Date: Sun, 5 Nov 2023 19:03:30 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 373

Part 373: An `El Classico' Rematch in Paris


It was an experience devoid of the heart-stopping excitement of last
year; it was nice to be suited and booted and to get the admiring nods
and handshakes of some of the finest figures in football, many of them
distractingly attractive older men in designer tailoring.. And the club
guidance about diet and alcohol on this brief trip to France had quickly
been dismissed by the senior figures in his group, meaning he was tipsy
on presumed top-quality champagne and had stuffed his face with ambiguous
vol-au-vents since arrival. But there was plenty missing from Gavi's
2023 Ballon D'Or experience.

Last year had been one of electric tension, unable to believe the leaked
information that he was to receive the same Kopa Trophy that had
previously been awarded to his secret boyfriend - it remained one of the
best nights of Pablo's young life, a wide-eyed 18-year-old at the top
table of his international sport. It was a combo of those two things that
meant he was enduring tonight's late-October ceremony in Paris with a
mixture of quiet cynicism and glossy insincere enjoyment - a combo of not
winning, and who wasn't here.

Aggressively competitive as he was, the 19-year-old Spanish boy didn't
like to think he was petty or selfish about such prizes, but there was
definitely a dullness to being here the year after he'd stood up there
and collected a prize - in reality, he was now years from snatching an
actual Ballon d'Or and his moment as the `golden boy' of world
football was already passing, as if 19 wasn't still spectacularly young
for the things he was achieving in the Barcelona first team. Like the
rest of the small Barca entourage who he was seated with for the whole
event, ostensibly here to support their Women's team and their club's
favourite son Messi, he saw little chance of a win in his own name, and
so felt like shiny glamorous filler at someone else's big night.

And that was the other thing - bosses back home in Catalonia had been
fussy and stringent about simultaneously having a bright-faced contingent
to represent their club at the event, but about limiting who exactly
could go. And Pedri Lopez, it seemed, was at too crucial a turning point
in his rehab and return to training, which meant that Gavi was on yet
another overnight trip without the room-sharing comforts of his handsome
boyfriend, or his soft tender lips, thoughtful mysterious eyes, strong
curving cock, exploratory tongue. Gavi was furiously longing for the
other young star's return to the Barca line-up so that it could stop
being a logistical battle to spend nights together.

As it was, Gavi was just another young football player in black tie,
swilling champagne and ogling at the legends old and new who bobbed
through the circles of this major awards event, its glamour and
excitement largely passing the teen by. He kept imagining the cosy night
in he might have been able to share at Pedri's plush apartment if he was
back in their great city and not sat here in this stiff awkward chair!

Still, the 19-year-old little stud managed to keep a plasticky grin on
his dainty face and avoid the expressive belligerence that covered it
throughout most football matches - until, that was, it came to the
announcement of the 2023 Kopa Trophy.


For Jude, tonight was everything that it had been for his counterpart
last year, a night of dizzying success that cemented what he already
knew: he was really fucking making it in his childhood dream, and the
whole bloody world could see it. From the moment he met his family at the
hotel and was helped into his couture, he'd felt light-headed and even
humbled - trying to strut the red carpet coolly and then be introduced to
hero after hero was a test to the calm maturity that everyone celebrated
in him. Everybody from his mum and agent to his teammates and rivals were
telling him the obvious, that the youth equivalent of the Ballon d'Or
was his, but he was frightened to believe it as the event unfolded -
until, that was, he had clammy fingers about the prize itself and was
stood grinning modestly out at the sea of dark suits and glittering
dresses.

The only thing bothering Bellingham tonight was how it was passing in a
whirl of unreality - would he even remember any of this tomorrow when he
touched down in Madrid?

He'd held a couple of glasses of champers for the cameras, but he was
actually totally sober on sparkling water at his coaches' insistence,
and yet he felt drunk on the excitement of it all, lost in this galaxy of
superstars. Big international figures of yesteryear clutched his hands in
theirs and slapped him heavily on broad shoulders, whilst key stars from
the Premier League back home would punch him playfully in the arms and
chastise him for choosing La Liga, demanding to know if he really saw
himself spending 10-15 years at Real Madrid instead of coming to stir
things up in England's top-flight. A couple of members of the
award-winning City squad were there in sharp dark seats and they badgered
him and his parents playfully at the bar, their attractive WAGs shooting
him big smiles that felt flirtatious - he was sure that Kevin de
Bruyne's eyes were trying to undress him even as her grinning
ginger-haired hubby told him that he thought about retiring every time he
watched him play.

