Date: Wed, 17 Feb 2021 10:47:11 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 238

Part 238: Memories of the Nou Camp


There were far worse places to be bed-bound than the opulent Parisian
townhouse, but it was still not easy to settle down and focus on the
wall-mounted screen displaying the build-up to tonight's Champions
League knockout match. Especially not for a footballing diva like the
29-year-old Brazilian now huffing into a comfortable position, toying
with the heavy chain necklace at his chest and wriggling his shoulders
against the mounted cushions to find a better posture, his
tournament-winning legs stretched out in front and one carefully clad to
protect his recovering muscles from this latest and despised injury; the
injury that was keeping here in the French capital (and not even at one
of his coastal holiday homes, annoyingly, but stuck in the locked down
city without any of his entourage to keep him company) rather than
helping to lead his team to the Quarter-Finals.

Neymar da Silva Santos Junior lounged back and pouted impatiently at the
screen, fidgeting his legs again and shuffling his muscular bottom over
the covers to finally find the right relaxing position from which to
survey the two major European squads marching out onto the turf of the
Camp Nou in Catalonia. He had been thrilled by the tie between his
current and former clubs, of course, for so many reasons; falling
painfully to the ground yet again and ruling himself out of the major
clash had been far more upsetting than the physical pain he had been in
since this last knock, and still was not tonight, deeply frustrated and
jealous as Paris Saint-Germain and Barcelona lined up ready for the
kick-off.

It was galling to be left here in France and miss out, he'd tried to
insist on accompanying the squad on the flight down to the Spanish city,
but such a trip would have gone against all physio wisdom and the new
manager, despite being so evidently charmed by Neymar's persona, had
absolutely refused to allow an exception -- he was here at home on the
strict orders of Pochettino himself, a fact that seemed to make his
current restrictions all the worse. At 29, Neymar still held an almost
teenage petulance against authority and instruction, but he was quite
keen on the French club's new boss and had no intention of breaking the
Argentine coach's apparent affection for him. Quite the opposite, he
thought with a mercurial smirk.

The Brazilian athlete did his best to calm and ignore the sulky
sensations and stabs of envy, frowning at the screen and preparing to
support the boys from home, phone at the ready to tweet his encouragement
and reactions. He pawed lazily at his chest and collar and thumbed
through social media while waiting for the whistle, looking up every few
seconds to eye the legendary Barcelona stadium with a mixture of
nostalgia and defiance.

Inevitably, Neymar's mind wandered back to the brilliant few years he
had enjoyed there, arguably the pinnacle of his career so far; the
brilliant seasons of success there! In challenging moments here in Paris,
he would sometimes question his money-driven exit from the La Liga
winners and his arrival in the French league, but PSG too had brought its
own moments of brilliance, and could continue to do so. He was quite
confident his teammates could make a strong challenge to Barcelona
tonight, even without his speed and agility as their secret weapon.

On screen, the game was finally starting, and for a moment the panning
camera was fixed on the Barcelona goal and their mighty `keeper taking
up position, adjusting the straps of his gloves and huffing out steamy
breaths into the night air. Lounging in his townhouse bedroom, Neymar
grinned indulgently at the sight of Marc-Andre ter Stergen, now
considered one of Europe's best goalies, but a fairly fresh face when he
had arrived from his native Monchengladbach in 2014, and joined a
then-unstoppable Barcelona.

But it was not those distant days that Neymar found himself musing on
now, as the match burst into action between his two treasured football
clubs -- no, it was a little more recently, in the summer of 2017, in
fact on one of his final few days as a Barcelona player...



It had happened in the gym, where Neymar had gone simply to burn off some
of the nervous excitement produced by the near-completion of his PSG
transfer.  A quiet, shady fitness suite where it had just been the two of
them there, the German working out solidly and patiently alone while
Neymar bounced energetically between machines and refined his own lean
physique.

It had only taken a few conversational gambits to coax ter Stergen into
removing his earbuds and listening to Neymar's carefully dropped
compliments about his upper body strength, alternated between casual
questions about his wife and home. For his own part, Neymar ditched his
own sweaty workout, clothed in just a thin tshirt and quite skimpy
shorts, sloping closer to the free weighted squats of the 6ft2 beast. He
perched against a rack of dumbbells, folded his tattooed arms and grinned
wickedly at the goalkeeper, openly admiring his hard work now. The
conversation was a little stilted in their shared fragmentary English,
though Marc-Andre's was far better than his own, but Neymar's charms
always managed to transcend language barriers -- far more could be
communicated through his wolfish eyes and gentle shifting smirks, or
perhaps just exuded in lusty pheromones when he was really in the mood.
Which, then and now, was rather often.

