Date: Tue, 3 Mar 2020 22:46:47 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 60: Pep's Golden Boy

Part sixty: Pep's Golden Boy


Phil Foden rubbed a hand across his face and felt his cheeks and nose
sticky with the champagne that had been frothed over him in the melee of
celebration. He laughed, blinked, and shook it out of his short-cropped
hair, dropping to his arse on a bench in the centre of the bustling
changing rooms. The medal about his neck weighed satisfyingly on its ribbon
and he picked up the sturdy little trophy once more, grinning down at it in
delight.

About him, the ecstasy was finally calming: various lads were making their
way into the showers, others were still taking selfies and posting to
social media. There was talk of quite a party back at the hotel, although
the teenager suspected he wouldn't be the only one who would soon feel
exhausted. Between the intense week of training, the exertions of the
victorious game, and the exuberant locker-room partying, they were all
wiped out.

He looked up from his seat as big John Stones swaggered by, and he noticed
a fleeting expression of unhappiness or at least pensiveness on the
25-year-old's face, which seemed out of place in here, in this
atmosphere. `All good, John?' he asked, getting back to his feet, leaning
in closer to his recent roommate as the tall, muscular Burnley lad began to
whip his shirt up and off.

`Hmm?' The bigger guy gave him a distracted look, wiping his clammy face
against his shirt. `Oh, yeh, great... obviously! Fucking great...' But he
looked away, and there was a heaviness about him that threw and confused
Phil to see. Still, he wasn't about to pry.

`You were fucking class out there,' he said admiringly. `Was great to play
with you.'

John flashed him a slightly mysterious smile, and nodded. `Aye, same to
you, wunderkind. You sure proved Pep fucking right to have faith in you.' A
heavy hand on Phil's low shoulder. `You are a talent, lad, you really are.'

Phil grinned with brazen pride, too excited and hyped up tonight to feel
any humility. He nodded his agreement and began to strip for his shower. He
tugged off his medal and his City shirt and the long-sleeved thermal
undershirt beneath, then peeled off his damp socks and headed out across
the quietening room. John followed and overtook him, naked now with his big
pale arse on show for a moment before a towel was flicked about it,
disappearing through the steamy rectangle into the communal showers with
the others.

`Philip,' cut in another voice, and Foden paused.

Guardiola's warm hand landed on his bare shoulder with a gentle
squeeze. There had already been gushing public congratulation from the
Spanish manager out on the pitch, and it had been lovely and unexpected,
and so very reassuring. But as Phil stood there with his much-admired
boss's hand on his shoulder, looking up at the tall tanned 49-year-old, he
could not think of that public celebration, or of the many great
exclamations in his support Pep had made over the last couple of
years... No, for some reason, Phil was just reminded of their last
one-to-one conversation before tonight. Standing in that shared room in the
harsh morning light, with Pep looming frostily over him. `That did NOT
happen,' the handsome footballer manager had barked right at it him, making
him flinch, `Do you understand that, Philip?' And, of course, Philip had
fully understood, and put every ounce of energy into making this case. It
hadn't happened, it hadn't, it had just been a ridiculous drunken dream,
nothing more!

`Once again,' slurred Pep, who had already been draining champagne as he
celebrated with his precious lads, `you were... Aha, excellent!' He
squeezed his fingers tighter into the shoulder, leaned forward and planted
a rough, bristly kiss against Phil's forehead. Again, it was impossible not
to be reminded of... well, the stuff that had NOT happened. Really, though,
it wasn't unusual for the Spanish bloke to be tactile and affectionate, and
Phil had to fight back these crazed thoughts. After all, it hadn't
happened.

`Thanks boss, thanks...' He pulled round to look earnestly up at him. `I am
so grateful to be playing... I couldn't believe you let me START, I
mean... it was incredible...' He realised how quickly and unintelligibly he
was garbling. `I just hope I did you proud, gaffer, sir!'