And eventually Jude Bellingham just had to pull himself away from this,
overwhelmed. Feigning a need for the toilet that quickly became real, the
6ft1 midfield prodigy slipped away down the quietest route he could find,
avoiding more inevitable congratulatory dialogues, and just disappearing
into one of the outer passages of the ornate theatre venue, casting his
eyes about for the gents.


In the roomy cubicle of the toilets, Gavi sighed huskily down the line of
his iPhone, and nodded resignedly to the chirpy voice that met him. `You
aren't even staying overnight,' Pedri cajoled in Spanish, teasing him
in an easy manner, as he had as soon as he picked up the call. `Come on,
stop being a moody fool. Smile for the cameras and I'll see you tomorrow
at training, if you're not too hungover...!'

Gavi smirked a little at his boyfriend's teasing, but was slow to
answer, sat down on the closed toilet lid and swirling the dregs of some
champagne in his glass, nodding again as if the other lad could see.
`I'm just bored,' the 19-year-old muttered for the dozenth time, and
he could hear how sulky and ridiculous he sounded, hiding from the glitz
of a ceremony that football players and fans would kill to attend. He
rolled his eyes at himself and tried to think about how it had felt last
year, but the nostalgia only threw tonight's dullness into further
relief!

`Stop sulking,' Pedri instructed him simply. `I'm going to hang up on
you, sexy.'

Gavi smiled just to hear that simple compliment, and he began to wonder
how long he could hide in these upstairs toilets of the fancy theatre.
For a moment, his other hand left the near empty champagne glass on the
shelf to the side and slid across the breast of his blazer, toying just
below his bowtie and tickling a few buttons of the starchy white shirt.
`Hmm,' he mused as it began to head south, thinking that perhaps Pedri
wouldn't hang up if he cheered up a bit and started talking dirty... He
didn't hear his boyfriend's next quiet comment down the line, hand
paused halfway down his front, cock twitching in his suit pants and
undies, as a door slammed and footsteps echoed and then he could hear a
loud sigh and the tinkle of piss in urinal. `Uh,' he mouthed, and the
nervous tension in his voice must have been obvious to his listener.

`I'll go,' Pedri said calmly and quietly, `if you're not alone any
more - just text me when you're all boarding the flight, and let me know
you land safe, okay buddy?'

Suddenly too awkward to chat on the phone in the faux privacy of his
cubicle, Gavi's only answer was a sort of awkward half-cough, and then
the call bleeped out of existence in his ear, and he stood up from the
toilet. The loos had been empty when he found his way in and dialled up
his boyfriend, interrupting his night of TV bingeing alone, but the sound
of another guest using the urinals made the teen very conscious of how
risky it might have been to talk so frankly to Pedri - the sound of the
guy pissing out there was so echoey that this cubicle would hardly have
contained his muttered complaints and quiet little affections during the
quick chat with his Barca hunk.

Now Gavi just slid the phone decisively into the inner pocket of his
blazer, unlocked the door, and strutted out into the main chamber of the
mens' toilets; he did so with a ballsy swagger and puffed-out chest,
which was more to gaslight himself than to impress whoever had come in to
make genuine use of the facilities. But his manner became more rigid and
awkward as he stood there and spotted who was using the middle urinal, a
distinctive profile even from behind - not least from the fashionable
bagginess of his dress trousers, which looked ridiculous to Gavi but had
been well-received on the stupid red carpet.

Gavi paused and stared daggers at the 20-year-old from behind, then moved
quietly over to the marble block of sinks; he considered not washing his
hands and just hurrying out of the bathroom, because he didn't want to
have to force out stupid platitudes and join the general fawning over the
new Madridista. Instead, he stood there with warm water rushing over his
soapy hands, eyes fixed on the mirror, and then meeting Jude's as the
taller young man arrived at the sink to his left.

`Hola,' the 6ft1 midfielder greeted quite brightly, his Spanish thick
with jarring accent.

