hadn't been invited, or if he was just being cautious in earshot of the coach. `Just a couple and I'll be heading home early,' Raheem predicted. `I do not have the appetite for a Kyle Walker party, bruv.' `No,' Phil thought aloud, remembering his last Kyle Walker `party'. He thrilled and cowered at the memory of that wild encounter, the broken rules, the tension and conflict of it. He saw Raheem was already distracted, his mind back on training. Again, he thought about pointing out that there was a 3rd City celebration, but... well, it would surely just make this conversation more weird and awkward than it already was. He put down his water bottle and tugged at his sweaty tracksuit top then continued stretching his limbs, readying himself for the second half of the session. At home, the afternoon and evening were largely as chilled as planned. Foden felt minor pangs of envy or `FOMO' at the notion of the Walker/Stones party, but realistically he understood why he wasn't invited -- too young and conformist, too close to the boss, not quite relaxed and confident enough in his own position. They were wrong to mistrust him but he could see why he wouldn't fit that crowd of cocky footballers breaking the rules -- look at what he'd resorted to last time, calling in `daddy' Pep to fix things when he was in a tight spot. No, he didn't waste any time worrying about the party -- though a reminder must have rippled through the squad about his own birthday, because his phone and social media blew up with it. But he was as mentally present as he could be in his own family celebrations, chilled and easygoing as they were. The Fodens were a homely Stockport family who were still getting used to the wealth and status Phil's gifted footballing had bought them, so they didn't like to do things too flashy or over-the-top... though all were delighted with the Porsche. That it was a gift from his club manager seemed not weird or excessive to them, but further proof of their own personal prodigy, the future legend that was Philip Foden. He reluctantly agreed to the spins around the block for a couple at a time, wowing his brothers and making his mum almost sob at just how far her lad had come since the skinny teen kicking a can about a back alley. Eventually, Foden dissuaded more interest in the car with a semi-invented worry about setting up the insurance and so on, waving the wad of documents that had come with Pep's special gift and saying it could all be figured out over the weekend. Excitement over the slick sports car was swapped for comfortable BBQ fun in the big back garden -- food, beer, games, and eventually, films. It was, in spite of all the current restrictions, a great 20th birthday for Phil. Family was everything to him, and he was not the wild kid he'd occasionally tried to kid others he wanted to be. He looked back on his efforts to impress Stones and Walker as feeble and idiotic, that first time with the hotel prostitute; a weedy 19-year-old trying his best to fit in, that was all. Even attending Walker's sleazy night in at his apartment... He was 20 now, a man not a teen, he needed to think bigger, look after himself, live up to his promise. By late evening, he'd almost forgotten about the obscene gift from his boss. They'd already sat through one early noughties classic film together, and he was in the kitchen with his sister readying bowls of sweet and salted popcorn, grinning contentedly to himself and downing a glass of water, only half-listening to shouted conversation somewhere between his dad and brother. That was when, between the pings of the microwave, he heard his voice. Thick, syrupy, Spanish; slightly broken but romanticised English. Deep and almost gravelly. Pep Guardiola was in the house. Phil strode through into the hallway with a mouth still half full of buttery popcorn, holding the big bowl of it in both hands. Both of his parents were at the porch doors, wide-eyed and bewildered by the late visit. Pep saw his younger brother leaning almost nervously out through the lounge door, starstruck despite many family visits to the Etihad. Phil crunched down on the popcorn in his mouth and stared down the hallway at the figure in the doorway, silhouetted faintly against the lingering summery light outside. `Philip,' cooed his mother gladly, `you have a visitor...!' Foden thrust the bowl of popcorn into his brother's hands and padded down the hallway in the grey jogger bottoms and plain white tshirt he'd been relaxing in, feeling almost silly and childish in