Date: Wed, 23 Nov 2022 21:20:54 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 327 Part 327: Papi Knows Best They had the late afternoon off, though it would be back to training at sundown for a tough late session at the usual stadium; the bosses wanted them to push their regime into the evening more to work under cooler temperatures and get in even more hours. Really, the free hours this had created ought to be used for a siesta, and the 22-year-old football star knew that a lot of his England teammates were doing just that, retiring to suites or simply enjoying a little nap in a shady spot around the pool and hotel gardens... He ought to be doing the same, he thought with some brittle self-criticism, and yet here he was, wandering down a hot boulevard of looming new build property, in a slightly different corner of Doha. Out here, on the periphery of the Qatari city, everything seemed so spread out and alien, nothing familiar and urban about the town planning at all. He'd taken a taxi part of the way, swerving the media bustle around the England hotel only by picking his moment carefully and hiding under the voluminous hood of a top that didn't even belong to him, an oversized number he'd nicked from Aaron Ramsdale for its baggy size. All he'd done, really, was to dare to suggest in his latest voice message to his club manager that he wasn't entirely happy. That was it. They didn't speak directly over the phone at the moment, time differences and contrasting schedules making that impossible, but they messaged regularly in bursts at the start and end of their overlapping days; Phil had somehow intimated to Pep Guardiola that his Qatar `22 experience wasn't quite what he'd been hoping for just yet, and he was feeling oddly unexcited about their approaching Friday clash with the United States. He hadn't exactly COMPLAINED to his Papi, but he'd sighed a bit and struggled to summon up the enthusiasm that he should be over-spilling with at being here in his first senior World Cup camp. And at that, the messaged instructions had begun to hit his device mid-morning, and he was told in no uncertain terms that he had to catch a car at this time and arrive at the right strip mall at that time, and that everything else was taken care of. It was mysterious and exciting and the young City midfielder was straining hard not to presume anything about the surprise that awaited him, having been summoned out of his Three Lions bubble by the commanding text messages of Guardiola. So here he was, in baggy hooded top and loose-fitting tracksuit pants, walking down another broad pavement and staring about at the unfamiliar language on most of the signs, sporadically translated into English; he squinted through his round sunglasses and looked for the flashy designer store that he'd been sent the address of. It could, he supposed, just be a flashy gift waiting for him at this Gucci store, some obscene present that the Manchester gaffer had splashed out and arranged for collection out here in Doha - it could just be that, just a showy material gesture. But maybe... Foden was a little anxious, of course - what did Papi really know about his low mood, or what did he perhaps suspect? It wasn't as if the 22-year-old ace could open up to his dominant and possessive daddy figure about the long-running crush he had on his sexy older teammate. He wasn't sure if Pep even knew that he still fooled about with Jack Grealish, now that the `mission' was over and the Brummie stud was happily settled in at the big club. After all, it really had cooled off for a while between he and Jack this year, just coming back to the boil as they jetted here together! Perhaps Guardiola thought it had sizzled out a long while back, once the job was done, and perhaps he was absolutely oblivious to the way Phil followed Jack about like a lovesick puppy... perhaps. But it seemed unlikely: Guardiola was a perceptive guy and he watched every player under his charge like a fucking hawk, like one of the desert birds that circled over this edge of the city. Even here in Qatar, Foden felt somehow watched and studied by the powerful older man who had opened his eyes and done so much to care for him in the past two years. Phil hated that his World Cup experience was being tarnished a little by his feelings for Jack. But he couldn't help it, he was young and he was just intoxicated by the 27-year-old whenever they were together - like everyone, he thought, increasingly conscious of the stir his sexy roommate seemed to cause in their audience at home. And it wasn't as if the pair had fallen out, it's just that Jack swung wildly from his usual tactile charm to a cold shoulder and an almost dismissive aloofness, repeatedly snubbing Foden for the company of other young players, like Rice and Saka and Phillips. Currently, he was all over the birthday boy, James Maddison, and hadn't even included Phil at all in the silly preparations for a little sober birthday bash for the Leicester hero. It was all daft stuff, but the bedroom knockbacks and growing sense of distance were hurting Foden, who had allowed himself to become quite obsessed with Grealish over the course of the last year, and who only seemed to come properly alive here when Jack was in a warmer mood with him and they were bouncing about the training pitch or gym together, besties and brothers. It pained him to suspect that his Papi probably knew it all. Phil spotted the right shop and proceeded towards it, warm under his layers in the late afternoon sun, and now quite sure that he would be getting driven home to the England hotel and having to laugh off to everyone why he was carrying a massive