Date: Wed, 7 Apr 2021 12:06:33 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 255 Part 255: Four Quarters (1 of 4) Trent Alexander-Arnold attended to his late dinner at the team's hotel with the same low enthusiasm of everyone on the defeated Liverpool squad: it had not been their night. Tonight's Quarter Final for the Champions League was over, 3-1 to their Spanish hosts, and now a gloomy night in Madrid lay ahead before they flew disappointedly back to Merseyside. The grim acceptance of this result hung thickly in the air of the Madrid hotel refectory, keeping the chat between the guys to a low sporadic buzz, none of the usual good humour and camaraderie that typified their away trips. The 22-year-old defender was deeply unhappy with his own performance, never one to place blame on his teammates or circumstances, and he pushed sulkily at the remains of meat and potatoes on his plate, his chin slumped into the cradle of his free hand. Around him, the guys came and went, many silently departing the socially distanced dinner tables and making straight for their rooms rather than a little late socialising that they were allowed before curfew. The young Scouser looked up from his food to watch this gradual departure, having barely spoken a word to another player during the coach trip back across the Spanish capital or the late meal that followed. He wished he had a bit more social energy to be the uplifting young optimist, usually steadfast in his fierce local pride, but tonight he just felt flat and gloomy. Even when he felt a gentle hand squeeze on of his strong shoulders through the red Liverpool jumper, he glanced across and gave the same dull expression at his close friend. `Hey Robbo,' Trent crackled in his strong accent -- he went to say more but his voice fell silent, totally without banter or enthusiasm for the softly smiling Scottish stud. Andy Robertson stood over him for a moment, dressed in a more slim-fitting match of his own sweatshirt and glossy red trackies; just over his shoulder was visible the hulking frame of his boyfriend, whose expression was severe and almost angry. Evidently, Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain was taking the sulkier route of `Well, if I'd just got on the pitch, things might have been different...' His thick strong arms were folded over that magnificent chest and his dense jaw locked in frown. Trent glanced back at Andy and his sympathetic little expression. `We're heading up,' the Scotland skipper said quietly, patting his hand gently against Trent's shoulder. `Right,' the young player returned vaguely. A little grunting sound of impatience from the Ox. `He means we're heading up now,' the oft-benched midfielder said, the faintest hint of a smile curling one side of his mouth and then a cautious glance left and right before he began to back off and move over the room, leaving this side of the table -- Andy grinned a bit more and squeezed a couple of fingertips in against his muscle. `What I mean, kiddo, is do you wanna come... chill in our room for a bit?' A meaningful pause and a little hint of fire in the Scotsman's eyes -- aha, the penny dropped and Trent understood the invite. However, his answer was quiet and distant: `Nah, you guys enjoy yourselves. Thanks, Robbo. I just need some time on my own.' There had been a lot of nights in the past six months or so when the 22-year-old would have thrilled at such inclusion, have been ready to follow them anywhere and drop his keks. Really, he was as surprised now as they were, Andy glancing concernedly back over his shoulder on the way out, but the prospect of being third wheel in the cuddly intimacy of the older couple was just not what Trent wanted or needed right now. Robbo had been brilliant, of course, since discreetly handling the night in Glasgow -- nobody looked out for young Trent in the way his fellow defender did, and he appreciated that friendship more than anything. In part, perhaps it was that platonic love that made him reluctant to follow Robbo and Ox to their room and risk any complicated other feelings for the hunky lads -- but mainly it was just a severe dip in self-esteem and confidence squashing his libido and making him feel totally disinterested. For the first time since joining the club as a dreamy kid, Alexander-Arnold felt quite disinterested and detached from his team as a whole, the consequence of tonight's grim defeat. He sat and fiddled aimlessly with his cutlery, trying to test his low mental state by imagining exactly what would happen if he followed those handsome older lads up to their room -- he imagined the hot cuddles from Robertson, the muscular strength of Oxlade, the passionate kissing both men had freely shared with him in the past. He wondered if Alex was still the surprisingly steadfast bottom of their antics, or if Andy had finally braved switching up that dynamic for the man he was clearly besotted with. But Trent felt no stirring or jab of arousal at these thoughts, and he gave it up, pushing his seat away from the table and wiping his hands on a napkin. For a while, he moved through into the upstairs communal room where they were allowed to hang out, refusing invitations from Nathaniel Phillips and Curtis Jones to join their video gaming, and avoiding the heated post-match analysis conversations at the soft drink bar between James Milner, Gini Wijnaldum, and Alisson Becker. Instead, he skulked alone in a comfortable seat by the windows, wasting time on his phone -- faintly glad of the background noise the other players offered, but feeling oddly incapable of joining their attempts at relaxation or resolution. He browsed social media, trying to avoid reactions to the game or criticisms of his own play, but dipping into his direct messages where there were usually comforting and affirming messages from supporters, friends, and family. He browsed them with limited interest, stopping with raised eyebrows at one surprising DM from someone he had followed on Instagram for ages but never actually engaged with in real life. `Champion!' began the social media message, then `sorry game not go your way, but stay strong friend -- u play for real club 1 day haha'. He balked at the message's tone, lulled by the friendly support