Date: Tue, 13 Apr 2021 16:13:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 258

Part 258: Four Quarters (4 of 4)


The hotel foyer brimmed with glossy respectability, and the leather
armchair surrounded by overhanging tropical plants felt a bit like the
naughty step tonight, an effect heightened by the frosty glare of the
hotel manager and the sleepy-eyed club executive stood a little distance
away, looking at him over their appropriate cloth masks and muttering
heatedly to one another. The target of their wrath sat as placidly as he
could manage in the the allocated seat for troublemakers, staring about
the chic German lobby with an air of casual disinterest, suppressing a
few flares of worry and doubt. He was no stranger to trouble, but there
had been no fizzing controversy that his natural talents couldn't
deflect when it came to the crunch.

Neymar Junior knew what was said about him: all of the ability of a
Ronaldo, none of the work ethic. It was a review that had haunted the
29-year-old for most of his 20s and it was not one that lost him any
sleep. He supposed he lacked the ambition of some of the other elite
players he had become close to, more than close in some cases, but he was
supremely confident in the raw magic of his footballing that he would
never have to work quite as hard as normal athletes. Why was it such a
criticism to point out his lower effort or commitment, he sometimes
wondered, since it meant he got to enjoy his footballing life so much
more than his contemporaries...?

The shadow at the back of his late-night thoughts was his own age. Thirty
loomed on the near horizon now, and the Brazilian footballer could see a
time approach where his speed and footwork would let him down, and the
wildness of his celebrity life might finally take its toll. It was only
this recent and ominous thought that made the languid man frown
handsomely and drum his fingers on the arms of the chair as he waited to
be `spoken to' yet again for tonight's naughtiness. Rules lay broken
around him, not just the club's, but the protocols of the whole
tournament and in fact the pandemic laws of the host country.

Neymar made a little scoffing noise to cover his nerves and shifted in
the seat with a squeak of leather against the torn skinny jeans he wore,
fiddling with the buttons of his over-shirt and watching the deep frowns
of the two senior men discussing his fate. From what he understood, the
centre of the issue was not just his own misconduct, but a threat that
the whole Paris Saint-Germain squad might be evicted from the hotel in
the early hours of the morning -- the ripples of such a scandal were
obvious, the damage to the French team's reputation.

`You have really fucked up,' the French executive muttered in
uncomfortable English, moving closer to him as the hotel night manager
stalked angrily away; Neymar briefly took this as a hopeful sign that the
unpleasant conflict was over, but the exec's manner told him otherwise.
`He is going to speak to the boss and see what can be done. He is very,
very angry, you understand?'

Neymar nodded his head slightly but refused to even try and look
repentant. He sat upright and lay his hands in the lap of his tight
jeans, pouting at the older man. `He will get over it,' he remarked
bluntly, eyes trained on the other man's reaction. It was icy and
silent. The Brazilian forward just sighed and waved a hand at him. `I
will pay the fine. I will pay all the fines. It not matter. Can I just go
back to bed?'

`You think they will allow you to remain in this hotel?' the
middle-aged businessman barked back at him, swearing then in muttered
French that Neymar only half-followed. `You have no idea, Brazilian, you
have NO IDEA.'

The 29-year-old swallowed his instinctive retort, an anxiety flickering
over his boyish face. He folded his arms and lounged back in the chair,
trying for a defiant relaxation in his stance. Across the far side of the
foyer, he could see the night manager back, standing behind a counter and
faced with a tall figure in a bright white dressing gown, engaged in
heated conversation with him. Beside the tropical plants, the executive
made a grunt and looked back to Neymar. `Well, now you're for it,' he
said almost nastily. `The boss will want to speak to you, and he does
not look happy to be out of bed.'

Neymar scowled at the boring cardboard business drone, never one to
direct any respect or interest at the dull money-grabbing types who ruled
the footballing world behind the scenes, confident enough in the
machinery of sponsorship and finance that supported him beyond PSG. He
just rolled his eyes confidently at his detractor and hugged his arms
tighter across his chest, refusing to show any sign of the growing worry
that now filled him -- there was a fairly new regime in Saint-Germain
this year, and injury had given him little opportunity to impress or
endear. The Brazilian should be in his prime and setting European
football on fire, but a burst of trouble here with the new Paris manager
and... inwardly, Neymar wilted and struggled, preparing to charm his way
out of this.