Gucci bag or shoebox with some ostentatious item in it. He checked the slim watch on his wrist, prematurely concerned about how long he had before the players were all due to reconvene and head out to the training stadium for their evening shift, which would be followed by Madders' birthday, if Phil was even INVITED. At the reflective glass windows of the big storefront, Foden felt silly and lost; he could see a few shop assistants drifting around inside amidst the sparse stock of the luxury store, and he wondered if he just needed to go in there and be recognised, in order to be presented with his surprise gift, the one that was supposed to be cheering him up and making sure he truly remembered his first World Cup as a life-changing experience. Those had been Pep's very words in the last message. When another reflected figure evanesced into view on the shiny glass of the store windows, Phil almost jumped; his heart raced and he glanced sharply to his left, joined suddenly on this broad expanse of clean pavement by another sunglasses-wearing lad in athletic wear, all discreetly slouched posture and hesitant grin. It took him just a moment to register who was standing next to him in the Nike tracksuit, and then he was being pulled in for a hug by the other 22-year-old football player. `Jules!' the Stockport lad yelped. `Wow, fancy seeing you here...!' For a moment, he didn't make the connection, just surprised and pleased to bump into Alvarez, his Manchester City colleague. He hugged the 22-year-old forward back, arms about him, and then pulled away, grinning brightly at the other talented youngster, and checking himself for the silly disappointment - for a moment he'd thought the silhouette on the glass beside him might be Guardiola himself, and the 50-something football manager had lied about the impossibility of ditching his Barcelona holiday home with the family... it had been a stupid fantasy, but part of Foden had actually half-expected to steal a couple of hours with his Papi in a random hotel, a little something to boost his spirit and remind him that he was loved intensely. It was now, looking at Julian Alvarez's slightly uneasy expression, and feeling the shaky pat of his hand on his arm, that Foden began to put two and two together. `You're to come with me,' City's new forward said quite quietly in his heavily accented English, and Phil raised both thin dark eyebrows at once. Okay, the mystery was back on. He glanced hesitantly back towards the store entrance and Julian shook his head. `This was just a... how you say, rendezvous spot. Come.' He nodded back down the strip, the way he'd come, and Foden shrugged his shoulders, unsure what to say. Alvarez began walking and he felt he had no choice but to follow, ditching the Gucci store and disappearing onto a shady different side-street of the commercial area. `Sorry about yesterday,' Phil began awkwardly, but Alvarez shot him a blank look and he decided to say no more about Argentina's surprise defeat to Saudi Arabia, 2-1; it was a stupid thing for the English player to have brought up, given his own team's stonking Monday win, and he blushed and cursed himself. `Pep says hello,' the forward told him now with an edge of chuckle to his voice. `Right,' Phil said nervously back - what did the Argentine lad know? Was he just a messenger? This was weird, and the midfield prodigy felt he was on very shaky ground here, and he checked his watch repeatedly. And yet at the same time, the surreal mystery tour of his Wednesday afternoon had also become oddly homely; more so than the lads on the England side, suddenly being joined by Julian Alvarez made him feel like he was just on a City away tour in any old city, not wandering Doha on his own and playing someone else's games. `He's not here, is he?' Foden blurted suddenly, needing to confirm his private disappointment. `He's in Spain,' Alvarez told him instantly, curt but not mean. `But he arranged this.' Whatever `this' was, Phil thought, and he followed Julian about another corner. A similar broad boulevard ran ahead of them, lined with intimidatingly large palm trees, but the designer stores swapped for expensive-looking cafes and restaurants. A large dark tower of glass rose up at the far end, some high-end hotel or other, and Phil squinted at it through the round lenses of his sunglasses. `I'm just taking you in,' his City teammate murmured, pausing a few paces ahead, hands back in pockets, and sunglasses dropped lower down the bridge of his nose, his dark friendly eyes meeting Phil's. `I'm just delivering you, haha. If that's the word.' He smiled, a little strangely, and nodded on down the sprawling quiet street, inviting Foden to follow, and it became more obvious to him what that dark high-rise hotel must be: the Argentina base-camp for the World Cup. Instructed to keep his head down and act natural, he passed through the reception area at Julian's side, but was dismissed and ditched by the young forward only minutes later, left alone inside the air-conditioned hallways of the new hotel, and told only a room number. This was all very odd, but the scally from Stockport was certainly beginning to foster his suspicions. He took his sunglasses off but kept his hood up, self-conscious here in the territory of a rival nation - perhaps of more than one, given the size of the hotel block, which for all he knew housed several national squads who were competing in this Cup. In an elevator, the young England star listened to the muzak and nodded his head gently, forgetting to worry about the time on his watch now, carried several floors up and seeming to leave his worries on the ground. The corridor