He loitered closer to where the goalkeeper's workout was slowing to a
halt, fiddling with the sweat-curled blond highlights of his fringe, then
toying with a chunky earring, then lifting the front of his translucent
white gym top halfway up his six-pack to scratch himself. In front of
him, Marc-Andre stood hesitantly over the lowered bar, hulking and
awkward in his vest and black sports leggings. The conversation had
really died then, just a series of alternating gruff chuckles and
shifting looks, their eyes meeting and evading. Neymar could not be sure
how rapidly ter Stergen understood his intentions; there was something
quite oblivious and innocent about the German, then just 25 to his own
26, though looking more mature and solid, but perhaps he had heard a few
things about the Brazilian's proclivities.

He certainly hadn't reacted much when Neymar made the move, rubbing one
of his clammy hands against the loaded front of those tight lycra pants,
finding the mound and bulge in there. The silence had become briefly more
awkward and loaded, and then relaxed for Neymar when the goalkeeper just
sighed and grunted. `Really?' was all ter Stergan asked, an incomplete
and ambiguous question that could have meant almost anything. Neymar
grinned at him, baring all of his perfectly white teeth, and he nodded.
Really.

From there, he had taken full control. Resting a hand on one of the tall
keeper's throbbing pale arms, he had guided him back to the bench, not
even bothering to seek out a more private and safe spot. Standing
face-to-face with him, a little dwarfed at his own 5ft9, he had continued
to paw and fondle at the front contents of those black leggings, his eyes
just daring Marc-Andre to question or challenge his right to cop a feel.
And sure enough, the German man's privates had seemed to swell and bulge
at this exploratory series of grabs, and then with his other hand Neymar
had lifted and peeled away the vest. Like some large muscular mannequin,
ter Stergen had just lifted his bulky arms up and allowed it to be pulled
fully up and then off, shirtless now with his broad lightly haired chest
on show. Neymar had nodded and grinned approvingly, seen a flicker of
nervous expectation in the 25-year-old's face.

Neymar kneeled then, sinking his sweaty kneecaps to the mat on the floor
below, breathing in the sweaty odour of his goalkeeper. He had hooked
fingers quite roughly into the waist of the leggings, and the underpants
below, and yanked them over broad thighs. Exposed, ter Stergen's shapely
cock had swung and danced close to his softly breathing lips, and he'd
blown playfully on its tip. Above, the German hunk sighed uncertainly,
still not saying any more in English, German, Spanish or Portuguese.

The silence in other situations might have been passion-killing, but the
quiet awkwardness of the musclebound goalkeeper was part of his
attractiveness to Neymar that afternoon, sexy in his muscular passivity.
He had guided his hips back and then down, encouraging him to sit
comfortably on the weights bench and part his thick legs. Still, he took
his time before beginning the blowjob, kissing sweat from thigh muscles
and nuzzling above his crotch, running his tongue over the furrowed abs,
then breathing and spitting on the erect cock and its curled back
foreskin. Only when Marc-Andre's breathing was quite rapid with
anticipation had he opened his mouth wider and took the warm piece in
against his skilled tongue.

Neymar fellated the goalie in slow movements, quite gentle and tender by
his own frenzied standards, wanting to make the blowjob last, wanting to
really taste the sweat manliness of this big simple man who was staring
down at him in wordless disbelief while purring with the appreciation of
a neglected young husband who had not been sucked off in too long. A
common scenario among the hot-blooded football players of La Liga and, to
Neymar Jr, an ideal opportunity.

He used his talented lips and tongue to make the blowjob last as long as
he could, but soon it felt cruel to delay the big man's satisfaction,
his prick painfully hard and his balls so swollen. Neymar made sure his
lips were clamped about the tool when the moment came, savouring his
thick oily load on his tongue, getting its full flavour and swallowing
back as much of it as he could, then spitting the rest dismissively on
the man's black trainers and chuckling gently. Above, ter Stergen's
chest rose and fall in heavy pants, his eyes only half-open.

