Date: Mon, 17 May 2021 16:58:03 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 261 Part 261: Work Hard, Play Harder It was a short journey from the stadium to the hotel in this North East city, made turgid by traffic -- but the pace of the coaches ferrying the men across town matched the low-energy slump of the athletes aboard. Heads were tilted against juddering windows or slumped forward, chin to chest, with many of the Manchester City players already starting to snooze before they were unloaded at the hotel for a light Friday night dinner and free time before bed. From the youngest player on board to the team's 50-year-old chief near the front, the men were baggy-eyed and vague, worn out by much more than the night's game. Not that the game itself hadn't been exhausting, a 4-3 battle against their Newcastle hosts. The score-line itself spoke for the lull in energy and focus among Guardiola's players, now cuddled up into their socially distanced seats and only a small number making muted conversation; the dozy mood of the bus translated into their limping waddles as the City players disembarked and filed into the slick hilltop hotel at the north side of the city. A relegation-dodging side like the Magpies would never have got three goals past them at full strength, and it had been a dogged battle to regain the lead and steal the points tonight... all because the men were still recovering from celebrations earlier in the week, a night of joy that had gone on too long and led to cancelled training and disruption in the build up to this Tyneside away trip. On Tuesday night, Leicester had beaten their neighbours and rivals at United, and by default City's lead had become unassailable. Without playing a game, the squad had become Premiership champions that night, and the impromptu partying at their training ground had been all the wilder for the spare energy. Unplanned and raucous, the 2020-21 season winners had celebrated into the early hours of Wednesday, and the hangovers of the event were lingering painfully into the end of the disrupted week. They were wearily smug that they had secured another win even at this low ebb, but every man in the squad was completely exhausted. And a small number of them, shuffling off the coach and making their way through the hotel foyer, were even more shattered than others from the wildness of their Tuesday night -- but without a single regret... Initially, Phil Foden was a little less intoxicated than his mostly older colleagues. Excited and chuffed as he was, the young star had taken it slowly once the crates of beer were unloaded the boxes of wine began flowing. He was merry and pink-cheeked, but clearer and less swaying than the older guys he was chatting to as the Man City party burned past midnight. The 20-year-old footballer stood there with a beer bottle clutched in one and the crust of a pizza slice in the other, grinning patiently as his two teammates jabbered on with beer-soaked enthusiasm, their fluent English dented by inebriation. Ferran Torres was chirping enthusiastically about how big a part he would be of the team next year once Sergio Aguero left, and his fellow Spaniard Rodri was slapping his back and agreeing with enthusiasm; more quietly but equally pissed, Frenchman Benjamin Mendy was still talking half to himself on their previous topic, slating United and fantasising about how far down the table they would fall in the next season. Foden humoured the drunker men with a glassy expression, comfortably tipsy in his loose-fitting matching tracksuit, chewing on the last of his cold pizza and wondering if it was time to organise a taxi home before he fully pissed off anyone back home; dutifully, the youngster also wondered if he ought to be trying to get some of the worse-for-wear other lads into taxis home too? Phil glanced about, trying to figure out who was really too pissed to look after themselves... he concluded that this description fitted most City men tonight, and he was better off just slipping away in his own quiet exit. Still, maybe one more beer wouldn't hurt... For Foden, this was not just another City league title, it was the first Premiership title that he felt fully invested in. After all, the past few seasons had seen him only slowly make his way into prominence, kept on the bench and allowed to build his confidence -- this year he had started regularly and become properly central to the huge lead City had now racked up on the table. He was not smug or conceited about it, but it felt like the first proper achievement of his senior career. So maybe another bottle of San Miguel was in need, rather than a sensible taxi call... With a scrap of his youthful sense, Foden decided against offering any top-ups to the other three, separating himself from their cross-purposes conversation and making his way across the big open bar area and towards the big ice buckets of booze that had been laid out for them, but were already running low because the players had embraced the celebrations so heartily. Phil was just reaching in to retrieve an ice-cold beer and scout about for a bottle opener when the strong warm fingers closed about one shoulder and squeezed him. He didn't need to turn back and look to recognise the feel of the coach, and he knew who was touching him even before that familiar woody aftershave caught his nostrils. He did a poor job of suppressing of his loving smile and turned to glance back at the taller, broader figure of the City boss, now looming next to him with the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt undone and a little patch of dark and silver hair visible on his chest. `Filipe...' The voice was like hot syrup poured on him and he squeezed a tight grip on the icy bottle to cool his feelings, trying to give an appropriate player-manager smile of acknowledgement to the middle-aged Spaniard as they stood very close beside the drinks table. Pep Guardiola still had one hand on his shoulder as he stood there, his handsome lined face a little slack with drunkenness that made him appear particularly youthful and mischievous tonight. `Boss,' the Stockport scally murmured back, holding the bottle in both hands. Guardiola stopped squeezing his shoulder and darted briefly away to collect and present a shiny bottle opener; he did the job for him, using it as an excuse to rub his tanned hands about Foden's white-pink knuckles and pull even closer to him -- here! In this room full of drunken footballers and coaches, spilling about or lounging in pairs and small groups, their whole `bubble' of sportsmen and support staff milling about the big meeting room in many stages of drunkenness. `Boss,' Phil muttered again, this time with a hint of warning. He was realising that Pep was easily as loose with