Date: Mon, 11 Apr 2022 10:53:43 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 287

Part 287: Manchester (dis)united


Tanned skin against starchy white sheets, the 6ft1 body of the iconic
striker sprawled back there in recovery from the evening away game in
some unimportant town of this rain-cursed country. It was raining outside
and the rhythm of it on window-panes filled the dim hotel room, but Bruno
Fernandes paid it no heed - rather, all of the 27-year-old footballer's
attention was trained on the contents of his mouth, which his lips and
tongue roved up and down in hungry inexpert motion.

The Portuguese midfielder angled his face to the side as he took the
meaty length back inside his mouth, hoping for more moans of approval or
encouragement from his hero - all he really got was the pushy strength of
a hand on the back of his head, and the faint rise and fall of a length
of sculpted muscle that stretched from the rich-smelling crotch up to the
great man's slight gurn of pleasure where he lay back against the
pillows.

`Is that okay?' Fernandes demanded breathily as he paused the action,
hunched sideways across the double bed and holding the other man's great
cock about its thick base as he slurped off it. He turned his lean bony
face in the direction of the resting stud, glaring hopefully at him.

There was a vague wordless grunt and Cristiano Ronaldo's forceful hand
returned to his head, fingers interlocking with the dark wire of his
hair, pushing his face back down - Bruno could hardly resist or disagree
with this, opening wide and taking as much as possible of the big Iberian
prick in against his quivering tongue and gagging throat.

Pushing one of his hands to the right, he felt the firm ridges of
Ronaldo's legendary six-pack, the other hand loosening from about the
base of the cock and squeezing at one of his veiny muscled thighs for
support, dipping low to get more of the big hard-on into his mouth and
almost choking himself in the process. He tried to lift his head back to
take breath but Cristiano's firm hand held him in place, and he heard a
couple of snorts of relief from the 37-year-old football star - and then
he was tasting that salty tang at the back of his mouth and he realised
his mouth was a deposit for the hero's seed.

As he had before, Fernandes balked a little at the taste of it, the
lukewarm goo against the roof of his mouth, unsure he should be doing
this (what would his village priest back home say?) but his hero worship
for his club and country playmate far more overpowering than anything so
trivial as religious belief or sexual preference.

When Ronaldo's loosened the grip on his head, Bruno pulled away, gasping
and drooling, his mouth full of a mix of his own spit and the contents of
those mighty balls; he panted weakly, wiping his mouth on the hairy back
of an arm, still crouched in an awkward sideways position, his own dick
semi and uncomfortable in his pyjama bottoms.

`Was that good?' the Man Utd player demanded in a strained voice, still
breathless and flinching at the salty-sourness on his tongue.

A non-committal purr of sound from Cristiano, who just patted the back of
his head and lounged back further into the pillows, silhouetted tan brown
against crisp white. After a moment, `You did fine,' he was told in
fluid shared Portuguese, and the striker's hand rubbed a little more
affectionately against Bruno's neck, making him shiver and thrill and
wipe more dribble from his pouting pink-red lips.

Fernandes disentangled himself from the sweaty crotch of the bigger man,
lying awkwardly on his side next to Ronaldo's heaving body of pure
tanned muscle and oily sweat. He stared at him enviously, wishing he
could bulk his own wiry form into such obvious strength, unsure where he
went wrong in his gym routine - and he let his breathing quietly mirror
that of the Portugal showman.

He should go back to his own bed, he thought, now that the dirty deed was
done, and Cristiano was sated. He knew with a dull certainty that the
stiffness in his own bed-shorts would not be attended to by anyone but
himself, and even reaching down for a wank may earn him a raised eyebrow
and dismissive frown from the godlike player at his side, who seemed
almost on the verge of a sweaty naked sleep now that he was pleasured and
relieved - but to Bruno's surprise, he spoke in a calm, thoughtful voice
with his eyes gently shut, still very conscious as it happened. `So,'
purred the 37-year-old, `have you given any more thought to what we were
talking about last week, eh...?'

Bruno blinked distractedly at this, trying to shake off the submissive
streak that had typically overcome him once alone with his hero, far from
the cheeky charisma that usually defined his social interaction. `Hmm?'
he murmured vaguely, the after-taste of the bigger man lingering in his
mouth, and filling him now with more craving for next time than the
initial disgust of its taste. He shuddered with mixed shame and devotion.

A faint smile creased Ronaldo's resting face. `About the armband,' he
added quietly, and opened one dark eye, fixing it thoughtfully on Bruno.


The back-seat of an expensive 4x4, still parked outside the Carrington
training facility: bare thighs squeaking across leather, and a wet
slurping gobble of noise from between their muscles as the mouth finished
its job. The owner of the pricey vehicle gagged and snorted, clumsy but
desperate in their attention to the rigid cock between those obvious
thighs, stroking at their oily skin and clutching at powerful knee
joints. Above, the car's passenger and the blowjob's quietly intense
recipient just patted down at the shoulder muscles of the other
footballer, pushing back against the leather seating, glancing with
half-interested suspicion at the jeep's blacked out windows and
wondering how much discretion they really offered in such a risky spot.

The man on the receiving end of his cock lifted up a little at the
encouragement of Cristiano's hands, hovering over the dick whilst
wanking it in long wet strokes, staring fiercely down at it. He didn't
have long to wait, because his treasured passenger grunted and shot him
in the face with a wad of thick cum. It painted the 29-year-old's cheeks
and chin and drizzled at his lips, giving him a tang of its taste, but he
couldn't quite bring himself to taste it properly - the salty scent
filled his nostrils, and the Brazilian edged back slightly on the
back-seat... but his eyes widened as he watched Cristiano now sweep two
fingers up the length of his cock and over its bulging head, then bring
them, gooey and wet, in against his mouth. Obediently, he licked at them,
tasting his teammate, and gasping in shock at this newest crossed line.