Not an hour ago, he had been charming his way into the knickers of the
more attractive of the two high-class hookers that an online service had
provided to his suit, a pair of blond German babes who had cost almost a
month's salary, such was the price of their discretion in the current
climate of rules and restrictions. Expensive, but not troublingly so to a
man of Neymar's means, disgustingly wealthy in his late 20s after
growing up in near poverty.

Though he was currently engaged in giggling with the more beautiful of
the pair, sliding aside the fabric of her thong and getting two fingers
in between her lower lips, the expensively bought women were not really
for his own pleasure. They were fit and beautiful and very fun, but the
Euros he had thrown at their employment were more on behalf of the lad in
the other bed, now busily motorboating the other girl, his shirt off and
the thick dark muscles of his back exposed from shoulders to waist.

The 22-year-old could be so serious and po-faced a lot of the time, so it
was delightful to see him downing a bottle of hotel champagne and
starting to let loose with the curvy blond, slobbering over her titties
and sucking alternately on each champagne-soaked nipple; every so often
shooting dazzled looks this way between their beds, clearly grateful that
his older teammate had convinced him to take the risk and allow the sex
workers into their hotel suite.

Neymar, gently fingering the cunt of his own girl, grinned across at
Kylian Mbappe, the undisputed hero of tonight's Champions League
Quarter-Final and their temporary win over Bayern Munich. Though a second
leg awaited where the Parisians would host the German side, their 3-2
away win put them in a fierce lead with a strong chance of making the
Semis. And the high-powered youngster had been instrumental, scoring the
first and last goals of the games and really showing PSG's chances of
becoming European champions this year.

`Oh yes,' Neymar chuckled in English, then continuing in his own
Portuguese, `enjoy her tits!'

He rolled over to mirror the behaviour of the younger forward, peeling
away the attractively colourful lingerie to apply his tongue to the
breasts and perky nipples of his own girl, enjoying her performative
moans and digging his two fingers a bit deeper into her wet crotch. But
still, even as he did this, he angled his face to the side and enjoyed
the sight of meaty young Kylian beginning to go down on the other slut,
his face buried between her chunky thighs.

Boldly, Neymar slipped from this bed and pulled on the hand of his girl,
flopping their bodes into the other king-size and making it more of a
foursome, which Mbappe just paused to notice before continuing to slurp
and slobber at the altar of his cherished German girl. Neymar whispered
filth into the ears of the other sex worker and encouraged her to move
around and slap at Kylian's bottom through his tracksuit bottoms,
giggling as she did so -- the Brazilian just played with himself through
his shorts and lounged to the side, watching as both girls now applied
themselves to the French youngster, the uber-professional Parisian talent
who was the heart of PSG's every win.

Kylian was such a pompous young thing, and it had taken much persuasion
to get him in this possession, but it had been worth all the sweet talk
and expense: Neymar enjoyed watching him on the pitch, a stocky black
stud who shot about with pace and talent, but seeing his broad muscular
body slowly exposed as he moved from cunnilingus to kissing, stroked and
fondled by two girls, well that was just heavenly. Neymar's cock
throbbed and leaked in the front of his baggy shorts, and he wondered
just how far he could push the kink of this shared experience, or whether
he should just settle for the voyeuristic thrill -- he would quite
happily lie back and jerk himself off now while the 22-year-old striker
just tupped both beautiful women.

For a while, he settled for just that. Other than a few lingering kisses
and stroking touches of private parts, he lounged and shifted at the side
of the bed, orchestrating but not overly intervening -- he watched Kylian
push his stubby face from cunt to cunt, his lips and chin becoming damp
with his clear relish for giving oral, and then the tables turn as his
trackies were pulled away and his huge bulge swung in his clingy black
trunks. Neymar gasped instruction to one girl, ordering her to take
Kylian's cock out and suck it now -- he saw the flaring insecurity in
Kylian's wide eyes at this remark, but ignored it, because the young
Parisian was soon on his back groaning as he was sucked off, and the
other girl proceeded to sit on his face and fully satisfy him.

