Date: Wed, 15 Jul 2020 20:02:26 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 146: Knowledge & Power

Part 146: Knowledge & Power


Kevin de Bruyne nodded slowly and offered a partly convincing smile
across the desk. `Yes, my future is with City,' he confirmed very
stiffly and formally, letting his blunt fingertips drum on the wooden
surface where his pale hands lay folded in front of him. `It always
was,' he added, `it was more my agent than me making the noise, you
know, it was...'

In front of him, the Manchester City manager simply smiled and swung a
little in his office chair, smartly dressed in a thin black jumper over
his starched white shirt, the monochrome exaggerating his deep tan and
salt-and-pepper facial hair. `Kevin,' Guardiola said quite soothingly,
`we all understood your position, a man of your outstanding talents. If
we had been banned from the European football, then... yes, we would all
have understood your... decision.' The grin that had been irrepressible
from the Spaniard's face for the past few days glowed brighter. `But we
do not face that problem any more. We are clear.'

The 29-year-old Belgian midfield wizard smiled back, still sitting a
little stiffly and uncomfortably in the opposite seat of the managerial
office at the Etihad, where the squad were slowly arriving and preparing
for tonight's game. Being in meeting rooms and offices like this always
made De Bruyne a little uncomfortable, not a man of many words or a
confident negotiator -- but today's meeting was surely a positive one, a
simple thank you from the gaffer to thank him for reaffirming his strong
commitment to the team, his determination to stay put and help them keep
on winning things. Kevin knew he had become indispensable here and he
loved it, had no intention of taking the manager's affection for granted
or dropping from his central position in the squad.

But still... as Pep smiled benevolently at him across the desk and carried
on praising his importance to City's chances in the upcoming Champions
League final rounds, and everything on offer next year, he knew his broad
grin was a little forced and strenuous, knew that his discomfort and
restlessness showed in the way he fidgeted his big body in the swivel
chair. He tried his best to nod along and smile correctly, honestly
excited about the challenges being outlined by their legendary manager,
but unable to QUITE focus on the next steps in his career.

`Kevin,' Pep said smoothly, after a long pause, `what is it you wish
to tell me?'

The big red-haired Belgian stopped, a little taken aback by the shift in
tone, from corporate to personal, and the knowing smile that twinkled on
the older man's features. He shifted heavily in his seat, pushing down
on the arms of the chair, and letting out a light laugh. `Pardon, sir?'
he asked with heavy British-sounding formality, pulling himself upright.

Pep stared piercingly at him. `Something is a little wrong, perhaps?'
he asked. There was a note of concern in Guardiola's face and voice, the
only spot of worry that had been seen to cloud his incredibly good mood
since the news from UEFA at the beginning of the week. `You... er, have
not seemed yourself, lately, in training, no...?'

Kevin was always surprised by how observant and perceptive the Spanish
football coach could be. He took in and let out a long deep breath, and
then simply gave a husky laugh. `All is well,' he told his boss firmly,
`all is well.'

It was hardly appropriate talk for this meeting, he supposed, to confess
how frustrated he was becoming with the lack of attention from his
otherwise devoted wife. As he had confided quite regretfully to John
Stones not so long ago, it had been some time -- the best part of this
year -- since she had touched him in any way approaching the sexual, and
it was really beginning to dent his ego and his mood. He knew that
abstinence was generally seen as a good thing for active sportsmen, but
surely not for a prolonged period? It made him ratty and uncomfortable,
and meant his mind would wander awkwardly at the worst moments, even when
taking one of his clinical penalties.

He held Pep's concerned stare for a long moment, fearing any further
questioning, dreading Guardiola moving beyond the bland safety of their
shared sporting world -- if the manager asked about his family or his
marriage or life at home, he was horribly afraid that some truth would
spill out here in the office, just as it had when showering quite
discreetly beside that warm-hearted yob of a defender, John. Kevin was
not happy with how honest he'd allowed himself to be with his friendly
teammate that day in Newcastle, but he had felt a little better at first
for voicing his fears and irritation aloud. Naming the problem was
perhaps the first step to fixing it, though he'd done nothing at all to
broach it with his wife since!

`Well,' Pep said, that enigmatic smile lighting his silvery features,
`that is excellent. Happy player, happy Pep. You are feeling ready for
tonight?'

On the subject of his football, De Buryne could force a more earnest and
convincing cheer. `Ready as ever,' he promised, hunching his broad
shoulders and lifting off the chair a little to signal he was very ready
for this conversation to be over. `Another 5-0 win perhaps, boss...?' He
smirked.

`That would be... lovely,' Pep laughed, playing with the mundane English
vocabulary they conveniently shared, and rising with him to grab and
shake one of his large smooth hands. Kevin felt a stab of regret as they
shook hands and parted, as if an opportunity had passed him by. Guardiola
was such a young manager, really, and a very understanding and worldly
man; perhaps he could have confided in him after all, asked his advice
about a stagnating marriage after a few kids? But on the other hand, Pep
oozed Mediterranean virility. Despite his long marriage and senior age,
Guardiola probably knew nothing about a dry spell or a bit of stale
relationship...!