and then grimacing at the poorly judged banter. But still, he thought, how bizarre -- to get a direct message from Sergio fucking Ramos, one of the most distinguished defenders in world football, even if the Real Madrid leader was still out of action and missing from tonight's 3-1 Quarter Final. Trent had spied him from a distance at the stadium regardless, his quite trampy beard clashing with the slick dark suit he wore as he loitered with Zidane and the coaching entourage. Trent's mixed interest and irritation at the message were interrupted as he realised somebody was blocking the spotlight that shone on his lonely corner. He looked up from his phone and frowned uncertainly at the man joining him, standing uncomfortably there with his fists hanging at his sides, a strange mixture of expectation and nervousness on his lean handsome face. Mo Salah was not a tall man, but Trent's sloping posture in the chair made him loom almost intimidatingly for now. `You are busy?' their Egyptian dynamo asked sharply. Trent knew instantly what other questions lay inside this one, and he glowered at the 28-year-old striker, unsure what to say because the spot was so public -- he would concede that there was a chance the heroic forward just wanted to discuss the match or see how he was, but something in the awkward unfriendly manner of the usually jovial North African suggested that a previous spark of conflict was resurfacing between them. With his back to the room, Mohamed patted at his muscular front through his taut t-shirt, and one hand stooped just below the waist, not quite reaching for the pronounced bulge in his red trackies, but leading Trent's eyes to it -- not that they wouldn't have made the short journey of their own accord, knowing the beautiful pale brown circumcised treat that lurked in there. `Busy enough,' Tent muttered at him, then in a brighter voice, `Thank fuck for your one goal, eh?' Salah twitched and seemed annoyed rather than complimented. `It made no difference.' Trent shrugged back with a surly expression. `Guess not. Just saying. Well played.' A long pause and then a huffy tone to Salah's voice. `For that goal, do I not deserve...?' He let the broke question hang unfinished in the air, either tense with anticipation or deliberately trying to flex and emphasise the raw strong of his arms, chest, thighs. He was a quite magnificent sight and he seemed to smell particularly good, but Trent found himself cold at the prospect. He just shrugged wanly and gave the older man a bored stare. `I've told you, I'm not your plaything,' the young Scouser muttered more harshly than he felt. `You enjoyed it,' Mo said, and it was unclear if it was question or statement. `Just go find someone else to swallow your load,' Trent hissed, not lowering his voice enough and making the Muslim man squirm at such openness about what they had done and what the attractive striker was now clearly after. He immediately began to back off, giving Trent an unhappy glare, and then stomping away -- perhaps to follow the moody suggestion and seek an alternative dumping place, or perhaps to go and jerk off remembering how Trent had previously fellated him in hungry awe. But not now, he thought bitterly, fuck these selfish guys and their demands -- fuck this team, he even thought with a worrying new bitterness, disappointed and frustrated by Liverpool life. The club's low form had cost him his spot in England's national team, and he knew he wasn't meant to mind and meant to just treasure club before country, `Scouser before Englishman', but it DID bother him, it truly did. The tiny interaction with Salah left him more miserable and bitter than before, because it emphasised that he was not just sad at the way tonight had gone for his beloved club, but at the state of his personal life, following the misguided trip to Glasgow and the romance he thought he'd been building with the Evertonian. He was embarrassed not only by his misunderstanding and optimism, but by how badly he had handled the truth. He cringed to think of his own tears and ranting before exiting Jonjoe Kenny's apartment and fleeing to Robbo, aware that the Celtic player must now think he was a pathetic wet blanket. There seemed no redemption for that secretive friendship. And as supportive as Robertson had been to him in other ways, it was clear that Trent's mingling with an Everton player was taboo -- he wondered if the reason Alex was being a bit aloof and moody with him was because Andy had shared the identity of his heartbreaker. The phone screen, resting in his hands and gleaming faintly, pinged with a fresh message at the top of that inbox, and he looked back at it. Sergio Ramos again, bizarrely, a follow-up to the mixed message he had just read. `I joke,' wrote the Madrid captain, followed by a series of emojis -- a couple of laughing ones, some almost indistinguishable symbols and then, at the end... a bulbous purple aubergine. The incongruous little pictogram raised a bitter laugh from Trent in spite of his mood, and before he could question himself, he simply typed his own eggplant emoji back followed by five question marks, ready to mock and challenge the old Spaniard over what was surely a mistype or a joke lost in translation. The reply came through quickly, making him stare hard at his iPhone, bewildered. Five more aubergines lined up in the message, then 30 seconds later: `lol I know you like these'. What the actual fuck? He stared at the strange challenging message and then glared about the room as if he had just been publicly outed in front of the Liverpool squad and fans. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing across to where many of the other young lads were enjoying themselves by thrashing Real Madrid in video game format, then over to the bar area where the older players seemed to have thinned out, almost all gone. Then he looked back at his phone, a new message appearing: just a single winking emoji, knowing and threatening. `Dunno what ur on about,' he typed back with a rapid jerking of his thumbs. `lol -- I kno u like my every picture and rewatch my videos like 10 times haha. Love it champ' -- whoa. The accusation was far from untrue. Trent coloured in his cheeks and remembered a few particular workout videos posted in the last year by the obnoxiously ripped Spanish footballer, remembered how he had especially enjoyed a couple of them on his own, frustrated in bed during lockdown and days off... but what the fuck? No way could Sergio know that, he was just being cheeky and smug, what a twat! The young footballer sat there very still and awkward, locking and unlocking the screen, torn between sending some abusive banter back about how old and past-it El Burro now was, and just blocking his account completely and burying this with all the other nuisances in his recent experience. Alone in his indignation, Alexander-Arnold stared out at their dark, indecipherable hotel view, then got up to pace the room, going to pour himself an ice-cold water and then immediately checking his phone again. `bollocks' was all he typed back to Ramos via the messenger service, hot under the collar and genuinely worried about the weird insinuations from the international star. Then, feeling even more heated, he typed, `u the one making soft porn in your home gym lol, weirdo. Hope u full fitness soon, grandpa x' and left it at that. He grinned with bitter satisfaction and put his phone away -- who did that old has-been think he was, sending backhanded messages over social media over the result of a game he hadn't even played in? So what, Real Madrid were through to the semis, but they were a fading glory, everyone knew it! Except that in little under an hour, the 22-year-old Liverpudlian found himself emerging from a private hire taxi a couple of miles away in the centre of the Spanish city, thrusting a fistful of notes at the driver and wiping clammy palms down the hips of his pants, turning to look up at the swish dark apartment building he had been deposited outside. The invite had come soon after his provoked jabs back at Sergio, and initially made him laugh. A party hosted by Ramos, after his bunch of greasy cunts had just ruined Liverpool's spot in the European elite...? Fuck that! Trent had actually laughed out loud at the obnoxious idea, returning to the room he was sharing with Thiago Alcantara, fussing distractedly while the Italian legend was on a noisy group video call with family abroad. But then he'd continued to check his Instagram inbox and seen further messages from the Spaniard -- professing that it was just a small gathering, and at a private flat he owned in the city centre, not far from the district of this hotel. Still, Trent had screwed up his face and rejected the idea as mad, a prank, an insult. It had been the return to the initial jibe that began to hook him: `lol u know our president has eyes on you, right? 1 day u could be a Real Madrid hero like me'. The diehard Scouser in him was furious with the undermining of his great club and city, but the ambitious young footballer was increasingly intoxicated by the idea that he could sign for massive European clubs like Real or Barca, become his very own Messi or Ronaldo in time. The stupid notion of secret talks about him being stolen to Madrid caught him in exactly the right mood of unhappy frustration, and he began to wonder if he really could sneak away and attend Sergio's `party'. Still... it was madness. Curfew. Rules. Loyalty. Pandemic! Trent left the hotel room ostensibly to escape the loud chatter of Thiago and his family on their call, slipping on trainers so that he could go catch some air in the hotel's grounds, not slip out onto the street and order a premium taxi. But that's what he did, because as he sat indecisively in a chair in a lobby, re-reading the slew of odd messages from Ramos to himself, one final message caught and grabbed at him and brought the excitement that invitations from Robbo and Salah had somehow failed to do: there was no glossy purple `eggplant' emoji in the last message that he received from Sergio, following an insistent repeat of the earlier invite and an explicit address for the city apartment in question; no emoji, but the real thing. He sat there in the leather armchair of the quiet foyer, his phone buzzed and chimed and the screen briefly loaded, and then he was staring at an expertly lit snapshot of something as big and tuberous for real -- the intricately tattooed hand wrapped about its base removing all doubt about whose monstrous appendage he was gawping at. Within minutes, he was downloading a local taxi app and punching the address in, within a few more he was sweating on the back seat of the vehicle, composing his cover story to send to his roommate. He told Thiago that he'd needed to go out for a long walk to clear his head with some city sights, and please could the Italian forward vouch for him if there were any questions. Other than that, he spent the entire car ride through the surprisingly noisy city centre locked on the thread of messages with Sergio Ramos: `when will u get here, Liverpool boi?' ... `give your agent my number, I will get them talking' ... `tell ur taxi driver to hurry up... I lonely now lol' ... `hope u hungry, English man'. It became deliciously and frighteningly clear to young Alexander-Arnold what he was heading towards, what the `party' was -- he was being summoned to the secretive sex pad of a man even more powerfully over-sexed than the horny teammates he'd played with so far! It made more sense to him now, to think that Sergio had somehow noticed his over-interest in his muscle-baring social media posts -- was the horny old dog stalking and observing HIM in the same way? Or just so egocentric he took particular notice of who was interacting with his posts and stories? Trent's head spun and his body sweated profusely beneath the red team gear. He felt itchy with sudden lust and weirdly liberated from the gloom back at the hotel -- it was as if he was being lifted out of the sphere of Liverpool and his own personal defeats, brought over into an exciting parallel world. The smugness in these messages that had insulted and provoked him an hour ago was now giving him a hard-on that his pants were struggling to suppress. Even so, once the taxi was paid for and he was hovering about at street level in front of the specified building of luxury flats, he froze with doubt: what the hell was he doing here, halfway across Madrid breaking all team