A broad white-tooth smile against the tanned face and silvery beard. `Oh, I
was proud of you alright, you little legend,' he declared firmly and
smoothly. `Now go shower! We have a party to get to.' He patted Phil gently
on the cheek and backed away, but... did his eyes linger for a second on
the young prodigy, or was Foden just imagining it...? Probably the latter,
given that Pep was instantly reaching over to hug and congratulate another
guy, leaving Phil to make his way towards the showers.

He discarded his shorts and briefs and pulled a towel off the shelf,
holding it self-consciously over his front before entering the sheltering
steam of the showers. He dangled it on a hook and entered the damp heat of
the shower block, the vague outlines of multi-shaded flesh and muscle
beneath the gushing water. Soap suds, bare buttocks and groaning faucets;
slippery biceps, dangling cocks and lots of banter. Phil always found
showering a bit of an intimidating experience now he played with the big
boys. He always felt so slight and young alongside some of these burly
blokes, especially lads like Stones and Walker, or even shorter men like
Aguero whose presence was so dominating. But there was still a jubilant
atmosphere and Foden relaxed into his shower, enjoying the loud laughter
and joking about him.

Next to him, Kyle Walker was rinsing off soap suds from his pale mocha
skin, exposing the intricate tattoos beneath the frothing shower gel and
scrubbing at his puffed-up pecs. `Well, we sure showed them bastards,' he
crowed, thrusting his hook-nosed face beneath the blast of his own shower.

On the other side of Phil, John Stones let out an awkward laugh and paused
in rinsing under his armpits, which were surprisingly hairy for such a big
smooth bloke. `We did,' he agreed in a slightly less forceful voice. Phil
nodded his silent agreement, not sure if they were speaking to each other
or him.

`Could say we really fucked them,' he heard Walker cackle.

`Oh... er, yeah... stuck our big dicks in them, haha...' returned Stones.

`Really came in their mouths, hahahah,' finished the other defender.

`Jesus, you two!' Foden had to protest, washing his champagne-sticky face
and looking from one naked wet bloke the other. `You kiss your wives with
those mouths? Seriously...' They both burst out laughing, flicked soapy
water at him, and finished off their showers, leaving him alone. He laughed
prudishly to himself and rinsed off, marvelling at how coarse those two
bastards really were with their stupid jokes. What a pair!



In the hotel bar, he nursed a double vodka and coke, and tried to work out
if the caffeine in his mixer would be enough to perk him up. He'd just
taken a couple of phone calls, first to his mum, and then to his girlfriend
(and briefly, to his little boy, who couldn't yet talk but whose gurgles
were enough to listen to down the phone). In the short time he'd been out
in the lobby speaking to the two ladies at home, the drunken buzz of the
Manchester City squad seemed to have died somewhat.

It was already getting late, as they'd been in Wembley so long after
full-time, and they really were an exhausted bunch. The guys in here were
largely drunk already, but not the rowdy exuberant drunkenness of the
changing room champagne, or the short coach ride from stadium to hotel. In
the past half hour, it had wound down to a lazy, giddy drunk. Walker was
slouched by the bar loudly mouthing off to Sterling and Hernandez about
some near-miss moments where he (and he alone) had powerfully resisted
Villa's attempts at a second or third goal; Mahrez and Otamendi were
slumped in nearby seats, toasting what looked like triple measures of
whiskey; one of the senior coaches was showing a video on his phone to
Zinchenko and Mendy in a strange mix of post-match analysis and after-party
chatter.

Foden found himself looking around involuntarily for his manager. He had a
vague sense that he'd failed to really express his gratitude or pleasure
properly when speaking to Pep out on the pitch in the exciting moments
after the win, or while queuing up to accept the trophy and medals, and
especially in the changing rooms after. He hated how inarticulate he could
sound when excited or emotional. He just wanted to explain to Guardiola
quite what it meant to him to be here right now on this winning side that
he'd loved since he was as young as his son.

It could wait, though. He took a long glug from his drink, which tasted too
strong.

He eased his way about the bar and found himself looking repeatedly at the
watch on his wrist, wondering if it was late enough to call it a night and
to head to bed. Well, others clearly had. There was no sight of his own
roomie, already, though he half-expected Stones and Walker had some filthy
scheme in mind again, after their puerile jokes on the coach. He could
never make out what those two were bantering about at the best of times.