Tight manly handshake and a few more bursts of pleasant chitchat, and the
head coach was leading Kevin out of his spacious, informal office, out
into the long waiting room area beyond. Kevin grinned at Guardiola, eager
to reassure him and dispel any concerns that his mind was not on this
evening's game. Then he turned away, pulling shut the loose black and
blue tracksuit top he was wearing, and swinging his tree trunk legs down
the hallway. He aimed for a confident swagger in his steps,
uncharacteristic but aiming to reassure the boss. Once around the corner,
he was almost instantly bowled over as his posture slumped and his walk
slowed to his usual more laconic stroll. De Bruyne blinked furiously and
shook himself, regaining his balance and staring at the hurried figure
who had barged into him.

He cooled the annoyed outburst in his throat. `Walker,' he grunted,
`be careful, friend!'

Kyle Walker glared at him for a moment before softening and reaching over
to pat his shoulder apologetically. `Whoa, didn't see you there,
ginger,' he said with an awkward laugh, seeming shifty in his hurried
body language and frowning face. `There'll be bigger collisions than
that tonight though, eh!' And he was hurrying past with another swift
pat of his shoulder, rushing off down the corridor and presumably aiming
for the same office De Bruyne had just left. The quiet Belgian man tutted
and shook his head as he walked on, always a little amazed at the frantic
energy of the English defender, a close ally on the pitch and training
ground but a man whose life and behaviour he struggled to understand
beyond it.

But Kevin made a point of trying not to question or judge others'
private lives, especially not right now; when his own wife seemed so
reluctant to even touch him, how could he ask questions of other
people's complicated relationships and situations...?



Guardiola sat back down in his office chair, reaching over to the open
laptop to bring up the team-sheet and notes he was working on before the
pre-match meetings. His mood this week was ecstatic to the say the least,
vindicated by UEFA and heaped with praise by all of the moneyed club's
executive boards; a quick chat with key players like KDB was an enjoyable
part of his agenda, massaging their egos and ensuring he knew everybody
was on board with the vision for next season. Still, he thought, there
was definitely something a little up with De Bruyne. Serious and
introverted much of the time, there had been a little extra tension about
the Belgian in a lot of training sessions and on away trips in
particular; a less intuitive coach might not have picked up on the subtle
difference in his behaviour, but Guardiola prided himself on his
knowledge of his men.

He was just allowing himself an indulgent moment to think with a dirty
grin about the one young man on his roster who knew better than most,
when the office door exploded open in a rush of awkward physicality. Cool
and undisturbed, Pep lifted his eyes from the screen and smiled calmly
across the airy space at the hulking younger athlete filling up the
doorway in the same club-branded tracksuit as his last visitor.

`Come in, Kyle,' the manager said calmly. After all, he'd been rather
expecting a visit like this for a while now. Age and wisdom allowed him
to keep a friendly expression on his lined face and not to twitch a
muscle from his comfortable sitting position, hopefully disarming some of
the bolshy defender's mood or attitude before he'd even set foot in the
office. In he stomped, a weighty muscular figure bulging in his tracksuit
and almost throwing himself into the other chair.

`Now,' Guardiola said quite casually, `what can I do for you, Senor
Walker...?'

The 30-year-old Yorkshireman heaved a big sigh before starting, tensing
his thick body as he filled the seat and swung on it a bit, his legs
insolently apart to exaggerate the meat of his thighs. He fixed his
manager with a sullen look which Guardiola simply smiled back at,
refusing to be cowed or worried by the inevitable confrontation. He was
in too good a mood.

`We need to talk, gaffer,' Walker said, shifting uncomfortably between
a determined snarl and a worried frown; Pep could tell he didn't quite
know how to play this.

Pep nodded simply. `I agree.'

`I know stuff `bout you,' Walker barked.

`Do you? Mused Guardiola.

`Aye.' Kyle arched his thick brows and frowned at him, `You and your
fuckin' golden boy, gaffer, I know everythin'. Did you think you was
off the hook just cos I didn't show...?'

The 49-year-old Spaniard leaned back further in his chair to signal his
disinterest, and he slowly steepled his long browned fingers and smiled
over them. `What is it you think you know, eh...?'

The brutish right-back just huffed at this evasive comment and pulled
forward, rapping his knuckles loudly on the desk and glaring at him.
`You wouldn't be sittin' there so smug, gaffer, if half the lads knew
what you were getting' up to with Foden, eh? Fuck this. Smirking at me
like you don't know what's going on. Five minutes ago you were ready to
give the dweeb up to me for my silence, now you're sitting there
like...'

