Date: Tue, 25 Apr 2023 18:03:31 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 359

Part 359: Champions League Dreams


It was a good job that an elusive smile and a quietly enjoyed cigar were
trademark features of a celebrating Pep Guardiola - they were currently a
mask that allowed the Manchester City manage to dwell on the terrace of
the hotel bar surrounded by his colleagues and cronies, paying limited
attention to them, and to stare admiringly across the the long sheltered
balcony at his precious Golden Boy, and to will away the minutes until he
could reasonably excuse himself. Around him, the staff and players were
electric with the outcome of their second-leg match against their German
hosts, toasting to UCL progress for the club, and anticipating an FA Cup
weekend - many would mistake the 52-year-old Spaniard's quiet and
ambiguity as the same playful reserve that he faced the sporting media,
unwilling to make ambitious claims or predictions about a possible
treble, superstition or (less likely) humility keeping his lips sealed as
the Premier League giants returned to prior recent dominance. But nope:
Pep had spent enough of this Munich trip with his mind laser-focused on
football and success, as obsessive and methodical as always. Now, puffing
on his cigar and sipping from the measure of whiskey, the City boss was
letting his thoughts move elsewhere, and he stared across the terrace
with a smoky intensity in his dark eyes.

There he was, grinning excitedly in the midst of his teammates, quiet too
in his own way; Foden's sharp cheeks were rosy and his small eyes
sparkled with pleasure, but he didn't seem to get much chance to speak
in the loud rough banter of the taller men that surrounded him,
apparently content to just laugh heartily along and encourage the other
burly football players in their analysis of Bayern Munchen's every
failing.

He looked particularly hot tonight, Pep thought, but then it was just so
brilliant to have him back. The football coach had been distraught when
the news came in that his prized midfielder and secret lover had been
rushed away from the spring England camp with appendicitis, and then
urgently operated on; as a Premiership gaffer, he was solidly delighted
with the squad depth and energy of young Filipe returning to the City
ranks and preparing for this Champions League outing and the domestic cup
weekend ahead... but as a red-blooded Latin lover, there was a different
excitement. Tender respectful visits to Phil's hospital suite and family
home had been necessary and important as both manager and papi, but their
every meeting during the boy's recovery had been charged with lust and
urgency, and now... finally, Phil Foden was fit for more than just
football.

John Stones had just told an apparently hilarious joke and brash laddish
laughter rippled through the cluster of players at the far end of the
balcony, with Foden buckling almost sycophantically with enjoyment of the
tall England player's presumably crude humour; Pep couldn't help but
stare for a moment at his celebrated centre-back with a kind of
vindictive jealousy, thinking of how he'd once allowed Stones to fuck
his Golden Boy - but how stupid and petty, when that had been his own
arrangement, his own use of his loyal Filipe, and his own dirty pleasure
by proxy. Pep felt such daft and hypocritical carnal desires rip through
his still body, swaddled beneath a turtleneck jumper against the cool
German night; he was watching the slim petite midfielder laugh and jostle
with the gaggle of City signings, and he wanted to march across the
terrace and grasp possessively for him to carry away to his own luxury
hotel room.

These thoughts, churlish and ridiculous as they were, soared as another
of the casually dressed winners draped a complacent arm about Phil's
shoulders, and Guardiola fixed a conflicted glare on the silhouette of
Jack Grealish - conflicted because the expensive Villa purchase was
finally vindicating the investment and becoming a real weapon for
Guardiola, but because he knew full well how this brash English lad had
entranced and preoccupied his Filipe in those two seasons of
camaraderie... again, something that Pep could blame on nobody but
himself. He should have known how risky it was to encourage further
closeness between Foden and the charismatic winger... but newcomer
Grealish had been so volatile and precarious at first, and he knew that
the bromance there had helped to settle and secure the expensive talent.
He just hadn't anticipated the doting look on Phil's face as he
followed Jack around like a puppy.

To some extent, young Phil had admitted it all to him in snatches - but
Guardiola was very intuitive and aware, and he'd seen the crush building
and burning bright, just as he now knew that it had largely fizzled out,
and he'd `won' an unconscious battle to keep his boy. But the way
Grealish draped an arm about the 5ft7 Stockport youth and pulled him in
as he swigged on his bottle of beer...! Pep could march across there and
toss Jack off the balcony, his passion and need were so intense tonight!

His grizzled face must have revealed the shift in mood, because one of
his longest-serving assistants reached across to pat his arm and ask what
was wrong - Guardiola could only dismiss the interest and throw back the
remains of his drink in one throat-burning move, then take a long puff of
the thick Cuban. He made his excuses, smiling and apologising to the
other men, and encouraging them to stay up late and drink, regardless of
the early flight back to Manchester Airport - after all, it would be
helpful to keep the hotel bar busy with City men, and the floors of their
accommodation a little quieter, so that Foden could find his way into his
arms without any difficulty.