that he stepped out into matched his mood, airy and faintly incense-scented, and his eyes tracked the numbers on the doors as he moved down it, past neatly spaced pot plants and abstract artwork, and then finally to the last door on the corridor, placed next to a huge picture window that stared out towards the nearest stellar football stadium. Phil was about to knock on the numbered door when he realised that it was already open, if only a crack. Instead, he gave it a gentle push, and followed its slow swing inside. Oh, wow. It's not that the shared suites of the England base were in some way lacking, but they did look poky and basic when compared to the open-plan apartment of space that occupied this corner of the floor, surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the nearest stadium, silhouetted against the many towers of the city centre. The room, draped with endless soft furnishing and smelling even more perfumed and relaxing than the corridor he'd traipsed down, seemed to be actually empty, and Phil tottered nervously into it, waiting for his suspicions to be confirmed. Music was playing from somewhere, quietly, and its melody was as inviting and hypnotic as the smell of incense on the cool air, all of it refreshing rather than suffocating like the `winter' heat outside. Phil paused in the centre of this suite, between two big white leather sofas, and he scratched at his short crop of dark hair, recounting the steps that had led him out of the safe England bubble and across the outskirts of Doha to... to what, exactly? Well, that remained to be seen. Fucking bizarre. Soft footsteps called his attention to the left, but when another figure suddenly joined him in this central room with its vaguely compartmentalised sections for relaxing, for hosting, for dining, well... it wasn't quite who he expected, and it took him half a minute to register and recognise the international footballer who was strolling casually past him, wearing only a pair of very baggy sports shorts that sagged between his hips, the majority of his body on show, all pale tan and stark tattoos. Since the man didn't look to immediately address him, Foden had to blurt out an awkward `Oh, hey', whilst the near-6ft physique of the Argentina player strode by him and collected a tray of something from a table against the windows. Now the tall dark man turned and smiled his way, muscular inked arms straight down to hold the tray in place against the hard backdrop of his abdomen. `Hola,' he growled. It was Atletico Madrid's Rodrigo de Paul, beaming welcomingly at him.His handsome smile and dark eyes were framed by rich brown hair and a light beard, and the bareness of his well-developed body seemed only accentuated by the rich covering of tattoos on either arm and one leg. His eyes and smile glinted to match the diamond earring at one side, and all of it, the full 5ft11 of him, was a tantalising yet alarming sight. Foden glanced back to the door, which he'd shut behind him, then a sweeping look of confusion about the room, and then back towards his apparent host, the Argentine midfielder - `Er, I saw Jules downstairs, and he sent me up, so...' De Paul's laugh twinkled too. `We were expecting,' he purred. `He is over there.' He was holding the dray, so he had to nod with his head. For the first time, Foden looked at what was on the tray - a few plates of small pastries and other delicacies, and some small glass tea-cups. All very civilised. `Don't worry,' Rodri chuckled now, `when that man calls, he does what he is told.' It was a very ambiguous statement, and yet Phil felt pretty confident that he could interpret it. With slow cautious steps, the City player followed the 28-year-old's directions, and led the way down the L-shaped direction of the suite, through one of its several doors, and down the narrow passage beyond. Because it occupied the corner of the jagged tower building, this far side of the suite met similar full-length windows with a different view, one that stared out across an almost desert landscape rather than into the heart of Doha city. But that's not what Phil noticed first, nor the dark patterned tiling or the numerous candles lit on several surfaces, perhaps the source of the rich and hypnotic scent in the air. No, his eyes fell on the occupant of the sunken bath, who was smiling invitingly his way from where he lounged, his arms trailing the curved edges of the descending tub, but bubbly water creeping up his bare chest. Rodri de Paul clinked past with the tray, speaking now in Spanish, and Phil just stood there whilst one Argentina player muscled past him and laid the goodies down at the side of the bath, and the other just smiled continuously at him from where he soaked. Rodri broke from Spanish to English. `I leave you,' he said, and laughed a little after, before clapping his hands together and retreating out of the large hotel bathroom. Once he was gone and it was just the two of them, the smell of the candles and the warmth of the room did feel somewhat oppressive and rich to Foden, who felt a little bit like he might suddenly pass out. His gift was staring at him from the bath foam, and still smiling, and finally spoke. `Get in,' Lionel Messi instructed him, and the Latin purr of his voice sent shivers down Phil's entire spine. He didn't hesitate or question or worry, not now his suspicions were confirmed and he was here in the Argentine's inner sanctum. Instead, he pulled Ramsdale's big hoody off in one go, and then the print t-shirt below too, exposing the slim muscle of his pale upper body. Trainers were kicked off and socks rolled down and then he was toying with the stretchy waist of