`Good work, Alex,' cooed Ronaldo's voice with slightly affected
interest.

`Ugh,' groaned Telles vaguely, blinking watery eyes and pulling back
further, pushing himself up against the slippery black leather, but still
staring down at the cock he had sucked for the half-dozenth time this
season, still unable to believe what he was allowing himself to do, so
enraptured by the Portuguese icon who'd become his colleague.

The Brazilian man coughed a bit and rubbed at his clammy face for a few
moments. `Whoa,' he added, always keen to emphasise his disbelief, his
heterosexuality, his shock at what he allowed himself to do when excited
by Ronaldo's affection and company.

`Good boy,' the older football player muttered with a tone of
patronising amusement, patting his clammy cheek and then squeezing him by
one shoulder muscles. Telles just nodded distantly, toying with a loose
belt strap to the other side of his tracksuit-clad body. Though he had
been drawn into these seedy close-up games with the big man before, it
had never been in such a ridiculously public location than the backseat
of his own car, just outside their place of work!

`Such a good boy,' added Ronaldo in that same velvety voice in their
shared language.

`Hmm,' Telles moaned uncertainly.

`You know your place,' the older player chuckled, and he laughed
uncertainly at this. `Right by my side, an equal,' the Portuguese man
whispered to him, disingenuous but ego-warming. Alex looked at him
carefully, his head still spinning. He nodded his head once or twice and
wiped at his sticky face with the sleeve of his United tracksuit.
`Now,' murmured Ronaldo quietly, `about that armband...'


A quiet gym space where the only other sound was the low electric buzz of
overhead lighting, and the occasional squeak of the exercise machine
beneath their bodies as he kissed at that magnificent chest and dragged
his hand in desperate motions back and forward to jerk off both his own
cock and Ronaldo's solid big weapon. He could taste sweat on the bigger
player's pecs and around his pointed nipples, but also feel beads of it
on his own face and neck, rolling away in his feverish enjoyment.

He came first, dribbling a load out into his fist and feeling it rub
against the folds of his gym shorts and top, no doubt staining them with
embarrassing evidence of his lusty behaviour after a long day of
training. And the older Portuguese player spunked next, firing several
streaks of it against his arm and chest, but also splashing across the
bared torso of the reclined striker, lounging back against the weights
machine with his powerful arms folded up behind his head as a cushion of
bicep.

`Yessss,' drawled the 37-year-old dominant man, and Diogo Dalot could
only pant his agreement, as glad as ever to satisfy his hero and himself
in the process, never really stopping to question such naughtiness. He
knew he was not the only one.

He stooped to kiss and nip at one of those nipples again, resting his
face against the potent strength of Cristiano's chest, then supporting
himself against the frame of the equipment, his hands both sticky with
traces of manly jizz.

`Diogo,' moaned Ronaldo softly, once their bodies were apart and both
were adjusting the taut items of activewear on their muscular bodies,
making him look curiously cross at the bigger figure of his teammate. The
young full-back looked questioningly at his icon, ready to do whatever
was asked of him. `Diogo,' the older man repeated, still in the process
of tucking his cock and balls into the mesh lining of his gym shorts,
`let me ask you a few questions about the team structure, if you have
time...?'


Goodison Park now, several days after that gym session, and multiple
weeks since the white bed-sheets and Bruno's wide eyes - increasingly,
the 37-year-old footballer enjoyed surveying his teammates, knowing how
many of them had made for occasional sources of fun for his appetites. It
was a shame that his first resident fuck-toy at Old Trafford had turned
out to be such a nasty little cunt, disgraced and dismissed, but Ronaldo
had hardly waited before seeking out other pleasures. After all, the
Portuguese men had already tasted his cock on international duty.

The visiting team were finishing up their preparations and getting ready
to march out onto the Everton pitch to meet the day's opponents. Easy
opponents, Ronaldo reminded himself idly - the lesser Liverpool club was
clearly on its way into the Championship, and would provide perfect
comeback fodder for the beleaguered Manchester side, and surely an
opportunity for a Premiership hat-trick for his own talented foot.

Things could improve for United, the Portuguese man reminded himself with
steely determination, clapping his hands together and stamping his booted
feet, waking up his 6ft1 body and rousing himself for the battle ahead as
teammates filed past him on their way out into the tunnel. Yes, things
could definitely improve and change - but there would need to be changes
first. He smirked lightly as the only other player left in the Away
locker-room approached to shepherd him out into that line-up, and the two
tall sportsmen paused, face-to-face before the doorway.

`Captain,' he said quietly in an ambivalent tone, nodding once at the
taller figure of the brutish Englishman who was joining him here. There
was an awkward, fairly confused expression on the big dumb face, as if he
was waiting for Cristiano to say more.

`Right,' the United leader said hesitantly, a looming but gormless
figure.

`After you,' Ronaldo said, aping the little necessities of English
communication.

Harry Maguire frowned at this, clearly caught in some little personal or
inherited tradition of the captain being the last man out of the changing
rooms before inversely leading the queue of athletic men out into the
field of play. The bigger man, all hunched and uncomfortable, paused, as
if unsure whether to insist on steering Ronaldo out ahead of him, caught
in the simmering power dynamic that had trembled between them since the
striker's surprise transfer back here.

`Okay,' Harry said slowly, seeming to reach a decision somewhere in
that lethargic brain of his, and he stepped out ahead, shuffling out into
the tunnel behind the others, and leaving Cristiano to smirk privately
and stamp out after him, confident in his intentions to supplant this
idiot and take full control of the squad before things got any worse.


Fresh from one of the most mortifying press interviews of his senior
career, captain Harry Maguire marched fiercely out of the afternoon
sunlight and stalked down the tunnel, the 1-0 defeat to their
relegation-battling opposition stinging every muscle of his 6ft4 body,
and every patronising question of the football media ringing in his ears.
The big Yorkshireman grumpily shrugged away a few consoling words from a
couple of teammates by the doors to the Away rooms, and the quiet
intervention of two lesser coaches, instead storming through into the
sullen atmosphere of the changing rooms.

