Date: Fri, 10 Apr 2020 22:43:56 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 78: Three Captains

Part seventy-eight: Three Captains


`Hey big man,' read the text message flaring across the screen of the
gadget, `how u doing? Hope u keepin well in mad times, luv to the fam x' it
continued. He smiled and put the device aside on the countertop, busying
himself with the drink-making duties he'd adopted tonight, and wondering
for a moment what could have inspired young Dan James to pop him a message
this evening. Regardless, it was lovely to hear from the cheeky-faced
youngster, who had been a welcome injection of energy and skill to the
Welsh national side last year – he was disappointed now that the serious
worldwide emergency had, amongst so many other things, put a stop to the
games he might have enjoyed with plucky Daniel, friendlies and the
postponed Euros tournament.

Gareth Bale turned his mind to the glassy bottles and mixers in front of
him now, enjoying the excess and variety of his colleague and neighbour's
home bar, and trying to remember the varied requests of the blokes at the
poker table next door. The tall powerful Welshman whistled to himself as he
cracked out some ice, mixed spirits, and flipped the caps on a few beer
bottles, loading the various beverages onto a serving tray to take back
through. He was already a little tipsy himself after two drinks, normally
almost teetotal in his quest for peak fitness. Discipline had of course
been weakened by the lockdown life, in this and many things.

Music and laughter tinkled through into the long open kitchen of the luxury
villa, and Bale was about to follow it through when he remembered the
little message from James. He shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back
across the kitchen to pick up his phone. He punched in a simple response:
`all good now, such worrying time but staying safe here – hope u lookin
after urself too, miss u little buddy! X' He pushed the kiss in out and
then, in the lingering conservatism of south Wales, smirked at the open
fondness of the habit, he NEVER put kisses on texts to blokes! Hah, had Dan
put one on too? Silly twat. He grinned, shook his head, chuckled at the
little cross on the screen, dismissed it completely. Nice to hear from the
kid though, regardless.

Bale picked up the tray and headed through, following the merry noise to
re-join the little soiree.

Spain was under tight lockdown, of course, and Madrid especially was almost
shut down by the current quarantine, but HERE... Bale, and several of his
well-paid teammates, lived in what was essentially a self-contained
compound miles out of the city, though not far from one of Real Madrid's
several top-notch training facilities. The compound was locked down from
the outer world, they made sure of that, but the result was that the
families inside continued to mingle and live as a friendly community, safe
in the knowledge of the expensive virus tests the players had all undergone
at the club before entering isolation.

Tonight was the latest in the ensuing social events the cluster of
households had organised for one another, and though Bale was selfishly a
little glad it wasn't HIS turn to host, he was greatly enjoying
himself. They were all horribly worried about the outer world, but they
were making the best of it, and looking out for each other – and as
someone who had been a disciplined athlete since his early teens, Gareth
Bale was finding something luxurious and relaxing in the dropped pressure
of the indefinitely postponed leagues and tournaments.

A cosmopolitan, multilingual blur of manly banter erupted about the table
as he delivered the drinks. Gareth grinned along with the joke, his Spanish
good enough to pick up on the fact he was being referred to as their
`wench' for the night. He shrugged off the silly joke with his wide, goofy
smile, rolling his eyes at the masculine sparring, and passing bottles and
glasses across the circular table to the gathered men. Their wives were
having a parallel party a few villas away, probably a much wilder one,
based on some of the resident WAGs, and a few designated losers had
babysitting duty on their friends' behalf.

`Gracias, senorita,' cooed the Real Madrid captain to his left in his
rasping Spanish tones, and then he delivered the punchline in the form of a
swift noisy spank to Bale's backside.

Gareth couldn't totally suppress a little yelp of surprise but he quickly
turned it into warm laughter, joining the general amusement of the group at
Sergio Ramos and his gesture; the Madrid and Spain captain was guffawing
into one hand, as incredibly pleased with his own simple humour as always,
flashing a beaming white grin at the others for approval and then picking
up his complicated whiskey cocktail to salute the `senorita'.

`Very funny, lads, very funny,' Gareth grunted in English, in no mood to
provoke more laughter by trying to compose a comeback in Spanish. It had
been seven years since he left London for Madrid, but he still had the
vague sense of being the Brit abroad, the visiting fool.

With that, the 6ft1 Cardiff lad found his seat and took a long gulp of gin
and tonic, pleased with his own mixing skills and the jovial mood of the
night. He relaxed into his seat, casually glad that the jokey conversation
quickly moved from his waitressing skills to the highs and lows of the
night's poker playing. This made Valverde the new butt of the jokes, as the
young Uruguayan had clearly never played before and was already losing out
to the smirking, winking playboys around him.

Bale wasn't insecure enough to let a 21-year-old take over the gentle abuse
in his place though, and soaked up the jibes and laughter as his own next
few hands let him down and his cash on the table dwindled. He was shite at
poker, he knew that, he didn't particularly care. He could remember being
in Valverde's position seven years ago, a gawping newbie fresh from the UK,
feeling completely out of depth in a sweaty Madrid apartment. He'd learnt
that the winning was largely irrelevant. The camaraderie, the intense
efforts to pull off ridiculous bluffs, and the fast-paced assessment of
each guy's tells, that was the real fun... Well, those things, and the
drinking.