`Filipe is not mine to give up,' Pep responded, unable to keep the snap
out of his voice. He watched the twitch of Walker's sneer; this
ambitious 30-year-old thought he'd won something by provoking that
reaction out of him, but Guardiola just watched him fiercely, not moving
from his relaxed posture. `You tried to threaten me, Kyle. It did not
work. Now, unless you have something new to say to me, Walker, then...'

`Aye I do,' the footballer growled at him. `Been thinkin' on it, and
got a new price.'

`Oh?' He did his best to sound casually disinterested, even showily
glancing at the laptop screen and at his watch, then smiling
condescendingly back at his visitor. With their recent victories and the
UEFA ban lifted, Pep Guardiola felt on top of the footballing world, even
if they were literally no.2 in the Premier League. He felt excited about
how things were progressing with his young protegee and whilst he'd
panicked at the notion of their discovery, Kyle Walker held no threat for
him.

`You're gonna sell Stones, ain't you?' Walker said accusingly, quite
sudden and surprising in his tone. It certainly hadn't been what Pep was
expecting, a chequebook vaguely on his mind. `You can't. He's my best
mate.' Wow, this 30-year-old brutish sportsman sounded like a petulant
teen. Pep stared at him and tried not to let his surprise show.

`Nothing has been fixed with his contract,' Pep said slowly. `Or, in
fact, yours.'

`You make a deal, here and now,' Kyle said. What was more surprising
than the aggression or ambition of his visit or his threats was the
sincerity in his beady little eyes, the tightness of his jaw and the
almost shaking gesture of his hand as he prodded a finger at the desk to
emphasise his points. `You agree to extend John's contract, keep him
here like me, play him regularly in defence, or I spill. I tell every lad
on the squad what I know about your dirty deeds, you old perv. I know
your sort. Taking advantage of a mug like Phil Foden, just cos...'

`Stones is your price?' Guardiola murmured, interrupting him and for
once letting on his bewilderment at this twist in Walker's bargaining.
He chuckled softly, saw the anger on Kyle's face at this reaction and
treatment. `You think you will protect your best pal by threatening
me...?' The men stared at each other, and he measured the strength of
feeling in Kyle's set face.

`Knowledge is power,' Walker boasted to him, keeping his voice low but
vicious. `If you don't play along with me, boss, you'll be-`

`The key word there, my friend, was boss.' Guardiola spoke in clipped
tones, and he cracked his knuckles afterwards. `How dare you come in
here and speak to me like this, Walker?' The burly right-back was
unfazed by this question, about to launch into another grunting
monologue, jabbing his finger at the desk, but Pep cut him off. `So
disrespectful. So dangerous. You are an excellent player and I have no
interest in losing you from Man City, my friend. But you will NOT speak
to me like this.'

`I'm calling the shots-`

`No. No you are not.' Pep leaned sharply forward and laid both hands
calmly on the desktop between them. `You forget yourself, man. I am in
charge here. And yes, knowledge is power. I know what you did to my boy
Filipe. I know what you wanted to do to him. I know that right now you
are sweating in my office because you wish to... to... RESCUE your
so-called FRIEND...' He smirked, more coldly and powerfully than his
would-be blackmailer had managed. `How dare you speak to me like this,
Kyle Walker?' He clicked his fingers. `I could destroy you like that.
Another leaked story. A simple edit of your contract. I could have you
out of this city in minutes, if I wanted. And you come in here, speaking
to me like dirt?' He cursed him in Spanish, not caring if the man would
fail to understand, in fact enjoying his uncultured confusion. `You son
of a whore, you stain.' He stood up now and scowled down at him. Kyle's
whole thick posture had sunk, he was hunched and awkward in the seat,
looking half the size of the inflated bully who had just marched into
this office without an appointment. He opened his mouth to speak but
again Pep cut him off. `You will tell the men about me? Oh, Kyle, they
will believe it so much more quickly about YOU.' He flashed a dangerous
toothy smile and stroked his silvered chin. `The players, the coaches,
the staff, the media...' He could see the worry etched into Kyle's face.
`Now what have you done to yourself, Walker? What have you done...?'

Kyle breathed deeply three times before answering. `You wouldn't
dare,' he muttered, nervous with every syllable. `You just said. You
don't wanna lose me. I'm important. You-`

`You are a player, and I buy and sell players like you trade
prostitutes,' Guardiola snapped coldly at him, enjoying his own show of
power, wielding his authority in here like he'd never done before. Never
needed to. But he had a sense of what the dilemma really was: here was a
confused bully of a lad who would do anything to protect his `friend'.
Well, the problem for Kyle Walker was that Pep was much more powerful,
and he too would do ANYTHING to protect Filipe.