drink as the young players he had just been chatting with, and he was pleased and amused to see it, but one of Pep's hands was still clutching at his with lingering touch, and the twinkle to his eyes and smiles was... well, explicit! `Careful,' he added with an uncomfortable giggle to his voice, looking up at the 5ft11 retired athlete. `Careful?' the Spanish coach dismissed with a leer to his expression. `I have barely seen you all night, my golden boy. This is YOUR celebration, you know? YOU did this, Filipe...' `Me and a couple of dozen others,' the 20-year-old returned with a breathy laugh, sliding his hands away from Pep's grip and knocking back a mouthful of the Spanish beer. `But... thanks, sir. Thanks, erm...' He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and smirked and blushed at the shared thrill of this tactile moment, `Thanks, Papi.' `Mmm,' Guardiola moaned softly at the nickname, patting him on the other shoulder now and letting a hard thumb rub the side of his throat; was it too much, or was this really quite normal man-to-man contact amongst the Latino and continental elements of the City squad...? It was hard to judge when you were from a repressed working-class neighbourhood of Greater Manchester. `We did it,' the 50-year-old was saying in a wistful sigh, his eyes seeming to pierce Phil's tracksuit and vest to the slim muscular frame beneath. `And now...' Phil's heart skipped a beat and his breath held. He hadn't dared to think it, had pushed aside the question from his mind all night since the Leicester-United result came in to them. But of course... for so long now, the great manager had pushed him away, resisted all of the temptation, allowed him only his exciting dalliances with other lads on the squad... pimped him, to some extent, as a prize to the egos of men like Stones and Aguero. But now the season was won, and so... `Tonight?' he dared to ask, all thoughts of a safe and sensible taxi forgotten -- he was picturing the secret apartment near the Etihad that had been the scene for their most intimate moments together. `Tonight,' Guardiola agreed in a sensual slur. `In fact... now.' `Now?' His mouth had gone dry and his cock was semi in his CKs. `Well...' A dangerous smirk. `As soon as possible. I will go to my office soon. Join me there. In...' A loose, wild hand gesture of uncertainty. `Twenty minutes? I cannot wait, Filipe. I need you.' Foden just nodded his thin face eagerly, desperate to scream out his agreement with this dangerous sentiment, tingling and hot beneath his clothes all of a sudden. He slurped back some cold beer and held Guardiola's stern gaze, studied the lusty snarl of his lips and the little dimples that furrowed his salt-and-pepper stubble. The older man scratched at his chest hair through the open shirt front and backed slowly away, a hint of stumble to his tipsy steps. Phil remembered to breathe, and then realised just how perfect tonight was going to be. Kyle Walker stomped across the carpeted room and paused a moment to watch the man he loved make an absolute tit of himself. Just ahead of him, the tall Barnsley lad looked ridiculous, a gangly muddle of limbs as he showed off his dance moves to a cackling circle of equally drunk colleagues, his tracksuit top tied about his waste and just a thin white t-shirt clinging sweatily to the long muscular torso. John Stones was a club joker, always the first to down his pint and make a fool of himself for the pleasure of the other guys -- but whilst the assembled blokes guffawed, chanted and applauded, Kyle just found himself standing there with a soppy smile of affection on his rugged face, enjoying the sight of the bigger young man enjoying himself so much. Still, he hadn't trudged across the party for a laugh, or to become a dancing judge holding up a `7'. The thickset Yorkshireman burst forward and interrupted the celebratory scene, casually elbowing two teammates aside and grabbing heavily at one of John's flailing arms. `Alright, enough, enough!' Walker called out bullishly between barks of laughter. `This one is gonna break summat if he ain't careful... lemme get him some water, eh...?!' He gripped tightly at the high strong shoulders of John's body and hoisted him aside from the little circular dancefloor he'd created, dragging him away from his audience and ignoring their boos of protest. `Oi, I was just gonna do the worm,' gurgled Stones, stumbling along beside him with a flash of anger across his big face; it melted to a smile as he grinned down at Walker, who still held him about the shoulders, steering him a bit further from the pack. `Oh, `ello you...' `You're hammered,' Kyle accused lightly, not far behind him. He smirked happily at the 26-year-old, finally releasing his shoulders then glancing back -- luckily, it was Ilkay Gundogan now entertaining the others with some jerking robotics and a glazed drunken expression on his dark features, Raheem Sterling and Eric Garcia joining in to imitate his terrible shapes. Kyle smirked back at John, who was swaying a little on his feet, and he bashed their arms together at the side. `Sorry to break up your dance party, lad, but...' `But what?' groaned John drunkenly. `You got a drink for me?' `The beers are starting to run out,' Kyle said vaguely. `But I got other things for you.' `Huh Oh... he he... mmmm, you smell good...' `Oi,' Walker cackled, as the 6ft2 centre-back began to lurch more closely at him; he pushed him to a slight distance and glanced cautiously around them to make sure nobody had caught the little attempted kiss. `Watch that, will ya,' the Yorkshire brute muttered, but with so much pleasure in his voice; it was all he could do not to grab and snog the big handsome fucker right now, groping all of his muscles through his tshirt and trackies. `But I thought we could take the party on somewhere else,' he suggested, winking clumsily. `What, home?' groaned John, rubbing at his temples and blinking furiously. `But what about our missus...' `Nah, not home,' Kyle muttered, `somewhere a bit closer, you big tit.' He shook him by the arm, letting his hand slide onto his back, feeling the compact muscles beneath that damp t-shirt. `I just need to get you out of this fucking kit, you big sexy dickhead. You big oaf. Come on.' `Beer,' muttered Stones irritably. `Another beer.' `Okay, okay,' Walker relented, frustrated but also amused. `I'll grab us another beer each. Then we go party somewhere else, aye?' He grinned wickedly at him, steadied the clumsy guy, and scampered off to fulfil his promise; sure, another beer would go down well, he thought, but he knew what he really wanted in his gob. The same cocktail of alcohol, testosterone and victory was pulsing through another of the league-winning squad's star players, though