This shift in the action was both a gift and a curse for Neymar Jr, who
had never felt so turned on in years, but couldn't hold himself back.
With Kylian's face buried beneath the crotch of the heavier whore,
Neymar could not help but lean over and kneel beside the slimmer woman,
nudging her aside gently and running one of his own hands against the
desired prize -- the long thick curve of Mbappe, a veiny monster that he
had seen soft numerous times, but now got to enjoy in its full glory, as
prominent and girthy as he had secretly fantasised. The girl gasped a
little to see the world-famous footballer tale a tentative feel of it,
but Neymar just sniggered and winked at her, inviting her to snog him and
let him stroke lightly at Kylian, who was moaning heavily into the
wetness between the other girl's thighs. Moaning at the girl sitting on
his face, but unknowingly too at the slow teasing handjob from his older
companion -- the secrecy of it gave extra spice to Neymar's enjoyment
and he debated going further, dropping his face to fellate his young
friend anonymously.

He was distracted from this option when one of the hooker's hands
reached up the leg of his shorts to find and play with his own sizeable
Latino prick, pushing him to lounge on his side and relax, letting the
slutty German girl take him out and swallow him whole while he continued
to jerk loosely at the fat hard-on on his pal. Mmm, Kylian felt so thick
and hot in his palm, he had coveted this big brown cock for months -- the
quiet respectability of the French boy had only incensed Neymar's usual
appetite further, and his nostalgia for the fun adventures at Barcelona
had pushed him to seek some greater contact with his young amigo. Men at
the Paris team were so much more conventional and well-behaved, Neymar
had noted in the four years since his extortionate transfer, much to his
disappointment -- of course, Neymar had not gone short of both male and
female conquests in those years, but this was the first time he had got
his hands on a PSG colleague at all, and he was determined to enjoy it.
After all, these girls were costing thousands and thousands to keep their
dirty lips sealed!

With that, Neymar rolled over to the side, his own cock still deep inside
one sluttish mouth, and he replicated her lavish fellatio on Kylian
Mbappe, pushing open those hard brown thighs and licking the fat head and
veiny shaft before taking it deeper into his talented, experienced mouth,
right to the tight-packed wrinkly balls beneath. But his timing was
misjudged. Just as he did this, the gasping and giggling curvy girl was
un-straddling from Mbappe's face, rolling fleshily aside with deep moans
of pleasure, reaching to finger herself while he stooped to kiss the
Frenchman's damp chops and thank him for his tongue-work... but the kiss
between them did not happen, because Kylian was staring down his thick
chest and gleaming abs, eyes wide as he realised who was in fact sucking
on him. She too made the realisation at the same time, looking
scandalised but delighted, whilst the French star immediately yelped out
in dismay. `Neymar!'

The Brazilian paused there with his lips still engulfing the thick head,
fluttering his lashes and staring provocatively up into Mbappe's face,
swirling his tongue from side to side, the moment's tense silence
stretching out between them... then another yelped `Neymar, fuck!' and
the thick striker's legs were jerking and shuffling and lashing at his
shoulder in a painful little kick. `Whoa,' laughed Neymar, licking his
lips as he pulled back, then getting a kick to the face that made his
head spin and a little blood sting at his nostrils.

He rolled aside, chuckling through the flare of pain, glancing from whore
to whore, seeing their bursting panic at the violence, then back at
Kylian, who was up on his knees, thick cock swinging side to side. In a
slurred voice of their shared Spanish, he pleaded, `Calm down, brother,
it was just a little slip and nobody here seemed to mind...'

