Date: Mon, 3 Aug 2020 15:23:33 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 160: The King of Spain

Part 160: The King of Spain


Sergio Ramos stood at the first-floor windows of the isolated mansion and
looked down over the sprawling garden party. The club president was
honouring their La Liga win with another of his big soirees, and all of
the Real Madrid men were kitted out in style, wives and girlfriends in
summery finery. Standing here looking down on it, Ramos could not help
but remember coming here for his first Real party, welcomed into their
ranks as a cocky upstart looking to make his name in the Spanish league.
Slimmer, longer hair, less decorated in ink... so much less worldly and
experienced.

A different man now. The Real Madrid captain grinned complacently and
rested his tattooed knuckles on the windowsill, peering out of the big
open windows and letting his eyes follow the familiar figures and
illustrious local guests that mingled on the stone terraces and neat
lawns of the luxurious house's grounds. In one direction you could make
out the lights of the city on the not-too-distant horizon, hovering just
out of reach.

He had slipped away up here to enjoy the view, quite blissfully alone
tonight for the celebrations. After all, his wife had only just given
birth to their latest child, was resting at home with the new-born. There
had been no question of Sergio missing tonight's formal celebration on
paternal duty, though he did plan to leave soon, rather early, to be back
in the cosy nest of his young family. This early exit was no sadness for
Ramos, since it was a fairly showy and joyless occasion, more about
expensive suits and dresses than really marking the sporting prowess that
had got them here, again. And besides... he'd had his fun.

The 34-year-old goal-scoring defender grinned with lingering satisfaction
to think on tonight's series of exploits, the rightful enjoyment of a
king like himself! After the way he had led his team this season, didn't
he deserve his choice of the enjoyment? And with his wife rather
indisposed, who could blame him for seeking discreet pleasure here at a
party that was more or less in his honour...? He licked his lips
shamelessly and stretched his body in this quiet spot upstairs, looking
out on the soiree he would soon slink away from and be driven back to the
compound of home.

He ran a hand over his slicked back auburn hair and stroked the neat trim
of his beard, enjoying his own dapper appearance reflected in nearby
glass, but enjoying much more the lingering feel of what he'd
experienced in bursts of leonine lust during tonight's party. Grinning
down into the assembly, he let his eyes pick out the subjects of his
personal enjoyment, one by one, all drifting through the mass of bodies,
drinks in hand, their chatter and laughter mixing with live string music
and drifting upwards to this vantage point. He counted them one by one in
order, spying them like a bird of prey: spunky young Marco Asensio;
rugged Karim Benzema; loyal and lovable Isco; smirking Eden Hazard; and
last but not least...  prudish Welsh Gareth Bale.



First, Marco. The 24-year-old fellow Spaniard looked particularly
youthful and cute in his slim-fitting linen suit, arm in arm with his
sweetheart. He had watched him quietly with a flute of cava in one inked
hand, licking bubbles of the Spanish fizz from his gingery moustache as
he eyed up the young winger and thought about how delicious it had been
to lead him astray in the gym that damp afternoon.

There had been no discomfort between the experienced Madrid captain and
the young attacking midfielder since; Asensio's respect and deference to
him was as total as many of the men on the highly paid squad, unfazed by
the private development in that deference.

He joined him at the buffet of finger food and spread one arm about his
shoulders, muscling in next to the 6ft dark-haired lad, looming by him
with a soft smile on his lips. `Aha, my fellow goal-scorer,' he
murmured in reference to their final game of the season yesterday,
pressing his hand into the soft shoulder of his suit jacket and pausing
him where they stood. Marco turned and flashed him a nervy white-toothed
grin, dark lashed eyes fluttering.

`Captain,' the 24-year-old murmured respectfully. `Good to see you.
Sorry your wife could not...'

`She needs to rest, and so does the little one,' Sergio told him in a
fairly dismissive way, cutting off that safe and domestic line of chat.
`It is good to hunt alone, once in a while.' His smile was wolfish and
hungry and he hovered there, keeping his hand on Marco's shoulder,
draining the last of his fizz before placing the glass down on the neatly
ordered buffet table. `And it makes it easier for us to catch up, no?'

Marco blinked at him, uncomprehending. `It's always good to have a word
with the chief,' Asensio said quickly but a little shakily, his long
honest face all bashful smile and rich brown tan. `But do we need to
catch up...? We see each other almost every day, hahah...?'

`But not properly,' Sergio reminded him smoothly, gripping a little
tighter at his shoulder. Just looking at the brown-eyed innocence of the
solidly muscular winger was giving him a tingle of excitement somewhere
down below. Leaving the house tonight, splashing elite aftershave on his
neck and wrists, he'd already known who his first target would need to
be. He grinned imperiously at him and pulled ever so gently on his
shoulder. `Come with me a minute, Marco...?'