Phil hovered near a couple of pairs and groups but decided not to force his
way into the slow, lazy conversations of his older teammates, drunk and
impassioned in their debates and dialogues. Instead, he drained the last of
his over-strong vodka drink, popped it on the bar, and made a quiet exit
from the bar and back through the lobby. He was reminded of how drunk he
had felt at the last such hotel celebration, in Madrid rather than
London. He could get used to this winning feeling, but it was obviously so
different being a key player in the game rather than an unused substitute!
His frustrations at being on the bench were always heavily mitigated by his
utter joy to be working at his beloved City, but still... today had been
something else.

He grinned and whistled cheerily to himself in the short elevator ride to
his floor. He came across their talismanic goalscorer Aguero in the
corridor there, and the short sturdy Argentinian wasn't alone. He was
dashing along the passage in the same matching designer denims they'd all
changed into post-game, dragging an attractive young barmaid with him. Phil
goggled in surprise at the married striker, who just turned and flashed him
a wink. `What she doesn't know, eh eh,' the Latin American whispered, then
turned and snogged his one-night stand before dragging her away down the
hallway. Phil stared after them for a moment, a bit taken aback, but
drunkenly happy for the older guy, married father of however-many. How
could Foden judge, anyway? He'd fucked that slapper with Stones and Walker
just to prove himself a man, and the guilt had riddled him for DAYS...

And now you've tossed your football manager, you little fag, an inner voice
rebuked him.

It was just a drunken hand job. He barely remembered. And besides... it had
NOT happened!

Foden tried to dismiss the jumbled tipsy memories and found his way to his
own hotel room. He let himself in with a swipe of keycard and was surprised
to find John already up here. The 6'2 defender was sprawled out on his back
with his hands above his chest, thumbing away at his phone with drooping
lids to his unfocused eyes. He still had his denim shirt on but his jeans
were off, and his striped boxer briefs bunched up about the top of his
thighs next to his prominent bulge, which Phil whipped his eyes away from
and tried to ignore.

`Already called it a night?' he remarked, traipsing the room to switch
another lamp on. `All good, Stones...?' A grunt of affirmation, and nowt
more. Right well, something was definitely up with him, Phil concluded, but
he was buggered if he had any idea what.

He unbuttoned his denim shirt, the matched designer ones they'd all been
kitted out in this last week and slung it over the door to their shared
wardrobe. Kicking off his trainers, he nipped into the bathroom in just his
close-fitting white tshirt and tight dark grey jeans and did his little
routine. Toothbrush, face-wash, moisturiser... his girlfriend was trying to
get him trained up to look after himself, partly because she claimed in
five years' time he'd be picking up modelling contracts left, right and
centre as one of the biggest names in English football. He enjoyed her
optimism!

By the time he was back in the main room, he could hear Stones snoring. The
iPhone had half-dropped from the limp hands and rested at the top of his
broad chest, and the head was tilted a little to the side, at just the
right angle to emit some gargling snores that would normally have spelled a
sleepless night: but Foden knew how tired and drunk he was himself, and he
was pretty sure he'd sleep right through it.

`Hmm... didn't do nothin' wrong... huh...'

Phil had never realised Stones spoke in his sleep. He raised his eyebrows
but tried to ignore it, undoing the belt of his jeans and sliding them off,
so he was just in baggy grey boxers beneath his tshirt, his slim but
muscular white legs exposed in the cool of the hotel room.

`Yeh... hmmm...' John twitched and rustled a bit on top of his bedcovers,
the phone sliding right off his chest now and nestling in somewhere between
neck and shoulder. `He wanted it... huh...' The unclear murmurings were
followed by a little snort and then the big lanky bloke rolled over with
his back to Foden, curling up into an almost foetal position, and both the
snoring and sleep-talking came to an end. Phil let out a sleepy,
intoxicated chuckle, and turned over the indistinct monologue: what the
hell, was John re-living some vicious defensive tackle in his sleep or
summat?