Pep made his way through the busy terrace and slowed on his way to the
open doors, staring so intensely across at Filipe that the 22-year-old
must have felt the heat burn into the side of his long slender neck;
drawn magnetically to his heat, the young star turned to glance this way,
and their eyes met. Pep paused for only the slightest of moments, eyeing
up the beautiful young man, and nodding his head ever-so-gently. It was
not an immediate demand, as much as his loins burned with it, but a nod
to the time - he certainly couldn't have his Golden Boy exit immediately
to follow him out, not without raising too many questions in the wrong
quarters. He couldn't, as he deeply wished, just grab him in both arms
and yank him away from that lingering Grealish hug or the latest burst of
banter courtesy of Stones or Walker or Mahrez. Instead, he had to walk
coolly away, deliberately casual to avoid attention or protest at his
exit, and stroll through the glossy bar interior to pull aside the
manager and slip him the appropriate roll of Euros that would extend
opening hours just a little and make sure the Munich win was fairly
enjoyed.

But there was one last thing that caught Guardiola's eye and slowed his
exit from the room, ready to go upstairs and shower in anticipation of
his bedroom visitor; he was pausing momentarily at the bar after slipping
the bribe, accepting a final strong drink which he would carry up to his
room, when his eyes slipped to the lift and he caught sight of the
fresh-faced Argentine youngster awaiting service. For just one dangerous
moment, Pep's eyes lingered over the perfect curves and proportions of a
lithe young body on the World Cup winning 23-year-old... and then were
wrenched away, refusing to travel down memory lane to the last diminutive
Argentinian who had captured his heart. Stay in the present, he told
himself, and appreciate what you have - what you've been burning for all
night!

The Catalonian ex-defender moved away from the bar, distracted briefly by
a keen smile from young Julian Alvarez, but just patting the developing
midfielder on the shoulder of his skintight t-shirt and slipping away
from him without conversation, single-minded in his plans for the rest of
tonight.


A short distance down the bar from the vague smile of the young Argentine
and the departing manager, another member of the squad was eyeing up the
barmaid and gently adjusting the weight in the front of his black
trousers, wondering what time her shift ended and if she stayed at the
hotel overnight - she looked a pretty young thing who might quite happily
ride an international football star into the early hours, and the merest
sniff of such action had the large Portuguese man stiffening in the
Nike-branded underwear that he had recently been modelling.

Ruben dos Santos Gato Alves Dias looked with quiet lust at the young
German girl until she was whisked away him by the busy activity of the
hotel bar, summoned down to the other end to serve his teammate - with
abstract jealousy, the 6ft1 centre-back leaned his elbows against the
counter and stared down the bar to watch her flirt with a slightly
younger footballer, the squad's acne-spotted World Cup champ. For all
his chat, Alvarez just seemed to be ordering a sparkling water, and Dias
scoffed to himself, amused and charmed by the innocence of the South
American just as much as their barmaid seemed to be.

For a moment, the 25-year-old defender allowed himself to mull on this:
was young Julian quite as cute as the blue-eyed blond who was busting out
of her halterneck?

Grabbing up his beer and moving away from the bar, the large muscular
athlete scoffed at himself and shrugged away this stupid internal
question - ridiculous comparison, with that hot pussy floating about
behind the bar, and that goofy scamp teammate flashing his boyish smile
everywhere and now unscrewing the lid of some overpriced h2O. These were
the kind of stupid thoughts that came when you were sex-starved, he told
himself, longing to return to his girlfriend in their Manchester
penthouse, having forced himself to stay sexless in the run-up to this
big game - and intending to do the same with their next few major
fixtures, with the FA Cup Semi at the weekend and their title challenge
fixture with Arsenal lying in the midweek ahead. `NO SEX' seemed to
have lurked between the lines of one of Guardiola's many squad speeches
this week, advising lots of rest to avoid the inevitable fatigue of their
loaded schedule and quest for maximum silverware.

With that in mind, Ruben turned his back on both the attractive bar-girl
and the nearby grin of Julian - he shouldn't be looking at guys like
that, even after what went on at the rooftop bar last summer. And
mentioning that... He almost stumbled right into the diminutive figure of
another teammate crossing the bar, Phil Foden, who he still couldn't
quite look at without picturing his bare pale butt-cheeks exposed on that
rooftop, offered up to the drunken consortium of hyped-up football studs.

Ruben frowned ambiguously at the younger man and muscled past him, away
from him and Alvarez and the bar, and heading towards the windows to
check out the view of the city; anything to cool him and to exorcise the
horny thoughts that trembled in the crotch of his black trousers, so that
he wanted to press his cold beer down there against his semi. The
serious-faced Portuguese man melted back into the cluster of his
teammates, suppressing the longings for physical satisfaction, and
reminding himself of the big games ahead - he needed to hold it in and
control himself, and definitely stop noting how cute little Alvaraz was,
for fuck's sake!


Phil Foden had only a little more difficulty in getting away from the bar
than his Papi; he was surrounded by insistence that he have One More
Drink, and that he should Not Be A Boring Twat. However, he couldn't
stop looking at his wrist-watch, and he smiled away each rebuke from the
other lads, and got away from the increasingly drunk throng of City
players. Phil himself had limited his drinks, wanting to be sober enough
to appreciate what awaited him upstairs; the twin joys at the end of his
appendectomy recovery period, coming off the bench to participate in
tonight's European win, and physical reunion with the man who had
remained a tower of support in his life as he rehabilitated.

The experience of the surgery and recovery had somehow sharpened and
clarified Philip's feelings for his manager: seeing grave-faced
Guardiola arrive at the hospital with gifts, and seeing him attend
needlessly to the concerns of his family as he was moved home... If the
young Englishman had ever doubted that the Man City daddy truly loved
him, then he felt a fool for it, and he couldn't wait to give up his
body once more to the sexy older man who was waiting for him in his
suite.