But Mbappe had no mind to listen to this, lunging across the bed with his
trackies halfway down his thighs, clumsily charging at him until both of
their athletic bodies were spilling off the bed and crashing to the floor
in a hot tangle of sheets. Squeals and thuds marked the speedy exit from
the hired girls from the bed, and a glass or bottle dropped and smashed
somewhere -- Neymar cackled as he wriggled out of Kylian's attempt to
tackle him, their cocks briefly rubbing as they swayed and swung from
their shorts and pants, the Brazilain slipping away and holding up his
hands in apology. But Kylian was on his feet too, and he'd snatched up a
champagne flute, which he now flung forth as a missile. Neymar ducked
just in time to dodge the missile cracking across his good-looking face,
but it was a short-lived relief -- the vessel smashed loudly against the
wall behind him and, as it happened, this was the specific noise that
angered the occupants of the room next door and began the spiral of
trouble that brought the night's fun crashing to a halt. One minute
Kylian was exploding at him and trying to grab his throat, the next they
were being separated by other men, one other player and a senior coach
and, suddenly, a hotel bell-boy. A tussle of bodies, the prostitutes
included, filled the room in a blur of chaotic scenes. At some point,
Mbappe was placated and Neymar was delicately removed from the room, and
presumably the sex workers made their own escape -- but there were raised
voices and flashes of anger and eventually a seized bundle of his own
clothes were being thrust into Neymar's arms, stood near-naked and
still-erect in a hotel corridor, before being marched down to the foyer
and made to sit and await his punishment while the powers-that-be fought
not to get the entire travelling squad evicted from their Munich hotel.



`Well, now you're for it - the boss will want to speak to you, and he
does not look happy to be out of bed.' After flinching at Neymar's
complacent eye-roll and deep slouch, this man fucked off, stomping
moodily away and only briefly bowing heads to consult with the robed
figure before disappearing. The top French team's newest chief marched
this way and stood in front of him, glowering sleepily and taking several
moments to say a word. When he spoke, it was in gentle Spanish, his tone
one of disappointment and regret more than the frosty anger or outright
rage that had greeted Neymar from anyone he spoke to in the last hour:
`What are we going to do with you, Santos?'

The Brazil star shifted in his seat and fixed his new club manager with
an ambiguous look, not quite sure how to play this -- he couldn't risk
or afford the surly indifference with which he had treated everyone from
thunderous muttering Mbappe to the intimidated hotel staff. Nor could he
bring himself to plead and beg, gush with apology and self-reproach just
to safeguard his spot in the Parisian side. He just sat there and gave a
neutral expression as he waited for the presumed explosion of disapproval
from the 49-year-old manager stood in front of him, Argentina's Mauricio
Pochettino.

`This is atrocious, Neymar,' the 6ft former centre-back said in the
same quietly solid voice, the gravitas of his tone and expression
slightly jarring with the fluffy white robe that covered his thin grey
t-shirt and the creased suit pants that had clearly been pulled on as he
marched out of his own suite, summoned by the hotel management to answer
to the prostitution scandal and violent in-fighting exploding a couple of
floors below. `You are a man but you behave like a boy,' the boss told
him with a little more icy fervour. `You bring disgrace to the team.'

Neymar hesitated further but then let his pouting expression sink a
little into an unhappy grimace, and he nodded his head once very
slightly. `Yes,' he agreed, but did not add any more explicit apology
or half-baked explanation for what had gone on. He just watched the grim
set of Pochettino's aged features, fixed thoughtfully on him now. Then,
when there seemed to be nothing more coming, he got himself up to his
feet in his skinny jeans and half-zipped hoody, nothing below either
garment since he'd been forced to dress in such a hoody after the
interruption of his unfinished sex.

`I'll go back to my room,' the forward said hesitantly after another
long moment passed.

The thick dark brows knitted and angled in consternation. `No,' Poch
said simply. `Mbappe will not room with you.' A more frowning
expression as he stopped and carried on, `I am not sure I understand why
exactly, but he will not share with you -- ever again, he says, but he is
rash and young. You have... upset him?' There was a wobbling curiosity to
this question that undermined the stern authority of the head coach and
made Neymar struggle to avoid a smug grin at his exploits -- he was not
worried by Kylian's short-term anger, sure he could soothe it and win
over the younger guy with an apology he hadn't yet invented.

Neymar, keeping his expression neutral, shrugged his shoulders. `Where
do I sleep then? Here?' He gave a sarcastic edge to his suggestion, but
it occurred to him that it might actually be correct, and he might need
to spend the next few hours curled miserably up in the armchair until he
could join the other men for their early breakfast -- if he was even
allowed that. The wellspring of worry returned, the sense that he might
have pushed things a little too far and that his gifted feet would
eventually stop making up for his unprofessionalism.