`Tell me,' he said in a slow, syrupy voice, `do you feel your friend
John Stones is safer at Manchester City than he was before you walked
into my room?' He let the smile creep across his face, curving dimpled
lines in his salt-and-pepper cheeks and around his twinkling eyes,
friendly but menacing. `Yes, I agree, Kyle, he is much less safe.'

`You wouldn't sell him just cos I'm a prick.' Now Kyle sounded almost
pleading.

`No,' Pep agreed, `but I do need to see that you respect me. I need to
know that this nonsense will not happen. Ever again.' His smile now was
bright and breezy, his eyes relaxed. He let his shoulders drop and rubbed
his palms together. `If I know you respect me as your manager, after
all, then we can forget this whole mess, Kyle.'

Walker stretched back miserably in his chair and dragged his hands down
his cheeks. It was obvious in his face and his body language that he
could see the mistake he'd made, the underestimation that had taken him
some time to feel brutishly confident in. What silly transfer rumour on
the grapevine had sparked this desperate bid to protect and keep his
`friend'? Pep simply smiled down at him and folded his arms over his
front. Knowledge was power, he agreed internally, and his knowledge was
much more powerful.

`I do respect ya,' Kyle grunted with difficulty. `It's just-`

`You are under a lot of pressure,' sighed Guardiola. `I know. But you
have been very, very difficult, my friend. And not just today, not just
now.' A long wistful sigh, playful and cruel. `Oh Kyle, what am I to do
with you...?'

`I said I do respect ya,' the player repeated angrily, covering his
eyes as he said it, swivelling the chair a bit and smearing a clammy palm
down the front of his tracksuit.

`I would say there is only one form of respect that you understand,
Walker.' Pep stared meaningfully at him, waiting for his hand to drop
from his eyes so their glares could meet. `There is only one form of
power that you know, that you respond to.' He laid a hand simply on the
front of his slim-fit grey-black jeans and rested it there. `We need to
see who is the true... ahem, alpha male, at this City. No? I think that is
all you understand and recognise, Kyle.'

Walker pouted angrily at him, seeming to understand. `You're fuckin'
kiddin' me.'

`I am in a great mood, but not a joking one.'

`That'd be blackmail,' Kyle grunted. `You'd be worse than me, then.
You old prick.'

`Disrespectful again.'

`You're provoking me!'

`You, Kyle, are provoking me. This would not be blackmail. I make no
threat to you. No threat to your boy Stones. I simply ask for your
respect in the only way you understand it.' He let out a long sigh and
changed his tactic. `Perhaps I should use your strategy though, my
friend. Perhaps I should think like you. Fetch me John Stones, I believe
he is in the gym.' He smirked. `Fetch me your so-called friend and let
him show me your... respect.'

`No,' Kyle said, protectively.

`Then show it to me yourself,' Guardiola snapped coldly. `You have
been a bad boy, Kyle Walker. You have been incredibly dangerous to me, to
yourself. Now get on your knees and show me some respect, or walk out of
here the bully you arrived.' He fell silent, and stroked his chin again,
keeping his eyes locked intensely on his current enemy. `Which is it to
be, my friend?'



Kyle Walker had turned his powerful secret in his head almost constantly
since being derailed on his mission to steal Foden from Guardiola; his
reunion with Stones had been life-changing and powerful, but it had not
deleted the burning knowledge of what their manager was up to, or the
dangerous dynamic he'd established by confronting this secret in the
form of blackmail. How stupid he'd been, he realised, to believe he had
the upper hand. But he had listened repeatedly to poor John worrying
about his uncertain future, and read so many things into every suspicious
look he received from Phil or Pep around the training ground, around the
last couple of matches. And today, with such an important game looming
tonight and at the weekend, his desperation had exploded in this effort
to initiate a second blackmail against the manipulative older man...

And now here he was, on his knees in the gaffer's office, brought low by
his own hubris. Brought low and embarrassed, but also... excited?

He could see that it was the only way, and he'd come to really fucking
enjoy taking John's big tool in his lips, loved the surprise and
pleasure it gave Stones every time. But another man? In here? Like this?
He stared conflictedly at the cock in his hand, knowing he had no choice
but to show his respect to Guardiola and his big floppy weapon. Pep was
right: this was the only power he knew and understood, and he felt that
humiliation keenly, mingled frustratingly with a hunger to please and to
taste.

Okay, he thought, let's do this.

He didn't think of it as an action to save himself, a desperate and
seedy defence of his place at the club, but a last-ditch effort to
protect and keep John close to him. If he could please and calm Guardiola
here using his mouth, then maybe he could fix all of this mess -- this
mess that was so entirely of his own making! He thought about his
forceful and bullying treatment of Phil that had pushed the secret into
the open; was this just karma, then?

`This is not blackmail,' Guardiola told him, `this is your respect.'