Neymar got up to his feet, pushed down the front of his Nike shorts, took
his member in hand and jerked it in a series of rapid strokes until he
matched the other man's climax, unloading burst after burst of his own
seed over the goalkeeper's pecs. Ter Stergen flinched silently at each
shot of jizz pouring down his chest muscles, seeming appalled by the
shared fluids even though he had just emptied his balls in another man's
mouth. He didn't say a thing, just gasping and heaving, while Neymar
squeezed a final drop of spunk from his long brown piece, smearing it on
his fingers and then wiping them across the German's sharp stubbled
jawline. He smirked at him, winked, and backed off, reinserting his
still-hard prick into his shorts. `Really,' he had sighed, and left the
tall keeper there to recover and gasp, almost bouncing out of the gym in
his swaggering motion, ready to go home and begin organising his move
from Spain to France.



Neymar's sexual reverie, and the gentle stirring in the front of his
loose basketball shorts, were interrupted by the drama of a dubious
penalty to PSG's opponents. He tweeted a furious reaction via the phone
in his hand, then guiltily deleted it before it invited too much trouble
or scrutiny his way, and fixed his attention on the obvious assassin
taking up the duty for Barcelona. Inevitably, Lionel Messi's goal went
in with beautiful accuracy and force, and he could only stare on with a
mixture of obvious resentment and fond admiration for the man who had
once been his most prodigious ally. What a force they had been together!

It was a constant obsession of Neymar's now that the GOAT might finally
quit his precious Barcelona and bring his handsome Argentine features and
diminutive physique to PSG instead; the prospect of reuniting with that
legend and reigniting their attacking partnership... well, it gave him a
hard-on almost as instantly as the occasionally flash of Messi's meaty
backside in his stupidly oversized shorts, when the camera was in the
right place.

The stiffening excitement in his shorts prodded more firmly at his
attention and his free hand slid languidly over it, feeling the outline
of the bulge in his Dolce & Gabbana briefs. It was not just deep physical
admiration for the Argentine, who was now rabidly celebrating his penalty
goal with his Barcelona teammates on-screen, but a certain vanity and
professional thrill, remembering what it had been like to play with
someone on Leo's level. When Neymar first arrived at the Spanish club,
he had found the legendary forward quite aloof and difficult, but... A
naughty grin played on his lips, thinking of how that relationship had
developed, and allowing his thoughts to settle on one important night in
particular, where their bond on the pitch had spilled steamily beyond
just record-breaking goals and assists, hehe...



It had happened on the first night of room-sharing between the iconic
pair, in the wintry start of 2016 -- that 2015-16 season being their most
prolific and glorious together -- at the point where cheeky young Neymar
finally felt he could call Lionel something of a friend and not just a
colleague, god knows it had taken long enough!

23-year-old Neymar, energetic and ambitious as he was, had been excited
enough to be roomed with his teammate and South American hero, but it so
happened to be the night of a particularly splendid victory over one of
their major La Liga rivals. Both men were fizzing with the passion of the
win all evening and gripped by a restless heat when they retired to their
shared room. Neymar, a young man whose confidence rarely dipped low, did
feel a little self-conscious and shy as he stood by the various routines
of the more established football hero, who normally roomed with the older
guys or, according to team rumours, was allowed the rare privilege of his
own suite on occasions. Apparently there had been a good few years before
Neymar's arrival where it became quite normal for Messi to go without a
roommate for most of the season, a strange deviation from protocol that
seemed fitting for such a special player.

Despite the fact he had scored twice that day and assisted Messi's own
goal, Neymar found himself almost reduced to the youthful fanboy first
leaving Brazil for Europe -- he sat on his bed, half-undressed, watching
thoughtfully as the short muscular man fussed around the room back and
forth to the en suite. Neymar tried to keep the excitable conversation
going but Messi had become broody and quiet, more like he had been in the
first season together -- suspicious or resentful of a speedy young
assistant here to disrupt his supremacy, before it had become clear they
were a dangerously effective partnership.

Leo was in the bathroom again, and Neymar just sitting a little awkwardly
on the edge of his bed, repeating the quite innocent question he'd asked
his 27-year-old senior, wondering why no answer was forthcoming. He
flared his nostrils sulkily and got up from the bed, now just in the
loose-fitting white Diesel boxer shorts, crossing towards the half-open
door and asking quite rudely for a third time what he wanted to know.
`What was it like working for a legend like Guardiola?' the young
forward demanded curiously, stood staring into the bathroom where Messi
was finished rubbing some moisturiser into his frowning face. Neymar was
leaner and slightly less inked in 2016, but he still caught pleasant
sight of his own caramel muscles in the mirror, contrasted next to the
broad pale strength of the older player's 5ft7 body.