He climbed into bed himself and lay there for a while with the lamp
on. John's gentle sleepy breathing was actually a faintly soothing
background noise. He thought about the highs and lows of the day (mostly
highs, almost non-existent lows), the sheer rush of a game like that, the
early sense of triumph that the cup win had brought. Sure, they were never
catching Liverpool in the Premiership now, but still. He turned to look at
the League Cup medal resting on the bedside table beside the rest of his
things.

An earlier thought returned to him: he just really needed to thank the
boss, didn't he?

A little wired from his drinks and the lingering energy of the evening, he
sat up in bed, and let this thought take hold, take motion. He was pretty
sure he'd caught the number of Guardiola's room during the prolonged fuss
of checking in last night upon their London arrival, so... Yes, he'd be
upstairs in the next corridor, probably in a SLIGHTLY nicer room again,
like the last two trips! And he'd last seen Pep in the bar, what,
twenty-five minutes ago, max? So... He was unlikely to be ASLEEP yet,
and... Phil's brain was jumpy and restless, and the thoughts spilled on,
snowballing. Of course it was better to say thank you properly TONIGHT,
rather than waiting for tomorrow's hangover, and...

In a moment, he was pulling a white hotel bathrobe on over his tshirt and
boxers and slipping his bare feet into some Nike sliders, and picking up
his key-card. He switched off the two lamps and left John to the rise and
fall of his snores, and whatever odd mumblings he'd release into the
darkness. Foden took the lift one floor, and double-checked his memory,
wandering along a parallel corridor a floor above his own, until he was
rapping his knuckles softly against another sturdy door, and swaying back
and forth a little on his heels.

There was a long moment where no answer came and Phil regretted this
impulsive decision, but then there were some heavy footsteps and the twist
of a lock. When the door opened, it was obvious that he had disturbed the
Spanish manager. Standing in the gap holding the door, Pep Guardiola
blinked sleepily at him with tired eyes. He was shirtless, the dark rug of
his chest exposed and its slow diminishing crawl down his flat torso; he
was wearing only a pair of thin grey pyjama bottoms that were quite baggy
and stretched, but still revealed some of the strong contours of his legs,
and the sizeable presence between them.

`Philip,' yawned the City head coach.

`Oh fuck,' Foden exclaimed quietly, `I'm so sorry, I just...'

`What is it?' Pep asked, a slight hint of alarm in his face and voice, as
if Phil must be up here due to some crisis amongst the lads below. `Is it
ok?' The door edged open a little more and Pep leaned more into the light
of the corridor, still blinking sleep from his eyes. `Is it morning?' he
asked then, looking genuinely lost.

Phil cursed himself and chewed his lip. `No, just – fuck – so sorry
chief, sorry... didn't mean to wake you, just –` He shifted from left to
right foot and rubbed his chin. `I just wanted to say my thanks properly,
but...' He trailed off uncomfortably, wishing he'd never come up here, and
just let Stones' snoring lull him to sleep after all!

`Oh, erm,' Pep drawled, still seeming a bit confused, but standing back
again and pushing the door more, `well – come in...?' He rubbed at one
sleepy eye and stepped aside, letting Phil take a few uncertain steps back
into the manager's room. Pep reached for a panel on the wall and flicked
one switch, turning on a wall-lamp by the bed, not enough to light the big
suite, but enough to cast atmospheric shadows and save them from
darkness. Pep let the hotel door fall shut with a little thud and click,
and stared blearily at his visitor.

Phil twitched and shifted under that slowly focusing gaze, and rubbed his
sweaty palms together. `I just thought I mucked up my thank yous earlier,'
he said humbly.

`Thank yous?' muttered Pep, and then he let out a croaky little
laugh. `Philip, my boy... You have earned everything you do. You have no
one to thank but yourself.' A dim smile on the older guy's face then, and
he reached to pat and then stroke Phil's smooth cheek. `Hey, stop worrying,
Philip. You know I believe in you. I tell them all that. Every time.'

Phil felt a hot blush rising in his cheeks and he squirmed at the
sincerity. `I know, I know... that's... That's why I really felt like
coming up to thank you, I just...' He let out a little laugh, cringing at
himself and pulling the bathrobe tighter about him. `I just feel so fucking
grateful, you know? Like... I dunno. I'm so lucky to have you as my boss.'

