premiership-lads-178

Horny Mums

Subject: Premiership Lads Part 178: Two Naughty Boys Part 178: Two Naughty Boys Stepping out of the aeroplane and descending the steep metallic steps of the platform down to the runway, he was immediately hit by a fine midday drizzle and balmy breeze. There was something refreshing and welcome about it on his frowning face, staring guiltily out at the sprawling vista of Manchester Airport and pulling the straps of his backpack tight against his shoulders and chest. Beside him, his partner in crime stepped out onto the same platform, mumbling some muted thank yous to the airline staff. Phil Foden glanced back at his fellow troublemaker, realising he had barely even looked at or acknowledged the hostesses on his way out of the expensive first class section of the small Icelandic flight. His nervous eyes met Mason Greenwood’s for a moment and he turned back to traipse down the steps, adjusting his black Nike face mask and glancing about the runway nervously as if the paparazzi would be waiting to leap out on him nearby. `Home sweet home,’ muttered the younger England footballer behind him, following him down. `Yeah,’ Phil mumbled weakly back. `Better than being stranded in Reykjavik though, I guess…’ He glanced back again, flinching with the lingering hangover, taking the steps slowly as if delaying the moment his white trainers touched down on tarmac would delay all of the awkward consequences of his misbehaviour away from home. He dreaded his first glance of the British tabloids and the coverage of this story: two young Three Lions debutants exiled home on a separate flight to the main squad for breaking social distancing rules and disgracing themselves in an Icelandic hotel bar. The two youths made their way down the last few steps and onto the tarmac; Phil glanced at the small bus waiting to ferry them and a handful of other passengers up the runway and into the airport properly to pass through security and then probably be cast out into Arrivals where no doubt some paparazzi and press scum would have located their terminal and be waiting to snap and interview them with no regard for the very same rules that they were now accused of breaking. `This is gonna be shit,’ Mason sighed beside him. Foden looked his way and nodded; given his height and robustness, it was easy to forget that Greenwood was just 18, a good two years junior to him and very young to be making his international debut; just as last night he had been brimming with the youthful overexcitement of an 18 year old thrust into the limelight, now he had all the sulky regret of a young teenager feeling the backlash of that very fame. It made Foden feel a punch of guilt in his tummy, supposing that at 20 he should have been the responsible one and looked out for them both, kept them out of trouble. Two England stars kicked out for breaking the rules, all the online media reports and Twitter storms repeated; girls brought back to their room against all rules and precautions, first caps for the national team now drowned in scandal and public disapproval. He felt sick when he thought about it. `What am I gonna tell my lass?’ Mason groaned. `And… my mum is gonna kill me. I’ve already got seven missed calls from my folks’ house phone.’ `You need to answer them eventually,’ Phil advised with awkward sagacity that had been so missing in the heat of last night. `But… yeah. Same. I’m not even sure I’ll be welcome in my own home tonight.’ He thought sulkily that things were actually worse for him, at his age, in his position; he was meant to be a fucking father, a role model, he should definitely know better. People would be more ready to forgive the bright-eyed United teenager than the 20-year-old wunderkind of City, surely. A member of airport staff coughed impatiently from where he stood at the driver’s entrance to the runway cart and the pair of them shuffled apologetically forward, joining the drip of passengers onto it, huddling up uncomfortable on the back seat, hugging their cases between their legs, staring nervously over at the other plane exit where a bigger group of passengers were getting off. They knew full well who had been in the VIP half of the plane and why they were on it. A number of blokes of different ages were pointing this way and the murmured gossip was audible but wordless from here. Phil closed his eyes, grimaced, and willed the coach to get moving, wondering why nobody had yet invented a teleporter that could just click him away from here and into a safe place where nobody wanted to tell him he was a shithead. There had been girls, that much was true; Mason thought regretfully about the pair of hot American chicks they had encountered in the hotel’s bar long after the other teammates had gone their separate ways. Southgate had been pretty clear about the early curfew and the need to be tucked away in their bedrooms by now, but outside it still seemed stupidly light and so the two young friends stayed where they were, knocking back overpriced beer bottles and catching the girls’ eyes. Mason knew Phil fairly well — like a lot of the England squad’s younger members, they had climbed their way up the Young Lions ranks and spent a lot of time in the same youthful age brackets, earning their stripes. Their joint senior debuts in tonight’s win over Iceland felt perfectly natural, having progressed from a series of national squads side by side despite a two-year age difference, and the pair were enjoying being reunited and winners. They had thought other guys might bend the rules and stay up a bit longer too. Some, like the moody figure of the team’s respected captain Harry Kane, had disappeared before they even needed to, seeming to avoid the post-match celebrations and vanishing away almost as soon as their light dinner was finished. Others had enjoyed a single drink before fucking off away, like London players Mason Mount and Declan Rice, who seemed only too keen to ditch their