Messi's eyes met his in the mirror. `Let's not talk about that,' he
muttered. He looked deeply angry, and Neymar just stood there in the
confusion of his misstep -- for months now, he had been delighted by the
growing closeness between them, the way Lionel had almost adopted him as
a younger brother, regularly inviting he to his family home or
entertaining him at parties. And now, for one improbably offensive
question, the dynamic between them seemed to have snapped back two years
and he was just the cocky outsider. Messi turned angrily from the sink,
equally stripped down to just some clingy blue trunks, and Neymar's eye
-- not for the first time -- noted the weighty prominence at the front of
the underwear.

Neymar was not bright or patient enough to drop it. `He is just such a
Barcelona hero -- I am not disrespecting our boss, of course, I just
wonder what it is like to work so closely with a man like Pep, and-`

He was barged quite aggressively aside as the short powerful man moved
bullishly through the doorway and back into the room. `You ask too
much,' the Argentine snapped fiercely, not looking back at him as he
stalked over the room, all of his back muscles flexing and rippling, his
underpants hugging the large long glutes quite distinctly.

And that, apparently, was the end of that -- without another word, the
Barcelona figurehead was departing into his bed, back turned away and
sheets pulled high, huffing loudly against his pillows as if Neymar had
asked something awful and personal. The young Brazilian hovered sourly
about the room, fiddling idly with himself in his undies, lingering in
the bathroom to take a piss and stare questioningly at his own handsome
reflection. When he went to bed himself, sleep seemed evasive, the
electric power of the day's triumph still jolting through his limbs, but
also a confusing indignation that he might have damaged his important new
friendship with the great striker.

Then he'd heard it, the most surprising and weird sound. At first, it
confused him, a damp snuffling of noise that he couldn't quite place.
The strong masculine ideals of their home cultures made it near
impossible to conclude the truth: Leo was sobbing into his pillows in the
adjacent bed, so violently that even in the dark he could see one of his
shoulders shake and throb. What the fuck?

For a minute or so he just lay there in confused awkwardness, but then he
acted on instinct. It was empathy and concern that drove him, unusually,
more than the lazy semi bouncing in his underpants, but there was no
point denying the thrill he felt as he crossed between their beds, lifted
the fluffy white duvet, and slid in beside his hero. He murmured in
Spanish and reached an arm about those broad muscular shoulders. `Leo,
my friend...?' The other footballer's body was surprisingly pliable as
he embraced him side-on, cuddling against his thick muscularity and
lifting one smooth leg over his, essentially spooning him into the
mattress and feeling his sobs soften and diminish. He didn't risk saying
any more, and Lionel said nothing back to him in explanation or
gratitude. They just lay like that for several minutes, Neymar using his
own weight and heat to hold and soothe the alarmingly emotional bulk of
his teammate.

But the problem with the tender cuddle might have been embarrassing and
damaging: feeling the tense strength of Messi's body and smelling his
rich mix of pheromones and aftershave brought a raging hard-on to the
young Brazilian's crotch, which now rubbed quite urgently against one of
those bulky strong buttocks. Neymar held his breath, unsure if Messi
could tell, and if he could, how violent his reaction might be. At 23,
Neymar was full of sexual over-confidence, but he was still wary of how
different men might react to his fluidity -- he had not yet reached the
assertive see-want-take attitude of 2017 and his fitness suite blowjobs.

At first, the rubbing was imperceptible, confusing, but then it became
more obvious that Messi was grinding back into him, letting his cheeks
rub back and forth across the diagonal stiffness, while he held one of
Neymar's tattooed arms tightly over his own chest, and sighed heavily.
Neymar tingled with impossible desire, never having dreamed anything
could happen with this legendary man; he dropped a single shivery kiss to
the exposed white of Messi's shoulder, then let out a long gasping sigh,
feeling his bulge glide against the fabric crease between those
buttocks.

Of course, later on, when things were even closer between them, he would
learn much of the truth: why his question had provoked and upset his
roommate so much on that tipsy night when they had been sipping beers and
celebrating their win. He would become one of very few confidantes to
learn about the torrid affair of manager and star player, and the secret
heartbreak that made Lionel cry in the night. And he would toss off
several dozen times imagining it, distantly besotted with that Catalonian
DILF soon to be embedded in the English Premiership; but that night in
the Spanish hotel, Neymar just thrilled and shuddered with excitement to
be touching and enjoying the body of Leo Messi, his cock leaking pre-cum
from almost that first kiss on his shoulders.

