Date: Sun, 5 Apr 2020 11:52:36 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 75: Worst Behaviour

Part seventy-five: Worst Behaviour



The text message invite hit Foden's inbox at exactly the right moment,
catching him just as an escape from the day-to-day was needed like never
before.

It wasn't the lockdown restriction that was getting to him. In all honesty,
the 19-year-old Manchester City ace was rather enjoying himself. More than
anything, he was getting to spend more time with his little son than he'd
ever managed in the season, and the young father was relishing every day of
it. No, life in the family mansion he'd bought his parents was not what was
getting Phil Foden down. It was a cheery procession of home workouts,
long-prepared meals and video catch-ups with his old schoolmates and lads
from the City and England youth squads. Presumably it would get boring and
claustrophobic soon, but not yet.

No, what was bothering Phil was the almost daily calls from his footballer
manager.

His girlfriend and his mum commented how incredibly sweet and kind it was,
loving to see Pep Guardiola take such a personal interest in their skinny
hero's health and wellbeing, and by extension the whole clan together in
isolation. But to Phil, the regular contact was taunting and
unsettling. Every `Stay safe, Felipe' and `I look forward to reopening
training, my young star' from the aged Spanish legend send little shivers
of remembrance through him, and hearing them whilst sat in the garden with
his girlfriend, or pottering the house keeping an eye on his son, well that
was too much to take. Each time he saw Pep's name and pic flash up on his
phone screen, he was back in that hotel room, begging drunkenly at the
Spaniard's door and seeking comfort in his bed.

What had happened between manager and protegee had not been discussed
outright, though Phil had convinced of many smouldering looks on the
training ground the following week; the footballing world had ground to its
ungainly halt shortly after, though, and broken any opportunity for either
man to quite address what they had shared. On the final day of training,
Phil had actually tried to seek out Pep in his office, needing to... what,
apologise? He wasn't sure. He wanted closure but he also feared being alone
with this man who seemed to unsettle his confident heterosexuality. But it
had been left open and ambiguous, and now he found it hard to believe that
the Spanish manager was checking up quite so regularly on other lads of the
City squad.

He was mulling over this, feeling a mixture of guilt and excitement at the
memory of Pep's early evening phone call, when he got the text message from
Kyle Walker: `lads – discreet poker night at my pad?! Lads lads lads xx'
Walker's hypermasculine obnoxiousness barged into his thoughts like a
bulldozer and the wiry teen sat up in his chair, dismissing his initially
moralistic judgement and contemplating the getaway. To Phil, Walker was a
bastion of manly energy, someone to aspire to – he seemed to represent
everything Foden needed to adopt to dismiss what had happened that night,
his desperate fondling of Guardiola's big meat. Surely a lad like Kyle
never got up to such dodgy shenanigans, never came close to such questions!

And so, somehow, he convinced himself to take a risky and idiotic decision:
to skip quarantine and shirk his family for a few hours that night, knowing
it wasn't far to the next town where the other City player kept his new
apartment. Foden was gripped by a sort of mania, feeling the need to
exorcise the memory of curling up beside the Spaniard in any way possible,
to stop that memory rearing up every time he got intimate with his
missus. He wanted to be able to fuck her without imagining one of Pep's
sweaty hands rubbing across his face to stifle his moans.

He concocted a late night jog as his way out, despite having done a fairly
intense workout already that Friday morning; he'd already texted his
excitement to Kyle, confirmed his attendance to the lads' night in. Kyle
had said it didn't matter if he showed up in his jogging gear, it was
hardly some fancy do. So just as the rest of the household were settling
down, Phil gave a guilty kiss goodbye, tightened the laces on his running
shoes, and nipped out into the early dark in grey running leggings, tight
black shorts, and a loose-fitting Nike hoodie. He looked awkwardly back at
the mansion on his way out onto the narrow country road, gripped the phone
in his hand and opened up Google Maps.



`You absolute boring tool,' Kyle Walker lectured, strutting through the
centre of his expensive apartment in the big converted Victorian house,
pinning the phone between his cheek and one shoulder muscle. `Seriously?
You aren't coming?' A bit more bullshit chatted down the other end, and
then, `Oh for fuck's sake Stonesy, are you for real? Yeh yeh... I get that,
but... Oh come on, pal...'

He tugged open the fridge and pulled out a few beer bottles to clink down
on the central table, straightening up before the phone slide from its
perch and dropped to the tile floor. He grimaced as he listened to John's
excuses and approbation. `Mate, it's really not THAT dangerous,' he said
defensively. `Fuck's sake. Are you gonna be this much of a pussy?'

