Date: Tue, 9 Mar 2021 23:08:28 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 243

Part 243: Mojo


The empty stands of the City of Manchester Stadium reared ahead and side
to side like some ghostly amphitheatre, making the football-obsessed
youngster long for an end to pandemic restrictions; now that he was an
almost constant fixture in his boyhood club, fully graduated into the
senior squad at 20 years old, Phil Foden could not wait for the proper
home crowds that would go wild for his talented antics next season.
Fingers crossed.

But even without the fans, there was a tense atmosphere of sorts in the
dugout as he filed along with the other City substitutes, slipping away
to the right while the main eleven men marched ahead onto the lush green
of the pitch, parallel to the blood-red of the visiting United players, a
heavily muscled bunch who discreetly caught Foden's eye before reminding
himself of his loyalties and shuffling back across to the socially
distanced seating that constituted a subs bench at the moment.

Taking his seat, the first of these benched players gave him a slight
leer of familiarity that he could only grin back at -- Kyle Walker,
chewing aggressively on some gum, gave him a smug knowing look that
seemed to recall what had once gone on between the two of them in the
disabled loos of another football stadium over in the North East. For
Phil's part, he had no idea if the burly Sheffield-born defender knew
anything about the recent encounter between himself and his
friend-or-whatever-he-was, John Stones, and so he shuffled on to navigate
the other resting players and find his own spot without making much eye
contact. Past Steffen and Silva, Torres and Mendy, moving past
Fernandinho's knees and avoiding a playful jab in the ribs from Aymeric
Laporte -- until he was almost crunching straight into the last of these
benched men, the pair of them colliding lightly before taking their
seats.

The player in question, 32-year-old Sergio Aguero, turned his head
sharply this way and shot him a dark look, his jaw gritted tightly and
his nostrils flaring. Phil paused, meeting this dark brooding eyes and
parting his lips to speak, then thinking better of it; he slipped past
instead, unzipping his jacket and slipping into the furthest of the
carefully spaces seats, a safe 2 metres further on down the line and away
from the Argentine's frosty expression, though he could almost feel it
burning into the side of his face as he blushed and turned his attention
back towards the kneeling protest on the field, followed by whistle and
kick-off.

Once the action was underway, the 20-year-old Stockport scally could not
help but glance back to the left and catch sight of Aguero in profile;
the short, heavyset striker hunched forward in his seat with his elbows
on his knees, something hungry and aggressive in his body language as he
studied the unfolding game. But then he was glancing this way instead and
their brown eyes were briefly locking, Phil colouring more deeply pink in
his thin cheeks.

He snapped his eyes back to Sunday's Manchester derby and tensed up,
doubly embarrassed by the task he'd been charged with, and the fact he
had failed at it, now just wilting under the broody stare of the South
American legend, both of them stuck on the subs' bench and missing out
on an exciting start to the clash with Man Utd. As they always did,
Phil's eyes sought out the boss, settling on the sweater-clad figure of
Pep Guardiola himself, the tanned pate of his bald head glinting under
the floodlights as he folded his arms and strode back and forth along the
permitted line, studying the early efforts of his chosen players.

Phil frowned to himself and thought again about the job he'd been given
by his Papi, and how he'd managed to badly let him down...



It had happened shortly before their Tuesday night game, a 4-1 victory
over Wolves, with the gaffer sliding fingers into the crook of his elbow
and steering him away from the line-up of other men in the tunnel,
drawing him gently away from the squad to speak more confidentially with
him. Phil, kitted out as a substitute again underneath a warmer
tracksuit, had shuddered with pleasure at the limited physical contact
and sudden personal attention of the Spaniard, starved of it so much in
2021; even there in the public setting of the tunnel, he'd felt his dick
twitch in his tight briefs and threaten to stiffen embarrassingly up.

Pep turned his way and gave him one of those lovely crinkling smiles that
felt so special, an expression Phil associated with post-coital cuddles
in hotel rooms or in the secret apartment where Papi would sometimes
handcuff him to the bed and rim him until he begged. Stood in the
draughty tunnel there, Phil had tried desperately to quash those
thoughts, or he would be following his teammates out and joining the subs
bench with a blatant erection testing his tracksuit pants.

`Gaffer?' he said with an alert grin, enjoying the bland formality of
it against the knowledge of what he wanted from this gorgeous 50-year-old
stood over him.

`Filipe, I am sorry not to play you tonight,' the Spanish manager said
quietly. Foden began to protest at how there was no need for this, but he
was cut off more abruptly, `You may get on at the end but perhaps not.
But, my boy, I do have a...' He tilted his head and made a thoughtful
noise. `A little favour to ask, if you mind...'

`Anything,' the midfielder said, a little too loudly and earnestly
given that they were not so far from the tail end of his teammates. He
smiled bashfully at his own ready response and rocked on his heels,
forcing out a bashful laugh.