Well, he thought, whatever you need to tell yourself to feel morally
superior! Resting on his sturdy knees on the floor of the office, he took
Pep's tool in hand and brushed his lips hesitantly about the foreskin,
provoking a slight breathy moan from the older man. He nuzzled it and
stroked and squeezed the base of the hardening shaft. It was big,
probably similar to his, maybe a little bigger; not so huge or terrifying
as John's, he recognised, which still scared him every time he saw it in
the flesh, and which he could not believe had actually been inside him.
Properly inside him! Fuck, his meaty arse stung just remembering it.
They'd not dared try it a second time, but he was not stupid enough to
think it would be a one-off.

He sucked on the Spanish cock and closed his eyes. He thought of John,
not as things had been in these tense weeks, but in that magical period
staying at his house, just the two of them. He thought about his own
dickhead behaviour that had brought them here. He thought about Phil
Foden, the golden boy, and how much that pissed him off. Kyle thought
about a lot of things, but he tried not to think about what he was really
doing. Somehow, he could get his head around giving head to John, but not
to another man. He pulled his mouth wider and took more of it in, trying
out the moves and techniques he'd begun to pick up in John's bed and in
their cars. He knew from Pep's gasps that he was doing something right.

To his greater annoyance, he knew how much he was getting into it. Apart
from his confusing feelings for Stones, he knew that he liked the
filthiness of the act, just as he'd always loved going down on women. He
loved the control (hah!) of delivering such intense pleasure. He loved
the way Guardiola's breathing got heavier and more ragged, his posture
less stable and firm in front of him. He even loved the needy stroke of
the manager's hands on his cheeks and jawline and up into the fade cut
of his hair. What he didn't love was the thought of it: he, Kyle Walker,
big powerful bloke that he was, brought to his knees for anyone else's
pleasure or dominance! It just seemed a horrific inversion of the world
he understood.

Got to make him cum, he thought, got to win this. Got to save John. He
tried to ignore that there was something deeply attractive about the
power and status of Guardiola, something he'd not really given thought
to...

He bobbed his head back and forth, tightening his thick lips around the
thicker tool, and pulling on its veiny base, rubbing knuckles against the
loaded shape of the man's balls. He worked quickly and desperately,
wanting this over, wanting to be away from the man he'd thought he could
threaten. Kyle didn't even question if he needed to swallow. He knew
what `respect' meant here, he knew that Pep needed to feel powerful
over him. As he rushed the older man to completion, he braced himself for
it; would he taste like John? Did different nationalities have different
flavours? He had literally no idea.

Pep's orgasm was quiet, probably very deliberately so. He was
suppressing his moans, wary of the setting, but his smile was wide and
curved and his patting hands against the side of Kyle's head were slick
with excited sweat. He unloaded his seed onto Kyle's tongue and the
insides of his cheeks, a rich salty taste that, as it turned out, was not
dissimilar from John's. He swallowed it hurriedly, gasping back the rich
flavour of his manager, shutting his eyes again, giving a final kissing
pull of the lips to the big organ, then swaying back on his knees and
spitting what remained of the Spaniard's jizz down onto his carpeted
floor.

Almost instantly, Guardiola was stuffing his privates away and zipping up
his jeans, re-buckling his thin black belt. A sheen of sweat covered his
hairy hands, handsome older face and the bald pate of his rounded head,
but there was no other sign of what had just gone on. His smile was calm
and measured and he actually whistled to himself as he took his seat at
the desk, reaching over to switch on a cooling fan on the windowsill.
Kyle got to his feet and stood there staring at him, then wiped his
tracksuit sleeve over his sticky lips.

`Say it,' Pep ordered quietly, not looking at him.

He sucked in a breath. `I respect you,' he grunted.

`Yes. Good.' Now Pep looked at him, and his smile was cool and
benevolent. `I always thought you did. You're a hot-headed man, but you
are a good footballer. I hope this is the last time we will need to speak
about your misdeeds, Kyle.' So formal, so dismissive, so banal. Kyle
stared at him, angered now by the cool indifference of the moment rather
than what had been implicitly demanded of him here and now. He could
still taste his superior on his tongue, could picture his own greedy
willingness as he made it happen. `None of this talk of blackmail,'
Guardiola said levelly. `None of these threats or nonsense. I am your
manager. You are my player. Foden and Stones, they are just other
players. This is football, Walker. Nothing else.'

Kyle nodded and blinked. `Yes sir,' he said. For all his anger and
suspicion, he could see that Guardiola genuinely meant it; this wasn't
the beginning of some seedy arrangement, he felt, or in any way an
opportunity for further conflict. (`I'll tell everyone I sucked you
off!' he imagined a different version of himself roaring at the boss, as
if that would help anyone at all.) And the truth was that looking at him
now, he DID respect Guardiola, he always had. Why had he thought he could
threaten the club's strong leader?

`That is all then,' Guardiola said. He was dismissed.