with a lot less clarity and willingness than the likes of their coach and defensive powerhouses. At the other side of the room, slumped in one of a row of uncomfortable chairs watching the stupid TikTok dancing break out among some of the lads, Kevin de Bruyne put a fresh beer bottle to his lips and let the cool sourness fill his mouth. He had only just sat here, giving up after another cursory search around the gathering. He had flitted conspicuously about, never staying still for long, until his gloomy conclusions were confirmed: though some of the youth players were intermingled with the senior players toasting tonight's big win, there was an under-23s match tomorrow in their separate Premiership, and their bold young captain had left the victory party after only one drink. Not that Kevin was entirely sure what he wanted to say or do if he DID find young Tommy Doyle here tonight in the mix, but... drunk and proud and horny, the sturdy Belgian felt that only the ginger haired young Manc would be able to understand and cool his personal needs. De Bruyne frowned to himself, wondering if he would be able to coax any interest or conversation from Doyle even if he was here -- lately, the young player had stopped responding to his messages much of the time, and twice the Belgian midfielder had ended up sitting awkwardly in his car in the cul de sac where Tommy lived, his late-night calls for a little attention going unanswered. The last time that he had visited Tommy and enjoyed one of his eager blowjobs, the teen had just looked sad and bored afterwards, sitting on the edge of the bed wiping spots of cum from his red beard. When Kevin had asked him what was wrong, he'd claimed it was nothing, then hurried him out before somebody realised there was a visitor in the house. Since then, they had exchanged little more than a glance between passing squads at training; Tommy's recent promotion to captain of the under-23s side had clearly made him busier and meant he never joined senior training sessions as he had last year, and Kevin was frightened that this was not a coincidence. A loud exhaled curse from the right interrupted his pondering, and de Bruyne glanced over to the next chair. The short muscular frame of his older teammate had jutted forward into an upright position, and the olive-skinned face was snarling unhappily at the whirling confusion of players in front of them. Sergio Aguero muttered a few more disapproving curses in his own Spanish, then glanced this way and clarified in English: `Silly boys, playing silly dances for the internet. Not serious men, not at all.' Kevin hesitated, drinking some more beer before answering. `Everyone is just enjoying the night,' he said, though his voice came out flat and dull after his gloomy thoughts, rather than free-spirited and casual as he intended. The Argentinian man in the next seat started at him and just sneered some more, waving an empty bottle at the rest of the gathering and then shrugging his broad shoulders against the tight fit of his black t-shirt. `I am done with this team,' he announced, as if they were not sat there on the fringes of a party to celebrate such a great achievement. Of course, it was very literally true, and they were all waiting eagerly to hear where exactly the great striker would go to for a last hurrah in his prolific career -- but Kevin was increasingly confused by the bitterness and apathy that seemed to mark Kun's final months in Manchester. How could their greatest forward be so disinterested in a victory like tonight's? What had made him turn off so much from City since he announced he would be leaving in the summer? `Yes, well, it is still a great night,' murmured Kevin blandly. He'd had his own contract conflicts here this summer, worried at various points by potential pay-cuts and talk of big name imports who might oust him at the centre of Pep's squad, but he was comfortable and committed now, and he was bewildered by the way the aggressive little Latino had drifted away from him and everyone else in the past six weeks or so. Aguero just made a vague snorting noise and turned away, sipping pointlessly from a bottle that had been empty for a while. A sulky frown was fixed to his features and he sank back into his chair, leaving de Bruyne leaning forward and glancing confusedly out across the thinning celebrations, where a conga of sorts was forming between many of their colleagues. Fuck it, the Belgian thought, in no mood to sit here and listen to Aguero huff and curse -- he didn't know what had pissed off the striker, but he was slowly ceasing to care. And he couldn't just sit here pouting himself at the absence of Tommy Doyle, could he? It had only ever been a bit of relief, nothing more -- if anything, he told himself bitterly, he'd been the one doing the 19-year-old a favour, hadn't he? After accidentally outing Doyle, he'd done the right thing by him, letting him play about with his privates, letting him try that out -- it was just a dutiful thing to do for a confused young guy like that, surely? Hot pink in the cheeks, the repressed Belgian bloke fell into place at the back of the conga, grinned invitingly at by the player bringing up the rear, his face shiny with sweat and eyes wide with enthusiasm for the group dance. `Kev!' the 26-year-old winger barked eagerly at him, clinging to the hips of the coach in front of him, `get on board and lighten up, yeh?!' Laughing uncertainly, de Bruyne nodded and clasped his knuckles to the back of Raheem Sterling's shirt, falling into place behind him and joining the clumsy snake of men kicking and singing. For a moment, Sterling still grinned welcomingly at him over a shoulder, their eyes meeting for a drunken moment, then the Jamaican-born Englishman was dancing along behind the others, dragged along and taking Kevin with him, a juddering caterpillar of clumsy athletes bursting into sporadic song and laughter. Pep pushed the door shut after them, leaving his palm across it for a long moment whilst instantly grabbing the lithe younger lad, less than half his age, to his body and finally clasping a hot wet kiss on his lips. Filipe curved against him, relaxing into his strong hold, grabbing at the lapels of his loose shirt with bony fists, tilting his lean face upwards to meet and feast on the snog. Pep pushed in his tongue to wrestle against the lad's, tasting and dominating him, pulling their chests together and stooping to caress and fully embrace the gorgeous youth. In his heart of hearts, the football manager knew this was risky -- sliding away from his own party, one floor away and in the manager's office, but it had been far too long. So many times he had questioned his decision to resist and refuse the excitable young player, keeping as much of his