`Of course,' Guardiola muttered, patting him on one shoulder -- again,
it was such minimal touch and nothing out of line for coach and player,
but the brief brush of his fingers through the nylon still made Foden
shiver and his nipples harden and rub against the insides of his City
shirt. `But let me explain,' the older man insisted, dropping his voice
and leaning in a little. `It is about one of your colleagues here...'
And then he was steering Phil around, more firmly touching his shoulders
through his kit, stood close behind him in a painful reminder of the
embraces that they were missing out on. A few inches taller, the Spanish
coach stood over and behind him, his face dropped to whisper in his ears,
directing Foden's vision at the loose queue of footballers ahead, one of
whom had stepped out of it to stretch his thick legs in the same covering
tracksuit as his own.

`He is restless,' Pep murmured in Phil's ear. `I think he needs a
little... help.'

Foden stared firmly through the gaggle of City footballers and Aguero
stood out, short but muscular, slightly less distinctive with his blond
shock replaced by natural darker hair, but still so fierce and present.
He did, as the boss said, look restless and uncomfortable. `Since his
injury,' Pep was saying, squeezing at his shoulder muscle a little as he
did, `he has not quite been... himself, you see...'

`No,' Phil murmured in uncertain agreement, not wishing to be remotely
critical of the striker who he had revered throughout his time at the
football club. He was just forming the question `But how could I help?'
or something to that effect, when the grip on his shoulder tightened
somewhat and the voice at his ear felt so close that the older man's hot
breath tickled his lobe.

`He needs to be reminded of his immense power,' the football manager
murmured in his thickly accented English. `He needs someone to remind
him that he was a hero inspiring young players, that he still is -- it is
difficult for men of his type to deal with injury and rest, you see,
especially in lockdown and so on...'

`Er... right...'

Again, Guardiola's breath tickled against his ear and his cheek, making
him have to really concentrate on boring things to control the stirring
in his crotch. `You know what I mean, my boy,' whispered the Spaniard,
then releasing his shoulder and shifting away from him, patting a single
hand against the middle of his back instead. Then they were looking at
each other for just a moment as the gaffer passed him by to walk on down
the tunnel, attending instead to the other men in snatches of
conversation or gesture, travelling on down to the front to begin leading
them out.

Of course, Foden knew what he meant, or could hazard a pretty good guess,
but he was glad when the conversation resumed later that night, the
Wolves decimated by the team's late flurry of goals. Having sat the full
90 minutes out, curiously glancing at the brooding and frustrated
presence of Sergio Aguero a few spaces away, the ambiguous challenge had
turned over and over in his young mind. By the time he was huddled
quietly close to the coach at a quiet end of the home changing rooms, he
was becoming quite feverish at the notion.

`You want me to... help Aguero?' he whispered at his manager and lover,
placing almost prudish emphasis on the verb `help'.

Guardiola did not quite look at him, his arms folded and his warm
expression cast cautiously over the scattered footballers who were in the
middle of undressing for their showers. But he smiled and nodded. `Si. I
think you can help him quite a lot, you see. He just needs... a reminder.
Something to... help his ego, shall we say?' A slow soft chuckle from the
former defensive midfielder, again an intimate sound of the bedroom. `I
am not sure he will be able to resist your charms, Filipe. Who
could...?'

`But,' mumbled Phil, `he's married, he's got-` He cut himself off,
staring at Pep's taut expression and appreciating the stupidity of this
counter-argument right now. `You're sure he'd be... erm... into
that...?'

Now Pep did look at him, his face full of provoking challenge. `Well,
that is up to you,' he explained simply, `but he definitely needs some
attention, some confirmation of the hero that he is, yes? You said you
would do anything I asked of you, Filipe...'

`Yes, yes -- of course, sir. Erm.' He found himself sniggering at the
prospect, hugging his arms across his narrow muscular chest, and looking
from the manager across the room in search of Aguero, finding him sulkily
sat in his full tracksuit, not needing to undress and shower since, like
Foden, he had not stepped foot on the pitch. He was locked in intense
conversation with a couple of other players, whose varying levels of
nudity contrasted with the glossy blue tracksuit hugging Aguero's
compact physique. `Right,' he said in a vague, distant voice, still
staring at the seated Argentine.

Beside him, Guardiola spoke on in hushed terms, reaffirming his earlier
whispered context: how the striker had not been up to his own high
standards in recent training or appearances in matches, stiff and slow
after last year's injury absence. But, as his manager murmured next to
him, it seemed more psychological than physical, more ego than ability...
more a loss of mojo than that he was nearing the end of his prime.
`Mojo,' Pep chuckled, rubbing at the salt-and-pepper stubble thick
against his chin, `I only learn this silly word in interview this year,
but now it seems perfect word. He has lost mojo.'

`Huh, yeh,' Phil said, grinning devotedly at the boss and digging his
hands into tracksuit pockets, loitering here on the edges of the changing
rooms, and glancing back at the flitting bare bodies, flickers of towel
or dropped kit, then hungrily back at what he REALLY wanted -- the
50-year-old DILF stood two feet from him in his smart shirt, pullover and
trousers, a man thirty years his senior but the sexiest fucker in this
entire room. Just as he had in the build up to the game, Foden stood
there and willed away the slowly rising fullness of his virile equipment,
knowing his generous proportions would stand out and shame him in the
tight fit of the tracky bottoms.