He was half-listening to continued criticism from his best mate, but the
doorbell chimed even as he muttered his interruptions and defences against
Stones' judgement. `Jeez, buddy, you've made your point,' he groaned down
the line, stepping out of the apartment's high-ceilinged kitchen into the
main passage and then down a few steps to the entrance, where he flashed on
a security cam and spied his first guest in its sights. `Oh fuck off then,
John-boy, if you're gonna be like that – barely heard from ya in ages
and now THIS. Fuck's sake.' He didn't quite mean to sound so venomous, but
he couldn't help himself: `Fuck off and be a pansy with your family then,
yeah, catch ya some time when your balls aren't in a vice. Twat.' Walker
hung up and grunted irritably, then pushed a button on the security panel
to buzz his visitor in. He scowled down at the phone in his hand, irked yet
again by John Stones taking a moral fucking high ground and being a
generally shite pal.

It had been a disruptive few weeks for Kyle, even without a government
lockdown and losing football. He'd been kicked out by the missus over
getting another lass pregnant, fuck's sake, and he'd been forcibly ejected
into planet bachelor once more. Hence this absolute belter of an apartment
and its crippling rent; hence this laddish loneliness in social distancing,
watching his mates' smug coupled and family-oriented video diaries on
social media.

Walker knew he was breaking the rules and taking a risk tonight, but it
felt like a calculated and necessary one to him. Besides, he'd sniffed a
few lines this evening and been drinking since almost midday, so he was not
exactly in the mental state to be philosophising on his own behaviour. As
the night had settled, it was pure hedonism that was driving his behaviour,
nothing else.

Loud footsteps on exposed wood announced Phil Foden's arrival at the third
floor of the big converted mansion, and Kyle let him in with a grin, amused
by the teen in his secretive jogging kit, pink-cheeked and apprehensive on
the landing. `Come in, lad,' he barked cheerily, `come on in. Let's get you
a beer, eh lad?'

Foden stumbled in with a nod and a grin; clearly he'd actually jogged
here. `Good to see ya,' he chirped, `I guess we should keep our distance
still, so I won't-`

`Ah fuck that,' Walker interrupted, and he threw a big arm about the
slighter lad's upper body in a tight welcoming hug, enjoying even this
minimal human contact after a long week completely on his own. Of course,
even better company was on its way, but this short laddish hug was the
human touch his skin had been hungering for all day all the same.

`Right, er, cool,' mumbled Phil awkwardly, pulling away from his grip as if
he was about to be poisoned by even that.

Kyle led the way back into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle opener from a
drawer and popping lids off two bottles of beer. `Don't worry,' he quipped,
`I ordered Peroni over Corona. Here.' He turned and smiled excitedly at his
visitor, pushing the bottle into his hand and then settling back against
the kitchen counter to take a deep quaff of his own.

`Er, am I the first one here?' Foden asked, pulling a sweatband from his
head and adjusting his baggy hoody against the stuffy heat of the top floor
apartment.

`First? You're the only fucker who got back to me,' Walker answered
carelessly.

`Sorry...?'

Kyle shrugged, a little bothered by the obvious disappointment on the kid's
face. `Yeah, full of their fucking excuses, the lot of them,' he said with
an expansive wave of one arm, and another slug of beer. `Boring cunts, the
lot of them. Even John-boy – he's gone to shit lately, that one.' Kyle
stopped himself saying more, not wanting to admit how hurt he was that
Stones really seemed to have avoided him half the time since City's big Cup
win and their entertainment in the Villa losers.

`So it's... just us?' Foden asked, gulping down some Italian beer.

`Aye – that a problem?!'

`No, nah, course not, just – just surprised, that's all...'

`Well, I say just us,' Kyle suddenly chuckled, giving him a wink. `I've
just been on the phone to an agency I use up here sometimes, so I don't
think it'll be just us for long...' He crossed the kitchen and dug his
elbow into Phil's side with a comic leer – `If you get my meaning!
Hah...' He stomped his way out of the kitchen into the hall, the younger
player scampering after him with a nervous babble of comprehension.

`When you say agency...?'

`You know what I mean! You enjoyed yourself last time, right?'

`I dunno pal, I'm not er, single like you, so...'

`You weren't single then, Foden!'

`But...'