The party was young at that stage and in the general milling about of
arriving guests and inexperienced hospitality staff, it was easy enough
to lead Asensio away quietly, across the gardens of the mansion. Marco
chuckled a little anxiously but kept flashing him trusting smiles; hard
to say if he was thinking about the incident in the gym and had any
memory of it or not. He did look back with a trace of guilt in his wide
eyes, maybe trying to identify his young wife somewhere in the thin crowd
they were leaving behind.

They went through the low walls and high hedges of the sprawling gardens
until they were in another space of flowerbeds and fountains, shielded
from the main lawns were the buffet and drinks had been set up -- but you
could still hear all of it, the gentle merriment of early evening. Marco
licked his lips a little and glanced back that way, seeing nothing but
dark hedges; Sergio watched him and smirked and then in one decisive move
grabbed the front of his fawn-coloured linen pants. Marco gulped and
looked back at him but then smiled uncertainly. `Captain...'

`You need rewarding for your goal,' Ramos told him in a quiet but
authoritative growl. He undid the zip fly with a gentle noise and scooped
the younger man's cock out of his trousers and silk boxers, tickling at
it with his rough fingertips, nudging it into life while Asensio gawped
at him and made hushed little moans of concerned surprise. It was obvious
now that he was thinking back to those exploratory touches in the Ramos
gym, and he knew what was expected of him -- his hand was on the front of
Sergio's own dark blue suit pants, feeling the sizeable soft contents
with his knuckles as he stammered out his worry.

`This is dangerous, Serg...'

`Isn't that half the fun?'

`God, captain, I dunno...'

`Relax.' He squeezed and pulled on his slim cock, feeling how quickly
it twitched and stiffened. Marco kept gulping and looking about them,
though there was nothing to see here but bright well-kept flowerbeds and
the ornate old-world fountain sculptures. Ramos stood over him, gently
tugging his cock into life, biting a little at his own lip. He reached
down with his other hand and undid the front of his trousers, pulling
Marco's hand in against the bulging front of his black briefs. But
nothing more; he didn't get his dick out, didn't encourage any more.

No; all he did was stroke and tease at Marco's cock, loving the fearful
pleasure on his handsome young features, the risk of their position. The
party was filling up and spreading out, you could hear voices carry over
the hedges and topiaries, people could be mingling a few yards from this
spot for all they knew. Marco's long tanned face hung with mouth open
and eyes wide, pushing and prodding nervously at the weight of Sergio's
bulge but not daring to go further, trying and failing to hold in little
gasps of pleasure.

Sergio, confidently disinterested in the cock itself, pulled firmly and
rapidly on it until he knew his loyal winger was close. `You know I own
you,' he growled at him in a low voice. `You know I am king here,
yes?'

`Oh, of course... sir... mmm...'

`That's it, I like it when you call me that,' he muttered.

He pulled Asensio to orgasm, allowing him to grip at his arm and shoulder
for support as his lean strong body rocked and shook in the smart
confines of his linen suit. Sergio's palm filled with the juicy wet seed
that spilled out of the tip of his prick. Marco gasped and recovered,
eyes half-shut. Sergio just smirked, lifted the handful of spunk, and
brought it to Asensio's face. The other footballer didn't know what to
do, opening his lids again and staring uncertainly at his captain and
commander; Ramos smeared the lad's own silvery white spunk over his
plump lips and slid two fingers into his mouth, carrying his seedy juice
in against his tongue.

Sergio Ramos tucked the tails of his fresh white shirt back into the
waist of his suit pants and zipped them up, covering the swollen mound of
his fat bulge. He straightened his tie and the lapels of his thin blue
jacket, then laughed very faintly. `Good boy Marco,' he praised almost
mockingly, and left him to it; he walked on, passing close to a fountain
so he could run his spunk-sticky hand in its babbling waters, while
behind him he could hear the nervous gasps of a young man trying to push
his cock back into his pants and recover from his first taste of semen.



Karim Benzema, next. Unlike young Asensio, Ramos had not crossed these
taboo lines with his long-time teammate and friend. But when he rocked up
next to him in one of the big house's downstairs toilets, Ramos was
still on the seedy high of tossing off nervous Marco in the gardens, and
he looked lustily at the 32-year-old striker as their paths crossed.