Neymar slid under the covers and kissed over his chest, taking time to
lick and suck at his hard blunt nipples, but one of his hands finding and
stroking his cock as he did; finding it to be even bigger and thicker
than dreamed, responding wonderfully to his caresses. For his part, Messi
stroked at the tightly-bunched dark curls of his hair, massaged his neck
and shoulders, and sighed magnificently into the night. Neymar soon
swooped lower, hunching up below the duvet as he kissed down the taut
six-pack and nibbled at the fabric of those tight trunks, mouthing at the
cock he would soon devour. When he had peeled the fabric away, he went
absolutely mad for the massive Argentine tool, perhaps the biggest he had
held in his mouth: it tasted glorious, a taste that lingered in his mouth
in 2021 Paris.

On other occasions Leo would go on to return this favour, a surprisingly
energetic and rabid cock-sucker when the mood took him, always shocking
and delighting Neymar Jr when it actually happened; but that night, with
Neymar assuming less experience in his married friend, he had assumed all
of the generosity and deviance, drooling all over the massive rod and
stooping his head to lick and play with the big hairy bollocks.

But it did not stop there with just this oral attention. Neymar pushed up
at the big striking thighs, lifting and parting those legs -- still
discreetly tucked beneath the duvet, breathing in the musty masculine air
of their bodies and crotches, Neymar had sunk lower against the mattress
and began to kiss at the fuzzy skin below the balls, pushing more firmly
at the underside of Messi's thighs until his broad powerful bottom was
raised and exposed fully, and... Neymar's long powerful tongue slid in
against the ass-crack of his hero, and the Argentine growled deeply in
response. He was only just beginning to find and love the skill of
rimming at that age, and it was one he was more than happy to test out
and develop with his face buried in the mighty backside of the Barcelona
great.

At some point, Messi tore the duvet aside to watch, wanking his own huge
dick as he stared lustily down his smooth front, legs dutifully lifted
and apart, arse spread for Neymar's enjoyment. Neymar kept reaching down
to jerk himself through his white pants, but then having to stop before
he creamed too soon -- in his overexcited mind, he was becoming too
ambitious, wanting more than his serpentine tongue to explore that
glorious entrance.

They shifted positions, Messi pushed back into the same position in which
he'd initially sobbed, Neymar grinding at him from behind and kissing
messily over his shoulders and down his spine, stroking his biceps and
his tufty dark brown hair. Then sinking down his body to prise open those
cheeks again and spit and lick between them, tasting and enjoying the
sweatiness of that deep furrow, really shoving his face in there and
taking it all as his, loving the yelping whines that spilled from
Lionel's mouth. Then he began to kiss the base of his spine instead and
shove a single finger in there, enjoying the slick wetness he had created
over a quivering knotted asshole -- but after he had inserted one greedy
finger and bitten playfully at one buttock, Messi began to pull away,
elbowing at him and grunting with caution in his voice. `No,' he
snapped, when Neymar began to rub the frothing, leaking head of his own
prick into the spit-lubed canyon. `Nobody else will ever do that!'

Nobody else? Confused young Neymar relented, but couldn't stop wanking
himself, so excited even if he hadn't got to plough the wet hole he'd
rimmed hungrily. He lay on his side, wanking himself silly, while Messi
rolled onto his back muscles -- and now the goal assassin was reaching
quite roughly for his small jutting ears and his curly hair and pushing
his face down. Rather than the sobbing hunk he had spooned and cradled,
Messi was suddenly rough and commanding, dragging his compliant face over
his dick and holding it there, thrusting upwards to fuck his pursed
mouth, choking him on that rager. Neymar gave muffled cries and gags of
distress, but he loved it, his face fucked like a pussy while he jerked
himself to completion, spilling drop after drop of his watery seed over
his thighs and onto Messi's shin and knee. Leo's cock went off like a
geyser, a creamy flavourful fountain his mouth that he couldn't swallow
all of, much of it spilling out over his chin, his lips, his dimpled
cheeks... he slobbered at the mess, gasping for air, his face finally
released from the hands and the violent upward thrusts, choking on his
teammate's juices, but laughing through the struggle, his eyes wild.