Kyle waved a dismissive hand and threw himself into one of the big leather
armchairs in the long lounge room, knocked back most of the contents of his
bottle, and used an app on his phone to load up some rap music on the
wireless speaker system that had cost him a week's wages. He could see his
one visitor looking apprehensive or almost indecisive, perhaps considering
fucking off home; well, so what if he did? He'd ordered two prozzers on the
assumption that at least this one wannabe bloke would show up, the one
surprising rebel out of the City lads he'd optimistically messaged, but if
he ended up alone with two lasses to himself, then... so be it!

Nodding to the music, he flipped open a compartment on the antique-looking
drinks table between them and pulled out the tiny remnants of his coke
stash. Even his fucking dealer had got shitty about drop-offs in the
current regime, so he wasn't sure when this would be topped
up. Nevertheless he poured its grainy white contents out onto the lacquered
wooden surface and began chopping it with one of his credit cards, aware of
Phil's wide eyes watching his progress.

He removed the huge wad of printed cash from the pocket of his black jogger
bottoms and rolled one note expertly before taking a good sniff, then
offered it to the 19-year-old midfield prodigy. He was greeted with a
nervy, polite demurral.

`Not tonight,' Foden said apologetically.

`Suit yourself,' Walker grunted, half-offended, half-glad.

So much for a lads' night in, he concluded, through his burning rush of
cocaine, then dismissed his disappointment with a second line. Phil gladly
obliged in fetching them two more beers from the fridge, and the pair of
them settled for a Call of Duty battle since poker had been undermined by
low attendance. Walker was riled by Phil's nervy quietness and obvious
discomfort with his risky decision, but he was too drunk and high to be
really that bothered; the company was still welcome, and he was excitedly
awaiting the confirming call for their additional companions. For all his
obvious panic and uncertainty, Phil wasn't rushing to leave and avoid
another cash-for-sex opportunity; Walker had seen clearly how much the
inexperienced teen had enjoyed sharing that bird last time, at least until
they were interrupted.

He was throbbing with drink and drugs when the call from the discreet bloke
at the agency came through, and he took it in the room so that Phil could
listen in, dulling the hip-hop backtrack so he could get the details
right. `Yeh, two of your filthiest,' he insisted, unnecessary and crass but
excited by the flush it provoked on Foden's cheeks. `As soon as you can
really, mate, we're fuckin' raring to go here, you know... been a long
week, ha... Cheers, cheers... Yeah cash will be great. Cool, cool.' He
clicked off the call, dialled up the volume on the speakers, and smirked
down at where Phil huddled in his chair. `Almost party-time, Golden Boy!'

The Stockport kid sat up in his chair with a show of sudden
determination. `Not for me,' he affirmed, getting to his feet. `Sorry pal,
I really should get back – I'm meant to be just out for a jog.'

`You've barely been here twenty mins.'

`Forty-five, mate. I know, I know. But...'

`Come on, two wet cunts on their way over just for us,' Walker urged. `They
gonna let you do whatever you want, lad. Can you guarantee that when you
get home to your baby-mamma back at your place?' Kyle licked his lips and
rubbed his hands together with sleazy glee. `It's gonna be fuckin' class,
Philly. Just you wait. Get that beer down ya.'

Foden's pout was inscrutable, but he picked up and glugged his beer, and
Walker interpreted this as resignation to the overwhelming temptation of
his schemes. He sniggered, swilled from his own bottle, then went back to
the low table. `You sure you won't partake?' he asked his guest with mock
formality, before polishing off what little remained of his stash. He
blinked and sniffed and patted his ruddy cheeks before getting back up and
grabbing the skinny lad in a tighter, fuller cuddle, booming with laughter
as Phil wriggled away from it and rolled his eyes.

`God, you're so touchy-feely tonight!' Foden chided him prudishly.

`I've been STARVED, mate,' Kyle told him bluntly. `Bad time to get kicked
out by your ex.'

Phil just raised his eyebrows at this, and Kyle sniggered at the irony of
his comment as he led this well-behaved young professional astray. He
clinked their bottles together and checked the time on his watch, then
nodded back to the huge plasma TV. `Another round of shooting at shit,
kid?'