this moment, seen by the outside eyes of his grizzled manager. But Pep, standing there in a dark linen shirt and a pair of slim dark jeans, looked calm and collected as if he'd just landed from the Riviera, a pair of sunglasses hooked calmly over a breast pocket. He was charmingly complimenting Phil's parents on the décor in the hall. Foden rushed to join them, flashing a nervy grin at his boss then heavily hinting that his loving parents should back the fuck off. They grinned and giggled but understood. Their loud `thank you' on his behalf for the unmentioned gift out on the drive made him feel petty and ungrateful; it had not once occurred to him to contact Pep directly today about it, he'd been so hot with surprise and confusion over it. And he'd been so sure he'd see him at training or after, but now he realised that a text or call was the least he could have done... `Happy birthday,' Guardiola said in pleasantly clipped tones, still loitering in the doorway, dusky and exotic on the border of the Stockport family's homely evening. `Thanks,' Phil said. It sounded pathetic and empty, not enough! `Thank you for... well... Pep, it's crazy, you really shouldn't have...' `Oh Filipe,' the older man said calmly, `don't. I not know about Manchester, but in Spain, we not insult other men by refusing gifts. No?' A rich smile. `But you can do one thing to show gratitude...' `What's that?' Foden asked, and it came out a little surly, which he regretted. He tried to fix it with a smile then glanced back down the hall, caught his sister and mother eavesdropping from the kitchen door, suddenly backing away guiltily at his glance. He felt a hot flush rising in his neck and cheeks and on his exposed forearms, suddenly so embarrassed by this meeting of worlds. He had proudly introduced his family to Pep at a variety of functions but... things now were more... complicated. `I can see you are busy,' Pep said in a slow, careful voice, `but...' `We're just watching movies,' Phil mumbled, quite apologetically. `Sir, I hoped I'd see you at training today, and-` He felt the rushing need to apologise for his lack of gratitude, for not immediately contacting the guy, for almost forcing this awkward and unnecessary visit. He scratched his stubbled chin and looked back again, expecting his whole family to have crept proudly up to join them. `A quick drive, perhaps?' Guardiola suggested in a voice quiet enough to be meaningful. `What, now?' `Well -- you do not have to, of course.' `I mean -- it's just -- well-` `A brief spin,' Pep said persuasively. `Just to check it is the right gift for you.' Phil nodded slowly. He let out a long breath. `Just let me explain to my fam, okay, sir?' `I thought we agreed about this sir nonsense.' `Erm, yeah, Pep, sir... huh. Okay, just give me five. Then I'll -- erm -- take you for a drive.' Pep's scent filled the front interior of the car. Rich and a little woody. He seemed immediately comfortable in the vehicle, which made sense; he must have test driven it himself, visited whatever luxury showroom around Greater Manchester it hailed from. He sprawled back in the passenger seat, winding his window down and leaning his arm out a little to feel the night breeze. There was an oddly relaxed expression to his bronze features, a playful smile in the lines around his eyes. Phil glanced from him to the road, driving them out of the estate and onto the B-road, swerving to the right and out of the suburbs rather than down the more residential route through this Manc suburb. Pep had not given him any hint of instruction or pushing on this choice, but he felt instinctively that this was what was expected of him. He drove them onto another even quieter road, picking up some speed; light drained from the pale sky beyond the thickening trees, a crescent moon visible. `It's insane,' Phil announced over the purr of the engine. `It's like... my dream car.' Pep didn't look at him as he responded smoothly. `Yes. I imagine.' `It's so mad generous, boss -- I mean, Pep. It's like... I dunno. I... freaked out a bit.' `You should not.' `It's just so... Well, so kind of you, you know. I mean, erm...' This conversation wasn't going well. He barely felt in control of the powerful vehicle, never mind the dialogue with his over-generous manager. He slowed the car again, cruising down the almost suddenly rural route and breaking out of the tree cover. They were in a gap between suburbs, and urban lights twinkled on the dark horizon. The atmosphere in the car felt intense to Phil, like