protocol for the night? Why was he hiding from the affections of his own teammates when he could be safely gooseberry to lovely Andy and Alex, or servicing Mohamed as he might soon be handling the monster in the picture message? Why was he daring to entertain fantasies of a summer 2021 shock transfer into La Liga instead of renewing his commitment to the team that was almost religion to him and his family? (Why was he thinking about how Jonjoe Kenny would be sick with jealousy when he told him about it all?) A final prodding message from the flat above landed in his inbox and dragged him to the doors: `get up here, let me fuck you like my city fucked yours'. He should have been horrified, outraged, incensed; instead, his arsehole tickled and throbbed. Didn't he deserve some fucking fun, instead of moping around with all the miseries at the hotel, his own form and potential being dragged down by the failures of everyone else?! Trent went to the intercom and buzzed the buttons for the flat number he'd been given. No answer came through the little speaker but he was buzzed in almost instantly, welcomed through into a silent reception area and a wide-open elevator that took him up to the penthouse. The building was really fucking swish, all marble and chrome, bang in the centre of Madrid -- the casual wealth of the foreign player astounded even a young Premiership earner like himself. He found the door to the flat slightly open for him already, and he pushed it in eagerly, stumbling through and then passing through another arch and then moving into a faintly blue-lit open plan luxury space where several sets of eyes turned to greet him as one -- and the young Merseysider felt immediately uncomfortable, garbed in tracksuit bottoms and sweatshirt and shiny with nervous sweat, suddenly faced by a number of men in slick shirts and blazers, all with cut-glass cocktails in their paws, and the remains of a poker game scattered on the low central table of glass. Had he really expected to get in here and just be immediately greeted by the thing in the picture message, Sergio's only guest and the `party' just what might go on between them? Now he felt suddenly confused and inappropriate, under- or over-dressed and unkempt, a bewildered Scouser on the edge of this metropolitan and continental soiree. He gawped back at them, registering each famous face, and only slowly understanding that all the faces looking at him were male, there were no certainly no female guests in Sergio's little party. There were six men in front of them, and he recognised all but one of them in seconds, before his eyes were drawn to the left and the slow approaching footsteps of his host -- Ramos, Gatsby-esque in his linen suit and half-open white shirt, holding out a little champagne coup of pinkish-red liquor, a sleazy grin behind his trimmed-back auburn beard. The Madrid captain and centre-back said something in Spanish that Trent couldn't understand, and there was a low ripple of laughter from the others. Then, in English, `I worried you would not come,' the 6ft deviant said in a deep and heavily accented voice. Then, to Trent's shock in such public setting of his teammates, he quipped, `and I really need to cum.' The drink was pushed into Trent's shaky hand and he looked from Sergio to the other men present, gradually reconfiguring the `party' idea in his head, absorbing Sergio's sleazy welcome, beginning to realise just quite what he'd landed in. Sipping the drink, which was disgustingly potent on his lips, he registered the sight of the men assembled -- Karim Benzema standing out most instantly to him in fame and physical presence, the big Frenchman relaxed in one of the designer armchairs, black suit pants tight over thick legs and buttons of his smart blue shirt straining across his chest below that strong bearded face; standing over him was Federico Valverde, a South American midfielder of great prominence, a shifty grin marking his mischievous face; across the table from them, the short leathery sofa was occupied by a dark-bearded man he instantly recognised as Isco, neighboured by the equally swarthy Spaniard and insanely beautiful young man, Marco Asensio. Stood a little further back were two more Madrid players, French left-back Ferland Mendy, and a 6ft2 man that he initially struggled to place, eventually sure he was a reserve goalkeeper of the Spanish club, and later confirming his name as Diego Altube, the closest of them all to his own young age at 21. It was strange to see them here in their tight-fitting luxurious looking clothing, all holding different drinks and with a slight drunken or high sheen to their faces, when Trent had last faced all of them in dazzling white kits at their home stadium, struggling to hold the line for Liverpool in the doomed quarter final. But that seemed like another lifetime on another planet -- Liverpool? No thought for his home city or treasured club, not here faced with such excitement... There was conversation in the minutes that followed, set against some low pulsing dance music with the volume turned down, but most of it in French or Spanish and therefore passing entirely over Trent's head. He was guided into a seat, given a second drink before his first was over, and he just stared around him, trying to work out if he was on the verge of a thrilling orgy or the butt of some hilarious foreign joke -- had the cock in the picture really been Sergio's? Was the Spanish legend just out to humiliate and offend him? Was he a complete idiot to be here and not tucked up in a hotel bed with Salah's cum drying on his chin? But at some point midway through his second cocktail, it began: Ramos began rubbing one of his large tattooed hands on the back of his neck, sitting on the arm of his chair, and then he saw two of the others begin to touch themselves quite openly, both Isco and Valverde. And then the excitement could begin, a pulsing liquor-stained eruption of human desire that passed in both slow-motion and frenzied freeze frames for Trent, giddy and excited. First, he was treated to a blowjob: with Sergio still rubbing at his neck and shoulders and sniggering with a low filthy tone on the arm of the chair, it was Federcio who knelt down in front of him and began to fondle