When the doorbell rang, Phil was feeling the effects of the beer, but still
idly contemplating a swift exit. At home, everyone had been very much on
their way to bed, so he knew he could get away with a stupidly long `jog'
out here. He would be able to slip back into the house now or in a few
hours without much fuss, he was strangely confident on that. But he was
finding Walker's erratic high a little scary to be around, and his memories
of prostitution centred more around the awkward exposure and trouble it had
ended in; flashes of his sordid enjoyment before that came back to him in
snatches. The pure pleasure of her body, the new thrill of sharing. And
that's what kept him sitting there, knocking back Peroni and losing at
deathmatches on the video game, until the door went and Kyle Walker leapt
up. The 29-year-old burly defender hooted and clapped like a fat bastard
anticipating his takeaway pizza, and the thrill was infectious. Phil felt a
tremor of arousal in his crotch and he swallowed down his last burst of
conscience: he wasn't going home now.

On Kyle's instruction, he went to go get drinks ready whilst the older guy
saw in the ladies. Phil's hands trembled with nervous excitement as he
sloshed ice and vodka into glasses in the kitchen, and then came the female
voices in the hall: one sounded kinda local, a similar Mancunian slur to
his own, but the other was foreign, Spanish or South American. He tried to
straighten up and look more macho as they entered the kitchen, all pouting
lip fillers and coquettish giggle. They were porno hot and his dick
twitched in the confines of his running leggings.

`Are we here for a workout or a party?' joked the English girl. She looked
about Phil's age or a couple of years older, and made a beeline for him. He
pulled back in boyish hesitation but she wasn't going for a snog, just
pulling the neat iced vodka from his hand and draining it in one.

The Brazilian girl seemed a little earlier, and was already hanging from
Kyle's big arm as she dripped into the room. `Vodka, for us,' she trilled,
`how kind...!'

Phil fought to relax himself, giddy with beer and sexual interest, just
making awkward chuckles at the girls' banter and Kyle's sleazy
introductions, his silly made-up names `Kai' and `Paul' for them, his
big-bollocks showing off as he pointed out the expensive appliances and
period features of the apartment's kitchen. Phil realised that the local
girl was pulling up on his hoody and he relaxed his arms to let her,
letting it be chucked aside to expose his thin but compactly muscled torso
beneath, which she took to stroking.

`How you afford this place?' the South American prostitute was asking
whilst Kyle, needing no more invitation, whipped his pale grey muscle-fit
tshirt up and off to bare the tattooed manuscript of his chest and sleeved
arms.

The girl fondling Phil's lean body giggled beside him. `Silly,' she
clucked, `he's telling us bullshit.'

`Bullshit?!' Walker gasped as he flung his tshirt up on top of the fridge
and flexed both arms vainly.

`Kai!' giggled the Manc lass. `I know him. He's Kyle Walker. He's a
Premiership footy player.'

Whilst Phil recoiled at the inevitable exposure, he watched the excitement
light up the tanned Brazilian girl's face, and thought about which girl he
would get to fuck, or whether he would enjoy both of them equally, was that
gonna be how this worked? His thoughts of fucking off and running town to
town were escaping him as his dick swelled and twitched in its tight
confines. The girl at his side was reaching down and finding its outline to
tease with her long fake nails.

`Dunno what she's on about,' Walker giggled. `I'm Kai and I'm a bricklayer,
me.'

`A footballer,' the girl at his side whispered excitedly, reaching out to
play her own long nails down his decorated pecs, `that is so sexy... you
gonna score with me tonight, baby...?' She started pawing at the waist of
his joggers and he more than happily let them drop; Phil's eyes were
momentarily caught by the weighty bulge in the front of his white CKs, but
distracted again as soft kisses fluttered on his neck.

`And what about him?' the Latino girl was asking.

The other girl, the Manc one, stopped fondling and kissing at Phil's side,
biting her lip coyly. `I don't recognise him,' she admitted; Phil's first
reaction was a strange relief at anonymity, enjoying the possibility of
fucking this beauty without her having any idea of the rules he was
breaking or the status he now held. He wanted to anonymously submit himself
to tonight's pure pleasure, he didn't want to be Phil Foden, Pep's fucking
Golden Boy, not tonight.

But Walker was cackling joyfully as he pawed at the other girl and reached
inside the front of her low-cut dress to grip one tit. `Haha, what a BURN,
kid,' he called at them, `he's a City player too... Philip Walter
Foden. Gonna be a MUCH bigger star than me, trust me...'