Sergio was emerging from the single toilet cubicle of the small,
beautifully tiled room, grinning in welcome to the other long-established
Madrid star, who bustled past him into the narrow toilet space but left
its door open while Sergio moved to the ornate sink unit next to it. He
stood there, dipping his hands beneath the hot rush of water and
effeminately scented soap, and looked to his left, at the back of
Benzema's tight-fitting striped shirt and dark chinos.

Ramos paused with contemplative enjoyment at the first loud splash of the
tall Frenchman's piss in the loo; his own dick was still semi in his
briefs, roused by the scene with Asensio and the comfortable knowledge of
his sexual power here. He watched Karim from behind and weighed up the
risk of making a move -- weighed up wasn't the right phrase, he knew it
was ridiculous and foolish, but he was drunk on his own status as the
triumphant captain of a triumphant team. He stepped lightly to the right
and reached for the lock on the bathroom door, clicking it quietly into
place. Then he moved past the sink back to the open door of the toilet
space, coming in behind his friend and cooing quietly. `The noise you
make with that hosepipe, Karim...!'

Benzema laughed loudly, glancing over his shoulder as Sergio approached.
There was not really space in this cubicle section of the small
downstairs bathroom, not for two fully grown athletic men like Benzema
and Ramos, but he squeezed in beside him anyway, grinning at his own joke
and look down over his friend's shoulder at the thick dark tool resting
between his thumbs. `You monster,' he chided, making Karim laugh more,
`too many years I've had to watch that thing swing about...'

`Oh Sergio,' his old friend rebuffed, elbowing him gently in the
process of shaking his pissing cock, `that is rubbish, I know yours is
huge too...'

Sergio grinned. `True. Shall we compare?' He patted the centre of the
big man's back with one hand, feeling his warm and slightly sweaty
muscle through the shirt fabric, then unclasped the front of his suit
trousers with the other, reaching down into the contents of his black
briefs and flopping it out. He was similarly well-hung to the French man
but as he was already quite aroused, his meat hung longer and more
prominently, and they both laughed easily at the comparison of their two
weighty pieces.

The dynamic here was different to in the gardens. Benzema was a powerful
and respectable goal machine who had been at Real Madrid almost as long
as his captain. He was not some impressionable and malleable young stud
to be toyed with or encouraged... but... Sergio liked the feel of
Benzema's masculine strength beside him, a guy he trusted and had played
with far more times than anyone else. He grinned at him, and liked that
his grin provoked a quite nervous smile on the hulking Frenchman's hairy
face and in his dark eyes. He'd finished his piss but held his cock
still out between two hands, something defiant and standoffish in his
refusal to put it away as the pair of them stood there huddled together
over the toilet pan.

Sergio took one hand and rubbed it down the still soft length of his
tool, unsurprised when the movement drew big Karim's eyes back down to
it. The 6ft1 man was just a fraction taller than he and a lot broader in
the shoulders and chest, almost bursting out of his close-fitting shirt.
Down below, his fat swarthy cock hung from a thick bush of pubes,
contrasting with the neat shaven regions of Sergio's own crotch. A long
time seemed to have passed since either man said anything. Sergio rubbed
his own dick again and gave a simple chuckle. As if rising to the
challenge of the sound and gesture, Karim fumbled at his own meat a bit,
maybe trying to make it swell and stretch and show off his full manly
size. They both stared down openly at each other's dicks.

There was so much unspoken between them, but there always was. Here was a
player who had waged campaign after campaign with him since they were
both bright-eyed young newbies. Ramos had never quite looked at him in
this way, but now he was excited. In his hand, his cock was becoming
fully hard, straining in its veiny donkey length against his hand. He saw
Karim's eyes widen a little to appreciate it, knew he'd `won'. Karim
was more of a... shower than a grower. His dick was stiffening a little at
his fumbling, but it didn't stretch much in its chubby length, a similar
size but just firmer and lifting... Magnanimous in defeat, Benzema gave a
hollow laugh and shifted from foot to foot.

`Now we're hard,' Ramos said, simply.

`Ramos...'

`What? You are hard.'

`Fucking hell, pal...'

`Go on.' He began to slide his hand up and down his own tool in a
luxuriant wank, encouraging the other successful footballer to do the
same. He grinned brightly into the slow indecision of Benzema's dark
features. Eventually, the Real Madrid Number 9 began to emulate him,
rolling his palm over his fat erection, laughing again but frowning
uncertainly.

`My wife is waiting for me somewhere out there,' Karim hissed breathily
at him.

`My wife is waiting for me at home,' Sergio pointed out, `but I am so
so horny, my friend...'