`And Sunday,' Guardiola was purring thoughtfully now.

`Yeh?' he breathed immediately.

`The Manchester game,' mused the boss. `Well, if we win, if we beat
United, then...'

`Er, yeh...?'

`Perhaps we will...' He cleared his throat abruptly. `Perhaps our lead
will be... solid.' A meaningful look was shared between the two men now
and Phil found his mouth suddenly very dry and his high bony cheeks
pinking again in heat. He nodded slowly, understanding exactly what
Guardiola was saying there. Even after the huge unbeaten run they had now
secured, he was having to survive without any more contact than this --
no more physicality than those brushing touches of the elbow or shoulder
on the edges of play. He had not been ALONE with his Papi since before
the Stones incident, and even though he was excited now that his Spanish
master was suggesting further exploration, what he really wanted, needed,
craved was...

Pep seemed to read his every sordid thought. His smile was intense but
somehow almost nervous. `Sunday,' he said, evasively. `If we win
Sunday, we may... speak more. Ahem.' And then he was marching away into
the changing rooms, clapping his hands together and manoeuvring between
the evening's different goal-scorers to reaffirm his congratulations and
pride... leaving Foden on the edge of this scene, a crippling semi
straining at his briefs and his face bright pink with lust.



Okay, okay: charm Aguero, restore his ego, make him feel champion... then
Papi starts him on Sunday, he scores a hat-trick against United, and that
night after the win, we'll get to... er... Those were the scatty horny
thoughts that spilled through Foden's mind all through a sleepless
Tuesday night and in the following day's relaxed training efforts,
adjusted to allow key players to recover from the Wolves victory. Players
like Phil, who had not got any minutes in the night before, were worked
harder, and so this included Argentine Sergio too: meaning he had plenty
of time to stare thoughtfully at the older sportsman and turn over his
Papi's instructions.

It was the end of the week when he made his decisive move, though, after
some strategizing -- Friday afternoon seemed the perfect time to take
action and carry out this `secret mission'. Not that he had not been
laying the seeds of his effort in the few days leading up to this, though
-- taking extra efforts to clap and shout for his experienced colleague
whenever he saw him play a good ball. Yesterday he'd found himself
pretty much roasted by other players for `fanboying', though -- cackled
at by Walker and Stones and even chided by De Bruyne and Sterling. So
today he had kept a more tight-lipped attention on the hard work of the
South American, and formulated this plan instead.

He was sitting on a stiff low seat in one of the upstairs physio seats
when Aguero arrived, stomping in through the doorway exuding the hot
fresh scent of shower gel and skin products, something spicy and intense
about the post-shower aura. The 5ft8 striker muscled his way into the
room, stopped, stared side to side and then at Phil, lifting one dark
brow. `Er, she no here?' the Argentine demanded in one awkward little
outburst.

No, she wasn't; when you were the head coach's fuck-toy, it wasn't too
difficult to access and manipulate schedules, and pencil in a fake physio
session for the frustrated forward, and position yourself conveniently in
the right place at the right time. Foden could have smirked triumphantly
to himself that his machinations had worked, but he put on his most
gormless scally expression and rose to his feet, giving concerned
apologetic doe eyes at the older man. `Sorry? Are you meant to be in
here too, boss?' the youngster asked quietly.

Aguero took another couple of steps into the room, letting the door fall
shut behind him. He was in a pale grey tshirt and some decidedly skimpy
gym shorts, both of which clung to the smooth tanned muscle of his
compact body. He stared at Foden for another moment then seemed to glare
almost accusingly at the physio treatment bed against the wall, as if
blaming the nearest inanimate object for any schedule confusion in his
Friday afternoon.

`I have appointment,' he barked, then looking at a clock on the wall.
`In five minutes.'

`Right,' Phil said slowly, then hamming up his own confusion, `but I
thought I was in here in a bit... ah bugger, I probably read it wrong,
probably all my fault, I'm so sorry, just let me...'

Sergio waved one dismissive hand his way and shook his head, stepping
fully into the room then looking about them, as if the physiotherapist he
was falsely booked in with might emerge from the filing cabinet or
shelving at any moment. He just snorted vaguely. `Not your fault,' he
concluded mistakenly. `Confusion. Error.' Shrug.

`Yeh,' Phil said, trying to pitch his voice carefully, adding, `But if
they are double-booked, it should be you. Not some young wannabe like me,
hah.'

For a moment, it seemed as if this gambit was badly judged. `Age before
beauty?' Aguero muttered, just enough flash of fun in his eyes to show
it was a joke. `I am so old, eh?' He laughed at himself with a mixture
of enjoyment and bitterness, making Phil scramble for a new line.

`No, I mean -- a senior player like you,' he said rapidly, `Man City
royalty, I mean.' He made a playful half-bow gesture then shrugged.
`VIP treatment for the likes of you, Aguero...! Or it should be, anyway,
you know? Honest, still blows my mind that I get to play with you...!'
There was just a mild sniff of noise reacting to this, so he went on.
`To think of those days when I was just a ball-boy, watching you score
all the goals and take this club to the top,' he said, perhaps hamming
it too much, but relieved when a little smile cracked Sergio's handsome
features.