`Your boss and your friend,' Pep corrected in a low voice. Phil nodded.

Guardiola turned away, the shadows rippling over the dark tan of his smooth
back, and Phil drifted into the centre of the room. He wasn't sure what to
say or do now, since his gratitude had been expressed and understood,
albeit slightly dismissed. He felt the glow of Pep's faith and praise
warming his rosy cheeks and he felt the alcohol still in his system, making
him bold and reckless. He undid the waistband of the robe and shrugged it
off, draping it on a spare chair as he watched Pep move over to the
mini-bar fridge to pour them both some sparkling mineral water. Phil moved
over towards the foot of the solitary king-size bed, and sat on the edge of
the high mattress, near the disturbed sheets where his gaffer had been
sleeping. Pep turned around, a glass in each hand, and looked a little
surprised to see this subtle movement.

`Here, drink this.'

`Thanks, sir.'

`Pep, por favor.'

`Er, yeh. Pep.'

Noisy slurp of refreshing fizz. Glass held gently against cheek to cool
down. Eyes roving up and down the hairy chest of the older man, up his
slender stubbled neck, to the lined weariness of his handsome face. Phil
drank some of his water, held the cup down between his gently parted legs,
letting the glass press teasingly into his warm white flesh on his thighs.

`Is there something else, Philip?' Pep asked. Filipe, it sounded, in his
sexy Spanish accent. Sexy?

`No, nothing else,' Foden said tremulously. Another long sip.

`You are... sure?'

`Sure.'

`Hmm.'

Pep looked at him with a piercing gaze. `Philip,' he said in a very quiet
way, `do you... wish to sleep up here... tonight?' Guardiola looked away as
he asked this question, about the room and up the ruffled sheets of the
only bed in the room. Phil gulped his mouthful of fizzy water and took his
time before answering.

`Er, maybe. Is that ok?'

Pep just let out a sigh. It was a mixed, distant sound: frustrated, uneasy,
resigned, wistful. And then the Spaniard got up from where they sat, and
leaned gently to take Phil's half-empty glass away. He drifted over to
place these heavy cut-glass tumbles back on top of the mini bar, leaving
Phil alone at the edge of the bed. He turned around and stared at the bed
himself, unable to really believe what his boss had asked and what he'd
responded. What was he really doing up here...? Just as he asked himself
this question, the room went dark. For a second, he thought it was a power
cut, but as he blinked and turned, he could make out Pep stood back by the
panel of switches, a faint outline in the grainy gloom after all. Over he
strolled, with agonisingly slow footsteps.

`Philip,' breathed Pep's husky Spanish accent in the dark.

`Mm?'

`You should not be here,' the manager grunted, reaching him by the bed and
reaching both hands out to take Foden gently by the wrists.

`Oh?'

`I am married,' insisted Guardiola with a gentle groan to his voice,
sliding thumbs and fingers up the tingling skin of Phil's forearms and then
letting them drop and pressing these hands to the sides of the teen's
tshirt instead.

`Oh.'

`I cannot be doing this,' Pep continued, and in spite of his words, he
pulled on the fabric of Phil's tshirt. The young footballer lifted and
stretched his arms to make it easier, and up came the thin white fabric, up
over his shoulders and his neck and head, off and tossed aside. The cool
air tingled at his bare skin, and so did Pep's fingers, stroking the
outside of his thin shoulders with slow, sensual touches.

`I'm sorry, boss,' Phil whispered.

`Hmm. It's... not your fault.'

Pep's hands left his body and reached down to undo the little cord tied at
the front of his own pyjama bottoms. Phil reached his hands hesitantly down
his tummy and hooked them into the tight waistband of his baggy
boxers. Then he pushed them down in sync with Pep's own movement, and in
the half-visible dark of the hotel room, the two men became naked, stood by
the bed, one tall and hairy and tanned, one short and thin and smooth.