him through his trackies, finding his cock hard again in seconds and eager to be released. Trent watched as the same Uruguayan 22-year-old, a 6ft brutish lad, who he had faced on the football pitch, now removed his stiff prick and began to lick quite lovingly up and down the shaft -- the attention was so delightful and much-needed that it took Trent a minute to realise that elsewhere others were on their knees doing the same. He could see Isco pleasuring Asensio, Mendy pleasuring Altube, Benzema just grabbing and stroking himself in those tight suit pants. His mind on the picture message that had ensnared him, Trent gladly turned to the left and began to grab at one of Ramos' big legs, finding the bulge between them and giving it a good grope while staring up into the confident leer of that tanned Spanish face. Ramos murmured to him in Spanish and tickled at his short fro, licking his lips in slow swiping motions of his longue pink tongue. He stood then and unbuttoned the linen pants until he was unfurling his prick, which was astoundingly long and thick even before it reached the mighty full mast of the image he'd sent online. And then Trent was sucking it, mouthing hungrily at the big tasty thing while his own cock was played with below, and from then on the action became more blurred and unclear: the cocktails must have been at least triple measures, imbibed too quickly in his dehydrated panic. The room swam with coloured lighting and perfumed air and gently throbbing Ibizan trance music -- and slowly unveiled bodies as tight blazers were removed and shirts unbuttoned or, in Karim's case, practically torn off to show tanned muscles below. Trent sucked eagerly on Sergio, even once the attention to his own cock ceased and he was briefly left alone, kneeling up onto the armchair to get a better angle and bobbing his head submissively at the hot scented crotch of the centre-back's powerful frame. When it was pulled away from him, trailing his saliva, he felt briefly deprived, until Sergio grabbed roughly at his hand and dragged him further across the room. The other men were moving to, leaving the smart white furniture and glassy décor, shifting towards the big square daybed that dominated the far side of this penthouse, beneath huge skylights and surrounded by vivid green palms that formed a lush jungle from their pots. Onto this bed they travelled, and Trent himself travelled between the men. Pushed loose by El Burro, he found himself now toying with Mendy instead -- the 5'11 left-back seemed to speak almost zero English, but they communicated through kissing that surprised or worried the attractive Frenchman, almost as if nobody had ever snogged him like that before. Trent enjoyed the feel of his tight-packed muscles, the deep dark brown of his chest and shoulders, then too of his short fat erection once it was freed from designer briefs. He jerked it and his own meat at the same time while Ferland, grunting hungrily, snogged at his neck and collarbone and sucked on each of his pink nipples. More assertive than the defender was Benzema, who squatted over his chest with those hairy thunder thighs parted, roughly feeding his well-endowed manood into Trent's willing mouth, face fucking him from above while someone else -- he couldn't figure out who and never did -- wanked him off and licked his sweaty balls. While being fed his equipment, Trent could just stare admiringly up the broad muscular expanse of Benzema's torso and catch the bearded head loll back in enjoyment. Altube looked at him in quiet terror before spreading out and lounging back to be sucked and teased, everything in his body language suggesting he was new to these games, here to be anointed by the approval of these established senior players, clearly more shocked and worried to be pleasured by the men around him. But his cock was beautiful and Trent enjoyed mouthing at it while rubbing his strong leg muscles and stroking up his intense tanned six-pack. A finger between his cheeks drew his attention away from the 21-year-old novice goalkeeper, though, and he looked over his shoulder into the devilish face of Isco, who winked and chuckled and continued prodding at his sweaty crack. Two of the Spanish midfielder's fingers were pushed this way for him to suck on before they returned more meaningfully to his ring and began to frig him with blunt jabs, the sexy bearded 28-year-old reaching below to wank him at the same time. And then there was Asensio -- to Trent's eyes, none of the other men here quite held a light to this famous young winger, who was so fucking attractive it hurt to look at him. Trent was aware that he should feel some animosity to the slightly gormless handsome prince, 25 and every toned muscle glistening with a light sheen of sweat as they crawled close in the centre of the daybed; Marco had been instrumental in Real's win, scoring the second of their three goals and really putting Liverpool under pressure before half-time. But football and rivalry felt very distant in this seedy love-nest, so he just leaned in and kiss at his strong chest, reaching down to play with his cock, cuddling up to the gorgeous dark-haired lad and wanting to do everything with him -- but finding Asensio less tactile and open-minded than hoped, twisting his face away when he went for a kiss and clenching his beautiful firm buttocks when Trent tried to slip a finger into the hairy crack. Like Altube, Asensio gave an impression of wide-eyed innocence even as he lounged there with a throbbing hard-on, as if he didn't quite know what he was supposed to be doing here. And all of them, Trent quickly surmised, pretty much revolved around the whims of their captain. He was no stranger to the deep authority of that post, playing as he did under Jordan Henderson's strong leadership, but this was something entirely different -- Jordan, he thought, was a humble man who led with his actions, while Sergio seemed to live in a fantasy world where he was some ancient king to be served by his harem. Except, Trent reminded himself, it wasn't actually a fantasy; here it fucking was, happening around him, and he was one of the courtesans! There seemed always to be someone attending to the massive donkey-dick of the ripped tattooed show-off -- when it was Valverde, sluttish and enthusiastic, this made a kind of sense to Trent, but then he saw big meaty Benzema, the most muscular and hypermasculine of them all, chowing down on his superior's chorizo. It was such a strange and exhilarating sight, the hulking Lyonnaise forward on hands and knees, eyes squeezed shut as he gobbled on Ramos, making the 35-year-old hoot with dominant laughter and play with his own taut nipples. What took Trent longer to see was that he was becoming the centre of the play too, not in the dominant fashion of Sergio, but as an exciting guest, a novelty, a... plaything, as he'd staunchly protested to Mohamed Salah earlier tonight. Whereas earlier the Scouser had felt resentful and bitter, his mood and appetite was transformed in this new setting. Being the new toy of this manly bunch of quite iconic players, it was liberating and cathartic -- he could really forget about 3-1, forget about Southgate, forget about Jonjoe fucking Kenny. All that seemed to exist right now was a whole load of muscular bodies rubbing sweatily on his, cocks swinging everywhere and often in his mouth, and fingers grasping at his cheeks and exploring between them. Isco fucked him first, having also been the first to initiate that touch. Trent lay on his back, his strong pale brown legs lifted high and apart, and he saw the short thick tool pushed down below his ball-bag and gooch. Isco was a more gentle fucker than his fingers had suggested, moving in sleek gestures as he entered and pushed, grinning wickedly in the frame of shaggy dark hair about his face and head, a handsome pocket-sized hunk among these tall guys. The rumours that Isco was close to signing a deal in the English league popped randomly into the young right-back's head and made him stare all the more keenly at the gently thrusting hunk and his smooth-shaven muscles. He was fucked then by Benzema in a different position, pushed down almost flat on the cushiony surface while the heavy hairy Frenchman climbed on top and began to push himself inside, struggling even after one dick had already been in there. Trent groaned happily and submitted to this, taking the brief powerful humping from one of the world's most prolific goal-scorers, trying to decide whether Karim or Isco felt better in him, and wondering if every man present would take their turn on his arse! Not quite, but almost -- Valverde fucked him next, but Altube and Mendy just took it in turns to feed his mouth, with the Liverpool star doggy style between their bodies. And all of it seemed to build up to the inevitable, where he was almost physically passed into the hands of Sergio Ramos himself -- as if too good to actually make the physical effort himself and use those lean muscles he liked to show off, the well-hung 6ft centre-back just lay flat across the daybed and helped Trent to squat over his middle and descend. This was great for Trent though, who enjoyed the more physical control it gave him, and also the view, staring down over the inked map of muscle and at the filthy grin of Sergio's buck-toothed face. He parted his own legs as best he could and sat firmly on the huge tool, which he felt must be the biggest he'd taken, riding it uncomfortably and feeling it plunge deep inside him with such hardness that his cock felt like it was enduring one long string of orgasms. At one point he had a cock in each hand like he was an Olympis skier, jerking each fist off to his sides and no longer even clear whose pricks they were, while he worked his thighs and glutes to lift up and down the shaft of the Madrid captain. He felt soaked with sweat, not just the nervous perspiration of the taxi here, but the intense heat of this apartment, which felt like a sauna, and the effusive body heat of every man there, all rubbing and dripping on each other as they traded positions. When he was lifted off Sergio's cock he spent some time just lounging back in a daze, fed cock after cock and usually wanking another with at least one hand -- he'd lost all sense of control or order, very willing now just to be a set of orifices and a conduit for all this drunken pleasure. At some point someone must have left the orgy to mix up, because a fresh drink, more disgustingly strong and toxic than the first two, was poured into his slut's mouth between gobfuls of dick, much of it trickling down his body and leaving sticky pink smears on his cappuccino skin. He was fucked again by Ramos, in an almost missionary position now, legs up and wrapped about the tight muscles of his back and powerful rear, and that huge cock drilling into him -- he felt numb from alcohol and so much sex, but his G-spot itself rumbled from each deep poke. While he was fucked by the captain, he sucked on his sidekick, licking at Isco's fat meat until it was spurting creamy Spanish seed onto his tongue and lips -- the first of several loads to land on him, though most were sprayed messily over his body rather than so generously into his mouth. Karim and Diego emptied their balls onto his chest and tummy even as he bucked and arched at the fucking of their leader, while Ferland Mendy came properly in his mouth after a shift in position, doggy style again and spit-roasted between the young and old defenders. There came a point where Alexander-Arnold didn't even know if he'd cum himself or not -- his dick was rock-hard but his balls almost numb, and so many slick streaks of sweat and semen on his body that any of them could be his own mess. The bodies of the satisfied La Liga players flopped into variously comfortable positions and he hunched in the centre of it, trying to work out who was still in play; this was answered as he was dragged upright onto his knees and Sergio came up close, standing tall over him and wanking aggressively towards his face. The 35-year-old's face was an absolute mask of insanity, something a bit unnerving in his eyes and grin as he powered to climax and then, at last, drenched half of Trent's face in his juices, emptying those huge heavy balls covered in russet fur. Trent groaned, enjoying being debased so much, totally free of worry, and he licked some of the goo as it slid past his mouth, watched and panted over by Ramos himself. But Ramos, like the other men, was