To the drinking, he thought with treacle-like senses, slurping down the
last of his gin and tonic and realising how quickly the night was
passing. In front of him, Modric was dealing a final few hands and the
gents were quietly assessing their remaining funds. They always played for
real money, crisp wads of freshly printed notes handled possessively about
the table: figures that would be disgusting and arousing to ordinary blokes
but were comically small fry to the men on Real wages here, even a newbie
like Valverde. Bale's Welsh roots sometimes balked at the decadence and
showiness of how men lived and behaved here on the edges of Madrid, but it
was his world now, after all these years. And every now and then, the
ordinariness of English or Welsh life called to him, but his wife and kids
were settled here, HE was settled here. There was much to love in the
Spanish culture and the big-money lifestyle of La Liga.

The night wore on and, eventually, seemed to end, in a serious of
half-joking confrontations between the others. Lost money, swaggering
celebrations, reluctant handshakes. As time was called on a final game,
Bale realised just how drunk he was feeling, and he grinned stupidly into a
refilled glass on his way back from the kitchen. One last nightcap, Ramos
had put it, taking control of his own home bar and slapping the backs of
each guy forcefully in his drive to keep up party spirit.

The Welshman stood between the kitchen and the big dining room, enjoying
this strong final gin, and mentally tallying his minor losses. He hadn't
made a profit at a night like this in months, maybe years! He tugged gently
at the collar of his black shirt, warm in this and his pale chinos. He made
his way through into the big glassy square of the villa's downstairs
lounge, with distant views of the city glimmering in the centre of a dark
vista.

He could hear Valverde making a fuss, refusing a drink, pissed off at
himself rather than anyone else. And Modric too seemed to be exiting,
traipsing past Gareth to collect his denim jacket from another chair,
grumbling to himself about Sergio being as big a cheat at the poker table
as he was in a football stadium. Bale hooted with generous laughter at this
dig, enjoying the familiar rivalries and in-jokes of squad life.

He placed himself on one of the white leather couches and stuck his big
feet up on a stool, stretching his back muscles and sipping the G&T again
– bloody hell, Sergio made them strong, didn't he?!

In came Toni Kroos, the level-headed German still sipping from a beer he
had been nursing for some time, sliding into the parallel sofa and picking
up a remote for the huge flatscreen TV. After him came Eden Hazard, the
newest of the Real men at tonight's gathering. The short stocky Belgian was
still in his first, now incomplete, season of La Liga, fresh from his
successes at Chelsea in recent years. Laughing something at Kroos in
German, he flung himself down at the other end of Bale's couch and lifted
his feet up onto the same rest as he found a relaxed position.

Gareth smiled thinly at both men, quite used to moments like this. He had
done his best with Spanish, but to be British was often to feel out of
touch – so many of the European gents shared and overlapped different
languages here, and being the only UK lad on the side could be momentarily
isolating, even if almost everyone could speak strong English when they
chose. The tall muscular striker smiled to himself at a familiar thought,
and he interrupted them.

`Don't mind me, lads,' he barked out playfully, but in Welsh not English.

Kroos looked his way and burst out laughing, familiar with this trick, and
always bonded with Bale by their arriving at the team at a similar time,
newish together back in the day; Hazard, though, turned his dark handsome
features and stared incredulously at the chuckling blokes. `What nonsense
is he speaking?' the Belgian demanded with a stern frown.

`Just a spot of Welsh,' Bale informed him coolly. `We all have our own
languages when we want to.'

`Aha,' Hazard responded slowly, `I see your point. Apologies, Gareth.'

They were joined by their host, who had a bottle of tequila tucked under
one arm, and a short tower of shot glasses clutched in the other hand. He
flashed his toothy white grin at them one at a time, laughing off the
varied groans of dismay before placing the glasses down on a central glass
table and pouring generous measures out. `It is tradition,' he rasped
happily, `I insist... I insist...'

`Have those losers gone?' Kroos asked calmly.

`Yes, no drinky for them,' Sergio sighed, passing the tequila shots about.

`It is late,' Bale pointed out fairly.

`Yes but we can sleep it off tomorrow,' Eden grumbled, spilling some
tequila on his hand as he waved demonstratively and screwed up his face at
the other two's departure. `Pah! To our good health, senors, to our good
health, and to the health of the world.' There was some hearty agreement to
this, and the four men knocked back their tequilas.

`Oh for fuck's sake,' Bale laughed, as Ramos immediately began to refill
the glasses. `No more, Sergio. No more.' He shook his head, which span, and
rubbed one hand at his temples. He could already feel the morning's
hangover that would make him irritable with the kids. He took the glass and
knocked back the nauseating spirit all the same, and reclined further back
on the squeaking white leather of the couch.

It was that point in the night: the short stroll to his own villa, the
necked pint of water, the headachey cuddles with his wife, it all seemed
too much effort. He knew he'd drank too much, he knew he'd been crap at the
poker, but he was in a fuzzy headspace where the decadence of the night
could last forever. Across from him, his German teammate was flicking
through music channels and singing badly along to a few current hits;
Hazard was animatedly boasting his victorious winnings, fanning Euro notes
at their captain; Ramos was sprawled in a designer armchair by himself,
eyeing the club newbie with indulgent patience.