Gavi was as moodily quiet as he'd remained on the phone, just staring
back at the other player's reflection, and then jerking his head that
way to stare at him properly; if he'd managed to hide his almost comical
scowls during the ceremony, he was failing now, pouting sulkily at the
new Kopa winner, and furrowing into a frown. A soft half-laugh slipped
out of Jude's lips and he spoke again in awkwardly accented but
surprisingly accented Spanish - `Is there something on my clothes?'

Gavi just stared frostily at him and Jude's smile faded. Gavi backed
away from the sink and in a moody rush of blood to the head, turned and
just spat at the ground near his successor's shiny shoes. `Well done,'
the 19-year-old snapped in ferocious Spanish, `and enjoy the rest of
your night.' He shook his damp hands at the sink and moved away to the
cloths at the side, ready to dry them and stalk moodily away from this
jumped-up Englishman - he was burning up with much more than his boredom
at the night, the memories of El Classico fresh in his heart. He wiped
his hands quickly and turned to make for the door - but suddenly Jude was
blocking that path, overtaking him in a couple of long strides, and now
looming over him.

`Gracias,' Bellingham told him in a dry voice, his lean face deadly
serious, slipping then into English. `What the fuck's your problem,
short-stuff?'


Jude didn't think he'd been particularly rude to the Barca youth during
Saturday's game: nothing more than the slight banter he'd share with an
opponent back in the Bundesliga or in his Birmingham early days. Sure,
he'd laughed when he'd bested Gavi in tackles, and he'd celebrated as
openly as always when he scored his inevitable brace of goals. He'd
traded ambiguous remarks in the younger boy's ear when they passed in
quiet moments, but he'd only returned the scowling antipathy of the
Spaniard - the game between their clubs was a massive one for La Liga and
surely a bit of banter and fighting talk was all part of it, they were
all at it...! And Real Madrid had won 2-0, so of course Gavi just
represented all of Barca's bitter resentment - a fallen giant, a club
much reduced in recent years, and this angry little puppy was going to
hold that as a grudge...!

So the Brummie youth laughed calmly and stood there, glowering back at
Gavi's moody face, and blocking his path to the door. When his question
went unanswered, he repeated it to the best of his ability in Spanish,
though he wasn't sure if his choice of curse words had the same impact.
He smiled coolly and held his ground, unintimidated by this diminutive
rottweiler of the Barca midfield. He'd had his banter on Saturday, but
so had Gavi, full of muttered comments, some of them perhaps not meant to
be understood by a green English migrant, and the little tit had even
thwacked him on the arse at one point in a patronising and dismissive
manner. 5 foot nothing and a complete Napoleon about it!

`Are you just pissed because I got your prize?' Bellingham demanded
then, finding the quiet awkward but not wanting to show it. `You know
they give it to someone new every year, don't you? That is kinda the
point, hey.'

Gavi's English didn't seem to be great, but he'd understood the point.
`Forget it,' he muttered in his own language. `Forget it.' He
muttered a couple of other things but for all his speed of learning, Jude
didn't follow them. Gavi went to push past him but he couldn't help but
block him with one arm, pushing a hand at his shoulder and confronting
him. `Or is it El Classico?' he demanded, a bit more forcefully. `All
that trash talk from you and we still won.'

Gavi really scowled at him and he looked like he might spit at the ground
again - Jude Bellingham, the new contender for the crowns of Messi and
Ronaldo, wasn't fucking standing for that. He grabbed the 5ft8
footballer by the jaw, holding his face commandingly and tilting it away
so that Gavi's spit just bubbled stupidly at his lips. He let go and the
shorter guy stumbled awkwardly back from him, face flushing. Jude almost
struck him with a proper blow to the face, riled by this stupid
confrontation and thinking just what a moody prick his opponent had been
at the game on Saturday, but stopping himself - bloodying the nose of a
Barcelona youth was hardly the kind of behaviour he wanted entering into
the burgeoning legend of his own career, and he tried to relax the
automatic fists that his strong hands were forming at his sides.

