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Subject: Premiership Lads part 167 - In the Heat of the Lisbon Night Part 167: In the Heat of the Lisbon Night Phil Foden clicked off the wireless headphones lolling about his head and slid them off, aware he'd been terse and unfriendly in the group Zoom call with his girlfriend and family, other than the inevitable smiles he'd raised at seeing his little son. He held the headphones in his hands, sat cross-legged on his hotel bed, staring at the fading still of his loved one's faces on the screen, then locking it and pushing both devices aside. On the other bed in the room, Tommy Doyle was on his back, phone clutched in one hand and thin white wires connecting its music to his ears. The teen was frowning pensively as he listened, one bare ginger-fluffed leg crossed over the other. The usually bright-eyed 18-year-old had been icy with him on the way up from the communal evening in front of the Barcelona game, had barely uttered one word to him since letting them into the shared room. Foden knew he'd been a bit of a dick, shaking Doyle off in the rival hotel, letting his own secret agenda take over from their friendly scheme -- but in all honesty, he had enough to feel worried and guilty enough right now without this prissy teen's fragile ego. He unfairly resented Tommy's mood, feeling sick over the things he'd said to Leo Messi, feeling sick about the pressure on them all tomorrow night, deeply concerned about the contents of Pep Guardiola's heart. He stepped off his bed, itching in his loose black tshirt and grey jogger shorts, wondering if the boss was alone in his room. He replayed his silly threats and bold statements to one of the greatest footballers alive, awkwardly regarding his own arrogant boasts. Fuck's sake. He went to shut the window, wary of Portuguese flying insects, and paused at a sudden yelp of alarm from his roomie. `Come on. The air con in here is shit. Leave it?' `Bugs,' Phil muttered back. `Nah, shutting it.' `Seriously?' snapped Tommy irritably. `Yeah, seriously,' Phil returned, yanking it shut and twisting the lock. `Fuck's sake, kid.' `Kid!' The other young footballer had got up from his bed, phone and earphones in hand, staring moodily at him across the short space. `Seriously, what's got into you this trip, Philly? One minute you're ditching me on enemy territory, the next you're-` `Shutting a window,' he interrupted. `Uh-oh, hope I don't end up on trial for war crimes. Grow up, Tom, for fuck's sake.' Doyle glared at him, blue eyes icy. `Yeah yeah, I'm the immature one here, okay, coach's little pet.' `Fuck off. I'm taking a walk.' When he was out of the room, stomping down the corridor and hearing the fat slam of the hotel room door behind him, he couldn't quite decide if the argument had been the organic result of his simmering mood and pressurised emotions, or a poorly orchestrated strategy to excuse himself for the room and go where he really wanted to be tonight, whatever careful arrangements to the contrary he had and his Papi had made. Messi rapped his knuckles against the firm dark wood of the door and waited, trying to control his tired breaths. He pulled fingers through his flop of dark hair again and itched the red fuzz of his chin. There were steps behind the door and an awkward pause in the middle of the unlocking as if the hotel room's occupant could not decide whether to risk even seeing who was there. But open it did, and Lionel pushed forward forcefully, not wishing to risk being turned away; he lodged his elbow against the wood and barrelled in past Pep Guardiola without waiting to see the stunned expression on the older man's face. Inside, he paused to take in the spacious but simple features of the hotel room, unremarkable but for the corner doors out onto a balcony whose view was probably pretty incredible. He swivelled and looked at the man himself instead; took in the clutched bottle of Spanish beer in one of his hands and the dark silk shirt half open down his lean hairy chest. Pep's face was as he expected, a look of astonished worry, silenced by the forceful exit and still weakly holding the door ajar. He shut it then, taking deep breaths, but not removing his eyes from his visitor for a moment. Leo relaxed his posture, sagging his broad short body in the thin blue Barcelona tracksuit he wore, and staring with red-rimmed eyes at the man who had changed his life. `Long time no see, boss,' he whispered in silky Spanish. `Is there a beer in here for me...?' Guardiola blinked and lifted the dark bottle to his lips, taking a long sip before he spoke. `I am so sorry, Lionel,' he murmured, but surprisingly in English. `I watched... that game