As he often did when drunk with his teammates, Bale counted his
blessings. A move out here could have been a fucking nightmare, so many
British players sank in European leagues, home to the Premiership with
tails between their legs. He was proud of the life he'd built here, and he
enjoyed swatting away the intermittent poaching from English clubs
desperate to lure him back to British turf. He grinned contentedly and
listened as the other men slid from Spanish to English to German and, at
one point, French, but that was just Eden ranting overexcitedly about how
much he had fucked Valverde in the face with his superior poker
skills. Alright, chill out, Bale thought, or said, it was hard to tell
which by this stage.

At some point, Sergio had seized the television remote from Toni. The 6ft
Spaniard strutted back to his armchair, flicking through some channels, and
tossing the tequila bottle to Eden. `Pour some more, eh?' he said.

Hazard sniggered and made noises of reluctance, but did so. Kroos refused
his shot, to much sneering from the other two, and Bale stared nauseously
at the translucent yellow liquid being sloshed out by the Belgian. `Ugh,
really?' he asked groggily. `I might have reached my limit,
fellas. Ah... Eden... haha...' He clumsily took his fingers around the shot
glass and looked apologetically at Toni, feeling almost as if he was
betraying the other guy by giving in.

`Still a no from me,' Kroos announced in his clipped German accent, an
adamant frown on his lightly tanned face, running fingers through the blond
sweep of his hair and wrapping his tattooed arms about his chest
defensively. `My head hurts already!'

Ramos muttered some Spanish insult that Bale suspected was more offensive
if you understood all the connotations, but they all laughed lightly
anyway. Bale looked up at the huge TV screen and raised his eyebrows in
surprise at the channel their host had settled on. Was this a...? Yes, this
was definitely a... `Err, Serg,' he laughed hoarsely, `do you pay extra for
this channel, or...?'

Hazard gave a high-pitched little laugh of mischief. `Porno? Muy bien,' he
exclaimed.

Kroos was frowning and shaking his head. `What is wrong with you, Ramos?'
he demanded a little prudishly. `Have you not SEEN the woman you married,
eh...?' He turned with a hint of teasing in his serious face, and began to
mime the prodigious bosoms of Mrs Ramos, provoking gruff laughter from the
others. On-screen, a more convincing pair of tits had just been exposed, as
the attractive young maid by the pool seemed to find her clothes magically
dropping off in front of her wealthy employer, who was stroking his crotch
and staring obscenely.

Ramos was just cackling to himself and wafting the front of his
loose-fitting woollen top, toying with the gold chain about his neck. `She
enjoys watching it more than I do,' he announced teasingly, waving at the
screen, `she is happy for us to pay – perhaps I should add a password to
the channel, however! Ha ha...'

Eden was biting his lip and leaning forward a little in the couch, watching
with interest as the miraculously naked blond in the video began posturing
and exposing herself to the boss. Bale laughed a bit then, amused by the
almost boyish interest the 29-year-old married footballer had in this seedy
clip, compared with the puritan disapproval of tattooed 30-year-old Toni
sitting opposite them. Sergio was still cackling delightedly to himself,
presumably he was just leaving the porno channel on to provoke and
entertain. Gareth found himself looking back at it, sizing up the
20-something performer and her almost cartoonishly attractive physique.

He'd never been much into porn, to be fair. Not to be arrogant, but he'd
never needed it as such. Tall and athletic from a young age, and marked out
as a prodigious talent from his early youth teams, he'd never gone short of
pussy – and he'd met and fallen for his wife over ten years ago, though
they had only just recently officially married. He was still wild for her,
he was proud of their sex life even after a decade and three kids. Gareth
wasn't the kinda guy who needed to wander onto crappy web searches to find
his stimulation!

`Put it off,' groaned Kroos dismissively, waving a hand at the TV.

`Relax,' cried Ramos intently. `Relax, you stuffy bastard...'

The German frowned and waved his hand at his captain instead,
dismissive. `Stuffy!' he laughed back. `I will go home and fuck my wife
hard tonight – while you three stare at this plastic rubbish! Hah!'

`Go then,' responded Hazard bluntly. His small shifty eyes flicked from the
screen to his teammate, and then he sniggered and began pouring more
tequila into the glasses, watched eagerly by Sergio. Bale grimaced at the
thought of another shot, and ran a big hand over his flushed face.

`I will,' their midfield colleague said, rising up from the sofa and
adjusting his dark jeans and baggy tshirt, shaking his head at Sergio as if
really quite shocked by the casual pornography unfolding beside him. The
young maid was now sitting on her employer's face, as you do when you run
out of household chores to carry out in the nude. Kroos looked back at the
screen, wrinkled his nose, judgementally, then turned Gareth's way. `Are
you coming, Bale?' he asked.

Gareth paused indecisively. It hadn't actually occurred to him to go
anywhere. Yes, it was late in the night, the party was winding down... but
a drunken lethargy had taken over his aching muscles, and this sofa was so
impossibly comfy. But still, he couldn't face another round of the sour
tequila in his mouth, and he wasn't sure he was sober enough to make much
conversation with the other two, so perhaps he ought to-

`Fine,' snapped Kroos curtly, irritated by his hesitation. `I shall leave
you three... wankers!' The usually placid German winger strode past the
television and left the room, exiting the dwindling poker party just as the
other two had shortly before. Bale watched him go with a vague sense that
he really ought to climb up himself and head after him too, get home to
bed, call time on this decadent weekend shindig.