`Yes,' he agreed with what might be vanity or just language barrier.
`Funny to think of. You come very far, Filipe.' It was exciting the way
his Argentinian accent made Phil's name sound as exotic and sexy on his
dark pink lips in the same way as it did in Pep's mouth. He grinned at
this and just nodded furious agreement.

`Totally. I mean, loads of it has been mad and great, like getting into
the England squad and that, but -- honest, Aguero, I don't know if any
of it compares to playing side-by-side with guys like YOU. My hero. I
know I've told you before. It's so cringe, sorry. But it's true. You
are like my... I dunno. My Beckham, my Ronaldo, whatever. My Messi. Hah.'
He grimaced a little at that and just patted his hands against his hips,
loitering there in a thin polo shirt and baggy sweatpants.

The Argentine smiled thoughtfully at him, then shrugged one shoulder.
`Yes. Well. Thank you.'

Foden struggled a bit there, feeling the conversation dwindle and the
possibility that one or both of them would just have to leave this physio
suite, now that the appointment clash had happened, and there was also no
fitness expert here for either of them. He was unsure how to push and
follow this without being too weird or out-of-line, but he did his best.
`Can't wait til we both get to start a game together again soon,' he
said, ducking closer to his senior teammate, then `Do you reckon we'll
both make the line-up for Sunday?' and finally `Gaffer would be mad to
miss you out, the way you've been in training this week.'

That last bit was misjudged. A grunt of annoyance. `I have been like
slug,' Sergio evaluated simply with a disappointed sneer.

`What?! No... no! You scored that fucking beauty yesterday afternoon.'

`Hmm.'

`Honestly, the power in those legs...!'

`Hmm?'

`It's no wonder you're in here for more physio,' he chirped quickly.
`The way you were working those leg muscles yesterday, wow. I think one
of your thigh muscles has more power than my whole body, haha. Look at
them!' And there they were, bulging beneath the line of those short
shorts. He stared frankly down at them and the Argentinian player seemed
to stare reflectively down at his own chunky legs, making a vague noise
of uncertainty.

`I am working hard,' was all Aguero said, sounding evasive but again
perhaps just stuck for more wordy response. He had the same restlessness
about him here, at the end of several hard days' training, as he had
exhibited on the Wolverhampton fixture on Tuesday night, and his energy
seemed to fill the room just as the smell of his bathing and skincare
products, heady and intoxicating for Foden now.

`Definitely,' Phil told him. `Everyone can see that. It's going to be
amazing when you score the winner on Sunday, you know. I'll just feel
like a normal kid, a City fan, sitting in the stands, if I get to be on
the pitch and see it happen, y'know...?' He grinned admiringly at the
player, and though he exaggerated it, there was more than enough truth in
all of it: Sergio had changed very little in the near-decade since Phil
first got to watch him from the side-lines, just an ambitious and
talented child. Every time he saw him in kit or on the field, there was a
jarring sense of flashback to it, transporting him back to the early days
of his City career; the madness he felt at being `equals' with this
Premiership legend was genuine and sometimes quite overwhelming. He had
done his best in the last few seasons to suppress that joy, because it
was so teased and mocked by the older guys, but now he let it show in his
broad smile and his sparkling eyes. Sergio just stared stonily back at
him.

`You are kind,' he said eventually, a bit stuffily.

`Just the truth.'

`Hmm.'

`You are still such a legend, Serge. Can I call you that? I mean...'

`Yes. Sure. Of course.'

`Cool. Thanks, Serge.'

A long slow nod from the striker, who backed away slightly and stared
frustratedly again towards the bed, clapping his bare palms together. He
was about to go, to give up or, worse, to enquire about the phantom
appointment that was due to happen right now. Phil had not quite thought
this far ahead, but he took his plunge.

`So is your leg still giving you some bother?' he asked, wringing his
hands and following Aguero halfway back to the door. `After all that
tough training today?'

`It fine,' Aguero declared uncertainly, seeming to shake his knees and
hips as he moved, `but just needed a little... rub. It be fine.'

`Well, something obviously got mixed up here,' Foden said, `but...'
Ahead of him, the older player stopped with his hand on the door and
looked questioningly at him as he stumbled a bit over his suggestion then
blurted it out. `I don't mind if you want me to give it a slight
rub-down or something.' Silence. `It would be an honour, to be
honest.'

Aguero's face was quite unreadable as he thought about this, but then he
raised both eyebrows and made an uncertain deep chuckle. `Er -- that
will be okay, Filipe, I am sure the lady I need is nearby, I have
appointment here now, so-`

`There hardly seems to be anyone about,' chirped Phil quickly, one step
closer. `So I reckon we might both have been forgotten about! I mean, a
kid like me, I get it, but for you... weird! Are you sure it's okay? I
saw you going pretty heavy on it today, you know -- when you scored that
screamer just before lunch, y'know? Honest, it was classic Aguero that,
it brought back so many memories...!' He could see the magic effects of
flattery in the Argentine's uncertain smile and shifting body language.
`What, do you think you overdid it on that thigh a bit, Serge?' He
projected the ingenue innocence that came so naturally to him, even now
he was so... experienced.

