Date: Sat, 27 Jan 2024 12:49:38 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 387

Part 387: Kevin's Choice


The new Kevin de Bruyne, post-injury, was different in more ways than
just his hair: the lustrous red gold mane that he enjoyed sweeping his
fingers through with uncharacteristic vanity. Everyone around him at
Manchester City had commented on it, in their own different ways: a new
lightness and boldness in the lauded midfielder, a less serious response
to the pressure of his career stature. It was the longest gap the
32-year-old had experienced in his senior playing career, and so most of
his teammates and friends put it down to the sheer joy of his comeback, a
fine return to form in the Premier League. But there was a bit more to it
than that, and all was not as calm as it seemed on the smiling ginger
surface.

It was City's final day in Abu Dhabi before returning to the UK, their
Friday night clash at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium looming ahead - a
historical cursed away trip for the treble winners which this hot weather
training camp seemed largely devoted to.

Kevin was red-faced and sweaty, as he was pretty sure he had been since
the minute the squad touched down here; he was stomping away from one of
the synthetic pitches with his boots off, socked feet leaving
sweat-prints on bright fresh tarmac as he wove his way out of the action
in search of an unscheduled cool break. He could get fined for slacking,
he supposed, but De Bruyne had been working himself insanely hard all
week, and he was sure the coaching staff would be happy to go easy on
him.

Entering some shade from the still-hot late afternoon sun, the red-faced
Belgian processed through the quieter zones of the luxury sports camp
they were all but occupying to themselves, and glugged cold water from a
bottle in one clammy hand. He pulled on the chest of the training jersey
that was sticking to his body and then similarly tugged at the screwed
mesh lining of his shorts where it hugged his loose heavy cock and balls,
adjusting and briefly fondling the jewels within. Just this little bit of
self-touch set his flaccid cock stirring and his hormones simmering,
horny in the heat as most red-blooded men were; and suddenly he was
looking for more than just cool shade, but safe privacy.

The City midfielder made a sharp turn into some of the covered area and
then through some automatic sliding doors, enveloped immediately by
satisfying air-con. At a water station, he refilled his bottle and then
almost immediately drained it, finding a window that looked back out onto
the row of small pitches where most of the other lads were still hard at
work in assigned groups, including the one he had ditched. He stood there
watching for a short while, but kept needing to pull and adjust at his
damp top and the fit of his shorts, until he threw a frustrated glance in
the direction of a disabled loo. Its unlocked door beckoned him with an
invite of privacy and relative cool.

KDB plonked the emptied water bottle down on top of the station and gave
a couple of furtive looks up and down the passage, then made a rushed
movement in through the door, locked swiftly behind him. Instinctively
and irritably, he peeled the City training jersey straight off, pulling
its damp weight away from the thickset pale muscle of his torso, and
dumping it down in a heap at the side of the sink. He examined himself in
the mirror, enjoying how much more handsome he felt he looked with longer
hair and slightly leaner features, then reaching down and giving himself
a proper squeeze and tug through the front of the shorts - this was a bit
mad, but he really needed to attend to himself so he could focus.

He pushed a hand into the sweat-sticky contents of these shorts, holding
his fat semi and jostling his wrinkled balls, feeling the short soft
growth of his trimmed auburn pubes. Mmm. He glanced back at the door,
checking needlessly that he'd locked it, and then he pushed the shorts
down past his hips, over his lightly furred thighs, dropped past his
steely calves and then stepped clumsily over his socked feet.

Stood in front of the mirror, daring to admire his physique, the 5ft11
football hunk toyed with his cock and balls some more, bringing his cock
to pink-headed erectness, and then spitting on his palm to rub full veiny
life into it, feeling the soft pangs of frustrated pleasure - but not
enough pleasure, not yet, not just this. Nope. He moved across the small
square room and sat himself on the toilet lid, no longer facing the
mirror; he kept playing with his hard-on, but he brought up one thick
chunky leg and set an ankle against the disabled handlebar at the side,
lounging into an uneasy posture on this porcelain throne - angled enough
to let his other hand reach down and caress past his balls, onto the
fluff of his gooch, in the heat of his own rear.

This, after all, was the secret to Kevin's new attitude: this was a man
who, at 32, had discovered his own arse-hole.