energy and focus for strategy and willpower. For much of the period, he'd applied the same frigidity to his marriage, sleeping in a separate room from his wife and denying himself all sexual pleasure. The Spaniard had yet to break this vow to Mrs Guardiola, but here in his office of power, he was desperate to unleash the pent-up energy with his precious golden boy. He held Phil tightly and pulled away from the shut door, dragging them across the small square office towards his desk, their mouths never disconnecting. He took his right hand shoved it gracelessly into the front of the slim dark trackies, momentarily groping Phil's delightfully large privates through his undies, then groping into them and getting a proper touch at it -- that thick sausage that the humble young guy didn't even seem to realise was so well-proportioned, those heavy trimmed balls full of his eager seed. Pep kissed noisily at his mouth whilst getting his hands to work on cock and balls, making the player whimper into his mouth and buckle backwards in his arm. A sober Pep would have insisted on slower and more tender attention between them after the agonising break in play, but he was blurred by drink and the strength of his own appetite. As a result, he pushed the 5ft7 midfielder back against his desk, the lad's buttocks disturbing sheafs of papers and knocking over a small trophy; Pep was quickly on his knees in front of him, grappling with those trackies to bring them and the white Calvins beneath down past the knees and against bruised shins. Now he did pause, looking up with intense eyes blazing into Foden's, then stooped to take his cock in his mouth, sucking the treasured meat and holding the golden boy against the side of his desk as he woke him up down there. Foden's fingers slid tenderly against the olive pate of his bald head and down the back of his neck, and the young Stockport scally groaned and murmured out fragments of adoring speech. Guardiola took his time, spitting on the thick semi and then licking it until it was fully engorged, then swallowing as much of it into his mouth as he could, letting his silvery stubble tickle between the tense thigh muscles of those pale legs. Every clumsy mouthful of failed speech from Foden's lips drove him wilder, the passionate expressions of love and gratitude from his protegee. He was tempted to spin the sexy fucker around, bend him over and bring his mouth to the rear now as well, knowing how responsive the twink was to a good rimming -- but his own erection was almost painfully hard in his suit trousers and when he looked up, he could see Phil pretty much licking his pink lips and gasping to return the favour. How could Pep resist?! He rose upright, breathless himself, and tore his shirt fully open, popping a couple of buttons in the process... Phil's hands were on his torso immediately, stroking down his sides whilst the midfielder dropped from the desk to his knees, babbling about how much he needed Papi's cock! Holding himself back from the ferocious energy with which he'd initiated the action in here, Guardiola brought both tanned paws up behind his head, angling his elbows to the air, shirt flapping open; just standing there proudly and making no movement to undo his belt buckle or flies, just letting Foden's deft fingers do the job while his beady eyes burnt with greed. Very quickly, the trousers were open and dropped halfway down his furred thighs, and the black D&G briefs were going the same way. His long chunky piece was taken between Phil's loving lips and sucked devotedly in a series of long gags, those pretty eyes staying upwards, searching for approval. `Oh yes,' the City manager purred generously, keeping his hands away and just pushing gently forward with his hips to guide more of his Spanish cock into that hungry English mouth. `Oh yes, my special lad...' Pep groaned and sighed, his head swimming with drink and relief, and he closed his eyes for a minute, just enjoying the feel of tongue and lips travelling his length and meeting his swollen balls, unemptied for so long. When the City boss opened his eyes, his head had tilted a little to the left, his posture relaxing and sinking at the fellatio... and he found himself looking towards the door of the office, the one he had failed to lock when dragging Filipe inside. It was now ajar, and the open space was occupied by a stocky form, rich olive skin a little darker than his own framed in jet-black hair, beard and t-shirt. The muscular figure squared up there in the doorway, staring intensely into the manager's office, holding the door open at his side, an unreadable expression of mixed emotions stitched across his handsome Latino features. It took Pep's drink-addled mind too long to register what was happening, and it was only when the frantic sucking of his cock finally stopped and Phil was turning to gasp at the intruder that Pep really registered the disastrous interruption. `So,' snarled Sergio Aguero in heavy Argentine accent, `this is why I sit on the bench? Hah!' The world whirled about John Stones, but he clung to the sweaty hand of his fellow defender and staggered after him, down the final flight of stairs and then out through the noisy automatic doors into the cool damp of the night. `Where are we going?' the tall centre-back belched loudly at his playmate, dragging his heels a bit as they left the warmth and camaraderie of the training complex and stumbled out across tarmac and floodlights. At last, Walker turned to face him, dragging his hand in against his big pecs, reaching behind to grab his arse with the other one. `Don't you wanna party with me, bud?' he said challenging in his reedy voice, all sluttish grins and wide eyes. `Don't you wanna celebrate our latest big win, sexy?' `Sure,' the Barnsley lad slurred confusedly at him, `but it's starting to fucking rain!' `It's Manchester,' Kyle pointed out dismissively. John groaned happily as one of his nipples was tweaked through his t-shirt, and the other hand gripped a bit more provocatively at his butt cheek, a finger digging into his crack through the layers of nylon and cloth. He sniggered as Kyle purred on, `Come on, out on the pitch. Nobody will see us there...' John felt amused and unsure but he was in no state to argue with the shorter beefcake of his right-back. He just straggled along behind Kyle, grabbing at one of his bulging muscular arms and trying to grapple him into something between a cuddle and a rugby tackle, almost sending them both skidding out over damp astroturf as he did. Heavy but patchy rain plopped down against their clothes, skin, hair, and both men hooted with drunken laughter as they disappeared into darker patches of field, away from the floodlights and security glow, disappearing into the night