Chill rain and wind had killed the pleasure of the balcony, and the bar
interior was all the more crowded, the air rich with beer and
testosterone; Foden had to pull and squeeze through the bodies of his
teammates and support staff, almost crashing straight into Ruben Dias,
until he was out in the air-conditioned cool of a stairwell, climbing two
flights in an eager hurry. He caught sight of himself in a mirror on the
fourth-floor balcony, and realised how irrepressible the smile of
pleasure was on his lean face, which made him laugh self-consciously. He
paused needlessly at this mirror to fiddle with the short cut of his dark
hair and the fit of his thin sweatshirt and slack chinos, wondering how
Pep could single him out when the City squad was rich with well-built
masculine attractions. Foden dismissed these insecurities and delays and
hurried down the corridor, checking for the room number inked cautiously
on the inside of his wrist so that he couldn't forget it.

At the door to Papi's suite, he was forced to wait and knock two more
times, fostering more nervousness that Guardiola might actually be too
tired, or now too busy and disrupted - but he thought about the intensity
on the older man's face before as they passed on the smoking balcony,
and he knew that nothing could get in the way of this rendezvous. He was
just about to knock a forth time when the locks clicked and the door
opened fractionally inwards, then a little more, and he was summoned in
by the joyful smile framed by salt-and-pepper beard. His coach was a
luxurious sight, silky dressing gown falling open away from the rug of
his chest hair, and a rich perfumed smell of his shower pouring through
the door - and Phil dipped rapidly in through the doorway to meet him,
almost shaking with anticipation.


Below, in the sweaty crowd of the bar, John Stones couldn't help
himself: at every opportunity, he brushed himself against the man nearest
him, and sniggered under his breath, enjoying himself all the more when
his neighbour turned slightly and shot him impotent warning glares, even
as his lilting smile betrayed his enjoyment. At the slightest
opportunity, big John would rub the front of his tight slim-fit jeans
against the hip or prominent backside of the shorter older defender, or
reach down and rub his hand lightly against the rise of those strong
glutes, or against the bulging front of the sweatpants; it was easy
enough for the lanky 28-year-old to be tactile with his fellow
Yorkshireman, since everybody around them would fully accept it as part
of their ongoing bromance and brash laddish banter.

`Look,' hissed Kyle Walker, leaning in close to them, `you know I need
to behave myself after what went on in that bar, okay?' Even as he
muttered out this ultimatum, the thickset Sheffield bloke looked excited
and bright-eyed, and Stones could only apologise with a dopey hangdog
expression and a panto gesture of holding up his big innocent hands and
acting like he'd done nothing to touch the other bloke, just been
jostled against him by the shifting crowd of City players that still
occupied the rain-lashed first-floor bar area.

`Sorry bro,' John slurred, already quite drunk.

`Just watch it,' Kyle scolded him quietly.

`You worried someone will get jealous?' he giggled.

`Fucking leave it, and let me get us another beer.'

`Someone might get jealous of you getting touched by me, old man,
hehe.'

`Fuck off...'

`Ancient Kyle,' he joked, pushing it, `getting handsy with sexy-boy
Jonny Stones, yeah...'

`Who the hell has ever called you Jonny, you big prick?'

`Cougar, they'll call you, old man...'

`Gobshite.'

`Here, do you need a hand getting to the bar, oldie...' He leaned in,
sniggering drunkenly, and hugged the 5ft11 brute side-on, towering over
him at 6ft2, and almost planting a kiss on the side of his face in front
of everyone, but stopping himself just in time. `Why are you being so
grumpy, mate? What's got your knickers in a twist, chief?'

Walker bristled against him and made a huffy noise before insisting
`Nothing!' and then shooting him a sharp thoughtful look. `What?'
John demanded, leaning against him and blinking slowly. Kyle's face,
briefly grumpy and annoyed, shifted to a smirk, and John felt one of his
wandering hands reach down and cup his own backside in the same
suggestive way he'd kept doing to Kyle.

`What do you say we skip that last beer?' the muscular right-back
murmured at him, and John grinned eagerly back, the same thought having
flashed back and forth over his beery brain for an hour now - he nodded
instantly and downed the last of his German lager in one go, dancing
awkwardly on the spot and then exaggerating a yawn. `See you upstairs in
ten?' he asked with what he thought might pass as a winsome grin, making
little gun gestures with both forefingers and lunging clumsily away from
his boyfriend. He laughed to see Kyle cringe and roll his eyes at him,
and backed away, bumping into two or three other men as he did - he was
too drunk to be remotely discreet in his hurried exit from the bar,
already thinking about the prospect of Walker's big strong prick.


No sooner was Phil over the threshold to Pep's room than the Spanish
lothario was slamming the door shut behind him over one shoulder, sealing
them in safe discretion, and stooping to kiss his boy fully on the lips.
As Phil's keen hands slid onto his hairy chest, he wrapped arms about
him and held him close, conquering his mouth with his tongue and
forgetting to breathe for several ecstatic moments.

Once he had collected himself a little from this initial passion, he
could step away, chuckling, and guide Phil properly into the room. `I
have been waiting for that,' he said simply, licking his lips, and
taking one of Foden's hands in his.