Gavi stared at him again but the kid looked embarrassed now, and suddenly
younger - there was just a year between them, but height and temperament
made Jude feel older, more superior to the hot-blooded Spaniard. He
opened his mouth to speak and then noticed something, the odd angular
crease in the front of the other player's more tight-fitting suit
trousers, exposed as his jacket shifted open and he tried to steady
himself to rush past. Unable to stop himself, Jude let out a little
barking laugh, and shifted position to keep blocking Gavi's exit,
emphasising his superior height.

`Que?' snapped the 19-year-old.

Jude smirked and said nothing, just nodding downwards, and then reaching
down to grab himself through the baggier crotch of his own outsized
pants. He stood over the shorty, chuckling to himself, and thinking that
he was really going to have to work on his ego if the world kept falling
over itself to suck his dick.


Gavi hadn't realised that, after Pedri ended the call, his bored teenage
horn hadn't continued to swell in the front of his tight pants; after
all, he was having trouble processing anything about the tall English
newcomer as anything but aggravating and smug. From his towering height
to the delicate scent of his aftershave, from those obnoxious trousers to
the thin smirk of his lips... he was just a big infuriating bastard, an
entitled prick who had crashed into the Spanish league as if he owned the
place, and...

And yet Jude's hand was on his shoulder, steering him back, and the
19-year-old was doing nothing to resist - in fact, he was reaching
scrabbling hands to his side to push open the cubicle door that he'd
shut behind him, and almost tripping over himself as he hurried backwards
into it, eyes wide and lips trembling. His knees were bending almost of
their own accord, lowering expensive black fabric to the polished floor,
and his face held once more in Jude's strong grip, stroking and grasping
his jawline, and angling it up to stare into his smirking features. Gavi
knelt submissively on the cubicle floor and the Kopa prize winner towered
luxuriously over him, doing nothing but grinning.

`Good boy,' the Real player said in silky Spanish. It was the same
smirking patronage that had come through his banter in El Classico,
riling up a teenager who took the slightest tickle into aggression once
he had his footy boots on. Gavi's entire playing style depended on his
surprising ferocity, his willingness to throw himself into conflict with
men twice his age and almost twice his weight. Now the terrier was tamed,
kneeling silently in front of the new king, and practically drooling. His
brain exploded with conflicting feelings, his frustration at everything
about tonight not combatting an almost primal need to taste the rising
alpha of world football. He thought about that moment of indignance on
the pitch on Saturday, slapping a cheeky hand against the taller lad's
backside as if to congratulate him, trying to put him down or make him
uncomfortable - but just feeling the hard resistant muscles beneath his
spank as he strolled away, and seeing the utterly unfazed cool in
Bellingham's gaze as they ran separate ways on the pitch.

`Good boy,' Jude repeated smoothly, in English now, and Gavi nodded
silently, mouth open, eyes wide and glistening. He licked his pouting
lips and rose on his knees, watching Jude's hands make light work of
cummerbund and zip fly - and there it was, big and actually still
flaccid, hanging out of the front of the black fabric, waiting for him.
Long, pendulous, caramel brown but intensely pink at the tip, dormant but
waiting to be woken with a kiss. Gavi breathed deeply, still infuriated
by perfumed smugness, and dove in to taste it, falling under Jude's
spell.


Bellingham groaned quietly and stood in the same superhero posture with
which he celebrated each inevitable La Liga goal. He felt the hot wet
mouth close about his heavy cock and relaxed into it, feeling the skin
tighten as his weapon swelled and stiffened. Soon Gavi was gobbling over
it and trailing spit up and down the shaft, a talented little cocksucker
if ever there was one! He reminded Jude almost of Phil Foden in Doha,
noshing him off with red-faced enthusiasm only a few nights after Jude
had been welcomed and initiated by that king of sluts, Harry Kane.

Jude wished he hadn't had to leave the shiny Kopa trophy with event
staff after the photographs were done, he wished he had it in one hand,
held coolly at his side, one of the night's prizes, and the other this
slut on his knees - last year's winner, Spain's bright young thing, now
choking on his big Brummie hard-on, eating him up like the entire fucking
world of football, ha. The sudden lewd toilet action was something that
the 20-year-old stud could feel only as MILDLY surprising; of course he
was getting blown, just like he deserved, just when he'd needed a short
break from the applause and attention of the main event. And when he'd
shot his load, he thought, he'd swan calmly back into it with just a
faint glow in his cheeks, and he'd shake hands with Gavi's Barca
teammates, and gloat to them too about how Madrid had thrashed them two
days ago. Gavi was sucking his big black cock on behalf of the whole of
La Liga, he thought, and then he told himself Yep, this ego is going to
get out of control, for sure.