Having already seen the team sheet and the absence of his name, John
Stones was throwing a few punches at a big stuffed target in the quiet
recesses of the stadium's gym suites; it was a quiet space, only a few
other squad members scattered between several well-equipped rooms. John
felt comfortably alone, sweat soaking through his long grey vest and
baggy black shorts, bouncing from leg to leg and taking his built-up
frustrations out on the target. Every time the tall Barnsley lad looked
around anything at the Etihad, he kept thinking this might be one of his
last trips here; he seemed more and more peripheral to the City squad as
the season wound down and their 2nd place finish seemed complete.

He was just slamming a right hook into the hanging weighted bag when he
caught sight of his visitor; he saw Kyle's reflection first, striding
down the gym suite towards him, and then his real figure, appearing
around the side of the swinging boxing target. John steadied the prop
between his thickly gloved hands and smiled in surprise at his visitor,
unaware that Kyle was already in the stadium, since they were not
required here for a good half hour yet at least. His smile turned to a
sweaty frown as he registered the odd look on his friend and lover's
face, the intense almost snarling frown on his features.

`Oi,' Walker grunted, as he got close, `you got a minute?' His voice
was nasal and impatient. His shoulders were set in an almost aggressive
manner, bulging at the pull of his tracksuit top. Was John imagining it
or was there already a bit of a horny bulge in the front of his black
tracksuit bottoms with their sponsors down the outer legs.

John panted, tired from his quick solo bout, still holding the weighted
target in place between his protected fists. `Oi,' he returned, mocking
the term of address. `What's up with you, Walker...?'

Kyle was grabbing onto the hanging sack with his hands too and leaning
close so that they faced each other closely around the side of the
target, lovebirds divided by the peeling plastic coverings of the
weighted prop. It struck John that this spot had its own weird
significance for the two of them; they'd been up here swinging blows on
a sweaty pre-storm afternoon before sitting wet and horny in Kyle's car.
He thought about the aggression with which Walker could attack a round of
boxing, his arms bulging, and how that frustration had built up and
spilled over in their first intimate contact. He felt his cock stir in
the mesh of his shorts.

`Over there,' Walker panted at him with real urgency. `Over in that
kit cupboard.'

`What?' He smiled at him, feeling sweat trickle down his dimpled cheeks
and from the long curls of his fringe. `Mate...'

`In the cupboard, now,' Kyle insisted, and it didn't sound like a
suggestion or a request. John laughed, excited and bewildered by his
mood, his tone, the needy look in his eyes and the little curl of his
lips. He was half-expecting the punchline to this joke. They had a match
in a couple of hours and the gym around them wasn't actually empty, even
if this particular end was...!

John opened his mouth to ask a question or make a playful protest, but he
picked up something in the whole stance of Kyle's body. He held one of
his boxing gloves over and felt the forceful need of his friend's hands
as he wrenched open the Velcro and yanked off the kit, exposing the
tender knuckles of his hand. When he reached the other fist over, the
fastenings of it scratched roughly at his skin as Kyle tugged it off,
then immediately pushed him in the bicep, nodding behind them to the
corner and the half-open door into the kit cupboard where the boxing
equipment and other bits and bobs were kept. John backed towards it,
caught up in the whirlwind of his man's sexual energy.

He looked past Kyle to check nobody was visible or nearby, but it was
hard to see much amongst the jungle of expensive equipment and sharply
lit reflections on the mirrored wall, so he gave up and just stared Kyle
in the face. The other man grabbed the sides of his damp vest and pushed
him forcefully through the doorway into the cupboard. It took some
skilful balance and careful wrangling with Kyle to avoid both of them
crashing noisily into shelves of equipment, steering past them into the
empty far end of the spacious dark cupboard.

`What's got into you?' he asked in a giddy whisper.

`I need to fuck you,' Walker declared bluntly, hissing him on the chin.

`What, HERE...?'

`Aye, and now... I need it... get those shorts down...'

`Oh mate, fuck, that's so hot, but...'

`Come on. Let's do this.'

`Oh Kyle...!' He giggled a little nervously, fearing the danger of the
location and the sudden and odd desperation in his partner. It was like
the other City player needed to prove something to him or to himself, or
to the world; he was wrenching at John's vest and shorts and almost
biting the skin of his neck and shoulder and cheek. There was a violence
to his affection that was thrilling and alarming; John's big cock was
already hard. But ignore that, he thought, feeling the need for Kyle's
pleasure, turning away and ignoring his own burning crotch, letting
himself be pushed roughly into the scraping texture of the dark wall,
Kyle's breath on his neck, his tracksuit rustling. `Yes,' he murmured
readily, `I'm all yours, mate, you can do what you want to me...'

`Tell me I'm your fucking man,' Kyle grunted at him in the dark,
sounding almost emotional, a bit choked. `Tell me I'm a proper stud.
Tell me I'm alpha.'

`You're... you're a proper stud, mate, you're the top dog...'