The two La Liga winners hunched side by side in the narrow space, tiled
walls to either side of them, shoulders pressing together, hands moving
quickly and greedily over their own members. The captain kept his eyes
locked on those of the forward, knowing his own charismatic influence
even other a man of Karim's age and status in their sporting world. He
grinned encouragingly and let his breathing get lout and ragged. Then,
just as both men's excitement seemed to soar, he reached his spare hand
for Karim's, where it hung limp at his hip, and dragged it over to clasp
about his big donkey dick. Karim gawped at him a bit but instantly it was
happening; in his frenzied eagerness, the French brute was tossing them
both of, his hands falling into the same rhythm but on two chunky bones.
The men's eyes remained locked together in an intense gaze.

`That's it, Karim,' Sergio hissed. `Wank off my big dick. Wank off
your captain.'

Benzema was staring at him in a weirdly horrified way that clashed with
the solid and rapid action of his reaching hand, like he was on a sort of
lusty autopilot and didn't know how to stop wanking one dick without
also stopping the other, and he was climbing to his own peak, unable to
reject or let go of a second prick as he did so. Sergio lifted a hand and
squeezed firmly at the back of his neck, gently prising the man's clumsy
fingers from his own veiny shaft just as Benzema gave a low moan of
completion and spurted thick gooey spunk all over the bowl and cistern of
the toilet. His pants of recovery were long, animal, full of worry.

Ramos patted his back, grinned complacently, nodded. `I think you needed
that, my friend?'



He had caught Isco's eye a little later in the night, stuck bored in
conversation with two elderly gentleman from a massive European
conglomerate whose money did a lot for the club. Similarly, his stocky
little friend was stuck with some rich friends of the president's,
somehow divided from his beautiful wife or any of the other players. As
quickly as was realistic and polite, Ramos extricated himself from his
own dutiful chatter and rescued Isco. `The boss needs to see us for a
moment,' he lied, pulling on the arm of his shirt; both of them had shed
their jackets at this warm stage of the late evening, lingering indoors
in big reception rooms with wide open windows to the gardens.

The 5ft9 Madrid midfielder laughed gratefully and winked at him as Ramos
steered him further indoors, away from the somnolent figures of the
party's older guests and the starchy formality of these reception rooms.
`God, I thought I might retire as a footballer before I escaped them,'
the younger Spanish man hissed. `Some party this is...!'

`Oh, I don't know,' Sergio mused back at him in quiet Spanish, `I am
having a good night...'

`Huh. You always do.' Isco glared knowingly at him, probably suspecting
he had been up to something less than wholesome or faithful to his absent
spouse. `Let's go outside,' he suggested. `I need to find a fresh
drink and it is too hot in here.'

`Yes. Very hot.'

`I am sweating to death! Look at me, this shirt is sticking to me.'

`Hmm, yes.'

`And my suit pants! God, why couldn't we just show up in shorts?!'

Standing together in the roomy central hall of the mansion's main wing,
Sergio grinned at these comments and surveyed his shorter friend,
enjoying the truth that his pale blue shirt did stick a little to his
bulky shoulders and wiry midriff. You could almost see a little of
Isco's chest hair through the dampened fabric over his pectorals. He
watched him pull idly at the top few buttons and his colour and then
thumb at the waist of his trousers a little. `Yes, you are sweaty,'
Sergio agreed, furrowing his eyebrows and licking his lips a bit.

`What?' The 28-year-old attacking midfielder frowned back. `What is
that look for?'

Sergio stared squarely back at him and stroked at the wispy edge of his
ginger beard. `I am just thinking how sweaty your pants must be too.'

Isco scoffed. `Oh shut up, you filthy old man.' He shook himself,
fidgeting with the overgrown dark locks of his hair and looking out for
one of their host's drink girls and their loaded trays of generous
evening cocktails. Sergio stood watching him in turn, breathing in his
woody aftershave and manly scent. He reached a hand for his lower back
and hooked a thumb indiscreetly inside the waistband of his tight black
suit trousers. `Hey...'

`Let us get you cooled down, eh...?'

Ramos led them back a few steps and then through a side door, down a
passage he knew from memory; past the house's expansive set of kitchens
and to the doors of its storerooms. The only problem with this space was
the limited visibility; ideally, he would have enjoyed seeing Isco's
plump bottom as he undid his trousers and dragged them down, kneeling
behind him in the narrow warm space. But touch and taste would do for
missed visuals.

The Madrid captain rested on his knees and ignored Isco's muttered
concerns, dragging the clammy fabric of his expensive suit trousers over
his thighs, past his knees, down his hard bruised shins. Tight designer
trunks too, fingers gripping their Armani waistband, went south in the
same fashion. `Oh Sergio,' the midfielder muttered, `you really wanna
do this again...'

`It felt good, did it not?'

`But it's so wrong...'