At first he just stood there, presenting himself like a trophy, or like
he was celebrating a penalty, but then he reached down and slid his
fingers through the short silky turf of Gavi's chestnut hair. He held
his head and fucked his mouth, unable to get his whole length in there
but enough to choke and gag the lad, enjoying the splutters and gulps; he
withdrew his cock and whipped it against one cheek and then the other,
then wanked its wet tip against plump lips. He smirked down into Gavi's
wide brown eyes, drooling a small drop of spit right down against the tip
of his member and over Gavi's quivering lips - then he pushed his dick
back in and let the youth go to town on it, sucking him quite expertly,
making him wonder how many cocks the sulky bastard had eaten at the Nou
Camp!

Previously, Jude would have settled for this, this would have been more
than enough. Previously, after all, he'd felt so new to this, and a
little intimidated. There had been a time when Jude was naive and
prudish, the nervous sidekick to illicit experiments of his friend Jadon
Sancho. But then there'd been Kane by the swimming pool, and Foden, and
Trent and Hendo, then his German Turk pal at Dortmund, and... he pictured
trembling Kalvin Phillips in the night, sucking him off and thinking he
was asleep! He pictured that Scottish thug Kieran Tierney, swaying after
him into the Glasgow alleyway. He pictured those sturdy pale cheeks
parting for him, and he knew he needed to fuck again.


Gavi thought it was over, thought he might be left here, humiliated with
spit and pre-cum on his boyish face - but as he was hoisted quite roughly
up to his feet, he saw the determined and excited glint in Jude's eyes,
and he knew otherwise. He was flipped against the firmer wall of the
corner cubicle, the one that was all shining beige porcelain, and he felt
Jude's fingers clutching his hair again. Just like on the pitch, the
taller guy was leaning in close and whispering hotly in his ear. He said
something in English that Gavi didn't understand, and then attempted it
in Spanish - `You are going to have me inside you', or something close
enough.

Gavi nodded in spite of himself, shocked at the furious urgency of his
agreement, at the speed with which he shucked his Gucci blazer and let it
fall aside, feeling Jude's hands undoing his trousers for him at the
front. He shook and whimpered and hoisted up the tails of shirt just as
the bigger boy pulled down his taut trousers and the white CK underpants
underneath. He felt his own plump rear exposed, just as it had almost
been that time when he skidded clumsily across the turf, and he pushed it
backwards, wanting it to impress and excite this young king. When Jude
grabbed and spanked it, he moaned and yelped, and thought again how this
cubicle was not soundproof, but didn't care any more.

The sound of spit, and he knew he needed to say something urgently - he
imagined handsome Jude drooling down onto that big brown cock, and he
whispered out the Spanish for `virgin!' several times, hoping that the
big lad's oddly impressive language skills were up to that. Just as he
Jude chuckled hotly in his ear, Gavi once more yelped `Virgin!'
emphatically, unaware the word was almost identical in both tongues, then
experienced a giddy hit of relief as he realised Jude had already
understood - it wasn't the thick hot tip of his meat that Jude was
sliding between plump pale cheeks, but a single spit-wet finger. Gavi
felt the fingertip on his ring and he whined his consent.


Jude hadn't believed what he heard the brat say about being `virgen,
virgen!', not with cocksucking skills like those, and yet once he was
one finger in, he knew it - wow, he'd never fingered anything so tight.
It's not like Kieran had been loose and easy for him, as he quite
nervously entered his first male backside, but Gavi's bottom was
vice-like, and he had to pull back his finger and spit on it some more.
Then, over-excited, he reached around and made the pouting poser lick it
for him, then shoved it back into him. Even this he loved, pinning the
5ft8 rottweiler to the wall and parting his cheeks - this'll teach the
uppity arse-hole for trying to pat my bum in El Classico, ha!

Jude pulled the single finger in and out, still questioning whether the
gasping slut hadn't been passed around by the dominant blokes at Barca
or Spain, but trying to loosen and prepare the tight `virgen' ring that
clamped about his own digit - and wanking impatiently at his member with
his other hand, so furiously ready to feel the ultimate pleasure like he
had as he topped the grumpy Scotsman that late summer night.