`Yes,' came the blunt answer. `Yes, quite a bit.'

`Well, I dunno, I could just give it a bit of a rub,' he suggested
again. `I wouldn't mind. Like I said. Be an honour. I mean -- nine
years ago or whatever, I was ball boy, now I get to be your teammate, ha!
Why not add physio to that, y'know...? Erm, ha ha.'

There was another long uncertain pause and another hesitant laugh, but
then... `You no mind?'

Phil grinned very widely, a Cheshire cat. `Mind? Not at all!'



With his mouth, he trilled out more flattery, and with his hands, he
pushed firmly against the broad dormant muscle of one upper leg. Sergio
Aguero was stretched out on the leathery cushions of the treatment bed,
his arms folded behind his head, a placid smile on his handsome face as
he soaked up the adoration of a long-time admirer; his recovering leg was
propped up to allow masseur access, the other stretched out flat, the
glossy thin shorts riding up between these thick browned thighs to make
the job even easier.

Now the rich clean scents of the freshly showered 32-year-old were joined
by the smell of the massage oil Foden had found and slapped into his
palms, now rolling uncertainly back and forth on either side of the
lifted thigh. He dug thumbs in a bit more firmly against the taut muscle,
experimental and excited, and there was the faintest approving noise from
his `patient'.

Phil was in pure Man City fanboy territory now: reliving some of
Aguero's high points at the club in lavish detail, explaining how much
he had been inspired and motivated by him. He made vague reference to
some of those other City talents who had paved that ambition, but he
exaggerated and embellished the striker's place in his fantasy football,
allowing himself to sound as eager and admiring as he now felt. And all
the while rubbing his hands over his leg muscle, pleased and surprised by
how willingly Aguero let him, so long as the jarring rubdown came with a
heavy dollop of ego boost.

The present moment was exciting in itself -- rubbing down the great
striker's legs and feeling his tensile strength through every muscle in
the limb, smelling and sensing his lounging body heat there, his own cock
stiffening hidden in his sweatpants below the height of the table -- but
it was also a thrill in the bigger picture, the context of Guardiola's
agenda. As the moment grew more relaxed and he could see Sergio's chest
and expression swell more with masculine pride, he planned how he would
excitedly relay this anecdote to Guardiola as soon as possible.

When he let his hand slip a little too far down the inside of Aguero's
thigh, it was 50/50 between these factors: 50% driven by a long-time
interest in the muscular South American brute and his stocky frame, and
50% a proxy lust for their manager, who would be so delighted by his
covert ego-boosting operations up here! Regardless of these factors, it
happened, his right hand slipping a bit too far down the inside of the
smoot thigh and his knuckles grazing the squashed bulge between the two
legs. He let his hands slide back, circled up and down, then back... and
this time he pushed his knuckles a bit more firmly into the bulge and let
them rest just against it, kneading his thumbs aimlessly and nervously
licking his dry bottom lip.

`How's that?' he asked with forced composure.

`Good,' answered the hunk on the bed, so he pushed it further. He
rubbed intensely at the outer thigh with his left hand and let the right
hand push forward until it was so obviously resting against the soft
pillow of cock and balls in the shorts fabric, leaning against it and
feeling its body heat on the skin of his knuckles and hand... then
unfurling those fingers gently so they spread and rubbed it, tucked
between it and the very inside of the thigh. Now he saw Aguero's heavy
lashes flutter and his eyes stare fixedly up, his lips pout. `Ahem.' He
cleared his throat but didn't say anything. Still, Phil explored: he let
his finger push into the crease of the leg, under the fabric of the
shorts, touching the mesh inner, peeling at it ever so slightly...

`Filipe.'

`Yeh?' he murmured, unable to bear looking across and meeting his
gaze.

`Erm.'

`Feel good?' he asked shakily, incredibly nervous as he began to edge
his finger tips beneath that netting and really cradling the contents of
the shorts, his hand curling more openly about it, thumbing the outline
of a big sleepy cock there.

Deep shaky breaths from Aguero but, for now, no words.

`Just a rubdown,' Foden said tremulously. `Just a little, erm, rub.'
And he really stretched at the material until his hand was up the inside
leg of the shorts, now curling about the moist warmth of cock and balls,
holding them firmly to himself, his other hand just dragging lazily
against the outer leg. He stood there, breath held, heartbeat skipping,
then asked again: `Feel good, hero...?' He liked the sound of this, and
went for, `My big-dicked hero.' The noise form Sergio was vague, and he
was too scared to look that way and measure his expression -- instead, he
just started to massage properly again with his left hand, taking it
around the boulder-like muscle, and with his right, tugging and jerking
awkwardly at the big Latino privates, restricted by the shorts.