Pep's cologne was some drugged incense and he was being taken into a trance state. He felt impossibly hot in his tshirt and joggers, and conscious of time; how long could he reasonably stay out on this little spin without his family being more intrigued than just proud? `Pull over here,' Pep said calmly but suddenly. `What, here, really? Erm...' `Si. Just there. Go on. Thank you.' Foden took the car off the road, grinding it carefully onto the dull verge, pausing it against the grassy edge of this silent suburban road. To their left, fields stretched out back towards the fairy lights of civilisation, bordered by dark clumps of trees. No traffic drifted by on the right, the road was almost eerily dark and empty. Phil kept his hands on the wheel, clinging to some vague illusion of control, and peered out at the almost romantic darkness that blanketed their surroundings. `I did watch you train,' Guardiola said then, breaking his confused train of thoughts. `Huh?' `I was there. Of course I was there.' `But...' A deep rugged sigh. `I knew you would be uncomfortable with... this gift. That is why I held back. I stayed in my office. Watch you through window. I not want you to be... upset.' There was a dip and wobble in the smooth control of the 49-year-old's voice there, and he finally looked over at him more directly. His eyes were so deep and intense, the silvery flecks of his beard catching the little glowing light up above them by the rearview. `Well, yeah,' Foden mumbled back quietly. `Er, thanks?' `But I needed to speak to you, to say happy birthday, properly,' Pep said, rather formally. `That is okay, yes? To visit? To... see you like this?' `Course it is,' he said readily. He wasn't quite sure on what level he meant it. Was he being the sycophantic young player? The keen friend? Something more? Like Kyle, he actually hadn't spoken to Pep a lot since that night of rescue -- after all, Guardiola had seemed so quietly furious with him, so appalled at needing to intervene. But intervene he had. And his final words of that night rescue rang now in Phil's ears: `I could never hate you... But you need to remember whose you are'. He looked cautiously at his passenger and watched the dark-haired hand move gently over and land on his arm. He couldn't deny the tingle in his skin there. `It has been difficult few week for me, you know that,' Pep said quietly. Phil nodded sadly, knowing what he meant. `I'm here for you, boss,' he said weakly. `I know you are, I know. It is good to see you, my boy.' `And you, sir,' Foden mumbled. The hand moved off his arm and he felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment. Again he thought about just how hot he was, how clammy his body felt beneath his clothes. He felt as though he must stink of laddish sweat! `But I just don't know how to... like... I can't say thank you ENOUGH for this, Pep, that's the problem. I'm...' He hated the scratchy sound of his own accent, resented his own basic grasp of language and rhetoric. `I'm no good at this, Pep, I'm not. I can't talk fancy. I just -- I really want to say thank you for it, it's so fuckin' mega. You -- you've done so much for me. I just...' Pep shushed him. It should have sounded mean and patronising but it didn't; like everything the older Spanish man said and did, it felt smooth and comforting. A hand again, reaching not for his arm but his leg, just above the knee, giving it a tender but physical squeeze, thumb and forefinger. Phil stared at the hairy tanned fingers on his leg then up the thick arm disappearing into rolled up black sleeves and then to the loose collar and the gentle, rugged smile against Pep's salt-and-pepper beard. Phil looked warmly at him, giving up on his stumbling monologue of gratitude. He wasn't thinking about the car they sat in now, or his birthday; he was thinking about the night, months ago now, of the Cup Final, his own drunkenness as he stumbled to the boss's hotel room for comfort. But he also thought, with a shudder, of the way he had been curtly dismissed in the afterglow -- sent back to the room where John Stones snored like a bulldozer, ignored on the coach home the next day. This was all so complicated and stressful. `I know you must be back with your family soon,' Guardiola said in the same velvety mutter, `but let us take a quick walk, eh, Filipe...?' Foden just nodded his head wordlessly. He switched off the light and unlocked the doors, and stepped out onto the shallow rise of grassy verge. The car was stupidly conspicuous off the side