and three more times almost stumbling into a heap. At last, some distance from the edges of the building, they did, Kyle spinning on hi mand bringing him crashing down into the artificial grass. John was briefly winded but still he howled out his merry laughter, feeling Kyle's hand on his package and the man's rough lips on the side of his neck. `Oh yes,' he growled to the night, pulling the Sheffield bloke down more heavily onto him, slurring his words as he begged, `Show me you're a champion, Walker, show me...' They rolled and writhed, soaking their tracksuit bottoms and their t-shirts, both kicking at each other's chunky trainers until they were tumbling off their feet and their white kit socks were damply brushing at the turf. One moment John was on his back again, pulling Kyle down against him and trying to wrap his own mighty legs about his waist; the next he'd pushed the chunky 5ft10 brute over and was grinding on top of him, sniggering into the crick of his neck or biting playfully at his shoulder. Then he was on his back again and Walker was side by side with him, staring deep into his eyes. `What?' Stones drawled dimly, the entire world circling in his head, all dark green fake grass and shafts of floodlight cutting through the air, accentuating little silver flecks of rain that drummed his flushed face. `Just thinking how fucking hot you are,' muttered Kyle in a voice more awkward and vulnerable than before; even this pissed, John could pick up the difference, and felt some pang of completeness at it, though he slurred and sniggered and reached for his cock. `Hot, and drunk,' the 30-year-old added gruffly, closing the tender silence, and clamping his hand about John's. `Huh, yeah,' John slurred dizzily back, trying to focus his eyes on him. `Too drunk,' whispered his bestie quietly. `Nah,' John barked immediately, `you're not- I mean, I'm not TOO drunk, I'm just FINE-` Kyle made a frustrated grunt that to John's dizzy ear seemed to come from all directions at once. `I can't fuck you while you're in this state,' he heard him say, though it sounded muffled and distant, and he couldn't quite make sense of the message. He just pawed at Kyle's t-shirt, wanting to feel the hard brown muscle beneath, wanting to strip him naked here on the wet grass. He blinked and groaned and tried again to focus, finding Kyle looking fiercely at him. `Well, you better top tonight then, John-boy,' mumbled Kyle as a conclusion to his little inner conflict; John was far too pissed and out of control to register the care or caution in his beloved yob, but he was just sober enough to appreciate what was expected of him sexually. He leered his agreement at the other bloke and lunged at him, his cock already rock-hard in his pants. Kevin burst into the unisex lavatories at the end of the corridor, his bladder twinging with the need for release. The Belgian had knocked back more beer in the past forty-five minutes than the rest of the night, abandoning his anxieties and introspection to let go and actually enjoy himself as much of the others... no time wasted thinking about Tommy fucking Doyle and what the English teen thought of him or his behaviour- oh fuck, until now, that is! The 5ft11 international footy hero raced to the right-most of four urinals, slender juts of porcelain forming ineffective dividers between them. He pushed down at the front of his City trackies, letting out his chubby pale equipment and angling it clumsily into the bowl just as a jet of hot piss made its escape. De Bruyne gasped the immediate relief, thick arms pressed down his front and large rump pushed back as he knelt his hot brow against the cool tiles of the wall, and his pissing echoed noisily into the white bowl beneath. Rushing with booze, the well-built 29-year-old did not immediately realise that he had been quickly joined by another reveller, both of them spilling away from the dying festivities after a failed attempt at a third and messiest conga effort. Kevin had been leaning into the wall and gasping out his gladness to empty his bladder for several perfect moments before he glanced to the left and found that, against all gentlemen etiquette, the nearest urinal was also in use, the further two empty, and his pissing neighbour looking conspicuously his way. It was one of those moments of recognition that had been creeping up in his tired drunken head for longer than he realised; in the dancing, Raheem had kept looking at him, giving him searching gazes and laughing a bit too much. Keeping close to his side, whatever stupid dance or joke was going on, slapping very physically at his arms and at his back. Nothing too unusual, but... insistent, persistent. And now... Kevin blinked and groaned, breaking the brief shared look of their eyes, side by side at the urinals. He straightened up a little, then watched as the shorter man's gaze dropped, leaning this way a little and looking down into the urinal space. De Bruyne had finished pissing now, was just shaking his flaccid prick a bit as he held it there, but there was no question about it: Sterling was staring over into his space, shoulders hunched and body tilting curiously this way. But he looked up again now, a wary expression on his rounded face, eyes hooded and shifty. Kevin just let his mouth hang open, his thoughts moving with tectonic slowness. Neither lad said a word; they were barely breathing. Kevin did not rush to stuff his cock, balls and red-brown pubes back inside his boxer shorts of his City trackies. He just left it dangling heavily there between his shaky hands, unsteady on his heels as he remained at the urinal, only a couple of inches separating their muscular arms, but his own body notably taller and thicker than the Jamaican winger. The signal when it came was blunt and obvious: Raheem pushed out his large tongue and ran it slowly over his thick bottom lip, then the upper one, making a slight wet noise as he backed off from his own urinal, his privates covered but his hands lingering inside the waistline of his tracksuit bottoms. He was breathing very heavily as he backed away, not for the door, but for the single cubicle in the corner; Kevin felt himself lurch that way as if drawn magnetically, not really thinking about the decision, and not putting away his twitching prick, just following the 26-year-old into the toilet and responding to his body's midnight needs. Phil remained on his knees for a painful eternity of a minute, sure that something terrible was about to kick off -- either some violent confrontation between the older men, whose tension and ferocity he could feel on either side of them, or some dangerous exit of the intruding Aguero, ready to spill his discovery to anyone who would listen. So Foden remained frozen in his kneeling