When he tried two fingers, it was a real struggle. He spat heavily onto
his two fingers and ran them back and forward in the warm soft crack,
losing track of where Gavi's hole even was. Muttered Spanish failed to
register for him, whatever else the Barca slut was telling him. But he
got them in, two fingers stretching and entering the player's backside,
and his own cock absolutely throbbed with expectation - god, this was
going to feel UNREAL!

He had to shift Gavi into a new position, bent over and face pressed on
top of the cistern. He pushed the white shirt further up the teen's
back, enjoying the dense muscular strength of the smaller body. He pushed
the white undies and trouser waist further down solid thighs, and paused
to give a couple of good spanks to the bare cheeks, leaving red
hand-marks on the Barca backside - he found it oddly beautiful in a way
that he hadn't paused to appreciate with Tierney, the full pert muscles
of the 19-year-old's rump making him look like some big booty porn
bitch.

In went two fingers again, more roughly, more demandingly - he felt like
he was already close to cumming and he had to play with his cock in slow
controlled strokes, though he just could not force himself to stop
properly. He was utterly thrilled by not just Gavi's aching tightness,
but the way the stocky little midfielder groaned and gasped for him,
muttering contradictory `Too much!' and `Oh yes!' with alternating
bursts of breath - and it was the mumbling speech of the other Kopa
prince that finally broke Jude's paper-thin patience. He pulled his
slick fingers away and spat noisily down between the spread cheeks, then
again on the shaft and tip of his painfully hard member. `Brace
yerself,' he grunted at Gavi and he pushed the head of his cock between
those cheeks, rubbing it at the lad's crack with such little sense of
entry that he might as well be trying to fuck a wall.

He pulled away and tapped two fingers over the arse-hole, his other hand
gripping hard at the waistline. Then he pushed in again, more sure of
where the tiny entrance was, angling his cock as carefully as he could,
really desperate to feel those muscles clamp about his weapon - he
gripped both hands at Gavi's bare hips, feeling the tremor and intensity
of the tight-muscled body beneath him, and thrusting forward as best he
could. Gavi's cry was a little more pained, almost enough to make him
stop, but then the groan sounded more pleased, and he picked out `huge'
and `jesus christo' among the rushed breathy muttering that largely
outdid his beginner Spanish. And moreover, really stopping him from
admitting defeat, was the changed feeling, the sense of a change - he
thought he could feel it accepting it, could feel a new pressure against
the head of his cock, as if he was just about, just about, getting the
tip in... And then, just as he began to feel the strength of this muscular
backside relent to his dominance, just as he thought he could feel the
tightness open for him, squeezing at his cock-head, just as he almost got
exactly what he wanted-

`No,' yelped Gavi's voice more forcefully, `no, no, no, stop!' Not a
coquettish `too much' or `it's huge', but a definite refusal. Jude
bit his lip unhappily and pulled awkwardly back, his cock throbbing and
balls on fire; Gavi was sliding awkwardly sideways off the toilet, pants
at his knees and shirt hanging huge and baggy. When he turned his face
his eyes were shiny with tears and Jude felt a surge of guilt - had he
pushed too much for this? No! The cocksucker had been gagging for it-

`I'll go slower,' Bellingham found himself hissing, an almost begging
desperation in his own Brummie voice. `We'll find proper lube, I'll
try-' He was instantly embarrassed by the need in his voice, the urgency
and greed - none of his cool domination there any more. But Gavi probably
didn't understand what he was saying, and was paying him no attention
anyway as he wriggled about, pulling up CKs and forcibly tucking his
shirt up into the pants he was zipping up, his face bright red and shiny
tears running down his puffy cheeks.

Bellingham was confused and annoyed and several other emotions, but he
snatched at the lapels of the blazer as Gavi tried to fight into it.
`Hey, hey,' he hissed. `Stop - did I hurt you? I'm sorry, look, I'm
sorry - I didn't mean to-'

`No, no,' struggled the Spaniard, writhing against him uncomfortably,
the roomy cubicle reduced to a tiny prison as their two male bodies
fought for space, and Jude's big hard cock swung between them.
Teary-eyed and trembling, Gavi was back in his disarrayed clothes and
falling away from him, snatching for the door-lock; Jude was just
confused and guilty and kinda embarrassed, needlessly ashamed of his own
need to fuck a tight laddish arse, gutted that he'd felt just the tip
enter.