The 49-year-old retired player just shook his head, grizzled by overgrown
hair and greying facial hair, before digging his hands into the deep
pockets of the hotel robe and backing off. `You are staying with me,'
he said, not without resentment. `It was the only thing I could say to
convince the nice manager. Come on. Some of us are old enough to need our
sleep, Santos.' He sounded annoyed but less so than Neymar might have
imagined -- still, he picked up some speed as he swaggered along behind
the ageing South American, across the lift doors and into one elevator
where the pair of them stood in awkward silence until they reached the
correct floor. Neymar, with a humility that had escaped him so far
tonight, grunted out a `Thank you' and received a brief withering look
from his new manager, who just shook his head and said nothing more.



The manager's suite was distinctly bigger than that afforded to players,
he noted with a little surprise, and he clocked the sweet tidiness of
Pochettino's things on a unit at the side, the wholesome quiet of the
room compared to the mess he and Mbappe had briefly made of theirs. The
room that Neymar had been dragged from had drink stains on the bedding
and carpets, clothing scattered everywhere, the overpowering stench of
the whores' perfume. At least this place looked like somewhere he might
get some rest, he mused, drifting across it and scuffing his toes idly at
bits of furniture until he was approaching the long stiff couch that
would serve as his bed.

`I thought you and Kylian were friends,' commented Mauricio
thoughtfully, undressing from the complimentary robe and thumbing
awkwardly at the buttoned front of his suit pants. Neymar turned and gave
him a fairly sweet, apologetic grin before shrugging silently and sitting
himself down on the couch. With surprising hosting instincts, the
Argentinian set about finding two glasses and pouring out water and ice
-- the kindness of the gesture was a little undercut when he pointed out
how tipsy Neymar seemed and how he needed a clear head for the morning.
`You will apologise to the boy for whatever happened,' he instructed in
a resigned voice, standing over him once more. `I need my two special
forwards to be close and effective together, okay?'

This time Neymar could not avoid a little smugness in his lean face as he
sat there sipping icy water -- `special forwards', the boss said, and
it was clear that he was more worried about the fracture between two star
players than in the trouble for the hotel, the broken lockdown rules and
the potential scandal of prostitutes in the team camp. It made the short
wiry Brazilian stare appreciatively at his gaffer, following him across
the room with his eyes as he went to switch off the main lights and turn
on a couple of lamps instead -- he liked the former Tottenham manager,
had been excited by his appointment at PSG, but he had previously
considered him quite dull and sensible. He now seemed quite unshockable
and worldly in his neutral acceptance of tonight's trouble and his
willingness to host a troublesome player in his own suite. Maybe he was
not such a stuffy ex-pro after all, Neymar thought with the first hints
of renewed hunger for mischief.

`Yes sir,' Neymar said after a while, keeping his voice flat, but
hearing the seeds of flirtation in the words. Poch just gave him an odd
stare at his simple answer, downing the rest of his own water and going
through the room's huge slick wardrobe to find blankets and cushions
that he carried dutifully over to dump down beside him. `Prostitution,'
he muttered with a screwed-up face of distaste. `Really, my boy? You
should know better at your age, Junior. Leading Kylian astray like that
-- I'm not sure I have ever seen the boy put a foot wrong, man. Huh.'

Neymar just nodded, taking the gentle admonition. `It was my idea,' he
admitted openly. `I will make it okay with him, boss. I like Kylian. It
was just a... misunderstanding.'

Hands on hips, his body still thick and strong from his centre-back days,
Mauricio levelled him with a more forceful stare before backing off and
leaving him to start unfolding the blanket. `A misunderstanding?' the
Argentine asked patiently.

`Just that,' Neymar said, evasive but deliberately mysterious. He threw
open the blanket and shoved the cushions in against one end of the couch,
then began to unzip his hooded top, playfully conscious of the slow
exposure of his toned and tattooed torso below, supple and bronze. `It
was a silly thing, sir. You know these French players. Such divas. Not
like the world we know back home.'

Pochettino made an uncomfortable grunt as he sat down on the edge of his
bed and began pulling off his trainers and socks then undoing the flies
of his suit pants. `None of this "sir", I am not your grandfather or
something.'

`Sorry, Poch.'

`That will do.'