Delayed in joining them, he had missed whatever dressing-down the interim
manager had given the lads, and he had no interest in trying to deliver a
team talk of his own - he was too angry, and feared what he might say.
Besides, was there anyone he could really point the finger at without
equally blaming himself...? However, there was ONE talk that he knew he
would need to have, and he dreaded that.

Silent and furious, the 29-year-old found his way to an almost deserted
corner of the locker-room where his things awaited him, stooping to
wrench off one unlaced boot after the other, and then rolling down the
sweat-damp socks that clung to his calf muscles. He lifted one big leg at
a time to the bench, unstrapping shin-pads and heaving painful breaths of
defeat as he did so, listening to the idle noise of the rooms behind him
- clearly, many of the lads had showered in a rush and were already keen
to hurry away. As the fixture had been so close to home for many, there
had been no communal journey here from the training ground as there
normally might be - perhaps that was part of the problem, Maguire
reflected. There was currently little sense of unity between the United
players, and probably even less after the shoddy performance out there -
shoddy enough from the team that had beaten them, never mind their own
painful loss.

For a moment, Harry felt the absence of his closest fellow defender,
missing from today's Everton match through a minor training knock,
though in reality he knew that Luke Shaw's presence would make little
difference - and with a guilty surge of self-awareness, he also knew that
he would be rudely snubbing his beloved in this current mood, and making
the recent tension between them even worse. Perhaps it was for the best
that his Luke had been spared any part in today's shit-show performance
and outcome.

Peeling away his away shirt, the tall centre-back turned and surveyed
those closest to him, wondering if he should say a few words after all,
but worrying that his inarticulate efforts would only worsen the mood. He
scrunched the football shirt up in his big hands, the clingy elasticated
captain's armband remaining undisturbed about one long bicep. Nearest to
him, he could see local lad Marcus Rashford clearly sulking, the once
boisterous young talent becoming surly and withdrawn over the course of
this season; close by him, 22-year-old Sancho looked equally gloomy, sat
down in just his underpants with his furred chin resting in cupped hands.

Beyond them... there was a shuffling and parting of the aimless bodies,
many of them in towels or midway through re-dressing in clean club gear,
and Harry was suddenly faced with a figure against the far wall, stood
with a clean towel firmly wrapped about his waist, his upper body all on
show, just as Harry's own was - though this guy's was immaculately
shaven and glistening with tanned muscle, rather than the paler blotchy
skin and patchy chest hair of the Sheffield bloke's taller physique.
Harry warily met eyes with the other player, and found Cristiano Ronaldo
staring quite intensely at him. Well, he decided with a loud huff of
breath, this conversation would have to happen, it may as well be now -
the only cause for hesitation was the scattered audience of other squad
members, but that too seemed necessary and important to his captain's
duty.

Maguire took a couple of long strides towards him, still clad in
loose-fitting white shorts that sagged a little below the black waistband
of his briefs. `What was that?' the Premiership skipper demanded in a
gruff voice, squaring up to the more expensive European pro.

`Pardon?' Ronaldo responded, folding arms across his perfectly toned
chest - the English formality sounded almost comical in his rich Madeiran
accent, but Harry was in no mood for laughing. He stared abruptly at him
and matched the posture, folding his own long limbs and taking one step
closer to the striker - already, the hints of confrontation were rippling
across the room, with the few guys closest to Ronaldo along this wall
turning their focus this way and dropping what they were doing, whilst
low conversations stumbled to a halt all around them.

`That nonsense,' Harry grunted. `Knocking a kid's phone away like
that. Pathetic. That ain't how we carry on around here, mate.' He
narrowed his eyes and took on a sterner tone. `You need to watch your
behaviour,' he said simply, referring to the odd little incident
observed on the way back in, and the immediate fuss that he'd heard
mutter about while still out there being gloomily interviewed - `Just
cos he was an Everton fan - he was a kid, trying to get a picture of some
fucking heroes, and you smashed his phone... Jesus. That's pretty
pathetic, Ronaldo, don't you think?'

He towered authoritatively in front of the other player, squaring up his
big shoulders and staring seriously, unblinking, at the player who had
become increasingly central to United's few moments of success this
season - and who was becoming increasingly influential on more and more
members of this elite squad. Harry could feel the power struggle kicking
into play, but he could feel the armband biting into the muscular flesh
of his arm too. He was captain here, and that power brought
responsibility.

Ronaldo's serious expression cracked into a little curl of sneer, but he
took a while to respond, seeming to weigh up the situation; Maguire
risked a sideways glance about the room, though breaking eye contact with
the impetuous Portuguese diva for even a moment seemed to risk a show of
weakness. The glance showed him mixed emotions in the men around them -
some, he thought, looked indignant like he was, embarrassed by Ronaldo's
poor sportsmanship on the way out of the game. Others, though, seemed
ambivalent, just uncomfortable, and he couldn't help but notice that
there were more eyes on CR7 than himself.

`Emotions,' the 37-year-old legend muttered dismissively.

`We're all emotional,' Harry intoned straight away. `We don't all
lash out at kids. Sorry to make this awkward,' he added in a fierce
grunt that was trying hard to sound anything like an apology, `but I'm
captain here, and sometimes things have to be said, okay?'

Ronaldo nodded his face once, slowly. `Yes,' he said at last, `and
maybe that's the problem.'

Maguire paused, rattled. `What?'