the tracksuit pants. The smile on Messi's softly bearded face deepened, and Phil undid the drawstring and pushed the pants down, so he was just in his black CK trunks, and deciding whether or not to keep them on before plunging into the hot bubbles. But Lionel seemed to catch his eye and flick his attention to a spot on the tiled floor, where his own discarded briefs seemed to be crumpled. Phil took a deep breath and down went the pants, at which he point he hurried himself into the water, dropping his wiry body into the richly-scented froth and submerging himself up to his hard pink nipples - there was a moment of physical awkwardness as, even in a tub of this generous size, his leg muscles brushed against the firm heat of another man's, and then he was settled into a comfortable position at the opposite end of the bath, his ankles and shins and calves still gently brushing against those of the other footballer, hidden beneath the bubbles. Messi nodded his approval. `Hello,' he said. English didn't come naturally to him. `It is nice to see you.' His smile was bright and broad but perhaps a little bit artificial; after all, it hadn't exactly been on the warmest of terms when the young footballer met this particular former hero, confronting him in Portugal and accusing him of breaking his Papi's heart. It was a story that Foden now knew more fully, the end of Guardiola's love affair with his first Golden Boy, but the fierce resentment of young love had faded - after all, Phil had seen the two Barcelona icons make `peace' right in front of him. `Er, hi,' he said. `This is... erm, nice.' Real smooth, Agent Phil. Messi nodded his agreement. He looked puzzled for a moment, as if finding his words, then he lifted one soapy hand and gestured at the tray. Phil felt like he was having afternoon tea with a minor royal. He took a flaky pastry and ate its nutty filling, spilling crumbs on his bare chest and into the fluffy bubbles. The PSG striker smiled benevolently at him. Underwater, limbs shifted and their legs connected and rubbed a little bit more. `I like baths,' Leo told him simply. `Relaxing.' Phil licked crumbs from his upper lip. `Sure.' And then, `Oh', as one underwater leg stretched out, and he felt Messi's toes rub up the inside of his thigh... the powerful legs shifted and rippled the water and seemed to close about his lower body, feeling held by strong unseen muscle. Leo relaxed a little further back, stroking his furry chin, and speaking slowly: `I need to... how he say... Treat you good.' His smirk now looked less false, there was something of relish and eagerness in it. Phil shivered against the heat of the bathwater, relaxing his body down, sinking a little lower into the water, feeling Messi's calves against his sides and those thighs about his slimmer leg muscles. His cock, underwater, twitched and swelled, and he slowly licked his sticky bottom lip. `How long you have?' Messi asked him. Phil blinked, having entirely forgotten about the entire existence of the England squad and the World Cup altogether. He was still wearing his watch though. `An hour and a bit, maybe? Erm. This is... thanks for having me here, this is really cool, just...' `Hour and bit,' the Argentine echoed. `Hmm. Well.' He reached either side of him in a decisive fashion, and then he rose up out of the frothy water like Poseiden; up he went, naked and dripping wet, until he stood over Phil, the water coming to just below his solid knees, and between those wet thighs... the fat curved hang of his meat, dangling there in a way that was far more appealing than anything on the tray of refreshments that had joined them here in the luxury bath. Messi stared down at him and smirked and Phil glanced quickly between the GOAT cock and the cheery face of the Barcelona icon. He let his mouth fall open hungrily, but Leo then got up and stepped out of the bath, splashing him a little from the shake of those thick thighs and from the swing of his heavy privates. Out of the bath, he was wrapping a fluffy towel about his waist and then sticking a hand this way, which Phil couldn't help but instantly grab and be pulled out of the hot water to join him, an identical towel thrust at him. He trembled and thrilled, and pulled it about his waist, meeting Messi's twinkling eyes and lopsided grin. He wanted to say more, but he knew that this guy spoke very little English, and his own Spanish lessons weren't going so well. `Bedroom,' was all Lionel had to say; it was enough. Phil followed him at speed. If Foden had assumed that de Paul was just a casual visitor in the room, or just a passing messenger in the set-up, like Alvarez, he'd got it wrong. In the broad bedroom space of the suite, the other Argentina player was lounging on part of the bed, reading a glossy fitness magazine, and still just in those baggy retro shorts. He barely looked up as first Messi and then Foden joined him in the room, which was dim and cosy in spite of the windows; they seemed to be tinted in here to create a smoky sepia light, more suited to the mood that now thrummed through the 22-year-old's entire body. In front of him, Leo casually loosed his towel, and the view for a moment was of 5ft6 man's stocky muscular build, rippling down to his perfectly formed and lightly haired rump; but he turned as he slid onto the bed, showing off his smoothly shaven chest and torso, and spreading his thighs. His cock looked even bigger now, rising gently, and Phil knew he was getting excited. With one nervous glance at their company, Rodri, he dived at the edge of the bed and leaned in there, reaching down and bringing his face close to the big cock - he paused short of kissing