`Fuck him,' chuckled Sergio from his louche pose on the armchair.

`Yes, fuck him,' agreed Eden heartily, passing a shot glass to the Real
Madrid captain and then offering another Bale's way. `Stuck up German
prick. Hehe.'

The Welsh striker stared down at the offered glass and its oily contents,
his head throbbing and his tongue sticking distastefully to his
palate. What was one more when you felt quite this fucked? He took it,
rough fingers brushing Eden's, and he knocked it back in unison with the
other men, all of them blinking and retching a little at the powerful
taste, even seasoned Sergio who seemed to be composed 90% of the fucking
stuff right now. Bale examined the other two in their reaction, Hazard
wiping his stubbled mouth clumsily and Ramos finally screwing a lid on the
bottle as he stretched and twitched his dark-tanned face.

Three international captains, Bale thought idly through the fug of alcohol,
three football heroes, and look at us... what a hot mess!

And on screen, beside them, the tanned body of the girl was contorting into
some uncomfortable position and being railed by the suit-wearing man, both
actors grunting out Spanish profanities and working up a sweat for a
viewing audience. Gareth blinked dizzily at it and undid a top button of
his black shirt, unsure if the room was getting hotter or if the ridiculous
clip was making him feel so sweaty all of a sudden. Or was he actually just
sweating out neat tequila? That also seemed plausible.

`I've seen this before,' Sergio commented in a dry, weary voice.

`It is hot though,' muttered Eden, following it with a mitigating chuckle
and shrug.

`Si, it is,' their host agreed despite his criticism.

`Yeh,' Gareth said, but vaguely, blinking again. It was, but it was –
well, it looked so artificial and soulless. It was nothing like the
grunting, passionate intercourse he loved with his wife, the wild nights
trying to muffle each other's screams and only really losing control when
away from home in some five-star hotel. Sex to the Welshman was rapid and
spontaneous, aggressive but egalitarian; the shite on screen seemed
saccharine and unconvincing. And yet... her body...

`What would you do to her?' asked Sergio thoughtfully.

`Everything,' Eden replied instantly, still leaning forward in the couch,
more like an excited child than an international icon approaching his 30th
birthday. The Belgian rubbed a sweaty palm over his lightly haired chin and
licked his upper lip. `I'd fuck her senseless, the dirty bitch. Look at
her. Yummy.' He added something else in either Dutch or German or Flemish,
which sounded all the filthier for its alien syllables.

`Would you fuck her, Gareth?' Sergio asked sharply.

Gareth tore his eyes off the screen, where doggy-style fucking was spilling
paperwork from a desk, and looked over the room at Sergio, who was staring
intently his way and shifting positions in the arm chair, pulling up his
sleeves to reveal some of the intricate tattooing there. Gareth found the
curious twinkle in his teammate's eyes almost alarming.

`Perhaps,' he said evasively. `I'm not sure she's my type.'

`You prefer brunette,' Ramos said or asked, it was unclear, but his grin
was playful and curious.

`I would fuck her whatever colour hair she had,' Hazard interrupted them,
sat halfway between them, slumped in the same couch. As he spoke, he pushed
a hand down the front of the elasticated smart-casual charcoal trousers he
wore, as if to prove his point, fiddling with himself within the fitted
garment and pulling his other arm up behind his head. Gareth stared in
surprise at the wandering hand then noticed Sergio looking to; their eyes
met as they flicked away from Eden's bold transgression.

Instinctively, Gareth wanted to comment on this, make a joke of it, rib the
Belgian goal machine for his public fondling, but... well, he actually felt
awkward drawing any more attention to it, and he felt so drunk and lazy, he
could hardly even be bothered to slide further down the sofa away from the
randy bugger! Instead, he looked again at Sergio, found that the 6ft
captain was again watching Eden instead; watching as the ex-Chelsea player
felt himself up openly and confidently and stared obliviously at the TV.

`Jesus,' Bale exclaimed eventually, shaking his head, then laughing.

`What? I'm excited, horny, whatever word you want to use.' Eden glared
defensively at him, hand still stuffed down the front of his trousers, then
looked almost in appeal at their host. `Do you mind?'

Ramos just laughed deeply and lounged back. `Not at all Eden,' he
said. `Gareth, do YOU mind?'

The Welsh beast opened and closed his mouth and tugged at his shirt
collar. `Well I don't fucking care, obviously,' he said, because it seemed
like the most open-minded and relaxed response needed; his tone and
swearing betrayed his tension. He was sick of always seeming to be the
stuffy Brit here, the reserved one, he wasn't even fucking ENGLISH, and
yet...

`It's so HOT tonight, no?' Sergio was saying then, and when he looked up,
the older man was pulling the thin white top off and throwing it back
behind his armchair, stretching out shirtless and flexing his arms. Gareth
stared for a moment at the insanely ripped physique of the man, though it
was a particular familiar sight after the past few weeks: the gardens of
their villas touched at one end and many a hot day had greeted Gareth with
the sight of his heavily tattooed neighbour working out in the smallest
shorts he could find, as usual. Sunlight gleaming off tight brown muscle as
the vain defender worked his body in a variety of gym set-ups around his
big garden. An inch shorter than Gareth, but insanely fit at 34 and nearing
the end of his prime. Gareth blinked his eyes and pulled them away; there
was something about the detail and network of Sergio's innumerable tattoos
that always drew the eye across them, trying to read that snatch of Latin
or decode that little bit of awkward artistic symbolism.