`But you're so BIG already,' the girl hanging off him announced, wrapping
her hand about his package and drawing Phil's eyes back to it for a
dangerous few seconds. At his side, the other prostitute was re-evaluating
him and seeming to recognise the truth in Kyle's clumsy honesty: he could
see the glint of excitement in her heavily shadowed eyes as she realised he
wasn't just some lucky scally lad after all. She tilted her head, and
turned to flash a cynical grin across at their host. `Shall we do the
moneys first?' she asked, and slipped a phone from her clutch bag as if
checking the time. Somehow, to Foden right now, her cynicism and impatience
were more sexy than irritating. He found he loved the transaction of it
all, the dropped mask of romance.

Rock hard in his exercise gear, he slipped away from her to pour himself
some vodka, trying to quench a boozy headache with more of the cause. Kyle
had nipped quickly out and back, and was fanning handfuls of £50 notes
at the girls like some international playboy, though the English girl was
still on her phone, rude and disinterested. And now the OTHER girl, the
Brazilian or whatever, was all over HIM instead of Kyle, pushing her
breasts into his reach and locking lips. He shuddered with excitement and
grabbed at her smooth shoulders, brushing through the lustrous hair.



In the bedroom, Kyle was loud in his enjoyment. He carried the English lass
in and tossed her into his bed like some triumphant king on his wedding
night, then dived down to motorboat her bare breasts. He was aware of the
added presence as Phil scrambled onto the bed next to him, tangled up with
the older whore. Whiny coy moans from the girls filled the room and Kyle
laughed eagerly as he kissed and sucked on one then the other nipple of
this first girl's beautiful breasts, then worked his way down her tummy and
to the front of her lacy knickers.

He nuzzled her fanny through the fabric, running his strong hands up her
hips and tummy and back up to squeeze the tits, then back down to pull the
panties away. He looked up and saw Phil on his knees, being blown by the
other hooker. Good lad! Kyle smirked his way then dived down to plant his
tongue inside her, taking immense pleasure as always in his favourite
foreplay.

But eager not to miss out, he angled the muscular bulk of his body sideways
on the bed so that whilst he ate out one girl, the other could grab at and
stroke his hard-on in the front of his boxer briefs. He was light-headed
and buoyant with the cocaine, and no one position seemed to satisfy him for
long... soon he was sitting up more, swapping his big tongue for two
fingers in the English cunt, while pushing the Brazilian to stop sucking
Phil and to get his own cock out instead. He saw a glimpse of Foden's meat
swinging, surprised again at how well-hung the skinny teen actually was,
though his stature probably exaggerated it somewhat.

When he and Phil caught eyes, he smirked and laughed, and loved the hot
pink cheeks and wide drunken eyes of the younger lad, thinking cynically
that even at 19, he'd been so much more experienced and confident a pussy
hound compared to this loser! But he liked Phil's excitement and he loved
the group dynamic, and he felt a surge of gratitude that this weedy Golden
Boy had turned up when his so-called best mates had been
goody-fucking-two-shoes and stayed home in isolation. Thank god for
prostitution, he moaned inwardly, and slipped his cock from one girl's
mouth to the other, shifting position yet again, twisting the bedsheets
beneath his thighs and glutes.

Soon he needed to fuck properly, enough foreplay: he sensed the English
girl was wetter and ever so slightly hotter, so he pulled her pale curvy
shape into position and slid his short thick boner between her downstairs
lips. He ploughed her with coke-fuelled energy, glad of the release after a
week of just his right hand. As he bounced in and out of her, he caught
Phil sneaking glimpses at it, admiringly or enviously, and he enjoyed the
parallel voyeurism of it – seeing Phil begin to shag the other lass down
on the bed at their side, emulating his ferocious stride but without the
same weighty power. His slim muscular body powered on like an adorable
Duracell bunny.

Kyle changed his rhythm, slowing down. He knew the squeals of delight from
her were performative but he didn't overly care, he enjoyed the
pornographic fantasy of it. He flipped her round so she was on her hands
and knees and fucked her doggy-style instead, holding one firm hand to her
lower back but flexing the other up and vainly kissing his own bicep for a
moment, drunkenly in love with his own strength and virility. But then he
was looking back down at the missionary sex at his side, pale slim Foden
riding the tanned Brazilian beauty in sync with his thrusts.

He hooted another laugh, swung his free hand down and spanked Phil's pale
perky cheeks. `Good lad,' he cooed, `good fuckin' lad... Show her that
Premiership dick... haha...' Another spank, pink fingerprints lingering on
each cheek. It seemed like the attention turned Foden on more, since he was
slamming that pussy even harder and grunting out his enjoyment. Kyle
slapped his bottom again, but this time let his hand linger on it, feeling
the smooth tight curve of the cheeks beneath his fingers whilst he pushed
his throbbing cock in and out of the other lass's pussy. What a smooth
little arse Phil had, not as plump and exciting as these girls', but not
hairy or heavy like a lad's... He squeezed one cheek in his fingers and
inadvertently opened up the crack a bit, a little dark with downy hair. One
more spank, and then he pushed one finger into that crack, sliding his
cunt-wet digit in between Phil's cheeks even as they both ploughed their
hired pussy.