it, holding his mouth near, but darting his beady eyes up to meet Leo's, and to await approval. The legend just laughed softly. `You like?' Phil nodded. He liked a lot. He opened wide and took much of the still soft fat Latino cock into his gob, eyes still locked with Lionel's. He moved in and got more comfortably, leaning down on the thick muscle of Messi's thighs, and gobbling more of the chubby prick into his mouth, rolling his tongue against it and feeling it get harder and harder. Oh yes, this was way better than any gift from the Gucci store. Messi shifted back and spread out and it allowed Foden onto the bed, moving with him without taking his mouth of his big member. He held and stroked those thighs that had rubbed against him in the tub, and again he felt the strength of them surround and enclose his more lithe and petite body, though he was a little taller than the Argentine. He forgot Rodri was there, gobbling down on the curved thick beauty of Leo's cock, until he came up for breath and found that the other Argentine was kneeling on the bed nearby, rubbing himself in the shorts, and looking expectantly down. Phil licked his lips and stared from the pink head of the first cock to Messi's gentle smirk, and up to the wicked grin on the Madrid star's dark features. And then he was sucking them both, swapping cocks in a hurry, servicing both of them greedily. He held both big weapons at the base, lounged between their muscular thighs, hearing the bits of Spanish dirty talk that passed him by, whilst one or both of the strong older men stroked his hair and neck and his tense shoulders. Foden was happy to worship them, these studs gifted by his Papi, and he felt almost like he was sucking Pep's cock too, indirectly, as he slobbered and panted over the two Argentine rods, his whole body trembling on top of the glossy silken sheets. The two men spoke in short bursts of Spanish and then little crumbs of English, saying his name in the same delicately exotic way as Guardiola: `Filipe, that's good... oh, Filipe, yes, suck it more... oh, Filipe, lick my balls, yes?' Yes please. He ran his tongue against the heavy sack of Rodri's bollocks and shuddered with delight at the mustier smell of him, compared to the fresh-washed spice of Messi's entire body. Lionel said something quite firm and commanding to Rodrigo, he didn't know what, but it made the tall muscle-bound midfielder shift and move, and Phil dropped his face back into Messi's lap instead, kissing the sides of his shaft and then rolling his wet lips about the bulbous head of that masterful cock. He felt the bed shift and squeak with the movement of Rodri's bigger form, but was still shocked when he realised that the other man was now behind him. He could feel his hands pat and rub against his bony hips and then paw briefly at the tight firm glutes of his backside; he looked questioningly up Messi's six-pack and chest and into his smiling face. `He good,' the striker promised in a sexy whisper. `Let him.' And at that, Phil felt his cheeks parted and hot breath on his crack, and his eyes went wide - the strong tongue dug in against his fresh hole and he whined in pleasure. Lionel allowed him a few long moments of this mewling enjoyment, then gripped and guided his head and edged him back onto his cock, so that Foden could suck on the great cock whilst his arse cheeks were pulled open and he was rimmed deep by the Latino stud behind him. He did his best to suck off his gifted hunk, his Papi's former, but the pleasure and shock of being licked out by Rodrigo de Paul had him trembling and gasping and he kept having to pause, which just made Leo laugh benevolently and roll aside. He lay there, playing with himself and watching, and Phil just hunkered down, his white arse thrust back into Rodri's bearded face, his tongue licked and loosened and then fingered in pauses, jabbed and stretched and his cheeks slapped a bit; dirty laughs and muttered Spanish phrases flew back and forth between his hosts, and he knew that he wanted them inside him. Rodri fucked him first, but only gently, guiding his long beautiful cock into his arse from behind, almost testing and stretching him, but never quite thrusting or pressing; it was as if he was literally just breaking the ground in for his senior, and he was soon moving aside, wanking himself and laughing, and Phil was being beckoned over by Messi instead. The 35-year-old lay back, head on the pillows, cock thick and tall, and he reached for Phil's hips to help him over - gasping excitedly, Foden straddled the Argentine and sat on his massive Latin cock, and he knew why Rodri had been helping him first, to ease this. Messi was so big and it filled him up, but he braced himself and took it, sliding down onto it and perching atop the legend, whilst de Paul leaned in close and jerked off, kissing him on the shoulder and purring dirty words in his ear: `Ride the legend, you English cunt.' `Oh god,' wailed Phil, losing himself instantly. Messi's hands were clamped about his thighs as he began to ride it like a petite cowboy, and de Paul was groping and pushing at his back and his shoulders, growling more encouragement at him, `Ride it good, just like that, niiiice' and then barking in Spanish at Lionel, who was grinning and moaning quietly, barely shifting a muscle and just letting Foden do the work for now - then, quite suddenly, beginning to thrust powerfully up, fucking in deep sudden shoves, every muscle in his 35-year-old body clamping and flexing with each violent burst. Then Foden was passed back between them, pressed down on his front with the 5ft11 strength of de Paul's muscular form on top of him, sliding