Sighing to himself, he rubbed a wet finger against his ring and felt the
intensified pleasure of the other hand clutching his dick. Boredom and
curiosity had led his fingers on a wander during the quiet nights at the
start of his injury period, his wife refusing to service his needs when
he wasn't physically up to making love; wanks just weren't doing enough
for KDB, and so one curious digit had gone exploring. He supposed it had
been on his mind for a long while, but the frustrated isolation of injury
had called him further - and bit by bit, he'd learned to use some lube,
and progressed sometimes from one finger to two, and deeper, firmer, more
aggressively with himself. He'd borrowed a small vibrating toy of his
wife's and brought that into play a few times before, panicking, binning
it in case she noticed, and returning to the simpler pleasure of
fingering himself silly.

Here was the truth, though - a finger wasn't enough. Kevin was facing up
to something which had perhaps been gradually occurring to him for the
past few seasons, ever since his first nervous forays into guy-on-guy
fun. He'd been horrified when his ex-teammate Raheem Sterling tried to
persuade him to put a cock in him, really, having first dabbled with
young Tommy Doyle and his nervous wet blowies; Kevin had stalled
prudishly at the prospect of taking things further and actually fucking a
man. But now, finger entering his hole and pleasure washing through his
entire body, he was beginning to understand what he really wanted: a man
to fuck him.


He knew that it couldn't possibly be a `beginner's' option for a
virgin backside, but he couldn't help but think about that cocky English
lad's package as he began to finger himself and wank: just now, out in
the group work, he'd noticed it again, the way Jack's package bounced
and writhed in his shiny wet shorts as he bounded eagerly across the
length of the field. He must know, Kevin thought, that wearing such
under-sized kit just accentuated the monstrous weight in his underpants,
and it often raised his eyebrows to see it, that and sometimes too the
perfectly framed peach at the rear, brieflines cutting across each plump
cheek.

Jack Grealish, who had supposedly been in some awe of Kevin when he
arrived at City, had become a good friend to him in these couple of
seasons: he enjoyed the lad's brash humour and charisma, but also his
family-oriented sweetness and very genuine behaviour towards their fans.
He was a hard guy not to love, but recently Kevin had struggled to see
past the drooping monster in the front of his shorts and tracksuit. He
was a well-hung sexy bastard and sometimes Kevin couldn't help but
fantasise about something happening with him - he suspected wild-spirited
Grealo to be at least a little bi-curious, the jokes he made, and so he
thought it might be something he could make happen.

He fantasised about it now, circling a fingertip on his tight hole, and
feeling it tighten at the prospect of big Jack's big whopper, swinging
about in his shorts like that, but still he couldn't dismiss the sexy
prospect of that 28-year-old Brummie guy's dirty knowing grin. Maybe,
just maybe, Jack the Lad could be the one to fuck him...?


But then he also thought about his captain, Ruben Dias, in these matters
- there was less suggestion of open-mindedness from the stern handsome
Portuguese centre-back, but god, Dias was an impressive physical thing.

Kevin pictured him earlier today, arriving at breakfast - 6ft1 and
incredibly broad-shouldered, his arm and chest muscles bulging through
his shirt, and such an authoritative persona projected to the whole
dining room of footballers. Ruben was a towering man in more ways than
his height, and Kevin had always been very ready to defer to the younger
player as City's usual captain, once just respecting his authority, and
now... wondering about more than that.

He pictured him yesterday and on so many other occasions, undressing for
showers: every muscle so defined and obvious across his sculpted torso
and super-powered legs. He looked so incredibly strong and lean, and
Kevin suddenly had a flashback to the 26-year-old defender's underwear
photoshoot in the past - the pics had circulated briefly in the team's
group chats with many silly edits and captions, just like Jack's
fashionista antics did, and Kevin wondered if he'd been as fascinated by
the big bulge then as he more openly was now. He pictured Ruben's long
thick snake, soft and dangling, as he'd seen it in the showers in the
corner of his eye, and wondered if... would he be able to... could he...

He shuddered, pushing the finger further into his hole and starting to
relax it, but a nervous tension seizing the rest of his bulky body where
it slid sweatily against the toilet lid and the tiles of the wall - he
couldn't really be fucked by Ruben, could he?