of this dark road, though its colour perhaps hid it somewhat. He locked it and stroked the set of keys in his hand, still a little amazed that this powerful beast was his. Yes, he could have bought it himself, and spent months wondering if it was a mad purchase; but now it was his outright anyway, paid for by this generous, protective, exciting older man... As he thought this, Pep was brushing past him, patting his arm, and nodding off the verge and into the edge of the field. Foden took drifting steps after him, away from the road. The night was almost fully dark now, the sky a dull hazy blue and flecked with stars like the silver in Pep's beard. The 49-year-old man paused, and offered a hand backwards. Phil reached out and took it, felt the smooth warmth of his boss's palm on his, the tight controlling grip of those powerful fingers. He let out a tiny little gasp of -- of what? Surprise, comfort, fear? He let himself be dragged along a little quicker -- over the rough terrain of the field and beneath the deeper shade of some trees, the road still just about visible behind them. Guardiola pulled him in them, squeezing his hand and reaching his other for a shoulder. Phil was pulled in against the heat of the man's body, and he reached uncertainly for the sides of his torso, firm beneath the thin material of the shirt. `You need to remember whose you are,' the man had said to him from his car, dropping him off after rescuing him from Walker's sordid games. It had chilled him a little at the time, but not that he thought of it... wasn't it a deeply reassuring idea? Pep leaned in and, just like last time, kissed him on the brow. Warm, wet, the grazing hint of thick facial hair. Comforting. But Phil found himself tilting his head up this time, looking wide-eyed in the dark, and when the second kiss came, he reached up with his own mouth. There was some hesitation; their foreheads and noses clashed a little, but then Pep's big mouth was on his, a slow damp kiss between them. Phil tingled all over and gripped a little more tightly at the linen of his master's shirt. He thought about the firm hairy body beneath it; thought about the big meaty prize that must be in those jeans... He slid one hand down, past the thick leather and buckle of belt, onto the tight rough denim of the expensive jeans -- oh yes, he thought, feeling the swell and bumps at the front, here he is, he's inside there, he's excited already, excited by me... `No, my boy,' came Pep's almost angry voice suddenly. He was pushing Phil's hand down and away from the full, shapely crotch of those jeans. Foden felt chastised and disappointment, his hand hanging limply, but... `It not MY birthday, Filipe... relax...' And suddenly one of those big capable hands was reaching for the front of his loose grey joggers, finding his own stiff aching erection through two layers, and he could only gasp weakly into the warm luxurious scent of the man's chest. He rested his head into it, his mouth finding the thicket of wiry hair just above where the buttons stopped being fastened, inches below the throat. He smelled and tasted Pep's manliness and relaxed into him as his cock was fondled into full life. The Spaniard's hand was inside his joggers now, inside the clingy black undies beneath. He moaned into Pep's chest hair and clung to his still-firm biceps. `Oh sir,' he moaned. He wasn't corrected and told to say `Pep', so maybe the old guy liked it. `Sir,' he moaned on, `sir it feels so good...' Briefly, Pep let go of his aroused cock, and ran his hands briefly under the tshirt, feeling the lean taut muscle of his young abdomen. Then he was sliding down to his knees in the undergrowth, planting them firmly on either side of Phil's new Puma trainers. He felt his joggers and his undies wrenched down to his knees. A night breeze played on the smooth muscle of his arse cheeks. His cock swayed a little, the tip feeling damp already. Then Pep was sucking it, with the same almost furious hunger he'd felt that night after the Cup victory -- it had shocked him then and it shocked him now. `Oh sirrrr...' He couldn't bring himself to look down. He thought the dim sight of this beautiful older man, so rugged and powerful, chowing down on his sweaty teenage -- no, not teenage, manly cock, well it might push him right over the edge in seconds! He knew Pep would not want to taste his seed, had avoided it very carefully last time, so he had to be cautious about his orgasm, not cum too soon or in the wrong moment. The pressure of that hit