into his widened hole and fucking him hard and fast, whilst Messi came around the front and slapped his cock against his cheeks, his brows, grunting and murmuring `Filipe, Filipe' for him. It was a dizzy daydream of pleasure, and Phil's hole and cock throbbed. After many minutes of face-down fucking from Rodri, he was flipped onto his back and the Argentine midfielder was eating him out again, hoisting up his smooth pale legs and burying his face beneath his cock and balls to lick his open ring; Phil's open mouth stretched wide as Leo's cock pushed into it from a funny angle, thrusting down into him and choking him on it, both Argentina hunks laughing and moaning as they made full use of his tight little body. Even in that position, pinned between these two iconic beasts, he was partly thinking about his Papi, who had made the calls and arranged this - surely Phil was not Lionel Messi's actual type, based on what he knew of a man who had been Pep's first Golden Boy, and spoiled that for a shag with Cristiano fucking Ronaldo! - and yet here they both were, enjoying him but pleasuring and spoiling him, at Guardiola's distant behest. And Alvarez, the messenger... did Julian even know what his new manager had instructed him to facilitate this afternoon...? It almost, oh-so-almost, pushed any concept of Jack Peter Grealish from the 22-year-old's brain, but there was still a tiny coup of brain cells who were logging that it would be so exciting when he told his big bro about this... Except he couldn't, could he? This would need to be just a secret, SURELY? Foden was thrown about by them, especially by big strong Rodri, though Messi was full of muscular power in spite of his diminutive stature; doggy style now, pumped from behind by the striker, whilst Rodri wanked in his face and pushed dirty fingers between his lips; and then held aloft between their bodies, leaning in against the smooth spicy sweat of Messi's chest whilst de Paul ploughed his arse, and then the opposite, his hole slippery and gaping as it was filled by each of their cocks. Not a kiss was shared, nor any attention whatsoever to his own raging cock, but his hole was licked and fingered and pummelled, and he got his absolute fill of two big Latino pricks. At least, that was until one of them caught him stealing a sweaty-faced look across the bedroom, to the large ornate clock above the dressing table. He did need to be back at basecamp, or he'd be in severe trouble with Southgate. One sour-sounding comment was made by Rodri de Paul, but then Leo Messi barked something else at him, and he seemed to have exiled the midfielder - this confused Phil for a few moments, and he was sadder than he could have imagined to see the shiny rippling body of that surprising stud leave the room, until he understood why. Lionel grabbed him roughly and threw him to his back, parting his legs, and licking his lips. Ah. So the GOAT doesn't like everybody to see him go down on a man, and show his other side? The observation passed through Foden's head a moment before Messi's lips met his sensitive cock and swallowed it whole; obviously he knew that Lionel was a complex figure, had been one side of a sandwich as Messi fucked him and was fucked by Guardiola. But the striker's dynamics with a comrade like Rodri were clearly a little different. That chain of logic led the youngster to realise how special it might be to lie back and be fellated by this fucking hero, how special a favour it might be to their shared Papi - clearly Leo didn't get his mouth dirty for just anyone? He lay back, groaning and whining, and his voice got even higher and wilder when two of Leo's fingers pressed into his aching hole to frig him whilst he was sucked. `I'm getting close,' he panted desperately, `I'm almost there!' And at that summons, Lionel parted lips with his cock, drooling over it for just a moment, and resumed the main job: he hoisted Phil's legs up until his ankles hooked at his bulky shoulders, and he guided his massive cock back into the afternoon's well-used hole. Phil was angled down against the bedding and fucked ridiculously hard until he was spurting cum back up his six-pack and dribbling up to his nipples, whining as he emptied himself of this man-milk. Messi growled and roared, and a few final thrusts slapped noisily at his bottom, and Foden knew he was being filled up with this talented man's seed. Their bodies remained locked in these throes of sweaty passion for a minute more, Messi still sliding weakly into him and supporting his body at this awkward angle, both of them just gasping and panting, and then they collapsed apart. Phil lay on his back, limbs outstretched, staring up into the plain dark ceiling of the bedroom; his cock trembled and his hole vaguely stung, and his entire body felt clammy and simultaneously hot and cold. He closed his eyes and he saw his Papi, grinning at him across a football pitch, telling him with his lined eyes that later that night, they would celebrate everything together. Foden felt a strong wave of special homesickness, tight and specific, and he wanted his Guardiola. `Jesus Cristo,' exclaimed his temporary lover from nearby. Phil rolled onto his side so he could look at and appreciate the magnificent little man in all his bare muscular glory, his cock still huge and veiny even as it slowly deflated. He treasured the memory of Portugal, of being stuffed by that cock and shared with their Papi; he'd been so worried and threatened by this man once, but that seemed a long time ago. He could see why Pep had once loved him so much, maybe still did, and he felt strangely okay with it. `I need to go,' he admitted weakly. `I