Guardiola's cock swung and tickled against the fabric of his robe as he
crossed the room, as plump and semi as it had been through his long
shower, still towelling his tall slim body in the bathroom when he missed
Foden's first knock at the door. Now he was snatching his whiskey drink
from the sideboard and giving the younger man a quizzical look. `Do you
want anything to drink?' he asked, surprised at himself that he hadn't
already given this some thought and mixed a gin-and-tonic for the
Stockport beauty.

Phil seemed to give this a moment's thought, trailing after him with
wide eyes and that same eager smile that he'd worn on the pitch,
delighted to be back in action - but then, the innocent smile turning
into more of a smirk: `No, no - you just sit back and enjoy that, and
I'll enjoy you.' As naturally dominant as he always was, Pep liked the
forwardness and control of his protegee saying this - and the definite
pleasure that it promised him. He only smiled in agreement, and sought
out the slightly grand armchair in the windows of the suit, sitting
himself down imperiously with the drink in one hand and the robe parting
gently from his chest and thighs as he did.

Here, he could sit and relax - much-needed relaxation, after the mental
exhaustion of bringing the team into this second-leg fixture knowing that
nothing was to be taken for granted - whilst Phil stood coyly in front of
him, stroking the front of his beige pants, and then slowly peeling away
the black sweatshirt and the garish t-shirt below, pale lean muscles
exposed and free, and the fresh scar of his surgery showing down low in
his six-pack... a visual reminder to Guardiola that he must go gently
tonight, and be particularly careful with his beautiful youth.

His beautiful youth who was shirtless on his knees and grinning wickedly
at him, angel to demon, rubbing his hairy thighs and parting the robe
further until he had to pause and let Pep himself reach down and untie
the waist-cord... revealing the heat of his crotch, the fat swollen meat
that lounged from then nest of his silver-flecked pubes. Slowly, so
beautifully slowly, Phil went down and opened his mouth, and as he licked
the hardening shaft, Pep could only shudder and moan, and then knock back
the rest of his whiskey in one gulp before tossing the cut-glass tumbler
aside and shatter against a wall; his hands gripped tightly at the arms
of the chair and his knuckles whitened, Phil's mouth closing about the
head of his big powerful prick.


The rain was still a gentle patter, but one member of the lingering City
celebrations had slipped outside with his vodka-soda anyway, and leant
into the damp railings to stare over Munich as he drank it. He turned his
back on the city and, instead, stared back through the steamy wet windows
at the blurred silhouettes of the other men indoors, unsure why he was
out here in the chill wind rather than loading up another bevvy at the
bar - if this was a real piss-up with his old Leeds pals, he thought,
he'd be the drunkest there, and the life and soul of the party. But here
at City...

It was hardly any secret that Kalvin Phillips' big move to the elite
club was not quite following the script, and he had seen masses of media
speculation on his future already - there were bullshit rumours
circulating that he might be headed straight back to Elland Road with his
tail between his legs, and what he hated more than the emptiness of these
stories was the fact that it would actually be his dream solution. It was
so embarrassing, but all the stocky midfield player wanted was to undo
this season and get back to his buddies in Leeds - that club had raised
and made him, and he'd been a fool to ditch it for the baby-blue of
Manchester fucking City.

Apart from anything else, Kalvin thought tonight, soused with vodka, he
would like to undo some of the nastiness that City life had opened him up
to. Drunk and hypocritical, Phillips chose to entirely overlook the fact
that his first kinky experiment had come as a Leeds player in Croydon,
noshed off in that shut-down strip club by that impish Welsh bastard;
instead, the mixed-race Yorkshireman chose to blame it on his charismatic
buddy Jack Grealish, thinking bitterly of what had gone on in Doha, with
he and Jack sharing Daniel James' body and almost breaking their hotel
bed as they took it in turns to push their cocks between his pillowy
cheeks. Fucking hell.

Looking into the warmth and brightness of the bar, he focused on the
fuzzy silhouette of Grealish himself, holding court with several others
on the other side of the glass; Kalvin pictured himself lying in their
last England hotel room together in Italy, exhausted and regretful,
having put his dick inside Phil Foden, a lad he had to make eye contact
with daily ever since - jesus christ, that was much worse than having
dabbled with Dan James, who he might only bump into once in a blue moon
according to the machinations of the football league. It was different
having dicked a teammate, especially having shared him too with Jack, who
was so effortlessly cool about this sexual adventure...!

Kalvin was much more troubled by his bi-curious dabbling, and it was
helping to push him back to Leeds, which he was choosing to see as a
world of wholesome masculinity and heteronormative stability. He thought
of solid straitlaced teammates like Paddy Bamford and Jack Harrison and
how this sort of shit would never go on there, for sure!

Still watching Jack through the window, Kal considered an exit and
crashing in his bed upstairs, maybe being long-asleep before that Brummie
lothario crawled back into their room and got any funny ideas - he'd
offered Phillips a blowjob the night before, when they'd just checked in
here, and been entirely unconvincing when he'd laughed it off
afterwards, creeping the 27-year-old Leeds stud out, and making him
wonder what was what. Ugh.