The hoody hung open now and Neymar shrugged it away, brazenly shirtless
beside the couch -- he looked with forced coyness towards the older man
as he undid the buttons over the crotch of his jeans, revealing the
slight stubble of his shaven pubes over the plump base of his soft cock.
`Sorry, I have no other clothes with me,' he said in a sensitive voice,
making Poch inadvertently stare this way then wave a dismissive gesture
at him to show it didn't matter. At that, Neymar made a slow performance
in the lamplight of peeling the skinny-fit denim down his footballer's
legs and stepping out of them until he was stark naked there in the
shadows, stripped and doing little to hide the droop of his cock and
balls.

Pochettino looked very deliberately down at the floor as he yanked off
his trousers, down to t-shirt and loose striped boxer shorts, but Neymar
snagged his attention once more. `I am sure you have been in some
scrapes, sir,' he said, then `Oops, Mauricio, boss. Not sir. Hehe.'
The older man just frowned at him, defiantly avoiding the hint for some
more mutual understanding or sharing of anecdotes -- he just huffed and
moved to switch off the lamps, one and then pausing at the other.

`Kylian did not want the women?' he asked, sounding awkward as he tried
to show minimal interest.

`Oh, not at first,' Neymar murmured. `Seriously boss, it is all my
fault. But he did enjoy it once they were up there.'

`And so what was he angry at?' the PSG manager pushed in a quiet
voice.

`Ah, just silly stuff, he is young and naïve. He does not have our
experience.'

Poch cleared his throat distractedly. `Hmm, no?'

`In South America,' Neymar murmured in a distant, narrative voice,
`there are certain ways, aren't there? For real men, for alpha players
in teams like this. A man like Kylian, with goals like those, needs to be
treated a certain way -- he does not understand that yet.' He paused,
watched the flickering lines of expression on Mauricio's phase,
emphasised by the lamp at his side, then vanishing into fuller darkness
as it was clicked off. Neymar smirked in the shadow. `I'm sure you know
what I mean, sir -- from your own days. You were such a powerful man, you
must have been shown so much... respect.'

The quiet from Poch, stood by the bed in the centre of the large suite,
was just long enough to excite and intrigue Neymar, before he quietly and
dismissively said, `Just make things right with him before we fly home
tomorrow, and we will discuss fines for you both back in Paris, young
man.' Then just the rustles of sheets as he climbed into bed; Neymar's
eyes adjusted to the darkness just enough to make out his form beneath
them, rolled over away from him in the huge bed, sighing heavily. He just
stood a moment more by his makeshift bed, nude and a little bit aroused.
Was it just him, or was the air of the plush hotel suite thick with
tension and potential?

As he slipped his smooth lean body between the blanket and sofa, letting
his buttocks squeak on the leather and his cock rub lazily against the
sheet, he thought indulgently about all of the fun he'd had over the
years, beginning with the boyish fumbles in Brazil and accelerating when
the legendary Pique began welcoming him to Barcelona -- right through to
his intimate friendship with the great Messi that had been such a strain
to quit when the dollar signs drew him away from the Spanish stronghold.
He grinned and sighed to remember the times he had spent in private with
both special men and other notable faces of his senior playing life. The
women outnumbered the men in Neymar's lavish sexual history, but the men
were certainly more memorable!

Such iconic players, he thought smugly, but this could be something
exciting and new... a manager?

He let the seconds tick by, smiling to himself even though there was a
good chance that the tension was one-sided and irrelevant, just lounging
against the stiff sofa and flat cushions and shifting his body idly
against the stubbled material of the blanket; stretching out his bare
toes and yawning pleasantly as he thought about the brief treat of
Mbappe's cock, illicitly tasted and worth all of the outrage it had
sparked. Perhaps he would not get another feel of it, but at least he'd
been able to try it, see that Kylian was every bit as reserved and
traditional as he projected -- not so corruptible as other hot-blooded
footballing men. Especially South American men, Neymar thought, returning
to the present, sliding his head to the side and staring across at the
mound of Pochettino's body in the nearby bed.

At last, he heard the older man's voice, a low Spanish growl in the
dark: `Is it comfortable?'

Neymar let a few moments drag by sensuously before answering, `It is
more than I deserve.'