have to...' `Yes, yes,' sighed Leo wearily. `It okay.' He closed his eyes and he looked like a lazy alpha male, about to drift into satisfied sleep, but then he tensed himself and rolled off the bed and upright in a strangely businesslike fashion. Almost immediately, a cheerfully whistling Rodrigo was joining them again, tossing a bundle of Phil's clothes onto the bed and pausing to cuddle briefly with his senior pal before vanishing again, his cock still rock-hard and swinging between his plain and decorated thighs. `He like you really,' chuckled Leo. `He funny guy.' Foden rubbed at his sweaty face and scrambled off the bed to begin dressing. `It's okay. He was amazing. You both were. Er.' He giggled and blushed more deeply, hearing the youthful fan-boy in his words. Messi was still just beaming at him, a little glossy and red in the face and his smooth pecs. `Thank you,' Phil told him in a quiet and serious voice. `For Papi,' was Lionel's soft-spoken response, but then also, `I enjoy.' He nodded vaguely out of the room. `Rodri is fun, but... you are... different. I like.' He scratched and stroked at his short beard-hair. `Papi choose well.' Foden wanted to say more, and to bond with this important guy - but he could feel the language barrier like a wall between them and he knew that their athletic bodies had communicated far more than broken English or Spanish ever could, so he just tugged on all of his clothing, ignoring how hot and sweaty his limbs and privates were beneath the layers. He was surprised when Lionel offered to show him out, dragging an oversized t-shirt and shorts on, his cock now soft and shrunk enough not to form a huge tent in them, but only just. Quietly, the two short sturdy men moved through Messi's solitary suite, the only player in his squad to get one to himself, and they passed by Rodrigo laid out on a white sofa, jerking off whilst porn played loudly on the TV. Messi just grinned and shrugged, and Foden burst into silly giggles. In broken English, Lionel explained it a little more to him in the lift, opening up more than he expected - how he had developed a fun alliance with Rodrigo, but how there were several men in the Argentina ranks who he could rely on when he needed it. Most, he explained, just worshipped him and would do anything he asked, but he liked his more equal friendship with a bullish bloke like de Paul, especially when they got to share a special treat together. Phil interpreted that HE was the special treat in question, but he wasn't sure, it was a little hard to follow. He asked Messi wonderingly about the elite suite and whether it was all to himself, and Leo just took on a distant look and laughed about it. Just before the lift deposited them at reception, he said, `My friend retired.' And Foden understood. Crossing the hotel's foyer with far less cautious discretion than he'd arrived, Phil felt as if their stilted conversation had performed a magical act of summoning, because there he was: 5ft8 and thickly built, perhaps even more so now that he wasn't burning up across the pitch and smashing in the goals. City's former strike force, the Argentine warrior who had moved to Barca in such complex and short-lived circumstances... And the retired friend who had apparently ditched Lionel Messi in the international circuit. `Sergio,' groaned Leo happily, throwing open his arms as he approached his visitor. Aguero reacted with equal enthusiasm, the 34-year-old matching his old friend's body language and the two stocky Latinos clashing in a tight manly hug, whilst Foden could only stand by them, sweating under his kit and still feeling the twitching recovery of his bruised bumhole. Sergio and Leo spoke to each other in a hot rush of Spanish that he barely understood, and then ground to a halt when his former City teammate suddenly clocked his presence and glared confusedly this way. Okay, at last, someone who was NOT in on Guardiola's little scheme... `Phil,' exclaimed the other great striker. `Phil?' The 34-year-old Argentine former footballer looked entirely shocked and lost, looking him up and down, and then seeming to start and pause, uncomfortable, before reaching over and grabbing him in a bit of a hug, less full-on and masculine than his embrace with his comrade. Phil was excited to see the retired player, but also uncomfortable, sensing the stiffness and alarm in Sergio's demeanour. After all... There had been little interaction between the former City ball-boy and his childhood hero, not since he had completed that other `mission' for his Papi - Aguero had been far from relaxed about the massage-turned-blowie in the physio rooms of the City training centre, had he? Foden's job had been to try and coax the Argentine into staying put, and he'd actually failed - not long later, Aguero was hurrying away from Manchester, and he'd always supposed he was partly to blame. Now, the 5ft8 former player just stared inquisitively at him, and Messi was speaking to him rapidly... either explaining the sordid truth (unlikely) or delivering a rapid inventive cover story (likely). There was a lot of cheery laughing and slapping of Sergio's thick arm muscles by Leo, who also reached over and patted Phil on the shoulder. He didn't know what Messi was telling Aguero to cover for the odd encounter, but Foden was suddenly even more conscious of his need to be on the move - he looked down at his watch and began to panic, knowing that he would need to be in a taxi any minute now if he was to be back in the hotel safely before rendezvous o'clock. Ignoring Sergio, who was still frowning and looking suspicious, Leo shook Phil by the shoulder, directing him across the foyer