Worse than that - he'd been bantering a bit with Bernardo Silva in the
locker-rooms after tonight's win, and tried to wind up the slight
Portuguese star by shaking and grabbing him during their team photo.
Several incarnations of the big group pose had made it onto social media,
but Kalvin had quickly noticed that one of them, shared by he couldn't
remember who, had caught the moment where he leaned in and grasped the
28-year-old by the crotch through his shorts! Jesus, he'd been hyper and
tipsy, what a twat - and now that picture was out there, ready for him to
get landed with all sorts of shitty banter from his Leeds mates. Ugh.

Full of sexual anxiety, the 27-year-old man stood at the window, gently
showered with refreshing drops of rain, and considered the scene indoors;
he was definitely not in the mood to sink any more drinks with frisky
Jack, and risk his close interest. He thought back to their room at the
England camp, and his short-lived exit to sulk in the cafe - how he'd
returned to the suite and thrown his body into the fray, making use of
Maddison's mouth and Foden's arse-hole, and... and lay there, sweating
and dazed, then glanced in the wrong direction and caught sight of the
most shocking thing: Jack Grealish on his back, pummelled down by the
tall muscular physique of West Ham's Declan Rice. For some reason, that
more than anything had freaked him out, and brought on this latest phase
of frigid caution: just as he'd thought he understood the dynamic of
their antics, he'd seen his dirty buddy taking it up the arse like a
real bender, and felt more confused than ever.


Now Foden was pinned beneath the taller body of his manager, but trapped
in the happiest of positions: lying on his back on the soft bedding, fed
his master's cock from above, with Guardiola in 69, returning the favour
with such lavish attention. Squashed beneath the hairy heat of the older
man, Phil felt lost in a cloud of his scent and a satisfying closeness
that he'd thought about often in the weeks of recovery - his lust for
his Papi so much hotter and stronger than it had been in a while, he
could shyly admit to himself. He felt awful that his attention had been
so consumed by Jack for such a long period, but then his bond to this
great man had always been there, tugging him along as he sulked and
pouted around Grealish's free spirit.

But there was no point dwelling on the recent past, not with a mouth full
of Pep's enormous cock, drooling about it and pushing up and down with
his head to suck it deeply, as he had for a good twenty minutes crouched
between Papi's open legs at the armchair. He strained to take as much of
the length as he could into his mouth and throat, and he stroked his
hands against lean furry thighs... whilst he his own cock twitched and
trembled at the slow rolling sensation of lips and the clipped tickle of
beard hair as it met his balls, his inner thighs, his trimmed pubes.

The 22-year-old could have remained like this all night, caught in the
mutual pleasure of their secret love, utterly submitted to this man - but
he knew what was coming, because soon Guardiola was not attending to his
cock, but inching forward a little on his knees and his elbows, his cock
repositioning and becoming harder for Foden to suck... just slapping
against his cheeks and chin and trailing saliva and pre-cum onto his
upper chest. Phil felt his legs clutched and parted and the mouth that
had pleasured his long heavy cock was moving about to kiss and snuffle at
his balls then his gooch, then further... until he was being pulled into
position for a good rimming, that long muscular tongue going between his
smooth cheeks and tasting his hole. Mouth free of cock, Phil whined with
pleasure and eagerness, and then twisted so that he could kiss and lick
at Pep's shaft some more, responding to the parting of his cheeks and
the tickling rub of his tight hole, last fucked on England tour by
several sexy men - Jack, Declan, Kalvin - who just could not live up to
the simmering presence of his 30-year senior here.

Pep's fingers tapped and rubbed at his ring, rubbing spit into his hole
and opening him up, and then licking him out again, making him growl and
gasp, driving him as wild as it had the first time his Papi tied him to
the headboard and introduced him to the taboo sensation down below -
making him crave the full treatment that would be coming his way.


About four rooms away, another hunky man had his tongue between the
cheeks of a similarly delighted bloke: spreadeagled on his front on the
bed, Stonesy couldn't stop giggling and whooping with pleasure, and
Walker landed a few dominant spanks against one of his perfectly globed
arse cheeks, before digging in and tonguing his delicious hole a bit more
instead, getting him ready for a solid muscular fucking that his cheeky
behaviour was crying out for.

Kyle hadn't liked the `old man' jokes much from his beloved John,
after the awkward meetings he'd had with some of the club management
lately - nothing from Pep Guardiola himself, he noted, and he wondered if
the gaffer was too cowardly to address it head-on, or if the directives
were actually coming from above. Old Pep had been pretty good to him in
recent years, after their earlier tension and the time that Kyle went
down on the Spaniard in his office; he suspected that the negative
murmurs were beyond the boss's influence, and right from the top of the
Man City hierarchy. `Ageing' had been one of the clumsy words raised to
him, and he knew that his days in this high-performing squad were
numbered - this needn't be his last season, but the writing was on the
wall. He was passing out of his prime, and his usefulness to the City
agenda might reach its expiration. Fuck.

He sure hadn't raised any of this to Stonesy, the awkward questions and
speculation at the club and by his own agent, echoed by vague reports in
the media - his own reckless behaviour in a Manchester bar last month had
hardly helped matters. After several seasons feeling utterly integral to
this squad, Walker was facing the ridiculous fate of the early-30s
footballer - retirement is already on your horizon.