soon spent, collapsing back into cushions and letting his prick flop messily over one thigh, trailing his seed across tanned smooth flesh. Trent watched him and lounged sideways, not bothering to wipe at the juices on his face or torso, just letting it cool and dry, the air tasting of sex. He looked the other way and found that the gorgeous one, Marco, had crawled very close to him, bright pink and shiny, and still very much rock-hard. Trent grinned and pushed his body back, little spoon against the 6ft Dutch-Spaniard -- they did not quite fuck, but he rubbed his smooth round bottom over the straining erection, letting it slide between his glutes until he managed to bring Asensio off hands-free, feeling his spunk explode against his crack and hole where he had gently rubbed it into finish. And in turn, Marco's hand came reaching about him to clutch at and pull on his dick, the only guy here since that first BJ to really pay interest to it. As he wanked him, the gorgeous Spanish lad whispered in Trent's ear. `You will join us? You will come play in Madrid? We want you, Trent, we really want you...' Hot huffy breaths and then Trent's own luxurious sighs as he released his load, perhaps his second of the orgy, he wasn't sure, spilling it across the patterned sheets of the daybed and pushing his body back at Marco. In this happy daze though, he found Asensio's words silly, absurd. Join them! Move here? Play for Real Madrid? He actually burst out laughing, a hoarse awkward sound meant for nobody but himself, writhing back against the other lad's body and looking around at the others through hooded eyes. Nah, he thought, I'm Liverpool til I die. Just like that, the sordid reality of his actions hit him like a truck, and he felt fully sobered. He twisted his neck to turn and look at Marco's long awkward face, handsome eyes beneath thick brows, lips pursed up as if about to deliver a kiss to his shoulder. Fucking Renaissance painting beautiful, Trent thought, but his goal had pretty much knocked Liverpool out of Europe -- bell-end! Marco made a little mewing noise of disappointment as Trent pulled away and up to his feet, his body a bit shaky but mainly just hot, sticky, dirty. His head felt clear but painful, and his arse felt like it had been aggressively pounded by five cocks, because it had. Trent stepped warily off the day bed, grabbing up someone else's shirt from the floor and using it to wipe grimy stains from his arms, his chest, his thighs, his cock, then lastly his face. He still felt grubby but it would have to do. He plucked his own grey boxer shorts out of the nest of his trackies and dragged them on, then turned to face the sprawling bodies of the daybed, Sergio at the centre of them like some mythical ruler. The Madrid captain opened one eye and watched him, shallow breaths rocking his bare muscles, Mendy curled up at his side like a cat. `Trent,' drawled Ramos with Bond villain charming menace, `come back to bed.' He shook his head, snatching up and beginning to turn out his vest, ready to drag it over his cum-stained body and hide some of the sticky patches. `I need to go,' he said simply, his head feeling clearer and less painful. Sergio was sitting up, pushing Mendy aside a little and scratching at the stubble of his shaven pubes. `No,' he commanded, `come back, I will be hard again soon...' A long dirty chuckle as if this was a joke, but it was clearly a command. He stared expectantly this way and one by one the other guys seemed to rouse from their post-orgasmic stupor, shifting and stretching like a pride of lions whose lionesses finally got sick of serving them. `I told you,' Ramos muttered, beginning to get up to his feet, stroking Mendy's short hair and patting one of Benzema's big shoulders on the way up, `you want to play for a real team, not Liverpool. A REAL team, you get it?' He looked extraordinarily pleased with his terrible joke, a 6ft statue of muscle and body art, grimy and sexual. `Right,' Trent muttered dismissively, fiddling with his sweatshirt and trackies so that he could continue dressing himself. `Liverpool are dirt,' Sergio laughed. `We fucked your boys good, then we fucked YOU.' A ripple of laughter from his cronies. `You are our slut, boy, but your whole team were our bitches, ha. Come on. I speak to agent. I speak to boss. You sign for Madrid and-` `Nah,' Trent told him bluntly, `I'm a fucking Scouser, lad.' And then, having slowly removed his iPhone from the pocket of his trackies and directed it casually their way, he took the snapshot and backed off three steps. The effect was instant, his phone capturing the languid image of seven muscular naked men interlocking on the daybed, Ramos their standing king in the middle -- and the act was transformative, a look of anger and dismay creeping onto each face. Sergio began to stride forward, his muscles locking up into an aggressive stance. `Hold it,' the young Liverpool star warned, yanking up his trackies about his bum and hips, stretching out his sweatshirt to go on next, the phone clutched tightly in one palm. `It'll only take one button to post that online, lads.' He was making it up as he went, there was no masterplan here, but out the threat came, his quiet revenge: `Back the fuck off and show me some respect, or that'll be straight on the internet, you bunch of slags.' His quick crackling Scouse was too quick for some of the European men, who just looked puzzled, but he could see Ramos understood, was glaring at him with white hot fury, standing perfectly still at the edge of the daybed. `I do not understand,' he began in a disgusted voice. `Course not, you mug,' Trent chucked at him. `I've had my fun, and now I'm going. And I won't hear another fucking word against my team or my city, you smug Spanish prick, okay? I wouldn't sign a contract here for anything, I'm Liverpool through and through. And what's more,' he said wildly, the final idea falling into place, `if you smug pricks win the Champions League, I might well leak this photo all the same. Thank about that in the Semis or the Final, you arrogant dicks. Thanks for the party guys, but I've got to get out of here. See ya.' Leaving the burly Real Madrid crew standing and crouching in various states of sweaty outrage, the 