De Bruyne pictured them on that city rooftop the other summer, when the
league title celebrations had... escalated. He hadn't got as wildly
involved as some, for sure, but he'd had his cock sucked and then stood
there, eyes wide, wanking his sturdy pale Belgian meat, and Ruben had
also held back - the two tall broad guys jerking off as others went
further. It was a faint scrap of memory now, the way Dias' hand had
rested at his hip, grazed the curve of his bare white arse. A faint
scrap, but stingingly vivid in its own way - had it been the sizzling
suggestion of that brief touch that first made Kev become curious about
this...?


But the point of that memory, he acknowledged, adjusting his clumsy
positioning on the imperfect throne of an access toilet, was that Ruben
had held back, like himself, and seemed less playful and adventurous than
some of their league-conquering teammates: and two of them in particular
struck Kevin as... well, up for anything.

Just the other day, during one of their relaxed evenings in the hotel
grounds, a play-fight between the two burly English blokes had spiralled
until they were practically ripping each other's clothes off, adding an
awkward edge to the way the loose assembly of footballers laughed along
with their banter and horseplay.

Kevin pictured them, pushing his finger slowly in and out of himself and
restraining a groan of satisfaction: he pictured the taller of the two,
dopey-faced and permanently grinning, and then the more rugged looks of
the shorter broader Yorkshire guy. Stones and Walker, Walker and Stones,
utterly inseparable and... two of the most hard-partying wild spirits of
the Man City elite. Kyle alone seemed to have put his cock everywhere in
Manchester and Cheshire, based on the stupid tabloids, and the
33-year-old Sheffield man seemed to have been very glad to fly out of
England and escape all that media scrutiny after his latest
affair/break-up/illegitimate child/whatever. And John, though seemingly
more settled and content these days, had has his little scandals too, a
pair of sex pests and horny philanderers, and... two of the more forward
adventurers on that rooftop, he dimly remembered, the exact details last
in a boozy haze.

Kevin fingered himself and stroked his shaft, picturing the way the two
burly men had wrestled and fought in the courtyard, giggling like
schoolboys, whilst the bulky 5ft10 right-back had fought to get his 6ft2
opponent into a headlock, all bulging biceps and straining neck veins.
Grunts and groans as the fight continued and big Stonesy got the upper
hand, almost wrestling the older lad to the ground, both of them wheezing
out delighted laughs as the fight got rougher and fuller; Kevin had
watched quietly from where he sat enjoying a zero-alcohol beer, ignoring
the semi in his loose cotton trousers.

And like big muscular Ruben, he pictured the two of them in the changing
rooms, ostentatious and unabashed in their well-defined bodies and
generously endowed downstairs regions; two more English lads who didn't
seem to mind the huge obvious bulges in their kit when jogging out into a
game, just like Jack Grealish...!


He thought of others, his fantasy daydream blurred with serious
consideration: a firm private determination to scratch this itch and try
this new taboo. He tried a second finger but found himself too tight.
More spit, more stroking, more focused effort to relax, contradictory but
necessary.

He thought of the other big defender, 6ft3 Spaniard Rodri, and wondered
if the giant 27-year-old had any kinks or curiosities, or was as blandly
well-behaved as he appeared and sounded. Kevin found it difficult to
imagine beyond Rodri's placid professional appearance, but he tried: he
wondered what the tall defender was like in bed, how loud or aggressive
he was with his beautiful wife, and how he fucked, whether he became as
animalistic and playful as Jack or Kyle or John.

He thought too of his Austro-Croatian teammate, who like Rodri had been
in his group for this afternoon's session: he supposed that 29-year-old
Mateo Kovacic looked every bit as wild and sexed-up as Rodri looked
serious and proper, and he wondered if the 5ft10 player had ever been
adventurous or curious in the way that some Premiership footballers
seemed so prone to. It was such a male-dominated environment, Kevin
reminded himself nervously, it was no wonder so many of them... tried
stuff. He tried to picture big Mateo going to work on his woman, and then
on himself, but something about this latest little fantasy didn't feel
right and he frowned speculatively as his mind roved on.

There was the younger new addition to the defence, of course, and he
pictured the big broad grin on the dark furry face of the other Croat:
the tall dark-haired beast who had joined their centre-back options from
Germany last summer. Was Josko Gvardiol really just 22? He seemed far too
developed for his young age, tall and broad and thickly bearded, but
totally full of energy and bounce - how much of that energy and bounce
did the Croatian centre-back take into the bedroom? That was more like
it, the thought of big built Gvardiol seemed to arouse the Belgian more
than Kovacic or Rodri, and he suddenly wondered if he'd ever caught the
Bundesliga import giving him lingering stares or suggestive grins when
they sat opposite each other at team meals or on the coach to away
fixtures?