`Yeah I am,' Kyle said, a wobble to his passionate groan. John reached
down one side and clasped a comforting hand about Kyle's, at a loss for
what was upsetting and riling him, but very sure of how he would help him
out, as his shorts were shoved down and his quivering sweaty buttocks
exposed.



Kevin De Bruyne had been doing some quiet and sensible yoga on a mat in
the middle of the gym when he saw Walker bulldoze by, ignoring a quiet
greeting from a City youth player over on the treadmills. For a few
moments, the 29-year-old midfielder just remained on his mat in position,
reflecting on the strange way Kyle had crashed into him near the
manager's offices, that wild look in his eyes. Slowly, he unfolded his
legs and rose up onto his feet, stretching out in the skimpy grey shorts
he'd changed into for his quiet regime of stretches, getting his big
sturdy body supple and limber for this evening's performance.

He'd set off across the long gym rooms with only half an idea of what he
wanted to say to Kyle. He wanted to check his teammate and friend was
okay, yes, but he was also half-thinking about the problems of his
personal life ticking along -- perhaps, he thought, Kyle would be a
better bloke to confide in than someone as young and active as John
Stones? Walker was one of the most hypersexual people Kevin had ever met,
but he was also a man of complicated relationships and varied experience,
by all accounts; maybe he would have some tips or advice. Or maybe he
would just take the piss and it would become another bit of hideous
locker-room banter.

With these two vague notions in his mind, De Bruyne traipsed through the
gym in his shorts and tshirt, barefoot from the yoga. His confusion arose
when there was no sight of Walker, or anyone else, at the far end of the
suite. Just an empty space of performance space and varied kit, and one
hooked up boxing weight, swinging very gently side to side, as if in
recent use. De Bruyne stared thoughtfully at it and rubbed a hand over
his blotchy face, wondering if he'd actually imagined the burly figure
of the right-back enter the gym. But no, young Tommy Doyle on the
treadmill had clearly shouted some hello at him on the way past and been
ignored...!

The Belgian's eyes fixed on the cupboard door, an inch open. When he
began to walk towards it, he did so thinking to push it shut. He was so
naturally tidy, bordering on OCD, that he approached the kit closet with
nothing more than a gentle urge to tidy up the deserted gym suite and
head back to his routines. But as his feet drew close, he began to hear
the grunting and fleshy smacks. When he reached the door, he even
hesitated before pulling it a bit further open, some weird dread rising
up in his throat and making him want to back off. But he pulled it very
slowly open, preventing the squeak of its hinges, and shedding a
revealing sliver of light into the storeroom, treating him to the most
shocking and unexpected of sights.

Walker was instantly recognisable since his surname was printed on the
back of his club tracksuit top, taut over bulging shoulders, his upper
body tensed. The tracksuit bottoms were halfway down his meaty calves
though, exposing thick furry thighs and the huge glute muscles of his
rear, pumping steadily back and forth and glistening a little with sweat
in the band of light. And in the dim streak of light he was shedding on
the scene, Kevin could just about make out what his teammate was piling
into. Another man was stretched up against the wall, long arms reaching
up against it, fingers splayed out. The man's dark grey vest was pulled
up around his shoulders and neck, baring much of his long muscular back,
which Kyle groped at as he thrust into him. Kevin could just about make
out the curve of hips and buttocks where Kyle was hammering at him, the
mingling of the men's muscular legs, shorts about the fella's knees. He
could also see the bouncing brown curls of his hair, and the height and
stature of the guy against the wall was a giveaway, even before he heard
the moan of names.

`That's it baby,' the heavy South Yorkshire accent of Stones gasped,
`cum in me, you fuckin' alpha, make me your bitch, that's what you
want eh lad...' And Kyle's more nasal, pushy groan, `Aye, take it, take
it, fuckin' take it mate...' The words dissolved into a deep animal moan
that could only mean one thing. Kyle made one massive final thrust into
the other man, and before his climactic moan ended, Kevin had pushed the
door gently shut and blocked out the mind-bending view of his fellow City
players in... action.

The confused married man drifted back across the gym in an absolute daze,
wringing his empty hands together in slow movements, blinking repeatedly
until the frantic half-lit image stopped grinding repetitively in his
mind's eye. After a long slow walk through the fitness rooms, he reached
the initial gym area where he'd been set up to do his yoga, stared at
his mat and neatly piled tracksuit. He felt an odd sick feeling at the
bottom of his tummy at what he'd seen. Kyle and John?!

`Hey,' called a soft local accent, and he looked over to the treadmill,
where young Doyle was finishing up a run and wiping at his face with a
small sweat towel. The 18-year-old Manchester lad was looking his way
with a vague smile, leaning heavily on the handlebars of the treadmill
and recovering his breathing. `Did you see Walker? What's up with the
fella?' The strawberry blond teen looked at him beneath the messed-up
fringe of his hair, half-turning to look down the labyrinth of gym rooms,
clearly a bit pissed off to have been snubbed by a senior player passing
him by.