`That you're captain, "mate",' the other player retorted - his voice
was low but the room was tense and silent. Maguire thought he heard a few
gasps about him, but he did his best not to flinch or react. He just
stared Ronaldo down, deciding not to dignify the accusation or sarcasm
with any response - surely it just made the Portuguese striker seem
childish and petty, right? It wasn't REALLY a challenge to his
leadership here? (God knew there were enough of them - he hardly had to
open up a footy news page or switch on Sky Sports but he'd find someone
sticking their oar in on his role here at this great club.)

`Think about what I said,' Maguire said coolly, completely ignoring the
dig, and keeping his eyes locked on Ronaldo's as he backed away in a few
slow steps, eventually turning his back on his apparent rival and
returning to his wall, where he held back the urge to plant a fist in the
brickwork and just continued to undress - he knew much of the room must
be staring between he and Ronaldo now, but he tried to blank this idea
out. He whipped down his white shorts and then the same with the clingy
sports brief below, giving any nosy fuckers who were staring this way a
view of his large, dark-haired arse cheeks, and then grabbing a folded
towel up from the shelf below his hanging suit.

When he turned, the towel about him, he really did find a scattering of
faces staring his way, although actually many players were hurrying to
leave - he saw experienced club stalwart Juan Mata give both he and
Ronaldo dubious, unimpressed stares, and Victor Lendelof was hurrying
after him with a scathing backwards glance that could have been directed
at either of them. Feigning disinterest, Harry marched his way around the
corner and towards the showers, craving the blast of hot water and its
noise to drown out whatever mutinous whispers might now erupt in the
changing rooms.

In the showers, he hung up his towel, and paused - glancing that way, he
saw that Ronaldo was following him in, although he could have sworn that
the man looked gleaming clean and already freshly showered. Again, he
ignored this, swaggering across to the centre of the long line of
showerheads, and punching it into life. He turned his back on it and
spunked shower gel into one large palm before sweeping it across his
hairy chest, finding himself in a fresh staring match with CR7 - but the
striker was not alone, and two other towel-clad Portuguese men flanked
him in the entrance to the showers. What was this, some show of
intimidation?

Telles and Rashford were already in the showers, away to his right, and
both men turned this way with awkward expressions, seeing the obvious
tension; both Sancho and Lingard now came in for their showers, muscling
uncomfortably past the Portuguese vanguard, and making the communal
shower room feel rather full as they picked their way to other spots
along the wall, but not quite going so far as to turn showers on or reach
for their own toiletries.

The timed release of hot water slowed and became a trickle against
Harry's back. `What?' he demanded loudly in front of him. `You want
to apologise for your behaviour?'

Ronaldo took a couple of steps inside the rectangular room, tilting his
head. `Not quite,' he said more quietly, `though of course I will
apologise to the little shit-head when I can.' He frowned critically.
`If only our team captain was more concerned with our OWN disappointed
fans than some stinking child in Liverpool, eh...?'

Maguire felt very conscious of his nudity, but he remained outwardly
casual, and didn't let it show. He looked from Ronaldo to Dalot and
Fernandes, and then around at the other men in the shower. The air was a
little steamy, but more thick with aggressive tension. `Right,' Maguire
said bluntly now. `So you want to challenge me for the captain's
armband, eh?' He realised, stupidly, that he'd left it on his arm as he
undressed, the one obvious sign to onlookers that he was rattled - but
now he was glad of it clinging to his wet arm, actually, because this
cunt needed to see that word attached to him. He stepped away from the
wall, some soap suds dripping down his naked body, and he saw a couple of
other guys flinch at even this gesture of confrontation - Rashford and
Telles both whacked on showers and turned away, but Sancho stared openly,
as did Lingard and the Portuguese cronies on either side of Ronaldo.

`A few of us think it would be for the best if you stepped down,'
Cristiano said now, a crisp line that sounded excessively rehearsed.

`Do they now,' Maguire murmured, walking towards him.

To his surprise, Ronaldo just casually unhooked and loosened his towel,
letting it fail pointlessly to the gleaming tiles of the floor, and then
stepped past him to the next shower as if that's all he was in here for,
now equally naked - and it was impossible for Harry, or anyone else, not
to notice the Greek god musculature of his body, all of it flexed and
ready for a challenge. They circled each other, and Harry took a moment
to glance studiously at the other men, sensing their allegiance - it was
obvious who Diogo and Bruno would side with, fucking fanboys of their
countryman, but he was surprised to see Telles frowning so judgmentally
his way. When he looked at Lingard, Sancho and Rashford, he saw
disappointing ambivalence from the Englishmen, though in the former of
the three, he knew there was plenty of reason for personal dislike in
their history.

He looked back at Ronaldo, who was casually rubbing a lather of shower
gel up and down each of his ripped arms, standing ostentatiously beside
him and not peeling his eyes away once. `So, you'd be the better
captain, would you?' Maguire barked at him.

Ronaldo didn't directly answer that, but he murmured provocatively: `Do
the men around us look like they support you, Harry?' He then laughed
bitterly, cracking his knuckles. `And just think... you shouting on in
here about my behaviour, my sportsmanship... do any of these lads know
about when you tried to punch me that time...? Were you being a
responsible captain that day, friend?' He sneered mockingly and out of
the corner of his eye, Harry saw 24-year-old Marcus frown unhappily.

Maguire chose not to address this, and he just looked at Fernandes
instead - the 5ft10 wiry midfielder was standing close by, arms folded in
a hostile manner, and the 27-year-old visibly flinched when Harry glared
his way. `And you want him as your captain then, do ya?' he snapped.
`Your big Portugal hero, in charge of Man United, aye?'

`Yes,' snapped back a voice, but it was Dalot rather than Fernandes,
drifting in beside him. Both were still wearing their towels, making them
look more awkward and out of place than himself or naked Cristiano. Harry
just smirked dismissively at them and then glared back at Ronaldo. `How
lovely,' he remarked.