`Oh god,' whined the Golden Boy, and it was hard to say if he was groaning
at the sensation of fucking this South American slag, or at the new
attention from behind.

Kyle just giggled drunkenly and prodded his thick finger against what he
figured was the hole, feeling its hot tightness against his tip,
remembering the mad moment in which he had pushed a single finger into his
best mate John in his car and – Fuck, fuck, don't think about that
bell-end right now, he should be here enjoying this... Distracted and
irritated, he pulled his finger away from Phil's hole and clasped both
hands to the prozzer's hips instead so he could really go for it like a
machine.

But then he was flipping onto his side, momentarily tired, and urging her
to twist around and use her mouth instead. He felt sweat bead on his chest
and arm muscles and drip down the sides of his face, whole body tingling
with drugs and sex. He groaned dizzily and ran his fingers through her long
brown hair and watched as Phil and the other girl cuddled and snogged and
gasped. He lost interest, for a second, in the familiar pleasure of this
girl's performative whines and hair tosses and scratching acrylic nails; he
liked the sweaty sheen on those tight pale muscles in his young friend's
body, the lithe athleticism with which Phil got to business.

`My turn with her,' he said commandingly, and moved across the bed. He
almost prised the 24-year-old South American and the English teen apart,
but stroked and rubbed at both bodies as he did. He hugged Phil with one
arm, enjoying the dazed enjoyment on his face, and then looking down as
their expensively paid lovers crawled to service their angled erections
with hands and tongues. The two men, ten years apart in age and experience,
groaned in sweaty unison.

`God,' Kyle drawled, `look how she loves my fat dick, eh... ohh...'

`Yes I DO,' whined one of the prostitutes, he no longer cared which.

`Look at it,' Kyle urged Phil, gripping the back of his neck and rubbing at
his neatly shaved dark hair, pushing his head closer and angling it down a
little. `Look... Mmm, yeh, she can't get enough of it...'

`Nah she can't,' Foden agreed in a wild gasp.

`Now you have a taste buddy,' Kyle said suddenly, pulling his arm more
forcefully down about Phil's lean shoulders, and angling his bulky torso
back to give access. `Come on, let him try it, lass...' Eyes wide and lips
pouting, the Latino girl pulled away and then giggled as Phil slowly
descended. There were little gasps, perhaps genuine now, from both hookers,
as Foden clutched Kyle's chest for support and dipped his head down and ran
his tongue against the fat tip.

`That is SO hot,' one prostitute groaned, fingering herself. Maybe she
meant it.

`Good lad,' breathed Walker greedily, `give it a suck...'

`He's not as good as US, is he?' giggled the other whore.

Kyle spread back languorously against the disturbed sheets, flexing his
arms up and behind his head, then staring over the muscled landscape of his
chest, watching Phil's high-cheekboned face sink down and pull up,
struggling over the girth of his meat and then pull away, blinking and
blushing and perhaps regretting his decision to experiment. Instantly, one
of the paid sluts was taking his place, and Kyle reached one arm over to
pat and stroke Phil's bony back gratefully.

In minutes, his energies were recovered, and he was fucking the Brazilian,
putting on a real show of throwing her curvy body about and pumping his
thick glutes to drill her cunt. In front of him, Phil was on his back, and
the other girl was bouncing up and down on his dick, tits flopping, hair
all over the place. What a sight. Kyle had intended to go on for longer,
but something about watching that weedy scally looking pretty much
dominated by that confident slag, well... fuck...

`YES,' he cried out, pressing the tanned South American into the bedding
and thrusting his dick deep insider, `OH YES...' He unloaded into her, and
some sensible corner of his brain regretted the lack of condoms, but then
he was rolling off her, spent. He sprawled in the centre of the crowded
bed, his dick quivering and leaking spunk, and Phil's rhythmic pants
filling his ears. But the Brazilian was up on her knees, stroking her own
tits, and gasping at Phil.

`Hey, Paul,' she moaned, either joking or forgetting which name was real,
`come eat your buddy out of me... come on... You liked his taste...'