Ramos scoffed. `Nothing wrong with a treat from your captain.'

As he had before, he parted the chunky hairy muscles of Isco's bottom
and ran his tongue into the sweaty passage between. His younger friend
gasped immediately and reached for the cupboard shelves to support
himself. Sergio rimmed him inexpertly but with filthy greed, taking all
these years of cunnilingus into his treasured new target. Just as he had
on the jacuzzi steps, he tongued his mate's crack and hole and gripped
his thick body in both hands, raging erection in his crotch, enjoying the
musty taste and dirty deed. He loved the way it made handsome Francisco
shudder and mumble and pant out his name to him. No deferential
`captain' or `sir' from this loyal ally, but the respect and
affection in his thick voice was enough.

After he'd rimmed the rugged little footballer for as long as he could
be bothered, he tried again what inexperience and tight muscles had
prevented; he slid a finger in to probe at the man's slicked hole,
making him growl into the crook of his shirt sleeves and, in a pained
voice, beg him to stop. But even as he begged, Isco was jerking himself,
pulling on his disproportionately big prick, panting and spluttering.
Ramos kept one finger tightly inside his hot entrance and kissed and bit
at his buttocks, then pushed DEEPER... `Ohhh god...' Isco's cum splashed
messily somewhere ahead of them in the dark, and he kissed both of his
plump cheeks again, taking care to rearrange and disguise his massive
erection in his own pants before quietly exiting the storeroom and
leaving his friend to recover quietly on his own.



Eden Hazard had been trying to catch his eye since the party began.
Enjoying the power of unspoken desire, Ramos had ignored and avoided him,
choosing instead to toy with Marco and challenge Karim and lavish his
oral talents on sexy little Isco. But after tasting sweaty arse and
pushing a single finger in with difficult, sleazy little Hazard was
exactly what he needed.

He found him out in the cooler shadows of the terrace, but drew him
indoors with nothing more than a whisper in the ear: `It is time,
Eden.' His lips and ginger facial hair were moist with his own drool and
his buddy's sweaty behind as he whispered it, looming close to the other
diminutive athlete and stroking one shoulder of his shirt before backing
away.

Ramos had attended countless functions at the mansion, knew his way
around. He had stayed overnight after less formal and officious events,
drunk on the president's ridiculous vintage beverages from the cellar.
He knew there was a series of small guest rooms on the second-floor and
he led the club's infamous flop signing up to them without another word;
Ramos knew well that simple confidence was the trick to not being stopped
or questioned, and he guided Hazard up onto this silent floor without
anyone seeming to notice their departure.

Inside the room, one thing quickly became apparent: the house's ample
guest accommodation was in use for tonight's event. Several suitcases
leaned by the bed, an assortment of fine outfits, both male and female,
hung from wardrobe doors and other corners, as if left out during a
difficult decision over what to wear. No doubt some millionaire couple
were housed in here tonight, VIP treatment by the Real Madrid bosses to
keep their cash flowing. Eden Hazard paused in the room, tugging at his
coral pink tie and eyeing the signs of habitation. Sergio laughed and
breezed by him, grabbing and yanking on his tie commandingly.

`Forget it. They won't know.' He turned and grinned hungrily at the
winger. `Get undressed and get on the bed. I'm going to fuck you until
you cry.' He hadn't known just how riled and ready he was until the
authoritative English words barked out of his mouth, and he saw Eden's
features light up at the seedy urgency of it. Immediately, the short
Belgian was tugging at shirt buttons and belt buckles and shoelaces.
Ramos himself turned away and undressed in calm quiet, wishing to
maintain his air of powerful composure and indifference, even if in
reality, his insides were screaming with delighted anticipation; how long
had been wondering what it was like to actually fuck another man? Since
eating out Isco in the training ground, he'd thought of little else. He
knew sluttish little Eden was his best bet, and the man's reaction now
confirmed everything.

By the time Sergio was shedding his trousers and peeling down his black
briefs, Eden was already naked on the bed, on his hands and knees,
staring at him with a look that shifted from reverence to impatience.
Ramos let his pants drop and stepped out of them, naked but for his
socks, which he peeled down one at a time, then approached the bed. He
smiled coolly at his project, realising the parallel anticipation; how
long exactly had cheeky little Hazard been thinking about taking his
mighty captain's cock...?