position, spittle and pre-cum on his lips, fear in his chest... until Aguero began taking slow steps into the office and the door fell shut behind him, and Guardiola's hand clamped reassuringly about his shoulder. `You know he is good at it,' he heard Pep say to Kun in Spanish, or something to that effect. Phil's lessons in the language were going pretty slowly. He couldn't pick up more than a couple words of Aguero's retort, but still the short muscular man marched closer, Phil now kneeling between them both, the wet tip of Guardiola's cock slapping loosely against his cheek. Another few quick bursts of rapid Spanish between the older men, strings of words registering with Foden: `let him help you again... this is wrong... relax... I am always happy to share...' And then a second cock was in his face, the thick curved semi that had been bulging in the front of the Argentine's trackies. Phil was happy to see it again, even happier to get a hand on it and kiss the fat head. He grabbed both tanned tools and licked his lips, and then stared up their bodies at their differing faces: the manager smiling calmly down at him, still visibly pissed, but a little calmed and transformed by the danger of the moment; the outgoing legendary striker sneering and aggressive, but unable to hold in the first gasps of enjoyment as Phil's tongue danced against his head and glans. Pep reached an arm about Sergio's low thick shoulders to hold them together, and Phil moved rapidly from dick to dick, sucking both powerful blokes and relaxing into the double delight. From there, it progressed quickly. Though Aguero was tense and aggressive in every twitch of his clenched jaws and squeezing chest muscles, it was Guardiola who took control, never letting up his smile that oozed confidence -- handling Phil gently but in a way that communicated his dominance and authority to their intruder in every gesture. He pushed Phil's head gently but commandingly so that he was just sucking on Aguero, the striker eased into a seat so that Foden could properly please him, and Pep just stood to the side, slowly jerking himself and purring encouragement in a mixture of their languages. Then this was swapped, Phil encouraged to clamber up onto the desk while Pep gently fed him his cock and fucked his mouth from below, all the while staring provocatively at Aguero, who wanked lazily in the seat and looked furious to be enjoying himself. For Phil, it was a headachey but beautiful blur. Yes, he wanted nobody but his manager, but still... he had enjoyed his experimental forays with someone as macho and fierce as Kun, had loved the way the striker angrily made use of him after that first attempt in the massage room. To be in here playing with both of them, their big meats swinging and glistening, their bodies exposed as Pep's shirt was discarded and Sergio's black t-shirt peeled away from his smooth muscular torso... dear god, he wanted to drink up every sight and sound and be able to return to this boozy naughtiness whenever he closed his eyes in future! Minutes later, he was sucking on Sergio again, his pants and trackies about his ankles but his sweaty white t-shirt still clinging to his lean body. He was on hands and knees, crouching down a little at the front so he could mouth at the big equipment of the stocky little forward. Just like last time, Aguero was a little rough with him, pushing his girth into his mouth with little notice to his breathlessness and gagging, snatching at the neck of his t-shirt to control and dominate him. And as this went on, he felt one wet finger push between his bare smooth cheeks into the soft dark hair of his crack, and he knew that Pep was not going to stop at the blowjobs. Oh yes. Phil paused in pleasuring Sergio, interested in his reaction: he looked up that thick bronze chest to the set jaw and hard eyes of Aguero's detached expression. He was staring impassively at what Guardiola did now, gently probing and exploring Foden's hole, making him gasp and purr, making him burn and itch to be properly penetrated. He licked his wet lips and spat more on Sergio's cock, daring to hope that it might go elsewhere when the moment demanded. He opened his mouth wide and swallowed the Argentine meat inside him whilst the thick head of his Papi's prick found his ring and pushed, spitroasting him between the two Latin studs. Kyle felt the rain get heavier, but it didn't matter much to them, his bare back sliding across the fake grass and his hands straining to grip at John's wet muscle for support. He was on his back with his thick legs up and apart, and the rabid bugger thrusting into him over and over, ploughing him with that massive Barnsley cock that was always such a struggle for Kyle to accept. He hated to admit to himself how much he liked it when they turned things around, at least 9 times out of 10 he was the `man' and John would bend over to take his stout erection. But every now and then, he knew he owed a reversal and... He'd allowed it tonight because he could see how inebriated Stones was and fucking him would feel somehow wrong and exploitative. But now it was happening, now he'd adjusted to it, now his hole was stretched and the drunken brute was piling into him, gasping and whining with his eyes squeezed shut, the bulky right-back couldn't help but wonder why he was always so reluctant. John's long tool pressed deep inside him and pushed buttons that so often went ignored, and he never felt quite as connected to his best mate as when his balls were slapping against him and one of those big hands was gently choking the side of his thick neck. `Yes,' Walker growled, `fuck me, you bastard, fuck me HARD...' `Aye,' roared Stones back, `take it, you fuckin' bitch, take it!' `YES...' `OH FUCK...' The two City defenders slipped and writhed in a tangle of wet muscle, clothes not even fully off, their bodies interlocking on the soaked astroturf and juddering just within the obscurity of shadows, lances of lamplight passing nearby and the voices of men exiting the party carrying to them across the deserted pitch. But on they fucked in the heavy Manchester rain, Kyle going numb down below as John continued to pulverise his thick muscular arse and press him into the ground, climaxing inside him and hollering to Jesus, Mary and Joseph. When the 26-year-old had blown his load deep inside him, Kyle just hugged him close and wanked his own aching hard-on against his taut six-pack until he shot too, whispering `I love yous' into his drunk deaf ears and wanting to lie out here in the rain forever, crushed beneath the 6ft2 bulk of this big sexy oaf. Kevin's hands were splayed against either wall of the narrow cubicle and his hips jerked a little to match the rhythm of Raheem's furious oral action. For long