follow youth graduates in favour of an early night, the boring bastards! Older guys who Mason would always have suspected to be hard party people, like Kyle Walker, headed off at curfew time too, sloping away and shoving playfully at his roommate, the match’s winning penalty taker, Raheem Sterling. Greenwood had tried to talk sense into he and Foden’s fellow debutant, Jack Grealish, but even the Brummie party boy had buggered off with his teammate Ty Mings about fifteen minutes ago after a cheeky post-curfew round, leaving just the two of them behind in the big booth. Disappointments, the lot of them! No wonder they’d needed to invite the two Yankee lassies over to join them and fill the booth of leather seats, ordering trays of shots and starting to mouth off about their status. Of course the New York babes had no fucking clue who they were individually but they had been thrilled as fuck to discover their Icelandic trip had put them in the same four-star hotel as the England footy team. The pair of them cackled at all the football jargon and British slang and flirted ridiculously with both lads, but especially Mason himself. They seemed to love his boyish smile and cute cheeks and his assertive manner in spite of his age — which he exaggerated by a couple of years for them just in case they were turned off by his being barely an adult. Phil was goofy and overhyped by the situation, and Mason had to remind himself that Guardiola’s little prodigy had been in a tight monogamous relationship since his mid teens and made the mistake of impregnating the lass when he was still a teen; Mason had enjoyed a fairly promiscuous teenage spell, always tall and handsome and popular long before he had ended up in his current two-timing dilemma with his official girlfriend and, well… you-know-who. Flirting simmered about the round table as they paired off with one girl each. Shots came and went, pints were poured. The bar quietened and made their drunken giggles and outrageous chat-up lines more stupid and awkward. But the version of the story that poured over the internet the following morning got things pretty wrong because it didn’t get much further than that. Okay, the girls did come with them through the hotel, up to their floor — all suppressed sniggering, snatched elevator kisses, paused fondling against corridor walls — and briefly into their room. Okay, yeah, so that was totally against the rules, the rules were broken. And when, clinging to their prized Americna bimbos in the foyer, Eric Dier seemed to storm in from an evening run or something and accosted them, asking what they were up to, they lied their young arses off and said they were just escorting the girls into a taxi, that hadn’t ACTUALLY been true, but… Well, the girls had been in their rooms for a matter of minutes before they were sent packing and the boys came to their senses, or something like it. They hadn’t stayed over — they hadn’t actually done anything, hadn’t actually cheated on their respective partners! Well… not really… not with, erm, the girls, anyway… Looking back, Foden supposed that his fellow rule-breaker had been driven by nothing more than innocent excitement at his career trajectory and at his first taste of an international win. Not that Phil himself hadn’t been riding high on these same factors, unable to believe just how much more intoxicating the victory was (even without travelling fans!) in a foreign stadium with his nation’s badge on his chest and his armband. Incredible and long overdue. But the 20-year-old City player knew that he came to that drunken night after the game with some different frustrations to be exercised. Namely, a two-week saga unfurling about him that he couldn’t possibly confide in anyone. How could he? When every football-oriented lad he spoke to excitedly proclaimed that `oh my god, do you really think Lionel fucking Messi is gonna move to City, mate?’ what could he actually say? `Ah well, you see, the problem there is that he’s my dominant male lover’s ex-partner and it’s a bit shit if he does join the team, you know, it would be a bit of a personal catastrophe for me, so…’ In spite of the sheer joy of an England call-up, Phil had spent the end of summer in turmoil. Even after the steamy three-way climax in that Lisbon hotel room, he’d sensed the tense interest of Pep Guardiola in his lost boy turned man, been riled by his great empathy for the situation at Barcelona. And then as soon as Messi’s desire to leave his only ever football club had been announced to the world, it had begun: constant media speculation that he would re-join his mentor at the Etihad and bring his immense talent to the Premier League. Phil got used to a horrible pattern of reading spurious online reports, losing the nerve to really ask Pep about it, and then finding out from someone connected to the club that yes, meetings really were taking place, it really might be happening. There had been a few days where he had felt so sick with worry and envy about the situation that he had totally ruined days off with his family and friends. Now, out here in Reykjavik with the Three Lions team, the situation was potentially… sorted. Leo had made his begrudging commitment to his longstanding football club public, he was officially staying put, trapped by contractual awkwardness at a declining club that depended entirely on him. Thank fuck, Phil thought bitterly, stay over there in Spain, you smug overrated prick! But that night as he giggled in the heat of a strange girl’s attention and enjoyed Greenwood’s mutual rapture at their status as fully-fledged England footballers, capped at last, the whole mess still played on his mind: the persistent rumours that a deal-in-principle existed between his beloved manager and the king of Barcelona, that a January or next summer transfer was still likely; the fact that Guardiola had not once been able to discuss any of it with him, despite his hinted interest and painful failures