Then Pep leaned in, kissed him on the forehead, and rested his arms on his
shoulders, pulling him in towards his own body. Phil reached one hand
across the narrow space and wrapped his fingers once more about the heavy
drooping outline of that Spanish cock. His other hand he pressed against
the trail of hair on Pep's satisfyingly firm abdomen, and slid it upwards,
into the rug of his chest, rippling the thick curling hairs between his
fingers. Pep let out a soft moan and squeezed his strong arms closer about
Phil's shoulders. Another kiss to the brow. Phil pulled and squeezed very
carefully on the shaft, running his fingers up to graze the low sag of the
older man's bollocks.

`You shouldn't be touching me like this,' Pep hissed, somewhere by his ear.

`I can stop, sir...'

`I didn't say you should stop.'

`O...kay...'

Phil lifted the weighty prick in his hand, remembering how much bigger it
could get. He slid his palm up its shaft and tried to fondle those big
balls behind it, then tickled his fingertips up through the silvery
pubes. He enjoyed the vibrating murmur of Guardiola's groan into his
ear. When the middle-aged Spaniard pulled away from him in the dark, he
thought it might be over: but Pep was climbing onto the bed, and grabbing
his right arm with one hand and pulling him along. Phil allowed himself to
be led onto the bedding, hands and knees, seeing Pep's outline sprawl back
over the duvet now, sinking into the pillows with his close-shaved
head... Phil realised what was expected of him, resting on his and knees
over his boss's body, and staring down at the cock below, flopped semi-hard
against one dark hairy thigh.

He leant slowly down and kissed it on the side. `Ohhh, Philip...' came the
response.

He ran his tongue uncertainly over the thick form, feeling it strain and
throb. With each dart of his nervous tongue, fresh sounds of gentle
excitement emerged from the big man beneath him. His arms and legs trembled
as he hunched there, and leant further down to lick slowly over one then
both of Pep's big bollocks. More pants and gasps. He lifted the hardened
prick in one hand and began to kiss and lick at the circumcised head, a
bulging pink form in front of his dry lips.

Phil lifted his head quietly and stroked each hand up and down the inner
thighs, feeling the warm muscle and tangled body hair. `Is this okay,
boss?' he asked in a tiny voice.

`It is... it is good... Philip, I have a wife, and...'

Before more contradictory protest could come, Phil sank his head and pushed
his lips about that fat cock-head, trying to take a few thick inches into
his uneasy mouth. He was reassured when he felt one of Pep's hands rest on
the back of his head, and he tongued the thick meat hungrily, enjoying the
musty taste, his nostrils full of sweat and aftershave. Then the hand on
the back of his head became more commanding, pushing it down, guiding him,
a little roughly... He gagged a little and was allowed to retreat a little,
then guided back to work. He tried his best, opening wide and realising
quickly that he had to be careful with his teeth. But Pep's dick was so
solid and big that it was difficult, and he kept having to pause to catch
his breath. `Sorry,' he kept saying, taking to licking rather than sucking,
then trying again. `It is okay, it is okay,' Pep kept shushing.

Then Guardiola seemed to give in to animal instincts, and he was pushing
Phil's head down with both hands, and that crazy prick was forcing deeper
into Phil's mouth until he spluttered and snorted and had to be eased away
by Pep's controlling fingers. He rested his face, little tears pricking his
eyes at the difficulty of it all, against one of those meaty thighs,
licking his tingling lips and rubbing at knees and calves and reaching to
tickle and stroke the big balls beneath that swaying erection.

Again, Foden had the strange sense that these fumbling moments might be
over, but no... He felt commanding hands push and adjust his body until he
was flopped onto his back sideways across the bed, and now roles were
reversed. His eyes, adjusting to the dark, saw Pep's head descend down at
his crotch level, and he saw his own sizeable boner silhouetted for a
moment before it disappeared into that silvery dark bearded mouth... `OH!'

Phil had actually only had a few of blowjobs in his life, as his sweetheart
hated giving them, and beyond here there were only a couple of other
lovers, including that paid mouth in the hotel room with John and Kyle. So
the pleasure of a hot wet mouth on his prick was still quite new and
satisfying to him, but this... wow... He pressed his shoulders back into
the bedding and pulled his hands up to his face, eyes clenched shut, mouth
forming a permanent round `O' of utter shock and sensual delight, as he
felt Pep's fumbling mouth find its way up and down his dick for slow minute
after slow minute. Jesus fucking Christ...