As Kyle lay there, shaking and sweating, Phil's naked form came crawling
over him, body arched over and head dipping down between the girl's thighs
to luck her cunt. The other prostitute curled between the men and began to
suck Phil from below now, and Kyle felt an odd sensation that so rarely
happened: instead of dwindling into a fat floppy, his dick was twitching
and stretching again, and he reached down to take hold of this second
boner. He could see the side of Phil's sharp jawline, pushing and pulling
at the Brazilian fanny, smeared with glossy wetness, his own sloppy
enjoyment of her... wow...

Kyle lay there and jerked himself until the human jigsaw shifted again, and
now the Brazilian was sucking him off, and Phil was ploughing the English
girl yet again beside them until he cried and gasped his orgasm and fell
away. Walker came a second time, shooting very little but feeling the most
intense sexual relief he could remember. He dragged her body up against him
and kissed her lips, tasting his own saltiness on her full lips, cuddling
her fleshy body and pressing his muscles to her in a sleepy embrace.



Female voices woke Phil from satisfied post-orgasmic rest.

`But the agency,' came the thickly exotic accent of the South American
girl.

`The agency pays us peanuts.' The harsher, more careful whisper of the
local lass.

`Will the papers even pay us?!'

`A story like this?'

`Oh Louise, I dunno...'

`It'll be much better if we both call them,' urged the first voice, but she
broke off then, as Phil's eyes opened and he propped himself up on his
elbows. He stared sleepily at the two girls crouched on the bed beside him,
and felt a pang of beery nausea somewhere deep inside. The English girl
stared at him suspiciously, but her Latino friend just giggled and reached
for his floppy dick with one hand. `Hello papi,' she laughed, `are you
ready for round 2...?'

`Not... yet...' murmured Foden, pulling his aching body away a little,
trying to get his bearings. Here he was, in Kyle's rented bedroom, in this
luxury apartment... very much NOT in his own home where he should be! He
pulled further away and slid off the bed, watching as Kyle also woke up,
groaning lazily and reaching out for a handful of tits. Walker was looming
up and kissing at one and then both girls, who seemed to lose interest in
Phil at this. They knew who had paid them.

Foden stood there beside the bed, and the sleepy cloud lifted from his
thoughts: the details of the conversation that had woken him, fragmented
and uncomfortable, buzzed at the back of his mind, and he took another step
away from the bed. Suddenly, with hideous clarity, he could picture the
four of them undressing in the kitchen and necking vodka, and laughing at
the haughty sulk of the beautiful English girl on her phone, showy
indifference, or... or discreet photography?

Phil picked his black sports briefs up from the floor and slid them on, and
left the bedroom unnoticed: one girl was leaning down to lap at Kyle's
sweaty bollocks and the other was standing in front of him so he could bury
his face in her crotch. The groans and squeals echoed down the corridor as
Phil staggered to the kitchen and plucked his sports kit from every corner
of the room, a sickly fear taking over. He was in trouble here, he
realised. This had been a terrible mistake.

Trouble. Fear. One calm, smouldering face came to the forefront of his
mind.



Pep's black sports car arrived in the sprawling driveway of the converted
Victorian house on the edge of Hale, and Phil stood shivering at the
corner, hood up and hands dug into its front pocket. He instantly
recognised the slick car that purred past him and crunched onto the gravel
driveway. The driver's door opened and out he stepped, his dark grey
buzzcut instantly recognisable in the faint moonlight, a long coat on over
his tshirt and tracksuit bottoms.

He stood there, and stared Phil down over the car roof.

`Filipe,' he said in his heavy Spanish tones. `Get in the car now.'

Foden gulped and took a few steps over. `Sir,' he said quietly, `I just...'

`Get in the car,' repeated Guardiola heavily, over-pronouncing each
monosyllabic word.

Phil did as he was told, unable to question his saviour. He opened the door
into the back, squeezed into the tight space of a vehicle not built for
many passengers. He shivered but was glad of the warmer insides of the
Italian motor, after waiting alone in the dark for half an hour. Pep's car
had heated seats, soothing against his back and buttocks. The driver door
reopened, and Pep leant in; he thought for a second he might get a warmer,
kinder look, but no, just glowering cold fury.

`That taxi must be for them,' intoned the Spaniard.