The manager's pause was longer, his voice even quieter. `We can share
if we must.'

Neymar let out a long sigh into the air. `Would that be okay, boss?'

He didn't wait for an answer before sliding the blanket off him and
taking the four naked steps it took him to reach the bed, his cock
already on its way to stiff. A wolfish grin lit his bearded face and then
the 5ft8 striker climbed into bed, stretching across the crisp sheets
until he was close behind the heavy form of the 6ft older man -- Poch did
not immediately shift or react and there remained a slim chance that he
was making a pure kind offer because he knew how stiff and unyielding the
couch was for a match-sore athlete. Neymar made his move quickly and
fluently to dispel this doubt: he reached a hand just under the bottom of
the t-shirt, stroking a fleshy hip and running his fingers in over the
hairy tummy. Receptively, Poch rolled slightly this way, off his side and
onto his back, allowing Neymar's hand to settle on his midriff, stroking
the thin hair about his navel and waist, feeling the slightly seedy
muscle of his torso, not quite toned or firm but revealing a strong core
maintained since his active youth. Neymar just lounges sideways, tickling
his hand there, then a little higher, stretching the fabric of the tee,
then back down to toy furtively with the elasticated waste of those baggy
dad's boxer shorts.

Poch made a slight sleepy grunt beside him, then murmured, `This is a
bad idea, Junior.'

`It is fine,' Neymar purred, pushing fingertips under the elastic but
no further. He leaned his face in low and found a soft nipple through the
tee, nipping it between his lips and moistening the fabric until he felt
it grow harder against his tongue. `You are a different man to little
Kylian,' he whispered in the intimate night. `You know you are alpha.
You know what this means and what it doesn't.' The only answer to that
fluffy logic was another vague grunt. But Poch certainly made no move to
stop him or push him away, lying on his back, probably with his eyes
closed, and letting Neymar roll the t-shirt up the trunk of his body so
he could kiss and lick his nipples for real, rubbing the curly dark hairs
of his beard against the light grey-brown fluff of the 49-year-old's
chest. Finally, after several minutes of this, he let his hand explore
further down, reaching inside the ample space of those baggy unflattering
boxers, and resting against the semi in there.

Pochettino was a very different man to Mbappe, he thought smugly, excited
by his own intuition -- he could picture the rugged strength of the
centre-back his manager had been a couple of decades ago, could guess at
the antics he may have got up to at certain clubs. And more importantly,
Neymar thought with a shudder, Argentine steak was his favourite flavour
of cock. He began to kiss his way down the softened muscle of chest and
abdomen until he could push away the boxer shorts and begin to suck real
life into Pochettino's prick, short but very chunky. Now Mauricio made
clearer noises of pleasure and he began to stroke Neymar's neat curly
hair on top, tickling the short cropped sides and the outlines of his
delicate ears. Neymar just opened wide and sucked very firmly on the
older man's cock, reaching a hand under the covers to jerk slowly on his
own.

Men of Poch's age were not necessarily his type, but the power of the
experienced manager was a new thrill, and the ageing South American was
certain a cuddly old stud in his own way. It also took Neymar back in a
way, some of his major experiences taking place when he was a skinny
youngster submitting to the likes of Pique in that frothing hot-tub.
Playing the servile young slut to gently grunting Pochettino dispelled
the 30 on the horizon and made Neymar feel even more youthful and
invincible.

He would have settled for this, always happy to use his oral skills and
know how easily he could make men's knees trembles and their balls
unload -- but when things escalated, he purred happily, not saying a word
but just accepting the force with which Poch suddenly pushed him onto his
side and spat loudly into his fingers. Neymar licked spit and pre-cum
from his own lips and lifted one leg so that his smooth round arse was
more accessible, hearing a grunt of indecision as the married dad pushed
one wet finger then two into his waxed crack. Neither of them said a word
-- no dirty talk or discussion of what would happen, but Neymar unable to
believe quite how well this was going. He would have joyously finished
the blowjob, but the frustrated DILF needed more!