`It is hot,' Bale agreed. `Can we open a window?'

`Just take your shirt off!' Ramos suggested with a gruff laugh to his
voice. And then, lounging back, he ran both hands down the chiselled
washboard of his decorated abs and teased fingertips at the waistband of
his black skinny jeans, half-echoing Eden's more easy-going fumble.

`Look at her titties bounce,' Hazard said, drawing the other men's
attentions back towards the screen with a little groan of relish. `Wish she
was bouncing on me right now – so horny, so fucking up for it... hah!'

`We can tell that,' Bale said drily, fumbling with a couple of buttons and
giving the other guy a dubious look, shifting uncomfortably on the
squeaking leather; inadvertently brushing his knee against Hazard's as he
did so. His eyes flicked up, and he saw that one of Sergio's hands was now
tucked halfway into the front of his tight jeans, and a challenging grin
had curled on his lips. There was always something complacent and daring in
Sergio's confidence, the ease of a man who had sat on a throne here for so
many years, a player at Real Madrid for nearly half his life! The
34-year-old let out a sleazy laugh and waved his free hand encouragingly in
Gareth's direction.

Bale silently fingered down the front of his shirt until it hung loose, but
he felt no relief; he was burning up, he could feel the hot embarrassed
blush in his chiselled cheekbones. The groans and squeals from the TV were
making it worse. Second by second, their volume increased, and it took him
a moment to see that Ramos had the remote and was dialling it up for his
own enjoyment.

Eden looked between them then, shifty, and suddenly pulled up on the crisp
white tshirt he wore and dragged it up and off; he was noticeably less
defined than either of the bigger men, his pale body toned and curvy
instead. As soon as the shirt was off, both hands dove into the front of
his elasticated waistband and he kicked his feet back up onto the shared
stool, and Gareth felt an almost sympathetic twinge in his own
crotch. Which was odd, cos this shitty video was doing NOTHING for him, was
it? It was crossing his mind what he might get up to when he got back to
his own villa, though, providing his wife was conscious enough to get
excited... he suspected that might NOT be the case, judging by how these
prosecco-fuelled girly nights often ended!

`God,' groaned Hazard thoughtfully, `imagine if she was HERE... we could
share her...'

`Spit roast, I think you say in English,' sniggered Ramos.

`Guys,' laughed Bale uneasily, `we're all a bit pissed here...' He turned
slightly, the shirt falling more open, his head spinning drunkenly.

`You can't spit roast three ways,' Hazard pointed out, as if from
experience; Bale dreaded to think what this randy fucker got up to in his
Chelsea days! `I would be fucking her beautiful behind,' he continued in
almost rhapsodic tones, then gestured with an elbow to the Spaniard, `and
Sergio would be ramming it in her mouth... Gareth, amigo, what would
you...?'

`Guys!' the Welsh gentle giant protested with a bashful groan, rubbing his
face and pushing the empty shot glass away form him, smearing a trace of
its sticky contents on the leather. `This is getting a bit much isn't
it...?'

Sergio loomed up from his seat, shrugging his shoulders whilst also
reaching down and yanking open the buttons of his flies. `Relax,' he said
again. `I feel good, Eden feel good, you feel good... and SHE... well, she
feel reeeeally good...' He gestured playfully at the screen, where the
pornstar was facing them all, her twits singing, railed from behind by her
co-star, practically screaming out her expensive lust at them from the big
HD flatscreen, the sex show seeming to fill the room, which span and
whirled with too much tequila.

And then, when Bale lurched to the right a little and looked over, he
started in shock: Hazard's restless hands were no longer inside the front
of his charcoal trousers, but they had been pushed halfway down his thick
footballer's thighs, and the short 29-year-old Belgian was casually tossing
himself off, dick out on view, back stretching against the white leather,
lips trembling with an almost attention-seeking little moan of
pleasure. `Oh yes,' he whimpered, `I would love to be fucking her now...'

Gareth tried to say something but for a second time tonight, he couldn't
manage it, too overwhelmed by the drunken atmosphere. He looked up, and
Sergio was still standing in front of them, by the glassy coffee table, but
his black skinny jeans were down about his knees, and the ripped muscular
defender was fondling the front of some tight black designer briefs,
staring with weird intensity at Eden's self-pleasure. He muttered something
to himself in Spanish that Gareth only half-understood, picking up the
words `naughty boy' somewhere in the middle.

Bale pulled his leg further from Hazard's, and he leant heavily on the back
of the sofa, as if to pick himself up and fly out of the room as quickly as
his talented feet could carry him. He rubbed at his chin and his cheek and
his temples and tried to let his drunk thoughts settle. A squeal from the
TV was distracting; a change of position from the performers, a better view
of her cunt now. Wow. Now that WAS intense.

More intense: his eyes swung back and – fucking hell – the black
briefs were inched down, stretching taut between the visible muscle of
Sergio's lean thighs, and the 6ft defensive warrior was stroking on a long
thick chorizo with a leer on his face. The complacent fucker wasn't even
bothering to look at the TV, he was probably just so turned on by the
thought of his own exposed physique and art gallery! Jesus Christ...