A particular jolt of envy had disturbed Neymar's comfort as he watched
the milling celebrations of the Barcelona men: a more specific jealousy
in amongst the more generalised annoyance at being stuck here on his arse
and not getting stuck in at the Champions League...! He had noticed it
before, but now he frowned with particular suspicion and cynicism at the
way Leo Messi grabbed and coddled Neymar's theoretical replacement at
the forefront of the squad. The girlishly long-haired Frenchman danced
and posed alongside Messi, and Neymar couldn't hold in a private snarl
at what he suspected was a particular friendship between his former
wingman and Antoine Griezmann. The pair of them were all over each other!
Neymar jealously remembered the physical contact between himself and Leo
after their MANY bold wins.

As the match unfolded, Neymar had much to smirk and gloat at:
Barcelona's 1-0 lead was incredibly shortlived. Mbappe, that glorious
young stud, booted in goal after goal, joined in the second half by Kean.
The housebound Brazilian hooted loudly and tweeted excitedly as he
watched the 4-1 victory rattle along, Messi's fading side becoming
sluggish and defeatist, PSG resplendent and ambitious! Poch seemed to
glow as he fisted the air from his position at the side of the pitch.

In the latter quarter of the match, there was a flurry of substitutions,
particularly on Barcelona's squad, and Neymar found himself fixating on
one in particular. At 34, the great Catalonian centre-back was a slightly
tragic sight on his way off the pitch, visibly furious at the score and
impending loss, a ragged and violent figure as he exited the game to make
way for a younger and more energetic defender. Gerard Pique, the great
local man of the team, and another of Neymar's treasured teammates from
his glorious years there... What an incredible man, he remembered with a
leer, sliding in his mind's eye back to a very different time: 2013,
freshly arrived from South America, ready to take on European football...



A much skinnier Neymar Jr, quite scrawny and lithe, his hair a flouncy
Brazilian mullet and his grin always quick and edgy as he took in his new
surroundings, 21 years old and arriving at perhaps the biggest football
club in the world.

He had made his handful of early appearances for the senior squad, was
already making waves in the squad of experienced legends, but on that
particular late summer's day, he had wowed everybody in training. He had
aced every challenge thrown at him and left the coaches quite awestruck.
Leo Messi, affronted by the audacity of a young wannabe, had more or less
stormed off the pitch at the sight of his aerial antics. Now Neymar
strutted through the interior of the Barcelona training camp, bouncing on
his heels and humming happily to himself, replaying the numerous dazzling
highlights of the day's work.

Neymar was on his way to the changing rooms, delayed by a little extra
time in the gym, desperate to put some more meat on his skinny frame so
that he could match the physicality of his teammates; he was still a
little lost in the labyrinthine passages of the high-spec training
centre, so much more wealthy and generously kitted than what he was used
to in the early years of his footballing career. He swaggered along in
spite of his uncertainty, riding the day's high, and then pausing as his
path was blocked by a massive figure emerging through the door he was
about to open. Through it burst one of the major names of this Barcelona
squad, a man so tall and broad that he almost dwarfed 21-year-old Neymar
Jr.

`The Brazilian,' commented the big centre-back in gruff slow English,
then back into his Spanish, `you must be tired out from all that
trickery today.'

Neymar, after a little starstruck moment of surprised, nodded and grinned
at the established defensive legend, taking in the mighty 6ft4 build of
Gerard Pique, his upper body bare and a little glossy with sweat, a towel
about his waist. Only 26 then, but already bearded and patriarchal, and
married to one of South America's most beautiful exports. Neymar was
awed on numerous levels by the world-famous player towering over him, not
least the bulk of his strong physique or the brooding intensity of his
eyes. As a local-born man, he was particularly revered at the club, a
clear leader in the ranks of Neymar's new squad.

When Pique, briefly adopting his own Portuguese with apparent comfort,
insisted that he must be tired and sore and in need of a dip in the
recovery pool, Neymar could only nod dumbly and make some naff comment on
how well Gerard had played earlier that day. And so he found himself
following the massive defender through the corridors and around a corner
into a narrow chlorine-scented room where the Catalan beast promptly
discarded towel -- clearly, subconsciously, Neymar had assumed there were
some shorts or pants under that, since he found his eyes bulging and his
brows raising at the sight of a large hairy bottom, and then as Pique
half turned, the long lazy swing of a flaccid cock in front of
low-hanging balls, all beneath a thick bush of red-brown pubes. He stared
challengingly at Neymar, who quickly corrected his shocked expression and
curious darting gaze.