Now Aguero's breath sounded and felt much more like a... sigh. He took
that as the signal he needed ,and began to pull at the shorts. Aguero did
nothing to help or even to confirm that this was acceptable, not lifting
his chunky arse from the padding, just lying there as if this was totally
detached from him; still, Phil managed to wriggled and drag at the shorts
until they were sliding down the oily thigh and the other leg, to just
above his knees, and then he could see it... the perfect chubby snake of
Latino cock that he was stroking, a darker brown to the olive thighs that
enclosed it, and topped with the blunt stubble of pubes. He stroked it
like an animal that might bite him, gently and encouragingly, and still
unsure what the Argentinian man might think of this... attention.

Finally, he risked looking at him, and found Sergio was staring at him
with an intense frown. Phil bravely met his eyes while he took the
thickening snake in his hand and pulled a little more demandingly on it,
enjoying its fatness in his fingers, enjoying even more how much longer
it felt after another few moments. He locked dark eyes with the man on
the bed and slowly teased his prick upright, feeling it stretch, thicken,
stiffen... the massage oil on his palm lubricating its shaft against his
hand, making his touch slide expertly.

`My hero,' he breathed again, sure that the adoration was helping, was
working. `My favourite player,' he added. `All these years.'

`Mmm...' A noise of enjoyment from Aguero for sure, but which was he
really enjoying? The hero worship or the hand-job? Or the important combo
of both?

So Foden began to wank him properly, pulling more firmly on the prick
until the foreskin pulled back over the swollen pink tip. Still, he kept
his left hand working too, rubbing it over thigh and hip and then under
to tickle very gently at the spread droop of balls. Aguero was fully hard
now, and it was as beautiful as he might have imagined: like the man
itself, what it lacked in length it made up for in a shapely thickness
and girthy strength. Its head glistened with pre-cum already, and there
was no way he could have resisted taking this further. `Such a legend,'
he whispered reverently as he began to stoop gently forward, stroking and
teasing and massaging, `such a fucking hero, Serge, I really love every
goal you score for this club, my fucking hero...' And then he was licking
the tip, tasting that mild pre-cum, moistening the head and foreskin,
shaking with his own wild excitement. He gripped the base and licked the
tip again, and then looked across at Aguero's face, which was aggressive
but indecisive.

Stooping low to manage all of this, Foden resisted the urge to reach down
and jerk himself through his sweatpants, devoting all of his attention to
the striker instead -- he was on a mission here! He was doing for this
for Pep, don't forget about Pep, that's what matters. Not this beast!
He's just another fucking Messi, he thought with sudden resentment,
thinking of the other Argentine goal machine who stood between him and
Papi, even now... then he tried to beat these thoughts away and focus on
opening wide and sinking forward to suck on the juicy prick, reminding
himself that Messi was in the past and that Guardiola had no interest in
making this Argentine his own, had literally entrusted the task to his
boy instead...!

Perhaps, distracted by these thoughts, Phil's attempt to start blowing
Sergio's cock was clumsy, maybe he nipped him a little with his teeth or
just lacked sensitivity; or maybe the reality of the scene just hit the
bullish man in a gap between devoted compliments. Either way, he was now
muttering angrily in Spanish and pushing Phil's face away decisively.
Foden stumbled a little, caught off-guard, and he had to grip that mighty
striker's leg to steady himself. He righted himself and wiped his mouth
on one hand, while Aguero swung his limbs off the bed and managed to hop
up off it at the same time as pushing his girthy bone inside the shorts.
Phil expected him to say something more angry or aggressive, but he
actually just looked embarrassed and almost frightened at what had
happened.

The separation of their bodies and the older man's exit from the physio
suite felt like a blur, and it was the sense of disappointment and
failure that stung Foden and made him whimper on his own for a minute,
not the rejection or embarrassment at Aguero himself. He dreaded telling
Guardiola that he'd made his move and got it wrong -- what if his
actions had done more to ruin than reignite the Latino man's so-called
mojo?



It was this self-declared failure that was on the 20-year-old's mind
when the second Man United goal was going in, Luke Shaw looking as
surprised as he was delighted on the pitch, grabbed and cuddled at by the
opposition captain; and still on Foden's mind when, twenty minutes
later, he was being wildly gestured at to peel off his tracksuit and get
ready to run on as a substitution. He shook himself out of the daze of
reflection, trying to stop thinking about how brief and disastrous his
rub-down seduction of the striker had been, and trying to return to the
gloomy present, with City 2-0 down to United.

But to get up and move down the aisle, he had to move past Aguero, and
right now the older footballer was staring daggers at him, a moody frown
all over his face and lips. It was obvious what he was thinking: why was
the young wannabe being subbed on in the final quarter of such an
important and unsuccessful game?! And Phil found himself thinking the
same thing, moving shamefacedly past his senior, and skipping down the
steps to stand awkwardly behind the manager, shedding his jacket and
jersey then loosing his tracksuits down his legs to expose his fitted
white shorts. He glanced back over his shoulder, past the other
substitutes, to silently scowling Sergio.