`Come on,' groaned the Spaniard invitingly. `You no excited, Gareth,
amigo?'

`Yeh,' drawled Eden, a foot from him on the couch, pulling back and forth
on his very erect tool, `just have a play... it's only a laugh...' There
was an amusing London twang to Hazard's English, he noticed again, too many
years at Chelsea.

Gareth sat stiffly on the couch, surprised by the little throb of
anticipation he felt between his legs. Well, he figured, there was no way
he was getting a shag tonight. A hungover humping was the best this weekend
would offer him, around the decadent gendered partying their little
community had organised. A wank wouldn't hurt. But in front of these two
blokes?! He uneasily stroked the front of his chinos and glanced back at
the screen. Oh but of course, a second girl had arrived to join in, a
curious neighbour. That happens ALL THE TIME.

`Get it out,' urged Ramos, standing tall and playing with his stretching,
veiny tool. `Mmm...' He murmured inaudible Spanish to himself and dragged
back on his foreskin. Gareth's eyes fixed for a few seconds on the apparent
size of the arrogant defender's piece, and he blinked in alarm at its
growing proportions.

Eden either read his mind or had the same realisation: `El
Capitano... fucking hell...!'

A slow, smug laugh from the long-established Madrid hero. `El burro,' he
purred. `The donkey', Gareth mentally translated, with a nervous and
intimidated gulp.

`And you?' Hazard grunted, turning his attention to the left suddenly. He
was still toying with his own nob, which was an average-sized boner,
comfortably fitting in his palm as he pulled idly on its length beneath
neatly trimmed pubes. `Are you a giant too, Gareth Bale?' An almost nasty,
challenging laugh from the Belgian bloke.

It was the tone of laddish dare that pushed Gareth (or that last tequila
shot, one of the two) to wrench open the button flies of his chinos, where
his hand had been hovering hesitantly, and start pushing the tailored cream
trousers down his muscular thighs a bit. He lifted his strong arse a second
to get them and his grey boxer briefs away, and out came his semi. Gareth
knew he was well-endowed in that department, though seeing Sergio's
dangerous weapon handled just a metre in front of him was a challenge to a
lifelong self-assurance in this department.

`Big,' Eden was saying in an evaluative monotone, `but not as big as El
Capitano, hah.'

`Let it get hard,' Gareth grunted back, affronted by the almost bored tone
of his teammate and the leering chuckle from their captain. Captain! They
were ALL captains, all fucking leaders of men. Gareth thought about how
powerful he felt back in Wales when leading those blokes, he always came
back to Real with a seed of resentment, just one of Sergio's
senors. Provoked, he took hold of his fat Welsh sausage and stroked down
its length, letting his little fingers brush and tickle at the spread of
his ball-sack.

But as he sat there, absurdly determined to get rock-hard and show off his
girth and length to these seedy buggers, something even odder happened: he
saw through a gin haze as Eden glanced back and reached one hand out
towards Sergio, stood in the space before them, and ran two fingers along
the veiny rod of his manhood. Gareth saw, wide-eyed, the note of surprise
or concern on the Spanish captain's face, a tensing of his ripped body, but
no effort to dismiss or fight off Eden's wandering touch, none at all!

In fact, Ramos just laughed, a little tinkling laugh of surprise and
approval, one hand sliding up to run fingers through his greasy auburn
hair, the other hand settling somewhere about his naval. His dick quivered
and twitched, and Eden stroked it again. `So huge,' gasped the Belgian
national captain, looking... mesmerised. A scream of delight from the TV
screen that caught all of their attention, but Gareth glanced back, and
even as he stared hungrily at the porn, Eden Hazard was slowly but surely
wrapping his fingers around the donkey dick of Sergio Ramos.

`Shit, guys,' Bale grumbled uncertainly. He realised he was squeezing his
own cock too tightly as he said it, but also that it was fully hard now. He
glanced down at it, as if for reassurance, finding some weird comfort in
the tall stretch of his Welsh prick, remembering the squeals it had plucked
from many hot girls back in Cardiff as a teenager before the loving
monogamy of one pussy forever.

`Move up, Eden,' intoned Ramos with an air of authority.

Hazard was sliding over the sofa then, his big pale buttock cruising over
the leather until it was uncomfortably close to Gareth, so that Sergio's
muscular frame could sink down into comfort on the other side of him,
Eden's hand never actually leaving his dick. The three of them on one sofa
now, and... fuck, fuck, fuck... Eden's other hand resting exploratively
halfway up Gareth's thigh. He pulled his torso back, his hand slipping from
his erection, and he looked questioningly at the porn on the screen, as if
for guidance: the two girls were fingering each other and licking on the
one guy's dick, which was fat and ridiculous-looking and yet... probably
not as long as the thing between Sergio's ripped thighs?!

`Ohhh,' sighed Ramos, just out of sight, `ohhh si, si...'

Gareth blinked dizzily and watched Eden's hand shift over, tips teasing
against the shaking flesh of his own boner. `Yes,' murmured the midfielder,
`you ARE a giant...' And then it was happening. Eden was wanking them both
now, wrapping his clammy fingers around Gareth's straining boner and,
judging from the groans, tugging more heartily on their mutual
captain. Bale sat there in terrified wonder and watched it happen as if
from far away, barely conscious of just how good it felt to have a new hand
on his meat after all these fucking years...