him like a truck and he swayed on his usually sturdy legs, overwhelmed in the night. But even if he could roll his head back and look up at the stars through the treetop, he could not shut out the gorgeous slurping noise of Pep's lips on him. Just as he felt close, so close that he was about to squeal out warning and pull his hips away from the hungry hairy mouth, Pep was off him, pulling away and just spitting a little at the quivering shaft. His strong hands held Phil's hips and massaged at them. `Beautiful boy,' he was whispering, `my beautiful boy...' He was on his feet again, looming a few inches taller, and Phil reached eagerly for his bulge. He could feel it thick and hard in the denim, stretched sideways in its growth. Oh, how he wanted to touch it again. How many times had he thought about it in these long few months since? `No,' Pep said again. `Not tonight.' He spun him round by the shoulders, Phil staring dizzyingly back through the trees towards the road and the faint outline of the parked sports car. He could feel that warm breath on the back of his neck, the lobes of his ears. And one of those hands was on his bottom, squeezing his cheeks, warming them. Mmm... `Tonight is yours,' Pep muttered sensuously. Mine? Doesn't he know how much I want his meat? Doesn't he get it? What the legendary manager did next took him totally by surprise, but for a second he was back in that dirty atmosphere and crowded bed-space of Walker's apartment. He'd been alarmed when a finger slid down his crack then, terrified, but this felt better, much more welcome. He gasped out his tender enjoyment as one of Pep's fingers moved warmly between his glutes then back up. He felt the tight muscular ring twitch and close up but his beloved boss was prodding so gently at it. A spitting noise, renewed touch, the slick damp of a wet finger. `Oh,' he mouthed, `oh sir...' Pep was a little more forceful for a moment and Phil felt a new and not totally pleasant sting. `Ohh!' He felt a certain inevitability in the night and a mildly nauseating awareness of what might be needed from him. `Are you going to...?' he asked, unable to finish the question. There was just a gentle chuckle, the feel of that big warm body pulling closer, a firm chest resting above his shoulder-blades. `You are not ready, my boy,' murmured Pep, sounding more amused than disappointed. `Not tonight, Filipe...' Guardiola pulled him very close and reached a hand around, finding and teasing his aching cock, so close to cumming. His soft lips and rough beard found the back of Phil's neck and kissed around it, nuzzling and nibbling his throat while slowly wanking him in long strokes. Phil wanted to scream out and thank this man a thousand times but all he could manage were throaty gasps of appreciation. He could feel how rock-hard Pep was downstairs, its outline against his buttocks. Pep was whispering in his ear, but in silky Spanish. Either he'd forgotten or didn't care that Foden couldn't understand more than a few key words. Did it matter? It sounded beautiful. Rhythmic and suggestive of a more exotic night elsewhere. He loved the firm control of the hold he leaned back into, the masterful touch on his cock; all it needed was a couple of fast tugs and he'd blow his load, but Pep was dragging his hand back and forth with agonising slowness. Phil felt like he was dangling on a cliff-edge of pleasure and release. `You are close?' came Pep's sharp, demanding question. `Yes, yes sir, so close, oh fuck...' `Bueno...' Now the man's other hand was back on his arse cheek, sliding down, reaching between them to tickle his crack again -- oh hell! -- and then finding the tight, oh-so-tight hole, and pushing much more firmly forward, just as... ohhhh... Phil reached his climax and felt, in response, his ring suddenly loosen then tighten much more, but Pep's finger was already in him, pushing what felt like miles inside of his body and soul, while his bollocks clamped up and his cock throbbed and burst out with a fresh load. Ohhh... `OH SIR,' he moaned loudly, `ohhhh...' Now Pep's hands were up on his chest and moving to his neck. One at a time they lifted to his face. First, two fingers streaked with a splash of his own cum, feeding it to him. He parted his lips and tasted it with a sickly little thrill. Last time he had enjoyed the taste of a drop of Pep's; was his own better or worse? It felt a little kinky. And then the other hand, and a single finger, held close to his lips and nostrils so he could smell his own musty backside. It