Was he just fuming that he wasn't getting to join the fray, or was he
still angry about the way Phil had touched and teased him on the physio
bed...? Nothing had been said between them in yesterday's training or
today's warm-up, but it was impossible to read into that; they did not
chat much and Aguero was very much the strong silent type in the same way
that Foden himself was quite shyly reserved and respectful. He grimaced
guiltily, even though when he'd tried to explain it to Pep, the boss had
been dismissive and reassuring.

Now, he found himself acting impulsively. He grabbed at the elbow of the
City manager's jumper. `Papi,' he whispered, then corrected himself
immediately, knowing he should never use that nickname somewhere so
public. `Gaffer,' he coughed. `Don't play me. Put Serge on. Please.
He's ready, he's got his mojo back, he-`

Guardiola, in full business mode, not the soft-edged DILF who slammed his
bottom so powerfully and lovingly, albeit not for too long now, just
stared at him with creased frown, then snorted. `No! He has not. He was
poor yesterday. The mojo is all yours, Filipe. Get ready.'

`Please,' he begged in a whisper, ashamed to be asking and confused at
what he really wanted here.

`No,' snapped Pep, all manager, not lover. `I am in charge. Get out
there. Now!'

Before he hared onto the pitch to join the losing game, Foden gave a last
pitiful look back towards Aguero, who was not staring this way but looked
entirely furious. He knew he'd failed; the 32-year-old HAD played
terribly yesterday, had blown all chance of a starting position in the
Manchester derby. And surely being manhandled and licked inappropriately
by a young pipsqueak had contributed to that sluggish failure, not
magically restored his mojo...?!



Phil played a fairly miserable twenty-odd minutes, feeling a visceral
defeat at the final whistle. He glared enviously at the tactile
celebrations of the United players, their big studly left-back being
enveloped in praise and congratulation from all the others, Shaw and then
Fernandes being clearly toasted as the heroes of their surprise victory
over City. By contrast, the hosts moved away from the field in scattered
isolation, nobody really looking at or communicating with each other --
there was a collective sense of sharp shock at having their winning
streak ended by their neighbours like this.

Distractedly, he looked first for the gaffer, but found him occupied in
intense and analytical conversation with his assistant; then he looked
for the unused striker but caught no sign of Aguero anywhere. Probably
the unusued substitutes had already moved indoors out of the chill.
Around him, the other players seemed to just stand around with
expressions as if they'd been slapped in the chops: Stones and Dias
looked guilty at a dip in their defensive form, De Bruyne and Mahrez
looked sombre and regretful.

The young star made his way past them and into the tunnel mouth,
bewildered to find himself wishing for the first time in his youthful
career that he had NOT played. He just wished that a chance had been
thrown to Aguero instead, to help restore that ballsy ego and get him
back on-track... he had the strong feeling of having contributed to a
continued lull for the stalwart City hero, and in his internal frenzy,
Foden was quickly reaching the illogical conclusion that the entire loss
was his fault. He had cost Guardiola a continued triumph in extending
their unbeaten record because he wasn't good enough at giving head! Even
as he thought it, he knew it didn't make sense; but still, he couldn't
stop himself thinking it.

Then there he was. Stood upright just beyond the door into the home
changing rooms. Not a tall figure, but broad and imposing and filling his
patterned blue tracksuit. And staring this way with those dark brooding
eyes and pursed pouting lips. Lightly sweaty from his short burst of
play, Phil took slow steps towards the door, towards Sergio, and then
paused facing him, a rush of possible apologies and self-defence
gathering up in his throat.

`Tell me again,' grunted the Latino.

`Huh?'

`Tell me again,' Aguero just repeated. He rolled his shoulders, took a
couple of backwards steps.

Foden stared questioningly at him, then made to follow, instinctive
rather than logical. Aguero turned away from him, stomped heavily on down
the tunnel. Foden glanced over his shoulder to check they were more or
less alone, then followed. Ahead, the older player had disappeared into
thin air -- oh, wait, no, he'd just turned off into the mens loos at the
far end... and so in went Foden too, following him in, watching as he
backed into the middle cubicle... oh, yes...

`Tell me again,' growled the South American, as Phil joined him in that
narrow space that now just smelt of his own fresh sweat, `how much you
love your hero, boy.'

Phil pulled the cubicle door shut behind him, gasping in air and nodding
his head urgently. `Oh,' he mumbled, `yes, definitely. My hero. My
City king.'

`Good. Knees. Now.'

Okay, so this was different. On Friday afternoon, he'd been uncertainly
lying there, detached and indecisive. Now... he grabbed at both of Phil's
shoulders and pushed heavily downwards, making his knees buckle and catch
against the toilet floor. And then he was scooping one hand into the
front of his tracksuit bottoms while pulling the back of Phil's head
into his crotch with force. Fuck yes. A mouthful of that fat cock! Foden
just opened wide and did his best, lapping at it and opening wide, his
knees aching a little but his mouth full of the manly taste.

His head was grabbed and held so that Sergio could thrust his soft cock
into his gob and let him tongue at it until it was stiffening again. And
then he was just fucking his face, treating him like a ragdoll as he
pressed it in and out of his pursed lips. Phil was astonished by the
speed and force, the turnaround of it -- he pictured the Latino hunk
sprawled in front of him, uncertain and embarrassed, and now looming over
him, assertive and needy. Well, perhaps he'd underestimated this...