Aroused by his three exploits so far, Ramos was rock hard in seconds,
climbing onto the bed and pushing his prick between Eden's tight lips.
He sank onto his back on the expensive sheets, laughing to think how
crumpled and used the bed would be when some dried-up old couple came to
crawl into it after one too many sherry. He lay back against it, rubbing
sweaty muscles into the sheets and pillows, and holding Eden's face into
his shaven crotch. His dick pushed up into his mouth and throat and he
groaned happily at the attention. He'd wanted this from the moment he
led Marco aside in the garden, but he'd been ambitious and greedy; how
hard it had been to avoid cumming while he pursued each man's innocence!
Only now was he prepared to really give in to his own pleasure, now he'd
teased and degraded Asensio, Benzema, Isco...

And in that spirit of impatience, he didn't let the blowjob go on long.
Lazy and self-satisfied, he remained on his back as he pushed Hazard's
face away and smirked down his ripped torso at him. `Sit on my cock, you
Belgian cunt,' he spat. `Come on. Earn some respect after your shit
season. Show me how much you want to be part of the team, Hazard. Do
it.'

Eden clearly didn't need the dirty talk or the humiliation to submit,
but he lapped it up anyway; he kissed Sergio's thighs and lower tummy
and drooled over the head of his cock, all the while reaching down for
his plump smooth cheeks and rubbing at himself. He seemed to look about
for something that might act as lube but Sergio just spat in his own palm
and slicked it over the thick tower of his rod, no time for such
concerns. He needed to be inside someone, and fast.

Before long, Eden was squatting onto him, straddling his body and staring
wild-eyed down at him. Sergio enjoyed looking at the paler body of the
Belgian man, the dark little triangle of hair on his chest, the fading
definition of his six-pack, the trembling eagerness of his own hard-on
and tight little balls. His smooth cheeks felt amazing as they sat on the
fat head of his dick.

`Come on,' Ramos growled. `Ride me.'

He did, with gusto. The tightness of his cheeks clamped around the
captain's cock and he pushed down. In return, Ramos thrust up. He held
Eden by the thighs and pushed up with his core and his glutes, pressing
himself into that narrow passage, tight but clearly not totally new to
this. Soon, Hazard was bouncing on him, whimpering and trying not to be
too indiscrete in his noise. He still seemed thrown by the fact the room
was occupied and full of other people's things, but for Sergio that just
heightened the fun. Even the prospect of discovery sent shivers through
him as he lay there and fucked upwards into his first male arse.

He let this go on for a while, rocked by waves of pleasure and not
bothering to say anything more to the sluttish Belgian winger. He closed
his eyes and rubbed his body back against the sheets, staining them with
his sweat and stretching out each muscle in turn. Then, when he felt
himself becoming more intoxicated and pleasured, he gripped at Eden's
body and flipped their positions over. He pressed Eden down flat against
the bed and rammed him from above, pinning and holding him and letting
his sweat trickle onto his stocky frame and chunky behind, pillowy and
delightful to pound. This was more like it. It had felt good lying there
and being sat on, but really sticking it to the sexy impish footballer
was another thing. What really struck Ramos was just how forceful and
aggressive he could be, much more than he would risk with his gorgeous
woman.

`Tell me how much you want be a Madrid player,' he hissed in Eden's
ear. `Tell me how much better you will play next season now I have
fucked you. Tell me. Go on. Beg me you little whore.'

And Eden did, in heated rambling gasps. He apologised and begged and
squealed. Ramos piled him into the bed, making it buckle and creak and
smearing their grimy sweat all over the bedding. He spunked inside
Hazard, filling him up like every time he'd impregnated a woman, and
holding him down while he enjoyed the last dazzling moments of orgasm.

When he was done, he got up and wiped his dick on one of the hanging
gowns, using a discarded shirt to clean sweat from his face and hair and
beard. He stole deodorant from the dressing table and dressed in silence.
Eden sat on the bed, shakily pulling on his own clothes, constantly
staring at him with a quite vacant expression, all submissive and lusty.
`That was incredible,' the Belgian moaned, struggling to button up his
shirt with shaky hands. `It's so long since anyone did that to me...'
There was a nostalgic glint to his eyes that seemed quite sad and
wistful, but Sergio was uninterested. He finished knotting his tie and
tucked in his shirt, and went off to end his night.



He'd fully intended to stop at four. In fact, he'd only set out for
three. Making Benzema wank him and shoot his load in a toilet had been a
delightfully naughty extra. But his fifth target stumbled straight into
his path as he descended a flight of stairs back into the main house.
Sergio knew his face and hair were still shiny with the sweat that had
poured off him in his rapid fuck-fest, knew he didn't quite look the
cool and composed party-goer he ought to; he could see some recognition
of this in the other guy's eyes immediately, the pair of them bumping
into each other on the first-floor landing.

`Captain,' muttered Gareth Bale in winded surprise.