Kevin shifted his position, lifting the one leg higher, arching his back
more, letting his buttocks slide sweatily over the plastic lid; he tried
again, managing to get two thick fingertips into his virgin hole, and
emitting a long low moan of pained enjoyment. Two fingers felt so much,
how did a guy really take a full cock...?!


He thought of another option, a less obvious one, but the player on their
squad he knew to be most firmly into such naughty activity: young Phil
Foden, a more manly 23 than the weedy kid who he'd first befriended. Had
Tommy Doyle, before he left for Sheffield, ever known that his best mate
was so kinky and open-minded...? Kevin was sure that couldn't be true,
and the sight of Phil on all fours on that outdoor table, about to be
shared by Jack and Kyle and John... fuck.

Just this morning, Kevin had crossed path with the prodigy midfielder,
the homegrown talent of their international line-up, and noticed just how
the youngster was looking more built and muscular, more developed and
manly, less the Stockport brat who they had all bantered and protected
like a little brother as he joined their ranks. As the only remaining
senior player who Pep Guardiola had inherited when taking over Man City,
Kevin considered himself part of the furniture at their elite club, but
he supposed that his time in the youth academy made young Phil the
longest-serving player in this team.

The 5ft7 Englishman had seemed to be arguing with the boss when Kevin
passed them on his way out - or not quite an argument, certainly no
shouting, but a stern disapproval on Guardiola's face, and a brattish
pout to Foden's - a disagreement of some kind between the gloried
manager and the up-and-coming star player. Kevin hadn't given it much
thought, knowing how Pep's demanding nature and pursuit of perfection
could cause such tensions between manager and egos - though he himself
had been too mild-mannered to ever clash with the boss, and he'd always
seen his friend Phil as the boss's Golden Boy.

But as Foden strode on out ahead of him, de Bruyne had found himself
unable to stop checking out the broadening shoulders and firm pert
backside, then, catching up with him as they both ran out, the bouncing
bulge in the front of his fresh shorts - less ostentatious than Grealo or
Walker or Stones, but very much there, and tugged and rearranged in swift
movement by a surly-faced young Phil, who ignored his attempts to start a
conversation, clearly in a mood about his disagreement with the gaffer.

Panting now, Kev continued to finger himself with two digits up to the
knuckle, his face strained and red and dripping with sweat, whilst his
other hand pumped his dick in long slow motions, bubbling pre-cum oozing
- he thought that there was something much less intimidating about young
Phil than the other guys who had cycled through his mind, the other
`options' in this squad of muscle and testosterone. He knew that young
family guy Foden was into more dirty fun than anyone would guess, though
he supposed not quite in the way he was looking for...

The 32-year-old felt frustrated and angry at himself, roving through
these supposed options as if any of them would automatically want to fuck
him should he offer his big white arse to them - he was sure lots of them
thought him a dull ginger brick! All tense and jangling, he tickled his
hole with two fingertips and wanked his cock more rapidly, eager for the
satisfaction and release that was coming his way. Various sexualised
images of his City teammates in their sweat-dripping training gear out on
the astro-turf rolled through his mind's eye, from bulging Grealish and
broad-chested Walker to pouting Foden and big grinning Gvardiol. He
pictured a flex of biceps from smiling Dias and a cheeky wink from
Kovacic and the hard serious stare of Rodri - and the whiskery bearded
features of little Bernardo Silva, who'd also been on that roof terrace
of sin and transgression.

Kevin shot his messy watery load down his ginger-furred thighs, panting
loudly, and remaining tensed in that position for two long minutes,
letting his heart rate recover. And then he was at the sink, scrubbing
his hands, washing his face, wiping spunk from his thigh, but unable to
do anything about the dripping sweat that rolled over his pecs and tummy
and down the backs of his calves. His dirty sweaty kit felt chafey and
uncomfortable against his pale pimpled skin, and he really wasn't up for
a couple more hours of training before he could get an ice-bath.