moments, the Belgian man would squeeze his eyes shut, ignoring the fact that the Londoner was greedily gobbling his erection; he would try to cancel out the pleasure by imagining that it was his frigid wife doing the job instead, as she had earlier in their marriage! But that image would falter and he would be picturing himself in Tommy's teen bedroom, lying in the dark and hearing the gentle snuffling of the confused 19-year-old go down on him beneath the covers, swallowing his salty load and cuddling briefly against him whilst he recovered. But then his eyes would open and he'd be confronted by the reality again. The sweaty gleam of Raheem's brow, diving back and forth against is crotch, lips wide and open about the base of his cock, its tip hitting the back of his throat as he went deeper still. De Bruyne panted and huffed, chest heaving inside his t-shirt, sweat coursing down the sides of his neck and from his pits. His balls tingled, squishing against Sterling's damp chin. The other player's hands held him by the bare hips, strong brown fingers against his lilywhite skin. The blowjob was ending, too soon -- the talented winger pulling back, lips shiny red, eyes wild, lurching against the toilet itself on one elbow, sucking in air as he breathed. Kevin couldn't hold his gaze, too shocked and confused, but he didn't need to, because the other City man was turning around, lurching away for him and reaching for the cistern. He was briefly confused what was going on -- he thought that sense had returned to young Raheem and that he was realising how crazy and inappropriate this was! But no, the England international made no push at him or reach for the locked cubicle door. Instead, he was turning his back on him, one hand jutting out against the wall above the cistern, and the other reaching behind... pulling up the back of his t-shirt a little and then pushing down at the waistbands of his trackies and underpants. Exposing, inch by inch, the chocolate-brown expanse of his round full buttocks, baring his arse below Kevin's bleary vision. `Fuck me,' commanded the prolific winger in a deep, coarse voice. `Fuck me, you bastard.' De Bruyne was briefly stunned, his dick achingly hard and glistening with saliva where it jutted, just an inch or two from the top of those round brown glutes. But he was also horrified, disgusted by what they were doing and what was now being suggested. `No,' he whined weakly back, feeling almost bilious at himself and his straying -- it had been one thing, convincing himself that Doyle needed his help and he was just giving up his hard cock as a toy, but here in the drunken party and this claustrophobic cubicle, well... `NO,' he insisted more loudly, barking it over the rapid raspy breathing of the crouching lad. Sterling spun around, spilling back to his knees, and staring hard at him, eyes full of confused accusation. De Bruyne felt his willpower wilt and he eased back, struggling to breath. He felt as if the other footballer just had to beg it one more time and he might even give in, fucking a man's arse with all the power and urgency he wanted to give his cold wife! But no, when Raheem spoke again, it was with a different order, and one that he found himself powerless to resist... `Then fucking cum on my face,' pleaded the younger sportsman in a quieter, weaker voice, shaky with mixed desire and repulsion. `Shoot your load on my face, you stupid cunt.' Kevin was wanking himself furiously before he really knew what he was doing, cupping his balls in his palm while the other hand slid rapidly up and down his spit-soaked shaft. It happened so fast, he was complying with Raheem's demand before he could even question why he needed to fulfil it. The tip of his cock was an angry red and it was soon spurting little jets off silvery-white, splashing his Belgian seed against the deep browns of Raheem's cheeks, nose, chin, brow. Little snakes of it over his open lips and the little flicker of tongue. Wet splashes of semen rolling down his face and forming a little drip from the neatly trimmed goatee on his jawline. Kevin could just gasp and moan and stare at the mess he'd made there, unable to say a thing. Raheem remained statue-still on his knees for another few moments, then lunged furiously to the side and wrenched a mass of loo-roll into his hand, which he smeared desperately at his face, making almost sobbing noises as he wiped the goo away. `Fuck off,' he was shouting, `just fuck off, will ya?' This left Kevin even more exhausted and confused, stood over him with a drop more spunk trailing from the end of his nob. He didn't understand why Raheem was being so aggressive after leading every move, but again... `FUCK OFF YOU BELGIAN PRICK, OKAY?!' De Bruyne spilled messily from the cubicle, only remembering to stuff his hard-on into his pants as he reached the sinks. He splashed cold water into his hands and against is face, staring at the sweat patches on his t-shirt and the ghostly horror in his expression, then looking back at the cubicle door, hearing more gargling sobs from Sterling, who had urged him to debase him like that then seemed to be totally gutted with the outcome. His words haunted Kevin's ears -- `Fuck me!' and the big 29-year-old fled the toilets in a rush, desperate to leave not just this sight of transgression, but the whole training ground. He need to be home with his wife, safe in her dispassion! But still, lurching through the corridors and finding his bag and jacket, the clammy-faced Belgian man briefly entertained the idea that if he called Tommy once more, the young footballer might at last pick up and engage with him... the thought welled up so oppressively in this thoughts that he smashed his phone deliberately against a pillar on the way out, dashing for his car in a frenzy of guilt. Pep pushed over and over inside Phil, glad to feel just how tight and satisfying his man-cunt was, as perfect as he could remember before the self-enforced chastity had separated them. He buried himself deeply inside the skinny white arse over and over, enjoying the pale muscular form between their bodies, reaching an idle rhythm that was not as slow and tender or as rapid and intense as he usually went with his favoured young lover. He was trying to keep himself going, and he was also distracted by watching the egotist turmoil of the man at the other end of his perfect lover, Phil bucking with each thrust, roasted by their two cocks. `Sergio,' he gasped, holding Foden's hips and shoving a bit more powerfully into him for his final few thrusts, `you know you want to swap sides, yes? You want to feel what my cock is feeling?' He spoke in his own language, feeling the sensuous words lure and motivate the other man. Aguero's body was shiny with sweat where he