was pushed between his quivering lips and at the same time, Pep ground his crotch more firmly at his backside. `My boy,' he groaned, `my gorgeous Filipe...' Phil remained there for a joyous minute, held in place by arms and the firm push of a whole torso. He licked gently at the offered fingers, cum and arse sweat on his lips. When he was released he staggered forward a little, a whimper that turned into a giggle. He turned round and he could see it, Guardiola's big dong, prominently angled in his jeans. But again Pep said, `Not tonight, boy', and he realised that this wasn't just about spoiling and treating him; he was being teased. He was being made to think already about... next time. Oh god. Pep reached down and pulled up first his underpants then his joggers, still in control. He took his time fastening the grey drawstrings at the front to tighten them, as if packaging away the cock he had brought to climax. He smirked a little in the dark but his eyes were deep and serious. He leaned in, almost close enough for another kiss, then broke away. `Come, you must get home,' he murmured. It seemed for a second that all the intimacy was over -- Pep was walking for the car in long strides and Foden had to hurry to catch up and join him. But then, striding together for the roadside, Pep snatched his hand and pressed it down, holding his fingers over the thick denim outline of his cock as they moved down the grassy slope. He didn't say anything, just held Phil's palm over his hot stiff excitement: a tease? A promise? Evidence of affection? Phil didn't know, but he felt faint with orgasmic afterglow and totally disinterested in driving home to his family. When he got into the car, Guardiola muttered directions to him, telling him where he needed to be dropped at his own car a short distance from the Foden mansion. Phil nodded quietly and did as he was told. He had to concentrate extra carefully on the night roads, light-headed and passive after the illicit thrill in the dark woods. He kept licking his lips, tasting a musty salty enjoyment there, his own flavours, but laced with the scent of Pep's own. He dreaded the goodbye. Last time, it had felt so cold and brutal. Drunkenly climbing into his manager's warm bed and giving himself up to new pleasures, tasting a mad new life on the tip of that big Spanish prick, then being dismissed, sent away, treated as if it never happened. Yet Pep had been nothing but kind and generous to him, even before this ridiculous gift that he purred down the Manchester suburbs back to where the Spaniard's car was parked. He wanted nothing more than one last kiss, leaning over in the front seats on the roadside, but he knew it was not going to happen. `Have you looked in the... ah, how you say, glovebox yet?' Guardiola asked. Foden, his private fantasies brushed aside, blinked confusedly and then looked at the little compartment between them. `Er, no, boss, but-` `You should.' And so he did. There was a single small velvety black box in there. He took it out, hands shaking, and pulled it gently open with a click of a spring mechanism. Inside the jewellery box was a ring. Clearly not new, vaguely tarnished and aged. A chunky signet ring with a single translucent stone set into its flat decorative crest. He breathed in the mixed smell of its metallic tang, the freshness of new car, the stale manly odour of their excited bodies. `Put it on. I want you to wear it. It is mine, but... so are you.' Guardiola's voice was a little heavy, less controlled and masterful here; almost throaty with greedy desire, or some hint of embarrassment at his own gestures. Phil took it from the box and slid it onto his pinky. It was a bit showy maybe, but he liked it. He liked how Spanish and masculine it seemed to look, like Pep himself. `It has been in the family for many years,' intoned Guardiola. `An heirloom, I think you say.' For a moment there was a touch of mysterious sadness to his tone. `I gave it to another boy once, but... I had to take it back.' `Another player?' Phil dared to ask, already a little jealous at the idea. `It not matter,' the City boss said a little harshly, dismissively. Clearly, he regretted the reference. But he looked at the thick signet ring on Phil's hand and grinned. Then he wished him a cool, detached `Adios', and left the car, marching down the pavement to his own. Phil watched him go, dazzled and more confused than ever. He stared at the ring and revelled privately in what it meant: he belonged to Pep Guardiola. He was his boy.