22-year-old strode confidently out of the penthouse and back to the lift, laughing to himself as the doors slid shut after him and he escaped the orgy. It was bullshit, of course -- Trent was a nice guy. As if he'd ever leak that picture and damage seven guys' careers, marriages, whatever! In fact, he would probably delete the pic in a nervous frenzy before tomorrow morning, although it was tempting to keep it for the spank bank. It was such a sexy shot, the lamplight glistening on all of their bodies and their various expressions of sexual satisfaction so leering and rich on their faces. But it felt like a brilliant revenge for tonight's game. He'd loved every minute of opening himself up to them and being the star toy in their orgy, but they were a bunch of smug inflated cocks and he was more than happy to ruin their night with his playful threat. As if he'd ever sign for such a team of has-beens and glory-hunters! Playing in red at Anfield was his fucking birth-right, all he'd ever wanted and more. Even this season's downturn didn't really matter, he knew what they could go on to achieve and that there was nowhere he would be happier. Desperate for a shower, he returned to the team hotel with a swagger in his step, his bottom still store but every pang reminding him of how good it had felt to play with so many athletic hunks in one session, a sexual buffet beyond his dirtiest fantasies. He'd never be able to watch a La Liga game on telly again without getting a boner, that was for sure. Had he really just been fucked by half Zidane's world-beating squad? Trent laughed to himself in a giddy whirl, quietly re-entering the hotel and passing through the communal space on their floor, where he could pour himself water and steal a snack from the supplies; try and calm himself down before he went sneaking back into his suite, where hopefully Tiago would be fast asleep and he could hose himself down in peace without any questions. He stood with manic energy still burning through him, slurping icy water and chowing on a little choc-chip muffin at the side of the lounge area -- then noticed that the room was less empty than it had first seemed. One of the guys was still in here, perched in fact in the same isolated window chair that he had earlier occupied, before Sergio's provoking messages had taken over his night. Full of the brimming energy and optimism of tonight's adventure, the Scouser shifted over that way and cleared his throat to announce his presence, disturbing the hunched figure in the chair, who glanced sullenly this way then fidgeted embarrassedly at being caught moping. `Oh,' murmured young Curtis Jones, sitting there in shorts and hoody and pulling his knees up against himself, `hiya our Trent, how ya doing?' `What are you doing up?' Trent demanded, smiling warmly at the 20-year-old -- though the difference in their ages was slim, it felt as though Jones was one of the new generation, whereas Trent's years in the senior squad aged him. He gave the fellow local lad a concerned smile. `Just... thinkin'.' `Hmm. Dangerous.' `Erm. What about you, boss?' Trent grinned with such inner glee that he feared the truth was beaming out of him on WiFi. `Oh, just a walk,' he lied weakly, laughing immediately as if still drunk. `But I'm all good. What's wrong, CJ?' Jones stared morosely out of the window for a while before saying anything more. `Fuck knows,' he mumbled. `You ever j-just wonder if you're the p-p-person you thought you were?' `Whoa. Deep. Are you high, Curt?' `What? F-f-fuck, no, I don't do nothin' like that, I never even touched a-` `Jokes, mate, jokes. Hey, CJ... we're young, aren't we? No need to worry about who we are or who we're not, just chill out and enjoy it. We've got everything ahead of us, lad. Promise you. I'm sure whatever's bothered you will seem like a funny story in a year's time, Curt.' `Hmm. Right. M-maybe.' The tall scruffy youth shrugged, adjusted himself, got up from the seat. `Sorry, I'm b-being weird, b-boss. Ignore me.' `Never,' Trent promised quietly. `We got to stick together, haven't we? Local boys. True Scousers.' He grinned brightly at the 20-year-old player, taking another bite of muffin and glug of cold refreshing water. He noticed Curtis looking a bit more closely at him and suddenly panicked that there was a huge glob of Ramos spunk on his face or in the tight dark curls of his hair. But then Jones' attention wandered and he was shuffling past him with his hands in his pockets, mumbling a `G-g-goodnight' and disappearing through the shadows. This left the 22-year-old to top up his water, steal another muffin, and begin a slow walk in the direction of his own room, trying to calm his mood and work out what extra lie might be needed if Thiago was indeed awake and ready to question his wanderings. Pausing in the corridor outside their room with these calculations in his brain, he realised that he hadn't checked his phone again since arriving at the city apartment, and when he unlocked the screen he found a number of messages waiting for him, though only the top one stood out, cutting through the nonsense and eccentricity of the Spanish night. Top of his inbox, delivered only ten minutes ago when he was leaving a taxi in the street below, unnoticed by him... The first contact of any kind from JJ since he walked out of Kenny's Glasgow flat in tears. `hey m8... sucky result 2nyt, sorry for u bb, hope u ok xx' Trent just stopped there, muffin crumbs dropping from his hand, and stared at the sweet unexpected message, all sultry thought of the guys he'd played with across town vanishing from his head, replaced by the singular memory of being ploughed by Jonjoe instead. He blinked dizzily and dropped the muffin case from his hand, let the glass of water fall too, clinking on the carpet and spilling its contents against the ankles of his trainers. He just held onto the phone and stared gratefully at Jonjoe's message, his world turned on its head. Maybe, just maybe... there was still a chance for something between them? FIRST OF FOUR QUARTER-FINAL STORIES OF THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE... NEXT UP, MAN CITY VERSUS BORUSSIA DORTMUND :) (JUST REALISED THERE ARE TWO LEGS TO THESE GAMES SO APOLOGIES FOR ANY INACCURACIES)