`Sir,' he gasped, whimpered, `oh sir... oh dear god...'

One of Pep's hands found his mouth and pressed over it to shut him up,
though it was unclear quite why. Perhaps the older guy needed to
concentrate. Phil lay there, paralysed with enjoyment, a clammy hand tight
over his mouth and a mouth tight over his clammy prick. His legs twitched
and fidgeted, and his hands grasped tightly at the bedsheets. It seemed to
go on forever in aching moments of sexual heaven, and then he couldn't
contain himself. He couldn't say anything to warn Pep, since the hand was
clamped over his mouth, but Guardiola seemed to know, and pulled off just
in time to avoid a mouthful. Phil's orgasm felt explosive, and he wondered
how far across the room it shot. When Pep's head hovered above his in the
dark, he could see no trace of his seed on that peppery beard or those full
pouting lips, and he felt a slight pang of disappointment.

Silently, Guardiola was rising up onto his knees at his side, and wanking
on his massive cock. Phil gasped and writhed and stared up at it, and
reached out to stroke and rub at one of Pep's thighs, then sliding his hand
up to tickle the balls. Then it came: the familiar bestial cries and yowls
of this powerful man nearing climax. It wasn't long before heavy droplets
of cum were raining down, splashing Phil's cheeks and nose and chin and
neck... he held out his tongue and a wad of Spanish semen drizzled it. He
tasted it nervously and found it quite pleasant on his buds.

When he was spent, Pep collapsed back, away from him, and the two
footballers of very different generations just lay there, connected only by
one tangled lower leg each, letting themselves recover from the violence of
their excitement.

But then, a little dizzy and crazed, Phil rolled over and crawled round,
and found Pep's cock once more, licking cooling spunk from the head and
nuzzling the sinking beast with his lips. Then he just rested his face in
the heat of the older man's crotch, desperate to share that intimate
warmth, comforted to be close to it. But Pep was sitting up now and lifting
him away, gently.

`Philip...' Filipe, it sounded, so sexy and sensual in the darkness.

`Philip,' Pep repeated, `you... you must go back to your room...'

A spell was broken by that remark, and Phil lay there, shivering a
little. He hoped it was too dark for the disappointment to show on his
smooth young face. He pulled back slightly, hunched in front of the big
tanned body, hands still resting on its taut thighs. He wanted to stay
here, to curl up alongside his manager, to be held... He was drunk, and
emotional, and tired.

Suddenly, a single hand was stroking his cheek and holding his head in
place. Pep was leaning over, closer to him. `You have to,' Guardiola
murmured. `It will look... odd, if you do not. You have a... "roomie".'
Another sigh from the 49-year-old, just like the one earlier tonight: heavy
and wistful and irritated. And then, to Phil's complete shock, came the
kiss. Brief, momentary, so soft it was almost didn't seem to happen, but it
did. Their hot wet lips met, and perhaps Pep even tasted his own salt on
them. No sooner was Phil feeling the tickle of beard on his chin than Pep
was pulling away again, and pulling gently on his sharp jawline.

He nodded his head and sank back away from the warmth of Pep's body,
knowing he was right. What would John say if he woke up and his young
teammate was missing...? Foden got up off the bed, still shaking a bit, and
began fetching his scattered clothing. When he turned around, Pep was still
lying there, bollock naked on the bed, dick flopping about sleepily between
his spread legs. But his eyes seemed to have closed, and he was asleep, or
pretending to be, at least. Phil tasted that fleeting kiss on his mouth,
and hurried into his tshirt and boxers and robe, and exited.



*MADE IT TO 60... NEXT TARGET, 100 EPISODES??? HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS MAN
CITY TRILOGY AND DIDN'T GET SICK OF THE LEAGUE CUP FINAL! LET ME KNOW IF
YOU WANT TO SEE MORE FROM THESE GUYS OR ANYONE ELSE. HAPPY READING!*