`Things need to change,' grunted a reluctant voice, and Harry glanced
at Alex Telles a few posts away form him down the wall. The Brazilian of
his own age stood beneath the diminishing sprinkle of hot water, hands
pressed anxiously against the toned front of his torso, soapy water
seeping down his bare legs and over his darkly-haired crotch. He looked
conflicted, but he'd made his loyalties clear.

`What about this kid?' Ronaldo's imperious voice demanded, nodding
past Alex to where Sancho was showering, looking deeply uncomfortable.
`Does he trust the great England runner-up as his leader?'

Maguire scoffed. `Well?' he barked, eyeing up the young Londoner. He
found that Jadon could not even look at him, but was just suddenly very
busy washing his face. He brought his gaze back to Ronaldo, keeping it
stern and fierce despite this grave disappointment. He daren't call out
to Rashford or Lingard, unsure what he might hear.

`We know who the real authority is,' Fernandes said, finally seeming to
voice his feelings.

`Ronaldo should be captain,' Dalot added simply.

Maguire scowled at them both and then back at Ronaldo. `Well, this is
lovely, all of your cock-suckers want to see you in the armband.'
Grinning mirthlessly at them, he reached across and peeled the taut band
away from his bicep and down his arm, then dangled it from two fingers in
the steam. Then he reached a long right arm to the wall and hooked it
about the handle for the shower so that it dangled there, the prize.

Dalot and Fernandes looked uncomfortable at Harry's dirty comment, and
he couldn't help but notice that they were not alone - Telles hung his
head and he saw Lingard back further away to the other side of the
showers. `They just know who the bigger man is,' Cristiano said
fiercely. In a very literal sense, Harry knew his own superiority - at
such close quarters, he became more aware of his superior height and
breadth, but the 6ft1 player was statuesque and charismatic, and he'd
felt this challenge coming for MONTHS.

`Easy for them to know,' he retorted, `with your cock in their
mouths.'

He stood there with his own prominent manhood hanging between his legs,
but he could see - had obviously noticed before - that Ronaldo was quite
equally gifted, long thick snakes hanging loosely at both of their
crotches, and he wondered how many of the other men now glanced
comparatively at those soft hanging members.

`Perhaps you should try it,' challenged Ronaldo coldly, a humourless
joke in his eyes, `and then you would know too?' He'd stepped closer
now, looking ready for a fight, and Maguire felt five other sets of eyes
fix on him as the air burned with their rapidly growing enmity.

So, he thought, the stuck-up princess of Portugal wants a fight. As
densely muscled as this showboating international superstar was, Maguire
felt sure he could take him - he doubted Ronaldo had experienced anything
like his own aggressive youth and early career, was sure he could come
out on top in a messy little scuffle... But then, what would the
consequences be? How would he hold onto the captain's armband after
that? He could see with sudden clarity what Ronaldo was really pitching
for here - to be struck publicly by the maligned captain, with numerous
witnesses of varying allegiances. Of course, Harry thought, remembering
the time he'd swung for him before - he's been scheming ever since
then, he decided, knowing that his own temper and willingness to fight
was being used against him.

He broke the long tense quiet, the last of the other showerheads having
timed out and reduced to an echoing drip. `Perhaps I should,' he agreed
in a low growl of a voice, and he saw the flicker of shock on Ronaldo's
intense features. He didn't pause to look about and see the surprise or
amusement on any of the other men's faces, but just grunted out
clarification. `Maybe I will try a mouthful of Ronaldo, see what the
fuss is about,' he grunted in his thick Sheffield accent.

`What the fuck?' he heard the local tones of Rashford mutter, and then
an awkward sniggering voice belonging to Sancho: `He's having a laugh,
isn't he?'

Maguire smiled dangerously at his rival, and then leaned in very close,
planting big hands against his upper arms. He brought their faces very
close, and then whispered three very simple words in the superstar's
ear. He delivered them in such gruffly quiet tones that nobody else in
the dripping, steamy shower block could possibly have heard them - but
they all must have seen the flare of surprise and dismay on Ronaldo's
handsome face, and the way his body stiffened up and pulled away. But
Cristiano said nothing.

Allowing the words to sink in, Harry straightened up, and he flashed the
same wily grin at the others - at Dalot and Fernandes, who looked eager
and vindictive nearby; at a deeply conflicted Telles, who was holding
onto a shower handle as if for safety; at a troubled Rashford and
fascinated Sancho; at Lingard, keeping his distance and now smirking
warily.

Then Harry reached out and took Ronaldo's cock in hand, making the 6ft1
stud flinch once but then steady himself - with a few loose pulls, he
woke up the thick thing, thumbing over its tight foreskin and tickling at
its shaft right up to the faint stubble of shaven pubes at its base. He
grinned wickedly at Cristiano and licked his own lips once, then began to
sink down to his bruised knees, planting them apart on the cool damp
floor below.

Maguire bowed his head, and kissed the stubbly skin over his enemy's
cock, then kissed his rough mouth down the shaft so slowly that by the
time he kissed the hot pink of the head, it was lifting up, stiff and
veiny. He raised his eyes, meeting Cristiano's, and then enveloped the
cock in his mouth, taking it in with ease that he knew would shock the
arrogant fuck - he'd long supposed that Ronaldo was bisexual, but he'd
never felt clear until today just who his playmates actually were. Dalot
and Fernandes did not surprise him, though Telles certainly did. And as
for Lingard...

Harry could hear the surprised gasps around him, and knew it was mad to
degrade himself like this so publicly. Down on his knees, his huge bulky
figure lowered and subservient, and his gruff mouth sliding up and down
the huge curved rod of this invading power. But he did it, disarming the
challenger, knowing exactly what he was doing. As he sucked him, slurping
about the girth, he planted his large hands on the firm hip bones and
muscular sides, reaching around to grip and squeeze the hard melon cheeks
behind. Harry lifted his head, drooling away from the cock, and let out a
filthy chuckle: `Well, it don't taste bad, I'll admit...' Back to
work, tonguing and kissing at the dick with subtle skill that his rival
could never have expected - he felt the tremble of his ripped body,
didn't need to look upwards to know that Cristiano would be thrilled and
surprised by this greedy wet attention. How could any of them know how
many times he had gone down on his gorgeous prince Luke, sucking that
beautiful chunky lad to completion when too tired or sore to fuck him?
(Though less and less lately, he thought with regret, knowing how badly
he'd neglected Shaw in the current crisis of club and captain...)