Hazard still had his eyes fixed on the screen, he seemed to be drinking in
the comically exaggerated filth of it, but his own dick swayed neglected
whilst his hands rubbed at the two bigger blokes. One at a time, he pulled
his hands back, spat in the palm, returned them to the nobs of his
teammates. Sergio's groans were loud, confident, almost as performative as
the Spanish girl on the screen; Gareth's grunts were half-suppressed,
tense, reluctant.

`Stop,' he barked, finally finding the wherewithal to pull a hand forward
and brush the other lad's knuckles off his tool. He took over the strokes
and was annoyed to find how numb his dick felt to his own clumsy grab, by
comparison to the sordid thrill of another lad... But Eden, unfazed, was
left-handed jerking himself, and leaning over a little to get a better
angle in his handjob for writhing, grunting Sergio. That's when it got
weirder, and Bale spent another moment wondering if he should get the fuck
out of there – Ramos was rubbing at one of Hazard's bare shoulders and
then, muttering something under his breath, pushing forward and down. Off
the sofa slid the Belgian, his big rounded butt slipping over the leathery
precipice, and his body folding down onto the rug at their feet, pushing
the footrest aside... what the hell?

But curiosity had a mind of its own. Dick in hand, Bale slid to his right a
little to see better, edging close to Ramos; in turn, the Spaniard spread
his bare legs, lifting his knees, and so now the bare skin of the Welsh and
Spanish captains' legs were inches apart. Hazard was on the floor at their
feet, and he was taking the huge rod of tanned flesh in both hands and
pulling tightly on `El Capitano'. Fucking hell. Was he about to...? Was he
really gonna...? Oh shit... Bale drew in a sharp breath and let his eyes
widen in shock as he watched it.

Lips barely parted, Eden lowered his pouting face forward and kissed the
pink, glossy tip of his new captain's cock, then flicked out his tongue,
and swirled it across the head, wiping up some froth of pre-cum as he
did. Gareth felt a conflict of horror and fascination; he was scowling in
prudish disbelief but he was also leaning closer, and resting one hand on
the tight muscle of his teammate's shoulderblade, craning his neck to watch
as Eden took the dick in his mouth, not without difficulty, and slid
forward over it.

`Oh yes,' moaned Sergio, and something about his choice of English over
Spanish told Gareth that some of the sounds were for his benefit, as if to
put him at ease in this surreal moment. `Oh yes, bitch... good man... new
boy done good... hah... mmmm... satisfy your captain...' He turned his
head, flashy white smile like a toothpaste ad, one lewd wink of
discretion. Gareth gulped, let out a breath he hadn't realised he was
holding.

Bale tossed himself off, and his eyes roved greedily from one thing to
another... from the tensed, gleaming physique of Ramos, purring and
twisting at his side... to the hunched pale shoulders of Hazard and the
tightly closed eyes beneath his bushy dark brows, his reddish lips dragging
backwards and forwards over the first few inches of that monster... to the
screen, yes the screen, where he SHOULD be looking, at the sliding wet
fingers and quivering lips (which lips?) and playful squeals
and... fuckkkkkk... Gareth looked sharply from the three-way on the screen
to the reality beside him, and did so just in time: Eden had lunged over,
started wanking Sergio's slick wet nob, and his lips were looming towards a
new snack.

It happened, or didn't happen, in slo-mo: for a delicious second, Bale
allowed himself to crave the oral sex, the newness of lips and a wet
tongue, the blowies he rarely received any more since their relationship
matured, and yet... This was Eden Hazard, a bloke, a fellow footballer, a
lad he trained with day in day out... Fuck no! He intercepted, pushed at
the lad's face with his free hand, growled his dissent. And then Eden was
lurching back, smirking, and bringing an open bottle of tequila up to his
lips instead.

`You no know what you're missing,' hissed Sergio's voice, teasing and firm.

Eden had accepted Gareth's refusal of oral, but his hand was back, and the
Welshman didn't stop him. He just sat there, frozen by panic and desire,
and watched his dick jerk and twist at the slippery fingers. And Hazard's
head, bobbing once more, noshing instead of Spanish meat. It was Ramos,
now, grasping at Bale's shoulder; reaching over and squeezing it tightly
through his open shirt as both big tall strapping men pressed back into the
leather and let their erections be serviced by this most surprising of
sluts. Behind Hazard's frantic work, the porno scene climaxed, came and
went, flicked to credits and cheesy music, all unwatched, unheard. Gareth
and Sergio just stared with glassy eyes at the magic being worked by Real
Madrid's star signing of the season, a man so full of surprises...

And then Hazard, sitting back on his haunches, bursting out with crazed
laughter, his lips and chin glossy with drool. He snatched up the tequila
bottle, almost empty, and took a swig. Ramos snatched it from him, threw
back a mouthful, and pressed it into Gareth's hand too. He gripped it
limply, unable to face another drop of the insanity-fuelling liquid, and
watched as Ramos got up to his feet, arse bared to him, and grabbed
Hazard's face. Like something from the porno, El Capitano pushed his cock
between trembling pink lips and began to fuck that serious face.