Phil looked out of his window as a cab drifted slowly by them into the big
shared driveway of the luxury apartments, parking a little further ahead
and cutting its lights. There came the heavy sound of a door closing, and
muffled distant giggling. The moonlight was milky and washed out, dawn just
about visible somewhere between the trees. Phil looked back across the
interior of the car and saw Pep glaring fiercely at him. The football
manager had removed a wallet from his coat pocket, was thumbing through
some notes.

`Before I silence them,' Guardiola said seriously, `I must know.'

`Boss...?'

`Am I just silencing prostitution?' he asked sharply. Phil felt a little
slow on the uptake, unsure what to say to that, but Pep expanded. `Drug
use? Hmm. Any... funny business?' His glare was intense and meaningful, and
Phil realised what he was getting at. He rubbed guiltily at his lips and
felt the thick fleshy presence of Kyle's dong that had been between them.
He gave a slight second nod, as he had to `drug use', and was about to
struggle to define it, but Pep just nodded sharply back and slammed the
door shut as he disappeared.

Foden sat there in silence, not quite able to make out the scene at the far
end of the driveway. Draped in their fur coats, the two call-girls were
stalled by Pep's silhouette as they reached their taxi. Some huddled
conference took place, and seemed to go on for too long. But then the taxi
was leaving and Pep was stalking back over the gravel. No lights were on in
the upstairs of the big red-brick. Kyle was probably sleeping off his
adventures, deeply satisfied.

Nothing was said as Pep got back into the car, another slam of the door,
engine started. The car growled off the gravel and onto the road back
through the town of Hale. Phil watched his manager's stormy brows in the
rearview mirror and dismissed a dozen beginnings to the apology that he had
tried and failed on the phone, waking this man in the middle of the night
and calling him out of quarantine to save him. Phil had been struck with
terror in the flat, thinking through what he'd heard that girl say.

`You are safe,' Pep announced, after several painful minutes of this. `You
will not be shamed.'

`I dunno what to say, gaffer,' Foden murmured weakly.

`Say nothing, then,' snapped Pep disinterestedly.

`I... I'm so sorry,' Phil said, and he knew how pathetic and lame it was.
`I just... God.' He buried his face in both hands, hating himself. The full
enormity of his actions was sinking in, the scandal he seemed to be spared
here. He just had to hope that everybody really was asleep when he was
dropped off at his own mansion in about ten minutes' time. He endured
minutes more of pained silence, trying to catch Pep's dark eyes in the
mirror and then giving up. Eventually, he said what he could: `I just dunno
how to thank you, boss,' he sighed, `I dunno what to... I mean, for saving
us, and...' He trailed off, saw the snarl of annoyance on the boss's face.

`Us?' asked Pep after a moment.

`Well, I mean, Kyle and I,' Phil said, and he felt somehow the pairing of
him and that sleazy older bloke was the real trouble here, more than the
breaking quarantine or the potential scandals. Though he'd said nothing
about the seedy contact between them, the cheeky finger or the experimental
suck, it seemed almost like Pep intuitively knew, and was... jealous? Or
was he just imagining that? Was he really just in deep shit for his other
insane decisions?

`Us,' repeated Pep in a derisive scoff. He almost hissed. `I paid them off
to keep your name clean, Filipe. Not HIM.' Another disgusted scoff. Their
eyes met in the mirror. `You will be an "unnamed friend" in the news story,
nothing more. Kyle Walker, well...' He almost spat the next words. `He can
start looking for a new team this summer.' Eyes back on the road, knuckles
white on the wheel.

Phil sat silently in the back, intensely relieved at his escape, but more
worried than ever by the special relationship he found himself in here.
When the car pulled up a short distance from his own driveway, and nothing
was said, he just sniffled out another apology and thankyou and goodnight,
and got out of the backseat into the night air. He walked around the side
of the car, and paused, and down rolled the driver's window. There was no
softening on Pep's almost gaunt, weary face, but clearly more needed to be
said.

`You must hate me right now,' Phil groaned quietly, lingering at the side
of the vehicle, looking from the house ahead back to his disappointed hero.

`I could never hate you,' was all Pep said, no warmth in his statement.
`But you need to remember whose you are,' he added, and then up rolled the
window. Phil stood there, biting his lip and squeezing fists inside his
hoody pocket, until the car was gone in a flash of headlights. He was still
Pep's Golden Boy, for better or for worse.


**MORE LOCKDOWN INSPIRATION FROM THE REAL ANTICS OF THESE HUNKY IDIOTS...
GOOGLE KYLE WALKER! ENJOY THE STORY BUT STAY SAFE AT HOME GUYS...**