And then, neatly and forcefully, Harry edged one hand a bit further - not
just gripping at the hard buttock, but sliding the tips of three fingers
into the crack, then one a bit further, into the hot wet centre.
Unnoticed by the gawping audience of players, perhaps, but certainly not
unfelt by the towering hunk - he felt Ronaldo's body tense, especially
those glutes, but he shoved his finger in against the hot hole
regardless, pressing and teasing it, then roughly inserting it whilst
sucking deeply on his tool.

Ronaldo staggered back and Harry shuffled his knees to match his movement
- the striker's upper back muscles hit the metallic wall with a damp
thud, and his glutes tensed even more, but Maguire's finger was inside
him, pushing in deeply and then pulling out, then back in, breaking into
him even as he slurped at the tip of his cock and kissed the bottom of
the shaft, nuzzling at his balls. He heard the Portuguese man gasp and
imagined in his eyes squeezed shut, his arrogance for the audience
briefly forgotten. Harry knew those three magic words were doing their
work.

Now, Maguire could straighten up his mighty body, though still on his
knees, and lick clean his lips. He smirked upwards at the slightly
confused frown on Ronaldo's face, and chose not to look about him for
the reactions of the other players - in his filthy heart, he hoped at
least one of them might have started playing with their cock as they
watched. Instead, he planted his strong hands back on Ronaldo's firm
hips, and spun him - there was no resistance or disagreement from the
statuesque forward, he just planted against the metallic wall with both
hands and his face, his strongly muscled back on show and that perfect
rigid arse jutting out in front of Harry's face - grinning, he spread
the cheeks and dove in. More gasps: both from the shocked, disapproving
and/or aroused onlookers, and from Ronaldo himself, as Harry's big
tongue swept across his crack and poked at his tingling hole.

Maguire rimmed him fiercely, burying his face in that muscular arse,
knees aching against the hard floor, and hands gripping so hard to spread
the cheeks that they might bruise. He fucked Cristiano's tight hole with
the tip of his tongue, occasionally pulling back just to spit noisily
between the cheeks and to heave out breathy chuckles of superiority. He
took his time, sensing the shifting uncertainties of the room around him
- hearing indiscernible Portuguese whispers and little breathy moans of
anticipation, and the loud echoing drips of lukewarm water.

And then once he was ready, the United captain got up to his feet. In
front of him, Ronaldo was pressing hard into the wall with both hands,
elbows jutting back, his perfectly muscled body arched and his legs
tense. When he looked over his shoulder, his face looked conflicted -
angry tight mouth, but wide longing eyes. He had no interest or attention
for their audience, for a change, but stared simply at Maguire. Harry
smirked back, and looked around them - close by, Diogo and Bruno had shed
their towels and were wanking, but they looked mystified. Clearly this
bore no relation to their own sexual dynamics with their Portugal hero.
Telles had moved closer, looking aghast but toying with his own soft
cock. Sancho too was close by with a face full of revulsion and a stiff
one in his fist. Rashford and Lingard were still keeping their distance.

Maguire stooped in, close by Ronaldo from behind, and he reached for
where the captain's arm band still dangled, snatching it into his fist
and then holding it up in the other man's vision. He brought his mouth
in close to his ear and whispered the same three words again: `Rooney
says hi.' Then he wrapped the captain's armband around his piece twice
and thrice like a cockring, the elastic enclosing the base of his huge
stiff shaft, and he spat down on it for lube. When he pushed the
glistening fat tip in between Ronaldo's cheeks, the striker immediately
moaned, and so did a couple of the watching lads - he was incredibly
tight, clearly hadn't been fucked in a long long time, but Harry knew
how to use his massive tool, and angled it just right, applying slow but
ferocious pressure, easing himself into that powerful entrance, bracing
against muscular resistance. `Ohhhh,' groaned Cristiano greedily, and
he knew victory was his.


One week ago: a different block of showers, more surreptitious movements
in the steam. Harry had been just intent on washing himself down, every
inch of his big body stinking with sweat after the home draw to
Leicester, 1-1. He'd been gripped by anxiety over the stalemate and his
own limited contributions to it, his mind awash with uncertain futures.
And creeping into that paranoia had come the quiet voice of a teammate,
barely audible against the rush of water that filled the room. `He's
plotting against you, bro,' muttered Jesse Lingard close by him, their
arms rubbing a little as the attacking midfielder brushed close. `You
need to watch your back.'

Maguire had paused in the middle of rinsing shampoo from his shaggy hair,
turning his big head and staring blearily at the other naked man in the
crowded shower. `Huh?' He hadn't needed to ask who `He' was, and
after a moment's staring and thinking, he hadn't even felt the need to
ask Lings how he knew anything was going on. The 29-year-old stared
guilty at him with a gentle parting of those cock-sucking lips, and
Maguire got the message.

`He sees himself as rightful captain,' Lingard had murmured, Maguire
needing to pretty much lipread because Jesse wouldn't speak up over the
crashing watery noise between them.

Maguire had just nodded silently, reached over and squeezed a wet
shoulder in thanks. There had been no need for Jesse to explain further:
how he'd been lying down with a hard-on and the great striker's cum
drying on his pecs in his own spare bedroom, watching Ronaldo dress at
the foot of the bed and prepare to leave as silently as he'd arrived.
The half-said warnings and requests in the lazy afternoon, the mutinous
gossip from the rival for the captaincy. A simple warning for the captain
he'd once been besotted with was enough, and Lingard's loyalties were
chosen.