As Kyle got up on his thick knees and positioned his throbbing erection
behind John's perfect arse, there was a touch of resentment to his
brutish strength - he was grudge-fucking as he buried his cock to the
hilt in John's muscular bottom. Not a grudge against John himself for
his daft drunken banter, but a grudge against the harsh realities of
their sport - he wanted to spent the rest of his 30s here at Man City
with his man, playing side-by-side and fucking wildly like this in hotels
across the UK and Europe. He didn't want to be shipped off to some minor
club, or to the winners of some nothing farmer league on the continent
like the Bundesliga; or to already put to pasture back at his former home
Sheffield United, as one tabloid was claiming, thinking ahead to City's
clash with them this weekend, a presumed walkover into the FA Cup final.

Moody and unsatisfied, the 5ft10 stud ploughed into his John, wishing
that he could fuck him like this forever, but already knowing that he
might soon have to leave the younger hunk behind, and move on to the last
chapter of his defensive career.


Just as Guardiola was turning over onto his knees and dragging Phil's
strong slender physique into position, he caught sight again of the fresh
red line of the scar, reminding him that he had to go carefully - it was
a thought that slowed him down and made him stoop to kiss and hold the
football stud for a few minutes, hesitating in the process of yanking up
his satisfyingly meaty legs, forcing himself to approach only slowly and
to slide the tip of his cock in against the rimmed-wet eagerness of the
lad's hole.

He held them like that in missionary, halting his horny progress, and
enjoying Filipe's mouth in long slow kisses that seemed to surprise and
almost confuse his midfielder. Pep's hands slotted in behind his back
muscles to hold him secure, pressing gently down against him, pausing to
let their breath mingle and staring into his sharp eyes, then kissing him
a bit more fiercely, and then planting kisses on his cheeks, his neck,
scratchy and loving. All the while, as he did this, rolling his hips and
pushing his cock gently at its target, teasing him without really meaning
to, making him shaky and desperate before eventually starting to press
the wet tip in against Foden's entrance. `I will be gentle,' he
promised in a deep purr.

`You don't need to be,' Phil claimed in a wobbly voice, but Pep would
ignore this - he had watched with great anxiety as his recovered player
took to the pitch here tonight, and gritted his teeth at any body contact
that came close to the plucky midfielder. He wanted to make sure that
Phil continued to recover and reach peak fitness, and so he held him very
tightly and securely as he eased himself in, gasping out loudly at the
tight hold of that English ass on his meaty Spanish cock. He swore in his
own language and thanked god for putting this beautiful boy in his path,
so hot and willing, years after he'd been betrayed by his last Golden
Boy and that scoundrel Ronaldo.


His knees throbbed against the hard tiles of the bathroom floor, a
sensation that dulled against the fullness of his mouth, the sour manly
taste, and the taboo thrill of doing this again for the first time in
many years - almost the first time since he had moved to the UK, joining
Manchester City and becoming part of Guardiola's squad. He'd never
thought to be in this position again, in all honesty, though the thoughts
had come and gone since last summer, since that celebration party on the
roof terrace - Bernardo had been surprised to find such kinky and
open-minded attitudes among his teammates, especially the Brits, and
he'd been greatly amused by the sordid action on that Manchester rooftop
under the sunset.

Had it been important for him in signing his new contract and staying
put...? No, not really. But... it might have helped. Silva, 28 and
ambitious, had wondered if his spell at this Premiership club was at an
end, out of steam, challenges completed... but something this summer had
left him curious about taking it further, and seeing what else lay ahead
in his sky-blue shirt, playing under Guardiola. And if part of that
curious something had been the cheeky insights of their summer party
after the open-bus tour, then... So be it.

The dark swarthy Lisbon man opened his mouth as wide as he could to take
in the thick veiny prick and he steadied himself against the tree-trunk
legs of the 6ft1 beast, his roommate and now, in this intimate moment,
his secret lover - a moment that perhaps neither Portuguese man would
ever refer to again, not tonight or in how many seasons more they played
together - perhaps not even if they reconvened on their national side,
where it was almost common knowledge that half the players had fellated
Cristiano Ronaldo at one point or another.

Mouth full of cock, Bernardo Silva rolled his deep brown eyes up, taking
in the momentous musculature of the bigger man's torso, and staring up
to his brutish frowning face, the only man in history to ever look so
angry about getting a blowie - and 25-year-old Ruben Dias glared fiercely
back at him, as aggressive and unpredictable as he'd seemed all night,
and now feeding his mighty erection into Silva's unpractised lips,
giving no real sign that he was even enjoying the oral attention.
Bernardo found he didn't care - his countryman was a big sexy beast, and
it had been ages since he tired this, and he was pretty determined he was
going to get a naughty mouthful, consequences be damned!


Phil groaned and groaned, held entirely by his manager's strength,
feeling the cock slide in and out of him, opening his arse up, reaching
deep into him, then pulling away, then back again; a slow rhythm, almost
frustratingly so, and yet such deep satisfying pleasure that his cock
felt like it might blow cum against Pep's furry tummy at any moment. He
held on to the tanned brown body of the middle-aged stud, reaching for
kisses with his mouth and glad when this was repeatedly reciprocated; his
fingers scratched at Guardiola's bag with such ferocity, and he
fantasised leaving claw marks there that could be found by his jealous
wife, really marking his territory and claiming this gorgeous 52-year-old
Spaniard as his!