Before he knew what he was doing, Bale was up on his feet, dropping the
tequila bottle and letting its sickly dregs stain the rug. He stood side by
side with his fellow captain, his broad muscular body tensed, his top-knot
wobbling where it rested on his head, his cheeks burning red. He reached
down and jerked furiously on his aching nob, 6ft1 of Welsh muscle, and
stared into the space between their bodies, where Hazard gagged and
spluttered.

Gareth and Sergio's eyes met, sparking with intensity, and the blowjob was
cut short.

Eden's head lolled, eyes wild with some manic hunger, lips open, tongue
out. His hands grasped the base of two quivering thick cocks, and the two
footballing beasts came seconds apart. First Bale, spurting creamy white
goo against the side of Hazard's face, splattering his dark facial hair;
then Ramos, firing a flash of milky seed over his lips and nose and some on
his forehead. And then more, weaker little spurts from both big dicks, and
Hazard's little tongue circling his mouth to taste it.

On the screen, Gareth noticed in a daze, a new short porn film had already
begun. It looked worse than the last, fake tits and everything plasticky on
her and him. He closed his eyes, felt his sturdy body sway, rested a hand
on Eden's shoulder. The short guy on his knees was panting and gasping; he
realised he was finishing himself off, wanking at their feet, cum still
dribbling around his face where the bigger men had let it fall. Fuck,
Gareth thought in horror, what the fuck have I done? He clasped both hands
to his face and staggered back, almost tripping with the chinos and undies
around his shins.

He heard a little hoot of laughter from Sergio and then a leathery creak as
the tattooed stud flopped back into the white couch, briefs around his
ankles and satisfied cock swinging heavily from between his leg
muscles. Gareth looked down, and saw Eden curled on his side, cum all over
his hand and thigh, flopping loosely into the shaggy fabric of the rug,
eyes closed as if passed out, wasted.

Gareth Bale left as quickly as he could. He didn't know what to say to
either of them. His shirt still hung open on the way out into the still
warm air, buttoning up his chinos as he crossed a broad patio and pushed
open a gate. He strolled through the irritatingly warm night, tugging his
shirt closed, finding two of six buttons had actually ripped off in his
earlier clumsy haste. He reached the door of his own villa, fussed with a
key, remembered it was unlocked. Security was so good on the compound that
such precautions were needless. In he went.

Pint of icy water. Second pint.

He stood in his own kitchen, hands pressed to the kitchen counter, head
spinning, gut churning. He was going to be sick. Too much booze. Too
much... everything. He closed his eyes, but when he did, he could see their
bodies: smug, satisfied Sergio Ramos collapsing onto a white leather couch,
all tats and definition, and the pale curvy shape of Eden Hazard curled up
at his feet like some fucking lapdog, big arse out to the world. He poured
a third pint of water and went upstairs.

In his sleep, he dreamt of lurid porn. Cheesy 80s background music, faux
Miami sets of cheap furniture. Tequila was being passed around by
everyone. The director was his own wife, a fake moustache on her lips and a
manly outfit on as she wagged her finger and shouted commands. And he was
the pornstar, the bloke, the guy in the suit. He was fucking the blond
chick. Slap, slap, slap against her big tanned booty. But then she turned
and looked at him, and her hair was a wig, and the face beneath it had a
stubbly dark beard: Eden Hazard grinned excitedly at him. He looked around
for support, but that director... that wasn't his wife, that
was... frenzied, cackling Sergio Ramos, fondling the front of his briefs!



Gareth woke with a start. His whole big body was drenched with sweat. Next
to him, he could feel the warm weight of his beautiful wife, curled against
his chest muscles and a hand lying somewhere about his limp dick. He let
his breathing slow, and stared at the ceiling. A dream. A mad dream. Had it
all been a dream? That would be great... But no. No, he could taste the
tequila in his mouth. It had happened, it had all happened.

Those two were fucking mental.

But they'd all been drunk, they'd let it get out of hand. He pushed the
worries away, told himself he'd been controlled enough, stopped it when it
could have been... worse. He didn't need to worry. It would be forgotten in
the morning, by Hazard more than anyone! Think of other things, he told
himself, think of more innocent things, think of tomorrow...

Tomorrow, yes, he thought gladly. Tomorrow... Well, he thought, we'll do a
group video chat of the Wales lads, he decided, thinking back on that
innocently kind message from young Dan. Yeah, a wholesome laddish group
chat with the Wales blokes over Sunday brunch, that would be fun. He
thought of cheeky, smiling Dan James, a picture of cherub-like innocence, a
world away from this decadence and danger! Thank god. He was soothed by it,
and after a while, he fell back to sleep, sweet dreamless sleep.


*OKAY, OKAY... I CHEATED! I KNOW THIS STRCITLY ISN'T A PREMIERSHIP LADS
STORY, BUT WHAT THE HECK. HOPE YOU ENJOYED! FEW GUYS WHO'VE BEEN ON MY
MAYBE LIST FOR A WHILE... LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANNA SEE MORE. THE LOCKDOWN
SITUATION IS MAKING THE STORIES MORE CHALLENGING, BUT HOPE I'M KEEPING YOU
THRILLED WITH THESE DIFFERENT ANGLES ON IT. REQUESTS AND FEEDBACK ALWAYS
WELCOMED.**