Just one day ago: Maguire had been on his way to one of many intense
behind-the-scenes meetings with the executives who ran United, when they
passed fleetingly in the corridor. He remained unsure why the retired
footballer and club hero was even there, because he knew that the
Scouse-born star had ruled himself out of running for the job as next
manager of Man Utd. But he had been about to make a simple evasive
greeting to the Liverpudlian when Wayne Rooney's hand had gripped at his
bicep through the sleeve of his tracksuit, and the pair of them had
paused quietly in the management corridor of important offices. In one of
them, Harry would soon face a dressing-down, a severe load of critique
from the powers that be, threatening that they would be looking at
replacement captains imminently if he didn't pull the lads together and
show a better team spirit in the final games of the disappointing season.

But before that gloomy encounter, he was pulled to a halt by Rooney,
towering over the stocky Scouser who held onto his arm with a fierce grip
and stared him down. Harry had frowned, a little confused by the
interruption, and wondering what criticism or platitudes the older man
was about to deliver. `Yeah...?' he'd voiced uncertainly, thinking that
he had little time or interest for Wayne's thoughts on his career or the
club's prospects - he was sick of hasbeens sticking their noses in all
over the sport.

But the whispered truth had nearly knocked him flying, and Rooney had
told him exactly what he needed to hear. `You have to make him your
bitch,' the striker-turned-manager grunted secretively, `like I did.
It's the only way to control his ego.' He hadn't said much more, but
Harry had stared him down in shock, his breathing suddenly heavy and his
big cock instantly semi in his tight shorts. `The only way to captain
that man is to fuck him,' Rooney snarled to him privately, and then
released the grip on his arm, his breathing slowing back down. `And say
hi from me. He'll know what that means.'


The men in the showers watched in fascination. Jadon wanked his young
cock furiously, eyes bulging out of his head, mouth hanging open a little
bit; next to him, finally moving in close to the action, Jesse had thrown
a playful arm about the taller player's broad young shoulders, squeezing
him a bit in a side-on hug as he toyed with his own nob and low-hanging
balls. Behind him them, Marcus bit his lip and backed off further,
reaching for a towel, his cheeks burning darkly - Jesse glanced over his
shoulder and smirked knowingly at him, reminding him how often he'd
begged the heroic forward to go further and fuck HIS arse, not just his
soft wet mouth. Shamefaced, Rashford fled the showers, and Lingard just
sighed longingly after him before hugging Sancho tighter and turning his
attention back to the REAL action.

On the other side, Bruno had stopped playing with himself and actually
looked angry, as if struggling to cope with the idea of glorious Ronaldo
being treated like this. Next to him, Diogo also looked worried, but much
more excited - he was wanking as furiously as Sancho, pulling on his
short thick cock and tensing all of his muscles, his cheeks and neck
turning bright red. Just beyond him, Alex's arousal was obvious in the
upwards arc of his Brazilain cock, but his hands hung limply at his
sides, his eyes flitting continuously between the pounding bodies and
glistening muscles of the two rivals for captain.

As for Cristiano... well, he just squealed and yelped, and perhaps he let
out a few swear words or dirty begging phrases, but in Portuguese and
beyond Harry's own comprehension. The well-hung skipper just ploughed
his big cock powerfully into the hard muscular bottom, smashing Ronaldo
repeatedly into the metal wall with thuds and heaving gasps of his own
exertion. He fucked him as he imagined a stocky young Rooney might have,
though only in spirit - he was much bigger and stronger than that chubby
little chav ever had been, and he wondered if CR7 had ever felt anything
like this behind him. He fucked him hard, holding nothing back, just
shoving all of his foot-long meat inside his tightness, and ragging his
body back and forth like it was nothing, making the striker whimper and
gasp.

`WHO'S - YER - CAP - TAIN?' he huffed and spluttered.

`Maguire,' drawled the older player, one hand shoved forward to steady
him against the wall and prevent his face from bashing into it, and the
other reaching behind him to grip onto one of Harry's own wrists where
it held his side. `MAGUIRE!'

`Too - fuckin' - right!' barked the real United captain, powering into
his arse cheeks. And he looked wildly about him, not particularly noting
Rashford's absence, but flashing his wicked grin and dominant eyes at
the other men. `Who's your captain?' he barked at them, slowing his
rhythm, bucking his hips - there was no solid answer from the assembled
football studs, but they could all surely see the truth now. Cristiano's
body juddered and rippled and his gasps became more high-pitched and
wavering. He'd reached down below himself to wank at the big cock that
Harry had briefly sucked, and seemed to be shooting his load, utterly
satisfied by the roasting of Harry's cock in him. Harry picked up on
this and let out a booming laugh, slowly his action to a series of
sporadic piledriver thrusts, and then finally pulling out. He delivered a
heavy slap to one of the striker's pink cheeks, and then pulled himself
upright.

`Turn around, chico,' he growled down at his rival, who was shaky on
his feet, his whole muscular body gleaming with fresh sweat. He tumbled
down, though it was hard to say if it was out of obedience or physical
weakness. Cristiano's face could be seen flickering with mixed feelings,
looking about as if finally remembering that so many of their teammates
had just witnessed his submission, mouth hanging open.

The open mouth was convenient - Harry pushed his dirty cock into it, and
smirked down at his defeated challenger. `Taste that,' he grunted.
`That's a captain's cock, mate.' And Ronaldo reciprocated, opening
wide and slurping at it - shocking the lads about them who had serviced
him and got nothing in return. Part of Harry had wanted to invite them
in, to bark out `Who's next?' and watch the Portuguese stud be railed
by the likes of Lingard and Dalot - but he knew the power dynamics here
were subtle. He didn't want to reduce Ronaldo to their `bitch', as
Rooney had put it, but to show who was top dog, alpha male.