to ask the obvious questions mersin escort on his mind. And standing out in the whole debacle as a painful kick to the shin: the moment he’d gone to Pep’s office at the end of City training to wish him goodbye before catching a train down south for Southgate’s training camp, and he’d been too busy on the phone. Speaking Spanish. To an agent. In Barcelona. For fuck’s sake. So here he was, in an Icelandic hotel room, with one of his closest pals outside his own footy club, being kissed on the neck by a busty American girl who looked like she’d stepped out of a Hollywood sex comedy, and he couldn’t do it. Terribly, it wasn’t any ounce of guilt towards his own female partner and the mother of his child, but a horrible sensation of loyalty to Papi that made him push her away and apologise; muttering excuses about feeling too drunk and the fact a teammate had seen them all together in the foyer. Mason caught his eye and did the same, seeming to go off the fun encounter himself for some reason; the girls were quickly stalking out, labelling them `frigid pussy-teasers’ and other vague insults. Within minutes of their noisy exits, they were lying on parallel double beds and laughing awkwardly at their own cringey antics, glancing apologetically over at each other, half-dressed. `Fuck,’ Greenwood sighed. `I’ve got too much at home to be playing with fire here. Can’t believe that almost happened.’ `Same!’ Foden told him distantly. `We’re just pissed, and… well, winning footy games just gets ya horny sometimes when you’re away from home, haha, that’s all…! Jeez…!’ And then he’d been up on his feet, his shirt off already, tracky bottoms sagging a little from weighty pockets, exposing the waistband and a couple of inches of his boxer shorts, as he padded over to plug his phone in to charge, then to the windows to fiddle with the curtains, then back across the bed, and — there’d just been something odd and intriguing in Mason’s expression there, in the mischievous light of his rolled eyes, the little sideways curl of his grin, lying there with his tshirt disturbed by snogging cuddles, his tracksuits shed and a pair of tight blue undershorts clinging to his thighs and… well, package. Phil stood there between the beds, staring at it. `What?’ he asked, feeling the younger footballer’s curious gaze travel down from his face over the pale lean muscle of his thin torso. `What?!’ he asked again, bursting into the same flirty giggles as in the bar below. And then, just as he’d been about to shuffle away from the space between their parallel beds, Mason had leaned or rolled forward and swung out one arm, and brushed his hand against the low waistband of Phil’s trackies, where it clung loosely in front of his package, letting his fingers play against the layers and tease his dormant prick. Foden stood there, icy still, staring down at Woody’s reaching arm. `Mate,’ he breathed. But he stared at the bulging front of those tight lycra under shorts, the outline of a chubby and stretching prick very obvious over the mound of bollocks, and… He leaned forward a little and stooped to give it the softest stroke, feeling it immediately respond. And then, like a security alarm announcing loudly to the world that he’d crossed a line and betrayed everyone he loved, there was a thunderous hammering at the door. He yelped and backed away from Mason, blinking awkwardly. `We can’t do this,’ he hissed at the 18-year-old. `No,’ Mason agreed with a cough, pulling his hands back and shifting his legs awkwardly. `No. My girlfriend! Erm…’ But the kocking at the door came again, loud and invasive, and then a man’s voice, not quite audible through the thick wood. The two young men stared at one another as they shifted uncomfortably about. The voice got louder and clearer after another flurry of knocks. `Open up — you were spotted. Come on. Lads! Open up. Are you for real? Open up NOW or-` It was Phil who crept awkwardly to the door and unlocked it and pulled it open; before it was a fraction open he was bursting angrily in, red-faced and sheened with sweat, fiddling with his combed over hair and spitting a little as he shouted at them. `Where are they?’ Kane demanded. `Where are the girls? Where are you hiding them? You were seen in reception. Staff reported it, of course they did, they know the rules…! Fuck’s sake lads…!’ Wild-eyed, the furious captain stared from Phil to Mason and shook an accusing finger at them both. `Where are they?’ `They’ve gone!’ yelped Greenwood, slipping off the bed and onto his feet. `We weren’t… they just wanted to see the room, and then…’ `Oh right,’ Harry shouted, losing control, looking rapidly from lad to lad. `We’ll see what Southgate thinks about that, boys…’ He looked absolutely fuming as if he’d already been in a raging mood before he caught wind of this mischief. Phil squirmed awkwardly. `No,’ he pleaded, `it’s not like that, they were just chatting to us in the bar and…’ `Right,’ snapped Kane furiously. `Chatting! Yeah, lads, chatting, innit… yeah! Chatting gives you both rock hard boners, does it? For fucks’ sake, kids! The scandal you wanna bring on this team… Now let me ask you one more time. Where the fuck are the girls you were playing with just now?!’ And from there things had gone from bad to worse, Mason thought, parting with Phil after security with a little tap of the elbows and making their separate ways onward through the airport. They’d agreed that separating early would make it easier to slip out quietly, avoid less attention. They were using different exits, and Greenwood had tugged up his hoody to mask much of his face, dragging his case along gloomily on his way out through `Nothing to Declare’ and into a blissfully deserted arrivals area that he moved through as quickly as his feet could carry him. He pictured himself standing there in the hotel room, a hard-on in his UnderArmour shorts, blushing madly and gabbling excuses and apologies at Harry Kane at the same time as his roomie. But it had fallen on deaf angry ears. Kane had left them to a miserable sleepless night and returned to them first thing in the morning with Southgate. They had been pulled into separate dressing downs in the empty breakfast refectory — Phil grilled by Gareth himself whilst Mason was interrogated by a lesser coach. And from there things had spiralled rapidly. They hadn’t even been allowed to hang on until breakfast was served and the other men were up out of bed. Packing up their things in miserable silence, ushered into a taxi, sent away to the airport, shot straight out of Iceland on the first flight available, just as the scandalous story broke in the online footy press. Greenwood’s head throbbed with a hangover that no amount of water could chase away, maybe the headache and sickness was guilt and embarrassment more than anything. He hurried, still fearing that he would be recognised and surrounded on his way out of Manchester Airport, even here in the elitism of first-class arrivals. He skittered out of the terminal into a land of concrete and neon, hurrying into the short-stay car park and looking out for the showy 4×4. He only slowed down when it was in sight, not so much out of relief that his getaway car and driver were there waiting for him, but in dread of speaking to the lad in the driving seat, staring at him from beneath the brim of an Adidas baseball cap. Mason felt a fresh surge of shame that his first England trip had ended in such disrepute, banned from following the team on to their next fixture in Copenhagen tomorrow night. Exiled home for breaking all the rules… ugh. He shoved his stuff in the boot and climbed slowly into the passenger seat, unable to look at him, gripping his knees in his palms and taking long deep ashamed breaths. `I dunno what to say,’ he panted, slamming the passenger door shut beside him. `I just…’ `Oh shut up,’ sighed Brandon Williams, pulling on a gearstick and rattling his big burly vehicle into life, `shut up and have a nap while I drive, you dickhead. Let’s get a McDonalds breakfast in ya before we do the whole apology story thing, eh?’ The Manchester United defender gave him a sidelong smirk and rolled his eyes. `Relax, dickhead. You’re with me now, ain’t ya?’ In another quiet car park of Manchester Airport, Phil Foden passed his case and backpack over to the stern-faced hired driver and climbed into the back of the private car, paid for and organised by some furious executive at Manchester City. As the BMW slid out of the multi-story car park and onto the roads of outer Manchester, Phil sat back in the seating with his hands crossed over his lap feeling like a younger lad in the corridor outside a headmaster’s office, awaiting the cane or something. He thought about the fact that the rest of the England squad were completing a final training session in a sports complex in Reykjavik right now, preparing to travel once more to Denmark for the second of their group matches for the Nations League. They would all know, he supposed, if not from Dier or Kane or the gaffer then from social media and whatnot. His and Greenwood’s names would be dirt among the squad of the nation’s best players, guys he’d spent all of last week fighting to impress in training, desperate to be accepted by them as an equal and a future World Cup winner. Still, it was hardly their lost respect that was making him dizzy and sick. It took a while before he realised that the car was driving him not into the southern suburbs, but onto the main artery road into the city. He sat quietly and fumbled with the zipped collar of his tracksuit top, guiltily aware of all its England FA branding and the fact he didn’t really deserve to be wearing it right now. He thought about asking the driver what was going on, he’d been told he would be delivered to his family home to face the inquisition of his parents and girlfriend there. He stopped himself asking because he thought he already knew the answer. The rain was heavier when the private car pulled up at the entrance to the smart corporate apartment block three streets from City’s stadium. Damned pathetic fallacy. This time he was not given any help by the driver on retrieving his luggage from the boot, left damply on the sidewalk once the driver was on his way. He did have a key to the apartment but it was hidden in a private drawer in his gaming room at his suburban mansion where nobody could find it and ask any awkward questions about where it opened. So he just had to drag his bag and case under the relative shelter of the entranceway and push at the buttons of the intercom panel on the wall instead, hanging his head as he did so. Buzz buzz. Wait. Awkward quiet. Static crackle. And then a voice, dripping in Spanish heat, murmuring at him from a dozen floors above: `Filipe…’ And then a beep as the doors unlocked. Mason sucked on the paper straw of his strawberry milkshake and sank back further into the squishy patterned couch in the front room of the Williams family home, his home-away-from-home these days. He pulled the sickly drink away and wiped a greasy hand over his mouth, staring over the room at where Brandon himself sat sideways on the neighbouring armchair, watching him while chewing on a hash brown himself. `You’re not annoyed at me?’ United’s promising striker asked his boyfriend in a quiet mumble, far from the cocky Sheffield tones with which he had seduced his American near-shag late last night. Reclining in his louche position, the floppy-haired 20-year-old left-back licked his greasy fingers and scrunched up the brown paper McDonalds bag in his lap, then tossed it towards a bin which he missed. He shrugged his lean shoulders where he lay. `What goes on tour stays on tour, I guess,’ he said vaguely. `I mean, like you’ve explained… nowt even happened, you mug. All this trouble and you didn’t even get your dick wet… jeez!’ Mason sat still, slurping escort mersin again on the strawberry drink, amazed and relieved by the way Brandon had patiently listened to him on the drive to the fast food joint and back here to his empty home, his family all away on a trip. Bar these outburst of dismissive banter and affectionate name-calling, Williams seemed utterly unfazed by the situation, more amused than annoyed. He stared at him, marvelling at the trust and casualness of the other lad, whose reaction he had been dreadfully imagining over and over on the flight home. `Well,’ Brandon said suddenly, swinging his legs off the seat and lifting his body upright to leer this way for a moment, `there is one thing annoying me, you know…?’ `Oh, what?’ Mason asked instantly, sensing the delicate position he was in so many of his home relationships now that everyone knew what he’d been up to in Iceland. Brandon had shown him the leaked video clips circulating the internet of the girls making phone calls while plotting how they could sneak up through the hotel with them. Fucking hell. Brandon got up, dressed in a slim-fitting grey tracksuit of hoody and sweatpants, loudly branded with designer names. He walked over the short gap and stood over him at the sofa. Reached down and peeled the cold milkshake from his right hand, tossing it more accurately towards the same bed, grinning cheekily down at him where he stood. Mason gave him his most innocent puppy dog eyes, pouting a little exaggeratedly. `Well,’ the slightly older United player announced in a slow drawling voice, shoving one hand down the front of his grey joggers in the way of every Manc scally, `you did miss my fuckin’ birthday poncing about at your England training camp, didn’t you? And you didn’t even send me a present to be delivered on the day or nothin’, you twat…’ Mason half-laughed as he mumbled out his apology. `You said not to,’ he whispered quickly. `You said it would look funny, you didn’t want to worry your bird or anything, or…’ `I know what I said,’ Williams said sharply, silencing him, and then pushing his joggers and his checked boxer shorts down a little until his cock and balls were freely out where he stood. `But I reckons you can give me a good gift now, don’t you, babycakes…?’ He cupped his balls in his hand, wiggling his loose soft cock a bit, a foot or so from Mason’s gawping face. His stunned expression curved into a smile and he sat up a little, then reached over to place his hand around his lover’s beautiful privates, curling his brown fingers over them and meeting Brandon’s game smirk. `Oh aye,’ the young Yorkshireman agreed now, `I really think I can.’ And he leaned forward and closed his lips about Brandon’s dick with relish. The two men stood at either ends of the open plan apartment: Guardiola almost silhouetted by the windows even in this grey midday, rain pattering at the long windows with a gentle rhythm, and Phil hovering by the doorway where he’d dumped his bag and case, staring guiltily across at his boss and lover. `Filipe,’ said Pep in a long frustrated sigh. `I was bad,’ Phil told him in a shaky voice of guilty and embarrassment. `Yes. You were.’ `I fucked up,’ Foden added, more loudly. `I can’t believe. The years I’ve waited for a chance like that, you know? Everything I ever worked for here at City, I mean, I love the club, you know that, but for England, I mean, seriously, like… ugh…’ `You have fucked up for sure,’ agreed the Spaniard in an authoritative tone. `I dunno what to do,’ Phil moaned. `I am so sorry. To you. To everyone.’ `Hmm.’ `This is shit,’ he said, feeling tears almost welling up already. He stared at Pep across the impassable distance of the lounge space in this sparse unhomely flat that had become their sporadic love-nest, though only once or twice since Lisbon because of various summer commitments. `I’ve been… a total prick, you know, I’ve let myself down so bad, and YOU, of course, and City and the country, for god’s sake, uh, what can I…’ `Take off your clothes.’ He paused and stared over at Guardiola now, jolted and interrupted by the command. And it was a command, not an idea, or a question. He knew the tone, could see the hard-set look to Pep’s handsome grizzled features even in this poor light. He let out an awkward breath and gulped back another whining defensive comment. Instead he reached for the zip of his tracksuit and dragged it noisily down then shucked off the top, letting it fall wet to the floor. `And the rest, Filipe.’ He nodded. Grabbed and rolled up the England warm-up shirt he wore below it, peeled it off his body, a little damp from the rain out on the street, and let it fall away. His bared upper body shivered a little, the flat cool and unheated today. Pep jerked his head a little in an instructive nod, and Phil stepped out of one and then the other trainer. He reached down and removed his socks to, and then edged down the tracksuit bottoms until he was just in a pair of skinny-fit white Hugo Boss boxer briefs, shivering and cool in the spartan flat. `All of them, boy,’ muttered the Spanish footballer. Phil took a deep breath and plunged down his undies, stepping out of them and more into the centre of the room, feet moving onto the warm fuzz of the central rug, taking slow steps in Pep’s direction, his body and privates fully exposed in this expensive pad owned by the club and stewarded by his Papi. He stood in front of him for inspection, as if his pale nakedness could expose his desperate innocence in spite of the scandal that had followed him home to Manchester. `Papi,’ he whispered. `Filipe,’ barked Pep now. `Go to the sofa. And bend over.’ Mason pulled back and forth as loosely and wetly as he could, lavishing his tongue about the thin pink rod of his lad’s cock, giving all of his birthday love via his pouting lips, taking it deeper and doing his best not to ruin the moment by gagging. Brandon had pulled off his hoody so that Mason could stroke up his bumpy six-pack and tweak his hard little nipples. `You daft egg,’ Williams teased him. `Getting in trouble as soon as you don’t have me to look after ya… What are you like, eh? Mmm, babe….’ Greenwood flicked his long tongue back and forward against the head, making his boy murmur and moan, and he rubbed his thumb down the little channel between his abs, while his other hand curved about a bony hip and reached around to pinch and squeeze one of his soft white buttocks. He danced his tongue in circles around his glans and made playful eyes up at him and his mean smirk. `You wanting to fuck, are ya?’ Brandon asked him in a dirty Manc mutter. `Aye,’ Mason told him, licking his upper lip, `your arse feels soooo fuckin’ good, Bran, mmm…’ `I know it does,’ teased the older boy. `Bet you missed it.’ `I did,’ Mason assured him, kissing the top of his shaft and then pulling his face in against the bottom of his abdomen to kiss those hard smooth muscles there. `I did, man, so much — no stupid slags in Scandinavia are gonna distract me from you… obviously…! Mmm…’ `Yeah, but…’ The other lad’s fingers were in his hair, stroking through the short fuzz of his afro, playing with the tips of his ears, then pushing his cock playfully in against his lips and grinning down at him. `Remember that other thing we talked about, aye…? I reckon that would be the right birthday gift, don’t you, Mase…? Babe…?’ Greenwood paused, pulling his lips gently back until they left the dick with a little fleshy pop, and he cleared his throat and stiffened up on the sofa, holding the tops of Brandon’s outer thighs, staring up at his impish features and realising he really meant it. He’d thought that conversation was a jokey thing, if he was honest, hadn’t been sure that his gorgeous left-back lover really wanted to swap positions, not really, not yet, and so… Brandon raised his dark eyebrows beneath the messy fringe of his blond hair and he shrugged. `You DID miss my birthday, big boy?’ the Manc lad muttered down at him. Mason nodded his head. `Let’s do it,’ he whispered hotly. `I need to show you I love you.’ Phil edged forward and leaned in, pressing his palms down to the cool slippery leather of the art deco sofa. He pressed his weight into the arms, holding back a self-pitying sniffle, his naked body bent at a 90 degree angle and his sturdy young legs outstretched with his toes and heels to the furry rug below. His pale thin muscular ass jutted out into the chilly apartment air behind him, and he heard soft footsteps as Pep left the window and approached him, stood somewhere just behind him. `You’ve been a naughty boy,’ said the Spaniard slowly. `I have,’ Phil agreed readily but not very happily. `There will be consequences,’ Guardiola advised him. `I do not look forward to my conversations with Senor Southgate this afternoon, you know.’ `Oh god,’ Phil groaned. `Will you be speaking to him? I’m sorry…’ `It is not me you need to be sorry to,’ Pep pointed out in a quite detached and formal voice. `You are a role model to so many young England fans. There will be so much trouble over this, Filipe, you and I both know that, eh?’ `I know, I know,’ he muttered gloomily. `This is not just a simple misunderstanding with a couple of whores,’ Pep pointed out, the past reference obvious in his loaded voice. `This is not just a tangle with Walker that I can pull you safely out of, Filipe, it is so much bigger and more different now you are on that international stage, si?’ Phil pressed more of his weight into the sofa and closed his eyes, nodding silently and tensing his angular young body where it rested. He heard the deep rattling breaths of frustration and anger from his beloved manager behind him, so close, the creak of his leather belt and shoes, the rustling of his dark jeans, the hiss of his incoming breath, the flexing of his arms. `I should spank you hard,’ Pep Guardiola said firmly. `You have been very very naughty.’ Foden nodded again, made a suppressed little yelp of personal misery. `You should,’ he agreed. One of Pep’s hands rested briefly on his left buttock. Then more sounds of movement and friction behind him; when Pep’s voice came again, it sounded closer but lower. `I should,’ echoed Guardiola, but then his other hand was on the other buttock, and they were squeezing, parting his cheeks. `But all I want to do to this English ass is eat it all afternoon. Oh well.’ And Phil felt those coarse silvery beard hairs on both cheeks and a firm wet tongue push between them, sending jolts of electric pleasure up and down his body. Pleasure, not punishment, crashed against his bare behind, and made him scream wildly for his Papi. Mason lay on his back, naked now, down on the bed in the exact same missionary position over which he had loomed when he first took Brandon’s cherry in an English hotel room; the first time he had kissed him on the lips properly, too, the first time he had nervously murmured those three special words, even, and never felt like taking them back. Brandon was fingering him very gently, two digits slick with lube rubbing up and down the tight crack between his lean rock-hard buttocks, where his legs lifted and parted to allow it. Brandon’s wrist and forearm rubbed against his balls and shivering prick, and his eyes were locked on his, their faces edging closer. Slowly, gently, those fingers worked up and down his fluffy crack, teasing and stimulating and hinting at what was to come. `You’ll go easy on me?’ Greenwood asked in a throaty voice. `Dunno,’ Williams told him, sounding honest, `I’ve never fucked an arse before, mate…’ `Yeah, but, like, you know how it feels, so-` `I guess it must be well different to pussy,’ muttered the other player. `Dunno how it’ll feel, do I?’ `Aye but I must be proper tight,’ Mason said, almost whimpered, feeling Brandon’s fingers pause over his ring and then rove back and forth, tickling it very mersin escort bayan gently, sliding by with all that lube being pushed between his butt cheeks. `I mean, it might be quite hard to, like, get it in me, or whatever, y’know, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable either, so like…’ `You not up for this?’ Williams asked, shifting his head to the left and kissing his hairy calf where it hovered up in the air by his shoulder. `Of course I am,’ Greenwood promised, reaching both hands up to stroke the strong thin sides of his lad’s body, feeling him lean closer and firmer, finger returning to the tight knot of muscle that guarded his arsehole and circling it teasingly. `I love you,’ he promised for the hundredth time, `I never would have fucked no slag in Iceland, not really, not with you waiting at home, y’know, I ain’t like that, not really, I’m a loyal lad, I mean…’ Brandon smirked in his dominant position looming over him, gently gripping both of his ankles to hold them high and wide. `But what about your missus?’ he demanded lightly. `We both got girlfriends, bro. We can’t ever be REALLY loyal, can we?’ `Well, nah,’ Mason mumbled, staring at him and wondering why he was being like this now when he’d been so cool in the car and downstairs. `But like, you’re my only lad, you know, and I don’t really give a shit about other girls, obvs, like I’m staying with her cos it’s cool and it’s safe and we both… I… mate, are you saying we should… I dunno, don’t you wanna stay with your girl too, or do you wanna… er…’ Brandon shrugged as he held onto his ankles and eased forward. The tip of his cock touched one of Mason’s buttocks. `I don’t mind,’ he said frankly. `She’s a laugh, but… she ain’t you.’ He grinned and his eyes twinkled and his cheeks dimpled. `You ready for this, Woody?’ Mason gulped, breathed in, nodded. He felt ridiculous in this posture, pressed back against the bed with his legs in the air and his dick throbbing hard, his hole ticklish and cool with lubricant gel and the gentle strokes of one finger. He nodded again more firmly. `For you, yeah,’ he said urgently, `for defo, bro, I love you man, I…’ Suddenly Brandon was laughing, leaning to the side again, kissing his lower calf, his ankle, briefly the side and sole of his foot, tickling him more and making him snigger. And then he was flopping forward, cock to cock and body on body, face falling in close to his, kissing him on the lips. `You dickhead,’ giggled Williams, squeezing him from above, `you’re not ready for that yet, I just needed to see if you would… see how sorry you REALLY were…’ His lips crashed messily onto Mason’s and he pulled back, sniggering and smirking. `And it turns out you are super apologetic, so… can you smash my bum in now and make me cum, big boy?’ Of all the times they had used the apartment, this was the first time they had fucked anywhere but the bedroom. When Phil had tried to turn around and see more, to enjoy the moment properly, he had been roughly corrected and held in his same position, naked and exposed and leaning forward into the couch; but he was getting everything he wanted and needed, the boss’s cock pumping in and out of his precious hole with powerful strokes. Pep was saying nothing, just pounding, breathing so heavily and deeply, rasping groans that might even have formed Spanish vocabulary for all he knew. He shuddered and struggled to hold his balance, glad of Pep’s strong hands on his back and hip, steadying him as he shook with each strident thrust of the manager’s dick into his body, deep and hard and rapid. His own cock was so hard it rubbed at his tummy and leaked frothy pre-cum onto his toned skin, his balls aching and tingling. His ring stung and his arse gripped at Pep’s big Spanish dick as it railed him. `Yes,’ he gasped, `oh yes, sir, fuck me, Papi, fuck me please, you are so good to me… mmm… I am yours, all yours, all yours, I promise… mmm!’ And at that, Guardiola fucked with even more fury, gripping him around the waist and smashing almost violently at him, burying every inch of himself inside him so that his thick wiry pubes tickled at the cheeks, and then back and then deep inside all over again, fucking him until he was whimpering and almost crying, and then pulling him upright to cuddle and hold and squeezing at his cock, tugging it in sync with every powerful fucking movement. Greenwood and Williams fucked athletically in three or four positions around the room, their sex getting more and more restless these days. After they had been going at it for nigh on forty minutes, they finished standing up by the mirror, which Mason always loved, holding Brandon’s slighter form in both arms and kissing roughly at the side of his neck while he piled his long brown dick into his tight arse, loving the softness of those plump cheeks on either side of his meat. `I love you I love you I love you I love you,’ he rabbited in Brandon’s ear, gnawing at his neck and jaw and cheek and earlobe, tousling at his hair, gripping at his abs and his flat pecs and then reaching one hand down to jerk possessively at his cock, all the while shoving his cock inside him and getting faster and faster until he knew he wouldn’t be able to go on for much longer. `I love you,’ he panted, `I really fucking love you, Bran, oh god oh god god…’ He spent his load inside him, thrust after wet thrust, pushing it into him, cuddling him as he rocked his tall strong body back and forth, the way he so almost pounded American pussy in the hotel last night. For a while this morning, he wished he had just fucked her, since he was getting in trouble for it anyway! Now, holding onto Brandon and looking at his cheeky face and slim pale body in the mirror, he couldn’t believe he’d ever been drunk or daft enough to take a girl to his room! All Phil’s fault, he told himself, led astray by that City tool, haha… `Wank me,’ moaned Bran, pushing his chunky little arse back, `wank me off, babe…’ He did so, desperate to please, his cock still inside him as he reached back down and tugged him properly, jerking at him til he shot his cum in long spurts down the nearby mirror, watching every twitch and jerk of it all reflected in front of them. Then he lifted a handful of the oozing cum up and rubbed it to Bran’s lips, feeding him his own seed, running it over his fluffy chin, then along his cheek, then over his chest, kissing his neck and ear as he did so. Finally, reluctantly, he pulled back, turned him round, kissed him on his spunky lips, and they fell onto the bed in a tight naked embrace. Brandon rolled him onto his back and lay on top of him, giggling and kissing his cheek, then suddenly leaning in to murmur into his ear. `Don’t play me for a fool, Mase Greenwood,’ he said quietly. `I love you too, you big dumb cunt, but if you get in any more trouble and make a mug of me, you won’t be entering this sexy white arse ever again. Aye?’ He lifted his head and his grin and eyes were all sweetness and light. Mason nodded furiously, and craned up to kiss him on the mouth again, desperate to please and reassure. Phil lay on the rug and watched as Pep got up slowly, hating that he had broken their post-coital cuddle; in the cool unheated flat, Pep’s body and hair and arms had been keeping him deliciously warm as he held him and kissed his shoulder-blades and nibbled his earlobes. Now he was on his feet, dragging black briefs up his sturdy aged legs, buttoning a dark shirt over his hairy chest and tummy, struggling into slim-fit dark grey jeans. Buckling that belt with creaks and rattles of leather and metal. `Where are you going?’ Foden dared to ask, his voice quiet and vulnerable where he lay on his side, stroking his own tummy and chest and blinking sleepily at the tall figure of his middle-aged lover. `To work,’ Pep said simply. `Oh.’ `To begin fixing this,’ the 49-year-old added then. Phil lifted himself a little, opening his eyes more widely, taking him in. He looked at the hardened, almost warlike expression that darkened the handsome face of his Papi. He sat up, lifted his knees, hugged his arms about them, still naked. `There is work to be done,’ Guardiola continued, `if we are to make you look apologetic and innocent. It can be done.’ He was finishing the shirt buttons and adjusting his collar. `Someone will write your apology — the first of several, perhaps? I will book in an interview. Perhaps. I will call Senor Southgate. He will understand that you were just trying to look after young Greenwood, eh? I am sure that is what happened. The United boy gets overexcited and the responsible City boy tries to stick by him and keep him out of trouble — but what can one lad do against all that excitement and enthusiasm, huh?’ Guardiola stopped, stooping to pull on one leather shoe and the next. `Pep,’ murmured Phil from his crouched seat on the floor. `What about my…?’ `After the stadium, I will drive to yours,’ the boss said simply. `Explain that we have… housed you elsewhere night as you are too full of the shame to be at home with them, yes? I will tell them how sorry you are, how misunderstood the story is, the versions I know and the papers do not…’ Now he was fetching his long thin raincoat from a hook and coming to stand over Phil, reaching down and stroking his hair like the fur of a favourite pet. `I will take care of it as best I can, Filipe. I make no promises. This is big mess. You know that. But… I will always look after you.’ Phil wrapped a hugging arm about his leg and stared up at him. `I didn’t betray you,’ he promised. `I didn’t fuck a girl or anyone. I just… it got crazy. Nothing happened, honest. I couldn’t do that to you.’ He gripped a thick calf through the denim. `I’m not like HIM.’ He glared ambitiously up at Pep as he said this, pouting miserably. Pep just shoved one browned hand his way and pulled him onto his feet, their clothed and naked bodies so contrasting. `Him,’ echoed Guardiola, though he clearly knew who Foden meant. `I could never hurt you like that,’ Phil told him earnestly. Pep just stared at him and then smiled unexpectedly, a fond grin breaking his thunderous expression. `Yes,’ he said, also unexpectedly, `yes you could. But Filipe… that not matter. You are mine and I protect you whatever. You are right. You are NOT him. You are you. And I…’ A pause and then a quieter less assured voice. `I love you,’ he said faintly, `my boy.’ He leaned in and placed a single kiss on Phil’s forehead. `You really must stop worrying about Lionel… there is a reason he is in my past, my boy. And you are in my present.’ `But…’ How to say any of it without sounding petty and accusing? He stared miserably at this gorgeous powerful man holding him still and about to rush off and do everything he could to save his reputation and tidy up his life. His face or his voice or his behaviour must have exposed every bit of his complicated feelings though, because Pep smiled again and rubbed his thumbs up his bare arms. `I managed one of the greatest teams in Europe,’ he was told. `And I tried and failed to sign one of the greatest players in the world. Am I deeply fond of that boy, that man…? Yes. I always will be. But… it was all just business and supporting a special man, Filipe. Nothing more. He can come here and score a thousand goals, but he will not be you.’ Another gentle brushing kiss on the forehead, and then he was pulling away. `Get some sleep,’ he was told firmly. `Because I will be back later on, and I will need you ready for much more of that, you sexy little fucker.’ With a last intense look, the City manager left for the door, every inch the powerful and respected football manager now, not the bare hairy-chested Latin lover smashing him into the couch and groaning as he came. Phil nodded slowly and reverently at him, shivering and nude, and watched him go, then crawled into the bedroom and beneath the covers, shuddering not just at the cold but at the lingering pleasure in his arse and in all of his wiry young body, satisfied by another pounding from Papi, and anticipating more to come. **THANK GOD FOR RIDICULOUS SCANDALOUS FOOTBALLER BEHAVIOUR FOR STORY INSPIRATION…**

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