He looked himself down in the mirror with the same mingled satisfaction
and regret as came after these augmented wanks, feeling dirtied by the
act of playing with his bottom, and troubled by the desperate cravings
that told him he needed to take it further - the fantasies of being
fucked by Jack or Ruben or Mateo faded into the background again and,
without much feeling, he could even resolve to himself that he would give
up the prospect, stop taunting himself with this idea of giving himself
over to another man's phallic power.

He checked the mirror: he looked a sweaty mess, but he had when he
scrambled into this disabled loo. A last wash of the hands and face with
cold water, still beetroot in the cheeks and brow, and he unlocked the
door to leave. Turning the corner, he stumbled straight into someone
else, someone who smelt of aftershave rather than sweat, who exuded a
cool calm rather than overheated testosterone - and whose proximity to
the corner meant that Kevin was stumbling right into him, almost rubbing
his sweaty presence against his polo-necked t-shirt and pushing hairy
arms. Their faces had brushed very close and for a second Kevin felt
someone else's breath mingle with his as if the dangerous prospect of a
kiss was floating on his near horizon - he opened his eyes and stared
into those of the other man, matching his 5ft11 height, an intense moment
of surprised stare between them.

And then de Bruyne was shuffling back, blinking dizzily, surprised that
neither he nor the other man had gone tumbling over as they mindlessly
walked straight into one another - `Ah, Kevin,' drawled the Catalan
accent of the older man, and his manager stared patiently forward at him,
still close, still calm, gently smiling. `These are yours?'

The ageing Spanish football coach stood in front of him with a water
bottle in one hand and a pair of unlaced boots held up in the other,
proffered forward. `I was about to become very angry at someone for
leaving their things around,' Pep Guardiola explained in a bemused
voice, `but I see you were just, aha-' He nodded across to the ajar
door, and Kevin gawped dumbly at him as if he had just been caught
wanking and fingering - but he also felt grateful for the calm
authoritative presence of the 53-year-old former player, the manager with
whom he had worked so closely and so well for all these seasons.

`Yeah, mine,' the Belgian told the gaffer after an awkward pause.
`Sorry-'

`No problem,' Guardiola assured him, handing them over. `Are you
well?'

`Yes, yes,' Kevin rushed, although he was sure his awkward daze must
show on his red face- He was cut off by the Spanish man, who planted a
firm caring hand on one shoulder. `You look too hot,' Guardiola told
him. `Is today too much? Do you need to finish early? Hey?' A squeeze
and a rub to the shoulder and then the clammy side of his neck. `You are
working too hard this week - remember we need to look after you, my
Kevin!'

Still dazed in the wake of his orgasm, de Buryne smiled weakly and nodded
back at the gaffer, holding onto his boots and bottle, and enjoying the
reassuring touch of that experienced hand, sad when it patted his outer
arm and left him. He stared thoughtfully at the boss, the golden-tanned
and silver-bearded handsomeness of the 53-year-old, the beginnings of a
new thought entering his overheated brain, then cut off as Pep began to
speak quickly to him about some new strategy for Friday, some new plan to
break their Spursy curse on away fixtures at Tottenham. Kevin just nodded
vaguely, until Pep paused and laughed.

`You need a siesta,' the boss said. `Or a massage.' He nodded away
behind him. `Go. Finish early. You need to cool down and recover - I
will explain to the others. Go on.' And then he was pulling in for a
hug, in spite of the sweat that dribbled down Kevin's neck and arms,
seemingly unconscious of the way it marked and stained his expensive
shirt. `You are our treasure, KDB, and we must treat you well.' It was
a strong and lingering hug and one Kevin felt intensely, sad again when
it ended and the chief was pulling away from him with a vague grin - the
two men seemed to be looking at each other differently, sizing one
another up, but Kevin's overactive imagination might be projecting that.

He took slow steps away, still nodding. `Thanks, boss - I really do need
to cool off.'

`You go do that,' Pep instructed. `Leave it with me.'

And with that, the City coach was striding away, lean and tall and
elegant, and the overheated Belgian watched him go before trudging
thoughtfully in the direction of a cold shower - his thoughts were
scrambled and full of post-wank regret, but they were also parting and
reforming to accommodate a new idea, a new option. Oh, though the most
daring corner of his brain, what would it be like to be fucked by a man
of Pep's confidence and experience...? The rest of him shot down this
stupid idea and he told himself firmly that what he needed was a cold
cold shower and a lie down in a dark room - nothing else!




'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty
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