Neymar did what the room required: peeling his Barcelona training shirt,
already a prized symbol of his career trajectory, away from his very lean
boyish body, and dropping the long shorts so he could kick them aside,
then removing his socks and trainers. He remained in the simple black
sports briefs beneath, but still Pique stared silently at him with that
same intensity, that same expectation. Neymar cowered a little, his
natural exhibitionist streak a little overshadowed by the awareness of
his smaller stature -- though in truth he shouldn't have worried.
Removing the skimpy black briefs exposed the long flop of his endowment,
more proportionately impressive to his 5ft9 build than the fittingly
equine thing dangling between Pique's hairy thighs. The Spaniard nodded
once.

First, they climbed into the ice-cold plunge of recovery, a temperature
that made Neymar's young privates shrink and recede inevitably as she
shivered in the water. Pique barely seemed to react to its arctic
embrace, relaxing at one side of the small circular pool which came up to
his navel while it almost reached Neymar's nipples. Their strong legs
iced and they stood in conversation, the 26-year-old local firing
question after question at Neymar about his experience so far: his
contract, his accommodation, his family. It was all welcoming and
friendly in theory but barked with such serious and interrogation that it
made the Brazilian feel quite on edge, and he was struggling to maintain
eye contact and not let his eyes wander.

Neymar had not arrived in Europe a fresh-faced innocent. A lithe handsome
footballer, he had enjoyed more than his share of young women since his
mid-teens, but he was also no complete stranger to a little man-on-man
fun. Sweaty Brazilian nights with his laddish pals had led to many
moments of naïve exploration, wandering hands and occasionally, mouths,
though not actually his own. The relative attractiveness of men, though,
had never particularly occurred to him until now -- 21-year-old Neymar
had dismissively assumed that the fumbling enjoyment of another boy's
hand or mouth on his parts was just a stupid game or phase, nothing to be
given any thought, especially in the rough and tumble world of youthful
football. But now, faced with Pique...

When they switched from the icy plunge pool to the warmer recovery option
at the other side of the room, Gerard flipping a switch on the wall to
produce hot jets of bubbles against their dipping bodies, Neymar could
not stop watching the flickers of muscle and the flopping movement of the
man's generous privates, seemingly unaffected by the cold temperatures,
or so large that it didn't particularly matter. And then even with them
sitting down across from each other on the stepped rim of the jacuzzi, he
could not stop staring at the way it floated and bobbed just below the
surface. Staring at it with what he would gradually learn over the coming
years was a voracious and unstoppable appetite for fun.

They spoke, but the tone was different, matching the temperatures of the
pool. Gerard seemed softer and warmer here as he complimented Neymar on
his skills, made bold predictions about his career here. The first time
their feet made contact, he jolted back and assumed it was an accident.
But repeatedly, Gerard's larger toes and bridge came rubbing against his
own, pressing at him; and in doing so, the big man was spreading his legs
and his arms, relaxing more fully into the bubbling water. The expression
on his face was so dark and intense that it almost frightened
inexperienced young Neymar, but his body and his lust was responding in
kind.

Ankle dragging ankle, he began to respond to the underwater motion of
Pique's feet. He slid around the circular seat a little until they were
not opposite each other but at a right angle, knees and calves rubbing,
and then... right beside each other, one of Gerard's big strong arms
closing about his shoulders quite firmly. With his other hand, the older
man reached for his, pulling him by the wrist, pressing it down below the
frothing surface... and like he had on drunken teenage nights in Brazil,
he fingered at the thick outline of Pique's meat. He sighed and shivered
as he toyed with the underwater serpent, enjoying the firm manly hold on
his slim back. Pique was still and silent at first, but his breaths
becoming heavier. Neymar quickly began to imagine ducking down there and
tasting the meat in the way that other boys had done to him in the hot
drunken dark of his youth -- but Pique had other plans for his erection.

The huge paw that had rested on his shoulders began to knead its way down
his back, past the surface of the water, down through that heat, until
one finger was sliding in the top of his smooth young butt-crack. He
clenched his cheeks automatically but Pique made a disapproving grunt and
he did his best not to. He shuffled side to side on the smooth seat while
Pique's thick long digit pushed in between his flat cheeks, poking where
only he had once curiously explored in his youth, unsure what was taboo.
But soon he was sitting on a single strong finger, being explored and
opened up -- making hot little gasps and unable to concentrate on the
slow underwater handjob of the dick that had been inside Shakira.