The striker grunted and groaned, roughly handling Phil by the head and
continuing to pummel his open mouth with his thick short shaft. But then
he was pulling away, making Phil gasp hungrily and try to reach his mouth
about the cock again. But Sergio wanked himself and held his face back a
little, gasping down in broken English. `Tell me... tell about hero...
tell how much you love me... yes boy?'

`You're awesome,' he gushed. `You score the best goals. You are best
in Premiership!'

`Yes, tell me...'

`I have loved watching you for YEARS... you made this club huge...'

`YES...'

`Mmm, my hero... cum for me, you legend...'

`Ugh... si, si, si...'

`Shoot on my face,' Foden begged in a filthy tone, tilting his head and
opening his mouth wide. `Score a goal, Serge. Cum all over me. MY
HERO.' And he got what he asked for, gushing over his nose and
cheekbones and painting his lips and chin. Aguero heaved deep, almost
painful sighs, growling and muttering in Spanish. And Foden just remained
on his knees, eyes closed and face dripping with thick cream, nothing but
a goal for the Argentinian to shoot into.



He'd washed his face thoroughly in a sink before he left the bathroom,
watched with strange moody eyes by Aguero while he did; he'd largely
expected the brutish older man to stomp out of the bathroom and abandon
him once his balls had been emptied, but he lingered, silent and moody,
confused but assertive, while Phil cleaned himself up and tried to ignore
his own throbbing erection, willing it away yet again.

Still, at the end of his shower, almost the last lad left in the communal
black, since he had been delayed to undress and clean off... he scrubbed
at his face self-consciously, as if anyone who looked at him would see
the white marks of Aguero's messy ejaculate on his skin and features. He
was pink-faced and scrubbed perfectly clean when he emerged and changed
into clean clothes, his mouth actually a little sore from the aggressive
face-fucking, but his mood riding high against the dazed negativity of
his teammates.

All he wanted was to speak to his Papi, and he found the first
opportunity possible, accosting Guardiola before he could escape away to
his offices, cornering him at the foot of some stairs and hissing
excitedly to him. `I did it,' he gasped. `I got to him. I thought I
had fucked up, but he wanted it. He wanted me to make him feel powerful
again. I think it worked, sir -- I think he has his mojo back now? I
think he'll be so different this week!' All of the speech rushed out
and he grinned proudly at the middle-aged football genius.

Pep stopped at the foot of the stairs, giving him a frowning little
expression of warning -- he had spoken too frankly, too loudly, for such
a setting as this. Phil blanched and grimaced apologetically, retreating
from his instinctive grab for the older man's arm. `Sorry... I, just, I
had to tell you...'

`Yes,' Guardiola agreed very quietly. His expression flickered
thoughtfully, looking over Phil's shoulder and down the corridor in case
anyone else was approaching ,then back at him. `You did well. I knew you
would. He is only human.'

`He came all over my face,' Foden whispered, unable to hold in the
details, gazing proudly at the man who dominated his life. `I made him
grunt so much. He was like a monster. I think he's back, boss, I think I
really got to him.' Then, cheeky and risqué, he grabbed for Pep's
wrist, stroking at the back of his hand with his fingers, even here, even
when anyone could come past them and see it. His hand was removed, but
not roughly or unkindly. Pep's eyes were full of warning.

`We lost, Filipe,' he said quietly and sombrely.

`But I did what you said.' It sounded feeble even as he said it.

`I have told you,' the manager said severely. `Not until our win is
totally secure.'

`But...'

`I cannot afford to lose focus now. Not yet. You know that. You did
well, but... we have lost. United are still competition.' A long heavy
sigh, a softening of his expression. `You know what I want, my boy. But
not until the win is ours. And then...'

`And then...?'

Just another sigh of answer to that. Then, in spite of the risky little
scenario, his hand lifted up and stroked across the side of Phil's face,
the brief simple touch enough answer for everything they would do to each
other once Pep said they could. The young footballer could just nod his
acquiescence and stare hungrily at the older Papi. And when Guardiola was
mounting the stares, back to him, he just stared longingly after him,
suddenly unexcited and bored with the sordid toilet scene where he had
let the Premier League legend jizz all over his face; that victory was
short-lived and irrelevant if he couldn't climb into bed with the only
man he really wanted!



SORRY FOR THE SLOWER STORY UPDATES LATELY... HOPE YOU HAVE STILL ENJOYED
THE NEW CHAPTERS AND WANT MORE. WHAT DID WE THINK OF 'FILIPE' AND HIS
LATEST PROJECT? WHO WANTS TO SEE HIM EXPERIMENT WITH MORE CITY TEAMMATES
WHILE HE WAITS FOR PAPI?

WHAT NEXT...? MORE REVISITING OLD FAVOURITES, OR EXPLORING SOME OF THE
NEW 'CHARACTERS'? ALWAYS HAPPY TO HEAR REQUESTS AND IDEAS, THOUGH NO
PROMISES.


'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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