area to a cluster of suited men by the doors. Drivers, by the look of it. Messi squeezed him, and they shared a knowing look, and Foden mouthed a last `thank you' before hurrying away, leaving the reunited friends to their chat, and following one of the intimidating special forces lookalikes out into the forecourt and into one of their slick black vehicles, a hotel chauffeur who would deliver him to the correct venue. In the back seat, Foden burbled the hotel name to the Arab driver, who just grunted and nodded, and then wound up the partition that separated them, almost looking disgusted by the faint smell of perfumed sex that emanated from Phil's entire presence. He slumped back on the leather seats, still breathing heavily, and rubbing a hoody sleeve over his clammy sweaty face. His arse-hole throbbed and his cock almost went semi in his black CKs, replaying it all behind his eyelids: the bath tub to the bedroom, the two Latino hunks, the way he'd been thrown about and used so comprehensively, and then that more intimate ending, just him and his `rival' Golden Boy, now Golden Man... wow. As the driver sped him through the outskirts of Doha, he pulled out his phone and typed in the only message he could think to send to Pep Guardiola: `thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you....' In one of the courtyard spaces of their hotel, the England men were loosely assembling; a few post-nap yawns were being stifled but most of the men looked fresh and alert under the soft gold of another Doha sunset. Southgate's assistant was moving about with a clipboard and taking a register. Jack Grealish nodded formally at the fella and called `Yep' at the sound of his own name, then relaxed back into the wicker chair he occupied between the birthday boy James Maddison and goalie Jordan Pickford. As the assistant manager did his roll-call, Grealish couldn't help but try to spot the gaps and figure out which cunts were late to this meeting - but there was only one missing figure that he could feel any awareness of, since he'd been confused not to see him back at the room after he'd done with his own nap, slightly craving someone to spoon while he caught forty winks. Where the hell was Lil Philippa...? Everybody was getting up now, a few people even doing peremptory warm-ups and stretches before they even mounted the coaches to the training ground. A couple of later figures were arriving and getting bollocksed by Southgate: Walker and Stones, guilty looks on their faces that told Grealish everything he needed to know. Kyle, the marginally oldest bloke in their squad, was rearranging the bulge in the front of his skinny-fit tracksuit bottoms in a way that was obnoxiously obvious, and John was clearing his throat and toying with the neckline of his England training shirt. And then, behind them, came the scampering figure of Foden himself, mouthing nervous apologies and scuttling into the midst of the other men. `Sorry gaffer, I'm so sorry - just a little emergency, that's all. I'm here, I'm here.' He was red-cheeked and looked like he'd really ran to get down here (from where?) on time - something about his panicky rush and obvious distress made the boss go softer on him, none of the stern reprimands that had just been lobbed at the two defensive players. As the men began to move as one, Jack wove through the crowd and prodded at Phil's arm. `Where were you?' he demanded curiously. Foden turned and gave him a look that could only be described as aloof, although Jack Grealish didn't actually know that word. `What?' demanded Phil almost rudely. `I've just been up to our room for a bit. Where were you?' Grealish frowned and gave him a puzzled look, but he didn't want to stress himself out before training, and he was still in a hot daze from taking too long a nap. He shrugged and dismissed the confusion about Foden's whereabouts, supposing it was a fairly big hotel, and he followed him closely towards the coach, the rest of the players drifting about them and chatting quietly ahead of the busy evening's work. `Hey,' Jack said, giving Phil another prod in his slim upper arm, `you wanna sit with me at the back?' He smiled brightly at the pup of a lad, thinking to himself that he'd probably been a bit too cool and dismissive with his City bro this past couple of days, albeit with good reason... The 22-year-old shot him another odd look and then just shrugged. `Nah,' he said, and then very suddenly, as Jude Bellingham passed them by, `gonna sit with his hero and listen to him re-tell the story of his outstanding goal.' And then Foden was flashing a big smile at the other Brummie, and hopping up after the 19-year-old onto the bus, leaving Grealish paused and bewildered at the doors to the bus. The guys behind him barked crossly at him for getting in the way and he mumbled out a few jokes back their way before clambering onto the bus and heading to the back seats on his own, shooting a slightly offended look in Phil's direction as he did. It was the first time the younger lad had ever responded to him with such... indifference. Again, not a word at the forefront of his vocab, but it surfaced appropriately in this moment, and he pouted glumly for a moment, confused. Had he done slightly TOO good a job of putting off the lovesick youngster...? And, when it came down to it, did he really WANT rid of all that affection and loyalty? And... why was Ben Chilwell STILL not calling him back? Well, that was too much. He huffed out his breath and leaned back into the seat, folding his arms and jiggling his muscular legs. Enough thinking. Time for some football. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share