Pique was quite tender with him as he repositioned his body -- turning
him around, lifting his knees onto the seat, arching his back forward so
that his elbows hooked onto the pool's edge, lifting his smooth pale
brown bottom just over the surface of the hot tub -- but his fingers were
rough and aggressive as they returned to his virgin's ring. Forceful
jabs, pushing imperiously inside him like had a pussy, first one and then
two. He heard Pique spit on his hands, felt his other paw stroke and slap
at his cheeks. He whimpered and gasped, so naïve and unsure compared to
the hungry animal that ate out Messi's backside or swallowed ter
Stergen's German load.

While he roughly frigged his bottom, Pique was clearly attending to his
own hard-on; Neymar felt its thick wet tup brush his cheeks and his hip,
knocking meatily into him. Still, he was stupidly surprised when he felt
it pressed between his cheeks. He was scared then, almost oblivious to
the idea of being fucked, but he was so excited that he couldn't mutter
a word of uncertainty or protest. He did look nervously over his
shoulder, and the sight of the 6ft4 beast looming behind him, so thickly
athletic and serious-faced, made his balls and his hole tingle with
desire. Still, when the cock began to really push at his entrance, the
fear came back and he knew he whimpered and yelped, so much that Pique
had to rub his upper back and make soothing noises during the slow
insistent thrusts that began to push into him.

The heated bubbles of the jacuzzi were on a strict timer and had ceased,
but soon the water frothed and roiled with the heat of their motion
instead, Neymar Jr gracelessly taken at the pool edge, fucked with long
brutal strokes until the bigger man was going deeply inside him, making
him burn and shake and cry out. Pique said nothing, just grunted dully,
let every muscle of his body do the communicating. And what it
communicated was raw animal lust, shocking and liberating to Neymar was
he was bashed repeatedly against the water and concrete. It seemed to go
on forever, alternating between crippling pain and mind-blowing pleasure;
when Pique climaxed, he was almost numbed and senseless, just gasping
weakly and wondering if this was how his girlfriends had felt when he
deflowered their cunts. He was flipped roughly onto his back, muscles
sore against the hard edges, and he just lay there watching as Pique
spurted strands of silvery cum onto his narrow chest, huffing and puffing
like a big bad wolf.

When he was done, Pique left the pool in a couple of quick strides, not
looking at him or saying a word. After later discreet fucks, he would be
more vocal, but only to insist fiercely on silence and secrecy; later
still, there were legal documents, NDAs on his desk. For now there was
just a fierce quiet, Pique emerging from the pool with nothing but deep
sighs, and he left floating against the lukewarm water, cum dribbling
past his nipples and his arse burning ferociously. There was a dull click
as Pique flipped that switch again, and the bubbles returned, hot and
soothing against every muscle -- it was the one kind gesture of the beast
who had taken his virginity and done nothing to appease his own taut
erection, which leaked pre into the water and he was almost too scared
and sore to even touch properly now. He did, once Pique's wet footsteps
and heavy sighs had vanished, and he jerked off alone, absolutely dazed
and awestruck by what had happened, scared by the pain but wanting
nothing more than the big man to come back and snog him with that sexy
bearded mouth.



And now, in 2021, Neymar was wanking himself silly on his own again, a
spit-lubed fist running up and down his cock. His other hand was pushed
fully inside his loose shorts to rub at his gooch and tease his own fuzzy
ass-crack while he jerked towards a messy completion, still watching the
screen and the post-match interviews with his manager and teammates. The
vivid Barcelona memories had been intensely arousing, but it was his
present and future now driving Neymar wild, a determination that PSG
could provide equally steamy snapshots in a long `career' of
conquests!

Memories of the German `keeper and those beautiful Latino mentors were
clear and sensual, but it was the sight of jovially grinning Pochettino
and sternly self-satisfied young Kylian that occupied his mind as he
mounted towards climax, wondering why he had been so fucking well-behaved
in his French years. Neymar da Silva Santos Junior whooped indulgently at
the large empty bedroom and spilled his creamy load over the shimmering
material of his shorts, grinding his back and shoulders into the pillows
and grinning up at the ceiling. Oh yes, oh fuck yes.

Barcelona had been a LOT of fun; but why couldn't PSG be the same...?




'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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