`Good evening,' Sergio returned in a voice more smooth and controlled
than he felt; his body seemed to still pulse with the chaotic energy of
the sex upstairs, twitching and flexing beneath the confines of his shirt
and trousers and tight black tie. He straightened his collar and cuffs
and smiled magisterially at his errant teammate, hovering on the top step
with him.

There was an awkward moment between them, the Welsh striker giving him a
funny look up and down, patting the thighs of his dark brown trousers
then adjusting the loose collar of his own more relaxed-fit shirt. Sergio
continued grinning at him, flustered but confident, suddenly toying with
a new idea of milking more fun from the night before he had to go.

`I am just looking for where they put my jacket,' Gareth told him,
something strained and apologetic in his voice. `The wife has a
headache. Need to make a move soon.' The 31-year-old out-of-favour
forward frowned curiously at him and looked about the broad landing and
that broke into two or three wide passages at either side. He seemed
quite lost, uncomfortable at having explored up here and bumped into his
captain. He took an indecisive step one way but Sergio shook his head and
gestured in the other direction, beginning to move that way himself.

`This way,' he said. `Let me show you. We can speak a little too,
perhaps.'

`Huh, sure. Sure.'

This would only be the latest of many awkward one-to-one chats from the
Spanish captain and the Welsh import. Bale's cheeky behaviour and
playful disinterest in the club's victories was doing nothing for his
up-and-down relationship with their fans, who in recent years willingly
booed him almost as soon as he stepped out on the pitch. Recently, Ramos
had been tasked with trying to handle Bale's apparent attitude problem
and difficulty bonding with the rest of the club. Their conversations on
it recent weeks had been tinged with an underlying awkwardness (for
Gareth, not for Sergio) that they both understood well: Gareth could not
let go of the secret they shared. Leading him down a corridor and into
another small private bathroom much like that he had occupied with
Benzema, Ramos grinned madly. Imagine if Bale knew that he'd just been
on the upper floor slamming his big prick into that whorish younger man
that they had shared on poker night.

Beside him, Gareth stared about the small tiled room then frowned at him.
`No jackets,' he said bluntly. `I do need to find it, chief. I need to
go.' He nodded vaguely back the way they'd come. `Wife whinging with a
headache.'

Sergio shut the door behind them and smiled glassily back at him.
`Sure.'

`Can this mano-e-mano wait for another day?' the Welshman sighed.
`Look, the season is over, we won, yay and all that... can I just enjoy
my holiday before more fuckin' criticism and...'

`If she has a headache, how will she service you when you get home?'
Sergio demanded, cutting him off, uninterested in club and team politics
now. He grinned wildly at Gareth's confused frown. `Your wife. If she
is in so much pain, she will not be much fun when you get her home...!'

Bale grunted. `In my country, we marry women for more than just-`

`I know you,' Sergio snapped at him. `A man like you. A man like me. I
understand you.' He felt drunk on his own power and enjoyment. His cock
in his pants was still faintly stiff and chunky, wilted from orgasm and
sticky with cum and Eden's hole, but he felt as horny and excited as if
that fuck hadn't really taken place and just existed in his overheated
mind. He grinned hungrily at his teammate, reaching over to click the
lock once more. `Men like you and I have needs, Bale.'

The tall Welsh footballer, 6ft1 like Benzema and a chunky presence even
next to tall muscular Ramos, just stared weirdly back at him, frowning
beneath the tight scraped bun of his thinning dark hair, his expression
rugged and angular. His floral print shirt hugged the broad expanse of
his upper body and his chest rose and fell a little with his slow
confused breaths. Sergio reached for the crotch of his trousers and he
began to shift back and push away; Sergio ignored this, groping for the
bulge there, finding it heavy and full and as big as he remembered. He'd
loved seeing their two massive weapons out together, pushing into Eden's
greedy mouth, trying it out for the first time. It had been dazzlingly
new to him then, new to them both -- but they'd reacted so differently.

`Come on,' Ramos growled. `I've seen how much you enjoy being
touched.'

`You said you'd never mention that to anyone...'

`I haven't. I'm mentioning it to you.'

`Fuck's sake Sergio, you can't just... mate, don't...'

`Getting hard already. You need to show your loyalty, don't you...?'

`Mate, leave my dick alone, stop-`

`Calm down. Relax. I know what I'm doing.'

Ramos pushed him back against the wooden door with a little thump. He
held briefly to the thick bulge of his ceps in his shirt sleeves, face to
face, then bent his knees and went down, kneeling as he had behind horny
little Isco. He could tell that Gareth was about to push him back, tussle
with him in their well-matched masculine strength, but now was pausing,
unsure; Sergio's dipping kneel had taken him by surprise, not been what
he expected. Now the horny Spanish captain was on his knees in front of
the Welsh striker and Gareth was staring down slack-jawed and anxious.
His bony cheeks were pink with blush and his eyes wide in confusion.