But then his Papi began to pick up rhythm and rock him a little more
firmly into the bed, and Phil just cried out `Yes, yes Papi' and
`Harder!', until he was silenced by more kissing, and Guardiola really
began to work his body - still in this missionary possession, with
Phil's legs jutting up into the air and his entire being rocked by each
juddering thrust of the 5ft11 football manager. His cock and balls ached
with the frozen closeness of his orgasm, feeling that Pep too was heading
for such a climax - he could tell from the heavy breathing and the
intensity of the hold, the increasing force with which that big cock
entered him, deeper and deeper!

`Yes,' he could only whimper, and Pep growled into his ear, `Filipe,
my boy...!'


Riyad Mahrez left the bar with few players left standing, and the
32-year-old could barely walk in a straight line as he searched the hotel
for his room. Through the doors he passed, the French Algerian heard
snatches of music or TV, or the occasional raised voice of a teammate,
usually able to place and identify them because he knew all squad members
so well - he stopped to laugh at the door of what must be Walker and
Stones' suite, hearing one of those Yorkshire buggers mouthing off
loudly at the other with a string of expletives. If the two weren't such
massive shithouses, Mahrez might assume there was a big argument going
on, so loud and raised were the voices, but he knew it would just be some
ongoing joke between the two burly defenders. On he went, passing more
ambiguous noises and heading for his own suite, where he knew boring
Kevin de Bruyne, Mr Two-Beers himself, was likely to be fast asleep.

Riyad paused when the next door burst open and an occupant of the room
came puffing out into the corridor, faffing with the waist of his pants
and shoving/tucking the tails of his thin short-sleeve shirt inside. The
5ft10 winger paused, eyebrows raised, and came face to face with the tall
moody presence of Ruben Dias, who gave him a silent stare and then
fiddled with the disturbed collar of his silky shirt, tanned face tinged
with red.

`What's up?' Mahrez demanded in his silky French accent, holding out
both arms and greeting the big centre-back warmly. `Is there a problem
with your room, buddy?'

`What?' grunted the Portuguese player dismissively.

`Your room,' the Algeria player repeated more slowly, staring
critically at him, then nodding at the slammed door next to him.
`What's got you storming out and about? Where's Bernie?' He stared
curiously at the hotel room door and in front of him Dias just grunted;
the bigger man was then pushing moodily past him, seeming to mutter in
his own language. Mahrez paused and looked over one shoulder before
dismissing this as just more drunken behaviour like the fuss downstairs -
the little almost-fight that had seemed to break out between Grealish and
Phillips before one of them stormed off to his room, and the other
started ordering even heavier drinks at the bar. There was something very
odd in the air tonight, Riyad thought, and it was more than just the
relief that they were progressing through to the Semis of the UEFA
Champions League.


Guardiola came inside him and held him tightly beneath his hairy front,
balls-deep inside the perfect pert arse, pumping his cum inside his
Golden Boy, utterly breathless and ecstatic; his arms wrapped about the
sweat-sticky skin and his mouth tickling kisses against the side of his
neck, listening to each reedy gasp from the scally lad's mouth for
moments that felt like a perfect eternity.

And then he withdrew. He did so carefully, even though his resolution to
go gently with his lover had been somewhat forgotten in the powerful
thrusts of his climax. Pulling his cock slowly out from the release of
those tight young muscles, and kissing Phil on the mouth again whilst
murmuring soothing words to him in simple Spanish that he should
understand. He reached down to grip and pull on Foden's cock as he lay
over him, nuzzling their faces together and letting his own hairy
features scratch and tickle across the smoothness of the 22-year-old's
face.

`You felt amazing,' he hissed earnestly.

His Filipe just nodded in a shaky way. `It did,' he agreed almost
limply, his face shiny with fresh sweat, a dazed look about him. He
moaned as Guardiola played with his prick, rubbing the sensitive tip with
his thumb and pulling the foreskin further back. `Oh god,' the
footballer purred for him, eyes rolling, `ohhhh yes, Papi...'

Down he went, kissing over the firmness of Phil's chest, then a daring
zigzag of pecks over his abdomen until he was taking that fat erection on
his tongue and sucking him again, hunched over to do it, his firm warm
hands still pinning the youngster's hard body to the bed, not wanting
him to move a muscle - just to let Papi do the work and finish him, lips
pulling up and down his shaft and tongue swirling about the head. He
stopped with his face over it, tongue extended to lick the tip, and he
stared with fierce intensity up the boy's pale body, looking at his
wondering and joyous face - every time was like the first time for Foden,
he thought, and that in turn made him feel young and exploratory, even at
52. He smiled assertively at his Golden Boy and went back to work.


In the darkness of the hotel room directly above them, a simple rectangle
of light glowed in the dark, and the suite's solitary occupant was
taking full advantage of an empty second bed - he wasn't sure where his
roommate, Philip Foden, had gotten to, but he wasn't going to worry
about it, when it meant he could attend to his erection, jerking off
frantically under the covers and letting the sensitive tip of his slender
prick rub repeatedly against the duvet until he was incredibly close to
shooting. With nervous eyes, the 23-year-old Argentine kept glancing
sharply in the direction of the empty bed, and then at the door, unsure
if Foden was drunk asleep somewhere else, or due back in their shared
room at any minute - Alvarez was no risk taker, and yet the uncertainty
added an extra frisson to his midnight wank, ready to empty loaded balls
and make a mess of his thighs.