De Bruyne stared at the inexperienced young footballer and had a horrible
thought: what if Tommy went wandering down there and saw the same madness
he had?! He was a lot less cool and measured, it could be disaster, for
those two blokes and for this young newbie, so... In an odd rush, Kevin
picked up his things and abandoned his mat, and walked over to pat Tommy
on the shoulder. `Come on, let's have a kickabout, young man,' he
suggested warmly. Doyle, a promising 18-year-old making a slow impact on
the City squad after his Premiership debut just this month, lit up at the
prospect of some one-on-one time with the team's prized midfielder.

`Bit of extra warm-up?' he asked brightly, forgetting about Kyle Walker
full stop.

De Bruyne glanced over his broad shoulder, down the gym, thinking about
Kyle and John and whatever the hell he'd walked in on. He needed to shut
it out of his frazzled mind and refocus on the upcoming match instead. He
smiled forcefully back at Tommy and squeezed the shoulder of his clammy
gym top. `Yes, that would be good, will you help me?' he asked. `I
just want to kick a few balls before the team meeting... Come on,
Thomas.'



Pep Guardiola sat back in his desk chair and let it swing gently side to
side, lazily reaching for the mouse to scroll through a screen of contact
details, looking for the correct bookings number to ring up. A smile
played on his lips, a tight grin of personal satisfaction from the
intense blowjob that had lit up his quiet afternoon of admin and prep.

He had not wanted to sink to Walker's level, to be so manipulative or
pushy. But he had known that such a confrontation would happen, after the
bolshy defender failed to show up and `claim' his prize for the first
blackmail attempt. Looking back, Guardiola could hardly believe he had
courted the extortion in the first place, but he had been shocked and
panicked; shocked and panicked by Phil's minor betrayal as much as the
threat of what Kyle Walker could actually do. But now that they had
confronted each other, he felt good about it. He had showed his dominance
over Walker, reasserted his position as manager, as head coach, as alpha
male of the Etihad.

He was deeply intrigued by the hovering possibility that there was
something serious occurring between Walker and Stones, though perhaps it
really was just that tight-knit bromance that had developed between the
two defensive Yorkshiremen. He felt no ill-will to either of them, not
now that the issues had been aired and he felt confident that he had
shown Kyle his place.

Guardiola paused in the middle of scanning the info page for the London
hotel, and looked across the desk at his iPad where the team notes were
loaded up. He cast his eyes over the teamsheet he had prepared and
released to the squad at the end of yesterday afternoon, and the
defensive line-up he'd strategized for tonight's match against
Bournemouth. With a thoughtful little whistle to himself, staunchly
denying that a bit of oral sex had swung his opinions, he tapped at the
screen and edited it until John Stones was back in the back four between
Mendy and Otamendi, Walker completing the row. It would do no harm to
give the 6ft2 fighter another start tonight, would it?

Pep turned back to the job at hand and found the correct contact number
on-screen. He thumbed it into his office phone and then punched the
button for speakerphone, listening to the dial tone and then blandly
pleasant receptionist Received Pronunciation.

`Hola, hola... it is Guardiola here at the Etihad... ah, si, si... I just
wanted to upgrade my own booking for Saturday night... yes, yes, this is
to go on my own credit card, not the team account. Gracias, gracias.
Haha, yes, that is it -- I will be bringing my... aha, my wife, and I wish
to really treat her... The honeymoon suite, si? That would be perfect. Oh
yes. Triple deluxe? Sounds excellent, gracias... Your most expensive
champagne? Two bottles at least.' He smiled into thin air and listened
to her sales pitch as the upgrade process continued, reclining in his
seat and allowing himself to fantasise about Saturday coming, their stay
in London for the FA Cup Semi-Final against Arsenal; smashing the Gunners
would put them in the Final and one of his two remaining bonus options
would be complete for the exec. Yes, the Final was not the trophy, but
his target for the FA Cup was very specific. If they could beat Arsenal
on Saturday night, he would be able to relax, knowing that he had secured
one of his major goals for a Liverpool-dominated season.

And with that obstacle overcome, and Kyle Walker's little rebellion
quelled with a mouthful of his own seed, well...

He would be free to spoil his boy, and really make Phil Foden his own.


**WHAT WILL KEVIN DE BRUYNE DO NOW HE'S SEEN HIS TEAMMATES FUCKING...?
WILL GUARDIOLA STILL GET HIS NIGHT OF LUXURY IF CITY CANNOT BEAT ARSENAL?
WILL YOUNG FODEN BE ABLE TO SATISFY HIS MANAGER AND MASTER...? CAN KYLE
AND JOHN *FINALLY* BE HAPPY TOGETHER? ALL ANSWERS COMING SOON LOL...**


'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on
Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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