Grunting heavily, Poch breathed stale air into his ear and offered no
kisses or softness, just pushing roughly at his hole and then beginning
to take hold of his narrow hips. Neymar pushed back comfortably in
return, happy with the clumsy forcefulness of the short thick bone being
pushed at his ass. He exaggerated his little gasp of pain at entry, too
experienced to struggle but sure that Poch would need to have his ego
stoked over his impressive girth -- and then just like that, the
Argentine brute was rutting at him, both men on their sides, Neymar's
shorter frame held tightly by the 6ft man who was pushing in and out of
his hole with a series of dogged groans.

Pochettino didn't last long, perhaps quite unused the tightness of anal.
He pulled out and Neymar felt his cum spatter his lower back and
buttocks. He let out loud effeminate whines and reached behind him,
rubbing at the mess on his cheeks and at the still-sensitive girth of
Poch. With his other hand, he wanked his own dick furiously. To help
himself finish, he rolled right around and began to kiss up and down
Poch's body again, licking his chest hair and following the trail south
with his lips, eventually taking his cum-sticky piece into his mouth just
in time to tip the scale and bring himself off, spurting thick cream all
over his hands and thighs, giddy with the knowledge that he had just
corrupted this wholesome teddy bear of football management.



Two floors below, another man blew his load, emptying streams of silvery
white over the dark skin of his fist, his eyes and jaws clenched shut as
he lay there on his back, naked on top of the sheets, reaching the
inevitable climax of his long furious wank. He grunted and held in deeper
cries of pleasure as the waves of sensation rocked the thickset muscle of
his dark body, his mind flaring with pornographic images of how far the
scene with the hookers might have gone -- eager in spite of himself to
try paid sex again, after that first taste of how sluttish and
acquiescent hired women could be to his preferences and appetites. In the
moment of orgasm, Kylian remembered how great it had been to have the one
he found hottest just straddles his face and feed him her cunt, but this
image inevitably brought with it the other: the horrible moment of
witnessing whose mouth was around his cock, seeing Neymar Jr stooped over
him like some vampiric villain!

What the actual fuck?

The Parisian youth growled angrily through the escaping breaths of his
orgasm, unable to relax even in the giddy afterglow of spunking his load
-- he had heard so many rumours and jokes about his fellow forward,
online and in real life, seen many lads at the club snigger privately
about stories involving the Brazilian. But he had always discounted them
as the jealous murmurings of lesser players, a big fan of the
ex-Barcelona forward who had been so kind and encouraging to him since
they both arrived at PSG in 2017. Despite everything he had heard, it
shocked and frightened Mbappe to realise that Neymar could so casually
take hold of a man's dick and do that.

Cum dribbled against his knuckles and slowly he opened his eyes, staring
at the ceiling and furnishings around him, anything to replace the image
of Neymar's smirking expression over his own curving shaft. But with the
remembered image came the remembered sensations: the softness of his
tongue, the firmness of his touch on a leg muscle, the tickle of his
beard as he mouth left his manhood and the violence kicked into his
system to resist this taboo servicing.

Kylian's nostrils flared and he swore repeatedly into the lonely dark of
the room they had been sharing, moving through into the bathroom to scrub
clean his hands and his crotch, seeing Neymar's things scattered messily
about the sink, including a pair of his pants on the tiled floor. He
kicked them stupidly against the wall and marched back through, getting
into bed and pausing only briefly to wonder where the troublemaker had
been lodged for the night -- but then he began to worry more about
himself, about what trouble he might be in for his part in the sordid
event. He was sure he couldn't bring himself to tell the bosses what
Neymar had actually done, so it would be hard to shift all of the blame
onto that filthy deviant, and he had weakly agreed to the rule-breaking
after all -- the strong French player drifted into fitful sleep, dreading
the morning and the questioning that would inevitably come his away. Just
before he found sleep, his mind chanced upon a slim hope, and he wondered
if Neymar might have the honour to take all of the blame and let him go
without punishment or judgment... if the dirty Brazilian man liked him
enough to suck his meat, then maybe he would like him enough to protect
his reputation! He entertained this sleepy hope for a moment then
disappeared into his dreams, his body spent and his mind worn out by the
anguished loneliness since he battered his roommate away...



LET ME KNOW WHICH OF THE QUARTER FINALS YOU ENJOYED THE MOST! LIVERPOOL,
CITY, CHELSEA OR PSG...?



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

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