Sergio yanked open the thick brown leather belt and ran down the zip fly
of his pants. Biting his own lip, he wrenched at the tight fabric around
the forward's beastly thighs and pulled down. Down they came. Pale hairy
flesh exposed where the tan lines ended just below his grey boxer briefs.
The bulge there was as huge as he expected, as huge as he'd felt. `What
the fuck?' Bale demanded, not moving or resisting, just leaning back
against the door. Sergio pulled the trousers down more then grabbed and
pulled at the soft warm fabric of the undies. Down they came.
`Seriously,' Gareth demanded, `what are you doing? What the fuck is
this, skipper...?'

As Sergio sucked him off, wrapping his lips around his first prick and
vaguely emulating the way he'd seen Eden and Isco do it, the way his
wife attentively did so on special occasions, he thought with surprise
that there was a kind of power in this. Being the alpha male wasn't all
about being serviced and talking shit to your inferiors. Kneeling here
with Gareth's sweaty Welsh hard-on against his lips and tongue, he
didn't feel like he was relinquishing power or authority. He was holding
his target in place, forcing unexpected pleasure on the striker, lapping
at his vulnerable manhood and taking a special control over him. Bale
made little murmurings of approval and his arms were stiff and straight
at his sides. His prick throbbed and responded to Ramos and his first
tentative blowjob. How difficult could it be?

`Oh Ramos,' groaned Bale. `Fuckin' hell, captain...'

In minutes, the powerful Real Madrid captain had sucked him to
completion, tightly holding the base of his long thick piece and swirling
his tongue and tickling beard around the shaft and head until Gareth was
bright red in the face and huffing out each agonised breath. Unready for
that next step, Sergio leaned aside, jerking the cock furiously and
patting one of the other man's thick thighs. He watched in marvel as cum
jetted from the Welsh dick, spilling on the tiled floor beside them. An
enormous sense of power and dominance filled him to see what he'd
brought out in this prudish Brit who had fled from their first fun at his
house. Above, Gareth was staring at him in a kind of defeat, scarlet and
sweaty.

Sergio held his cock tight and purred with a chuckle, `No more silly
games off the pitch, my friend. No more disrespect to the club. I am
watching you.' He licked his lip and rose to his feet, tall and imposing
next to the red-faced and flustered foreigner. `You taste good,' he
added coldly, and then backed off to give him space.



Gareth Bale had washed his face and disappeared in a hurry, full of muted
anguish at being sucked by a fella for the second time. Sergio had
watched him go, laughing easily and licking salty precum from his lips,
wondering if it might not have been fun to take his load properly in his
mouth. He grinned at himself in the mirror, thinking about the five men
he had mastered in the course of the night, and left the bathroom
behind.

And now he stood here, at the windows of that big landing space, looking
down into the garden. His eyes had just found Bale, hurrying out there
without his jacket, finding his wife among the crowd and making hurried
gestures that they should leave. Nearby, he could see Hazard moving
through the busy space too -- was he limping a little bit? Perhaps that
was just Sergio's arrogant imagination. He could see Isco laughing
contentedly with his partner by the bar area, and he thought he spied
Benzema and Asensio in the same large group of men talking and laughing
by the patio, clearly recovered from the alarmingly intimate beginnings
to their night. Ramos ached with lust to have another go at all five of
them, but he needed to make a move. His wife and children waited for him
at home, he had promised not to be late.

Before he left this spot, he thought once more about the first time he'd
stood here. Not alone for long, joined here at the vantage point by an
older and more experienced Real Madrid player. If only he'd understood
that approach then, what was going on... the gentle initiation into the
power play available to sportsmen like him. David Beckham had understood
it so well. He could still remember his gentle hand sliding around his
heavy young cock, right here, jerking him as they stared out at his new
kingdom. He'd been so young and naïve then, running on adrenaline and
confidence; now he understood a bit more about the world, but the same
arrogant self-assertion remained. He'd truly conquered this little
kingdom now!

Still... standing there with his tattooed hands on the sill and a night
breeze playing on his beard and face, the Spain and Madrid captain
couldn't help but curl into a wistful grin and imagine one improvement
to this long evening of lust and dominance, one extra flourish that would
make him feel even better about himself and his sexual potency. He
lingered there for another moment, tasting the night air, and imagined
Beckham was beside him again, stroking his big meat and whispering
encouraging assertions in his ear. Wouldn't that be nice?