On the glowing phone screen was a cropped image of another lad's big
weapon, gripped tightly and tip glistening with pre-cum. It was one of
several of the dirty pics he'd been sent by his boyfriend, as Enzo
Fernandez did quite regularly - it was exciting that the international
teammates were both based in England at last, as planned, but the
schedules of their different major clubs meant that the young pair had
barely seen each other since Enzo's debut at Chelsea. And thus... the
discreetly shared intimate pictures between them, all Fernandez's idea
and something Alvarez was much more nervous to try.

But tonight, panting to himself, the 5ft7 forward creamed against the
cotton of his bedcovers, staring lustily at the naked selfies he'd been
sent by Enzo, and wishing he had his beautiful Argentine boyfriend here
with him in bed, as together as they'd been in Qatar on their journey to
World Cup success - a togetherness which had only been heightened by the
drama of judgmental Sergio Aguero! Neither Julian nor Enzo knew what
their great hero, Lionel Messi, had done to shut Aguero up and make that
danger go away, but they were both deeply grateful to Leo regardless.
Their young love had begun several years ago now, but sharing the World
Cup together had really allowed them to step up from curious playmates to
an intensely devoted couple.

Glad of his roommate's mystery absence, Julian groaned and yanked on his
messy wet cock, spurting more of his juices under the covers, and staring
hungrily at the big hefty cock of his absent partner, wondering for how
much longer he could wait - if it remained quite so difficult to
rendezvous with his Fernandez, would he be able to remain so fiercely
loyal and faithful to the other Argentinian...?


Phil unloaded a week's build-up of cum, spunking into the grateful mouth
of Pep Guardiola, and trembling between the bedding and the strong hands
on his hips. He cried out loudly, perhaps too loudly, until Pep was
kissing back up his body and then snogging him again, wrapping arms about
him, holding him tight - the young player grappled back, wanting to touch
every inch of the warm body, wanting to just wrap entirely against him
and interlock with this magnificent man. He was still trembling, not just
with pleasure but with a sort of nervous tension of anticipation - he had
been building up to the physicality of this reunion between them for so
long, after all.

But in Pep's embrace, he calmed and stilled, almost laughing at his own
nervous disposition in the throes of passion and in the afterglow of
completion, his hole throbbing and his cock sensitive, balls emptied and
muscles stiffening. More kisses came rushing to his mouth and he twisted
and angled his body to receive them, grinding against Pep's hairy
strength even as both men were spent and emptied, as if he was already
craving a round 2 that neither of them really had the energy for.

As Guardiola finally let go of him, Foden was left straining into the air
for a last kiss, feeling abandoned and cool as the other man's body left
his - but the 52-year-old, stark naked and dick swinging, was leaping
from the bed simply to get their drinks, humming to himself in a way that
was jovial and relaxed, and made Phil smile deeply. Nudity and big
swinging cock aside, he wished the world could see this side of his Papi,
so playful and relaxed, away from the moody intensity that his job often
required. He thought about how many of his City teammates perhaps felt
cowed and awkward around their tactician leader, and his smile deepened:
no, he didn't need anyone else to see this more relaxed side of Pep,
because it was all his, this whistling and cheery figure, more soft and
human, and his eyes followed him across the room. The robe was back on
already, and he wondered if Pep was in some way insecure about his
slender ageing physique, when it was still so firm and hot, a mature
Adonis in the scally lad's eyes.

Phil pawed at his own body and rolled into a more comfortable position on
the bed, catching the towel that he was tossed; he rubbed its soft
embrace over his sweaty face and chest, and then across his slick crotch
to wipe away what was left of his messy load and Pep's drool. He sat on
the edge of the bed, taking his ice-heavy G&T, and wondering if there was
some lie that he could use to avoid returning to his roommate and just
staying overnight under these sheets with Papi instead.

Guardiola stood over him, smiling silently and taking a drink. Foden
grinned back at him, sheepish and satisfied, and tasted his own, starting
a little at how strong the older man had made it, but just nodding his
grateful approval. It was a perfect moment, safe and happy in this secret
bubble with the head coach, and so he wasn't sure how he went and
spoiled it, but he did - pulled back and cuddled as Pep rejoined him on
the bed, pressing their backs and shoulders into a mound of ornate
cushions, arm about his neck, icy glasses clinking between their hands:
`I can't believe you don't ever look at any other players on the squad
instead of me,' he thought aloud in an absent murmur, still pinching
themself at his perfect affair with this man, singled out among all the
studs of the City squad!

It wasn't much of a pause, but it was there - just a second or two too
long, the slightly wary look on Pep's lined face, the two of them
staring closely at each other and Phil's bright smile freezing awkwardly
on his sharp features. And Pep laughing then, awkwardly, and clearing his
throat - `What makes you say that?' he demanded, a guilty edge to his
voice and his averted eyes, and Phil felt a little lurch of horror at his
own clumsy comment and the ominous truth it might have revealed. Even as
he sternly told himself not to overreact and spoil things, he felt his
hand reach over and grip a bit more firmly at the warm hairy muscle of
one thigh, holding onto Guardiola as if he was about to lose his club
daddy; who else did the iconic football manager have his eye on?

`Silly boy,' Pep was chuckling, but too late - fractionally too late,
but enough to make Phil worry, and sink away from the satisfied euphoria
of their quick urgent fucking - he was the gaffer's special Golden Boy,
but... for how much longer?



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

Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL
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