Nobody could use the perfect body of the godlike forward other than him,
and THAT was what would reinstate him as Captain. He pulled back, jerking
off his massive cock and looming up over the hunched figure of his
exhausted rival, making it all os obvious and stunning for the onlookers
- he knew they watched intensely as he climaxed, knew their eyes were
fixed on the action as he shot his load on Cristiano's face and open
mouth, dripping thick seed across all of his muscular form, his own big
body heaving and shining. `Oh yeah,' he groaned happily, emptying
himself over the submitting stud, knowing that the long-simmering battle
between them was finally over. Ronaldo, he saw, knew his place, watching
the icon lick cum from his bottom lip and stare greedily up at him from
the floor of the showers. Oh yeah.

Maguire slammed the heel of his hand to the lever and switched the shower
on, drowning both of their bodies in a hot spray that would wash away cum
and sweat. Then he stepped aside, allowing Ronaldo to slink away and
climb upright, and he glanced about with casual dismissal at the other
players, in their various states of arousal and self-enjoyment. `What?'
he demanded emptily, and set about washing himself as if nothing had
happened, not even sparing a look for Ronaldo at the next shower, stood
dizzily with adoring eyes locked on his captain's wilting cock.

Maguire showered and rinsed and then grabbed the towel to dry himself,
but paused. He lingered in the doorway of the showers and then held out
his arm, proferring the towel to Cristiano, who had followed him. The
other men were quietly showering, and even excitable young Jadon had
stopped playing with his dick, but they all turned to watch. Cristiano
took the towel with a confused look on his face, and Harry just grinned
assertively at him. `Your captain needs drying,' he grunted quietly,
drawing himself up to his full height, and seeing the tremor of
uncertainty in the striker's expression. But after the slightest
hesitation, he took the towel in both hands, and brought it heavily
against Harry's torso and shoulders, hanging his head slightly. Harry
grinned, and looked across the room, winking once at good old reliable
Jesse Lingard, lifting his arms so that Ronaldo could dry the rest of his
body for him - a challenger no more.


`And just like that... he accepts you as captain?'

Maguire was seated on a decorative rock formation at the far end of his
garden, by the BBQ area and one of several expensively-maintained
flowerbeds. He had a phone in one large hand and had just relayed the
tale with breathless excitement to the slightly younger footballer on the
other end of the line, his heart racing and his cock twitching his
golfer's chinos as he did. He bit his lip and smirked in the faint last
sunlight of the April evening, listening to Luke's gentle breathing
through the smartphone speaker.

`Yeah,' Maguire growled assertively, `he sure fucking did. You should
have seen his face.' The pause from the left-back he loved lasted
seconds too long before a vague `yup', and it broke the excitement in
Harry's chest and in his crotch. `What?' he demanded a little more
loudly down the line. `What, don't you think that's the end of it?'

Wherever he was taking this private call from his captain and lover, Shaw
sighed ambiguously from afar, and the sound made Maguire even more
nervous. `I dunno,' the 26-year-old southerner murmured thoughtfully.
`Won't he be pissed off to be... seen like that, by... oh, I dunno. I
don't trust him, H, I never have. And...'

Another long pause. `And what?' Harry forced on a more jolly tone,
returning to the fervour with which he had called his Luke as soon as a
family Saturday night had allowed him the breathing space to do so. `I
showed him,' he boasted. `I still can't believe he and Rooeny were
fucking for all those years, can you...? And I don't think anyone has
ever mastered him like that ever since, the smug prick, and so I
just....' He trailed off, as if Luke's silence had a tone all of its
own. `What?' he pushed. `What is it? You don't sound...'

`You never have the time,' Luke sighed, `or the energy.'

`Huh?'

`For me, I mean.'

`Luke, babe... Don't start this again, you KNOW how hard it's been this
year and last, and-'

`I do, I do,' Shaw repeated, very quietly, `and I know how drained it
makes you. But you can't find the time or energy to even touch me,
Harry, and yet Cristiano fucking Ronaldo...' He trailed off there and
they both went quiet, and Harry felt his stomach lurch.

`That's hardly fair,' he muttered through a dry mouth, but Luke cut
him off - `No, it isn't fair, is it, big man? Me waiting around like a
loyal puppy dog, wanting your fuckign massive cock, mate, and the only
person who's getting it be the cunt who's trying to steal your armband,
yeah? For fuck's sake, Harry, listen to yourself.' His voice remained
quiet, but it was loaded with anger and frustration. It slapped Harry
across the face and he sat very still and quiet, shifty eyes held on the
back of his mansion in case anyone came wandering out here and overheard
the wrong thing.

`I'll make it up to you,' he mumbled hesitantly.

`Maybe.' Luke sounded dismissive, disinterested, disappointed.

`Babe,' he sighed.

`I need to go now, Harry. I've got my own pressures and
responsibilities, y'know.'

`I know that,' Maguire began quickly, but too late - click, silence,
just the breeze in the nearby trees. He held the phone still to the side
of his face, blinking quietly and feeling a horrible turmoil of emotions
inside his big chest - it had been strange and conflicted enough all
evening, knowing that the day had been a dire sporting performance, but
juxtaposed with his private victory over a rival and his faint hopes that
he could bring the team properly together in Monday's training session.
But now... he thought about it from Luke's perspective, and he could
definitely see how shite he'd been, but he also believed that what he'd
done was utterly vital and necessary. He let out a sharp bitter laugh of
uncertainty, and let his hands flop weakly into the lap of his spread
thighs, fighting back the tiny threat of tears in his eyes - Luke had
hung up on him just now, but that was just another sulk, right? It
couldn't really mean anything, he told himself forcefully - it couldn't
really mean... they were over?

A voice called him back to the house, husband and father required by the
extended family gathering, and he slid the phone back into his pocket
before walking across the lawn in an agonised daze.



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