stood, his fingers curled into Foden's short dark hair, taking control of his face as he fucked him in the mouth, the other arm pulled up behind his neck, showing a furrow of dark hair in his pit. His moody expression met Guardiola's demanding stare and he made no gesture or sound of yay or nay, but just continued to push himself into the hungry cock-sucker they shared. Guardiola slowed and pulled out, an act which took some willpower, because Foden's scally arse felt so fucking incredible on his meat. Somehow he managed it, briefly replacing his dick with two fingers inside his lad, making him whine and then slapping one of his pink-white cheeks with the other hand. But he barked out his orders. `Filipe, onto the floor,' he growled, `and Kun, get ready to give it to him good, yes?' All three men moved as one. Filipe scrabbled like an animal, off the table and onto the floor, happily on all fours between them but facing the other way. Pep and he caught eyes, and the experienced manager just gave him a warm smile of possession, stroking his chin, then pushing his throbbing dick into his mouth to let him suck happily on it. He stroked his hair and the side of his face and lifted his face to watch as Kun went down clumsily on his knees, cock in hand, and began parting and poking at the lad's bottom, clearly his first. He stared uncertainly this way and Pep gave him his own particular smile: one of his own commanding authority, one of masculine reassurance, one of sleazy challenge. He knew how egos like Aguero's worked; the striker would not leave this room without having matched him in domination of the younger athlete. Pep felt a vicarious pleasure in Phil's whines and groans as another cock was pressed into him from behind, Aguero rough and clumsy in his handling of the lithe white body, pinned between their olive physiques. Guardiola remained on his knees to enjoy it, not fucking Foden's mouth like his parallel, but allowing him to lick and slobber at the cock and balls, pausing every now and then to groan out his enjoyment of the rough fuck he was receiving from the Buenos Aires beast. But then Pep pulled away, stooping to kiss Phil once on the crown, then getting up to his feet to watch them properly, stroking his near-climaxing cock. He loved what he saw: Phil fucked into the carpet of the office, his slim body rocking with each forceful shove of Aguero's stocky frame, the look on the striker's face becoming more angry and intense with every push of his needy cock. Pep stroked himself loosely, sighed happily, and stepped gently around the posture of the pair, until he was more at Sergio's aside, reaching to gently stroke one of his smooth toned shoulders. Aguero's face flickered uncertainly this way, his body not letting up in the way he held and pounded Foden; but his eyes trained on the siht of Guardiola's erection and balls and bush, and the gentle movement of his hands. Again, a sober Pep might have behaved differently -- a sober Kun certainly would have reacted very differently indeed. But something in the thick sexual tension of the office three-way told Guardiola he was correct, and he took what he wanted now: holding the base of his dick and angling it gently in the direction of Sergio's furious face. Almost automatically, the lips dropped open, the face angled a bit more this way, and the thrusts into Foden's rear slowed. `That's it, Kun,' he purred. `Show me your respect.' Without fully stopping his bucking bronco movements into Phil, Sergio leaned this way and brushed his dry lips against the fat head of Pep's cock. Then, licking the tip gingerly, he opened more widely and let Pep push it a few inches in. Phil must have realised that the fucking had been distracted somehow, because he stared wildly over his shiny shoulders, and stared back in abject shock at what he found. Pep caught his look and winked once, then stroked his fingers gently through Aguero's coarse dark hair, back to its natural colour after years of frosty platinum. `That's good,' he sighed approvingly at the tormented striker. He did not push it too far. He did not probe his rod further into that awkward mouth, or take any of the rough liberties with him that he'd watched the striker enact on his golden boy. Instead, he just brushed the tip at his lips and his cheeks, and began to wank it furiously, while Aguero again picked up a pace in his treatment of the scally. They came almost in unison, Sergio withdrawing and shooting his seed all over Phil's lower back, just as Pep's own thick juices, so thick and plentiful after months of abstinence, emptied against the side of the masculine Argentine's face, oozing down his cheek and neck in a white mess. `Good man,' Guardiola told him sensuously. `Good man, Kun.' Aguero remained there on his knees, dick in hand, chest heaving, body shaking visibly. Guardiola moved past him, helping Foden off the ground and guiding him up to his feet. He held him from behind with both arms and displayed his lithe beauty to the confused man on his knees, who still had his manager's spunk dribbling down his cheek, neck, shoulder. In front of him, the coach proceeded to give Phil an impassioned reach-around, kissing his neck and cheek while pulling his cock to completion. Just before he brought his precious prodigy to a messy explosion of pleasure, he watched Kun stagger to his feet and away from them, snatching for his clothes and shaking his head in fury. Aguero wiped the spunk from his face with his own t-shirt before pulling it on, messy smears showing over his pecs where it had served as a rag. Other than that, he barely paused in his exit, dragging trackies back up his thick striker's legs, panting for breath and swearing loudly under his breath. Pep watched him in measured silence until the office door slammed and juddered behind him. In his arms, he felt Phil shudder and tremble, anticipated his worry before the quiet question was asked. `What will he do?' the 20-year-old asked in a small voice. Guardiola smiled confidently to himself, squeezed his boy tighter. `Nothing,' he promised. `He knows who is boss. And he knows he does not get to touch you ever again. You, Filipe... are all mine.' He sighed gladly and folded his hairy arms more tightly about the shorter, slimmer man, their bodies rich in sweat and rubbing together as their cocks sank and softened. Sober, the City manager would look back on tonight with a tremor of fear and uncertainty, but for now, Phil in his arms, he was deeply happy with what had happened, and utterly satisfied that Premiership victory had returned him to what he loved most. But in the morning he would wake with a jolt of hungover fear: fear of what Sergio Aguero knew about he and his golden boy, and what power that knowledge might give him.