And then the Kopa winner was alone, the cubicle door slammed shut in his
face, and he rocked on the heels of his black leather shoes. His chest
heaving with overwrought breaths, the big sexy footballer looked down at
the way his shiny wet cock still stuck out from his open fly. For fuck's
sake. He re-locked the door, spat in his palm, and grabbed hold of
himself - he'd have to sort this out before he floated back into his
adoring public.


Cold water splashed on his face, Gavi fled the bathroom without stopping
to fix his ruffled hair or disturbed bowtie, or to tuck the last knot of
shirt into the waist of his suit trousers. The blazer was only half on as
the 5ft8 midfielder scampered awkwardly down the corridor, heading away
from voices until he was going up another flight of stairs and hiding on
the landing to a floor not in use tonight. Here he could find a
windowsill and lean heavily onto it, gasping for breath and trying to
ignore the painful burning sensation in his arse-hole, all but deflowered
by Jude's powerful insistence. It had hurt like hell, even just the
fingering, but that had hardly been the problem - he had been electrified
with an excitement akin to this night in 2022, winning the Trophy
himself.

Safely alone, he cried loudly and clung to the windowsill, and then
cursed himself in angry whispers. The amount of times he had put Pedri
off, refusing and delaying and procrastinating! The ways he'd wriggled
out of the inevitable, promising his boyfriend that they would do it
soon, but `soon' never quite coming...! The times he'd watched that
crestfallen expression cross Pedri's thick dark brows and nervous
handsome face, as Gavi prevaricated away from giving up his arse to the
other Spanish starlet. And here he was bending over for the Englishman
like it was nothing, ready to go through that pain for someone he didn't
even like-! He sobbed and fidgeted and thought how stupid and messy he
would look when he eventually headed downstairs. He'd been drunker than
he realised, he supposed, even when he rang Pedri, never mind when he
spat at the feet of the Real Madrid superstar.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Angry with himself, Gavi felt his erection fade away
unattended, and his bottom continue to sting, and he shakily took the
phone out of his pocket. Just as when he'd strayed before, stupidly
allowing himself to pleasure a couple of other older men in moments of
frustration or resentment with his Lopez, he couldn't even fathom the
idea of keeping a secret - he was hitting the buttons and calling Pedri
before he even knew what to say. The other Barcelona player had answered
the phone in seconds, but Gavi just cried down the line - `What is it?
What's happened? Gavi, talk to me!' But Gavi couldn't talk sense to
him, he was just so angry with how he close he'd come to letting someone
else take his cherry.


Gavi was angry and sobbing, but Jude was grunting quietly and spurting
stream after stream of silvery-white cum on the green-painted interior of
the cubicle door, firing his cum freely there and letting it dribble down
the paintwork in thin trails. Controlling his breathing, the 6ft1 hunk
continued to pull gently on his aching cock, and finally slowing to a
stop; he reached for some toilet paper to rub across his sticky hand and
then to dab along the shaft and head of his mighty Madridista cock. He'd
come so close to a greater satisfaction, so the solo orgasm felt
anti-climactic, despite the messy evidence.

Washing his hands and then his face in the sink and at the mirror, Jude
was still confused. Had he pressed himself too hard at the youngster? Had
he misread the burbled Spanglish between them? He was frightened by his
own forcefulness for the first time, and questioning the rapidly
expanding ego that had brought him here. But he was also sure Gavi had
been up for it and totally complicit, so he was daring to question what
else the sulky teen was upset about - he really was a virgin, that was
for sure! But he did his arse already belong to somebody else?

Bellingham was confused and annoyed but not ready to let anything ruin
tonight, El Classico and Kopa victories still all his. He tidied himself
up in the mirror and admired himself, only momentarily dented by the
revival of two thoughts: as hot as he was, he'd been refused by
tonight's attempted fuck; and worse, he was so consumed by lust after
Kieran Tierney that he'd lost his cool and begged for it. Fucking hell...
he was in deep now.



'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