was... oh dear. My boy.' His handsome salt-and-pepper features were a long mask of quite patronising sympathy that was infuriating to the 33-year-old man standing there -- but soothing and nostalgic to the perennial youth inside. `We were ruined,' Messi said, choosing to respond in English too. `Ruined. That club...!' He spat with Latino fury on the carpet beside him and clenched his fists again. `But I did not come here to talk about losing 8-2. You know that.' He spoke in hot violent whisper, thinking of long-gone years of intimacy and passion. `No?' the Man City manager asked hesitantly. `Then what have you come for...?' Messi stared at him, trying to judge how genuine his attempt at unfeeling and uninterested was. His words contradicted his tone and his emotive eyes. Both of them were taking deep long breaths, signs of two very masculine figures trying to suppress their fiery emotions. In the deflated and tempestuous coach journey back from stadium to hotel, he had rehearsed and revised this speech a dozen times. Now the short Argentinian felt deflated but also on fire. He looked at the 49-year-old football manager and thought that there was nobody he would rather be talking to in the world right now, he just didn't know what to say. `You still think of me,' Leo said, accusingly. `Tell me you do not.' `Think of you?' asked Guardiola hoarsely. `What does that mean?' Messi hesitated, then clutched at the power of memory. `Champions League. Do you remember when we used to rule this tournament.... Papi?' Just then, there was a creak of a door, not the main one, but another. He tensed, standing near the centre of the room, staring confusedly at Pep and then backing away a step and turning to see who had just emerged from the adjoining bathroom. It was the pipsqueak. The Manc chav. The replacement. `Lionel,' murmured Pep concernedly, `why have you come here...?' Young Foden glared at him from where he stood, drying his hands on a towel and bristling with lean muscle as he eyed him up, oddly threatening despite his slim build. He didn't say anything, so Leo turned his gaze slowly back to the glowering confusion of the man they both wanted. The bottle-blond South American spoke into his phone at 100mph and paced the room, bursting into little fits of chuckling roughly every 90 seconds. Kevin de Bruyne watched him silently as he tidied through the contents of his personal bag, wondering why little behaviours that had never bothered him in the past were now making him wanting to pick up furniture and perform 1990s wrestling moves on the Argentinian striker he roomed with on this Lisbon trip. Sergio Aguero turned on another lap, gesticulating wildly as he spoke to his wife and seemed, finally, to bring the phone call to a loved-up end. Kisses and pet names and more rough chuckles. `Ah, my woman!' City's injured striker exclaimed. He was only here because it was hoped he would be fit enough for the final IF they made it that far, a fact that suddenly made his chatty self-satisfaction more oddly unbearable for the quiet Belgian. `She is missing me bad,' he continued happily, `and I do not just mean the conversation, you know, eh!' He burst into seedy laughter, tossing his mobile phone towards his bed and strutting past to adjust a lamp, trailing the heavy scent of vanity products and aftershave that wrinkled Kevin's nose. He made a noise of vague disinterested agreement, and was treated to more detail. `I tell you before,' Sergio cackled, `she go crazy when I away this long, eh? No sex for a week and she like a demon, haha, a demon I tell you...!' He looked over his shoulder, wiggling his dark eyebrows to emphasise his boastful point. `She cannot go long without my big cock, you know? Haha!' De Bruyne winced as the tone was not so much lowered as fracked into the ground. `Lovely, my friend,' he said quietly, giving up on his bag since he couldn't even remember what he was looking for. He stood up, pushing it onto the shelf beside his bed and rubbing his sleepy face. Behind him, he heard Sergio rustling out of his tracksuit and changing for bed, continuing in broken English to wax lyrical about his distant spouse and the sex he was missing out on. `But when we are reunited! Oh my, then THAT will be special, Kevinio, you know the kind of sex I mean, yes? Haha, smash up the house sex, send the children to their auntie for a week sex, haha, hire a hotel room just to ruin it sex... yes, yes, you know?' The short tanned footballer hunched by his bed, shirtless and fumbling with a vest, grinning flashy white teeth at him and expecting some appreciative and fawning laughter to his boasts. Kevin looked quietly at him and just grunted. `I think I'm taking a walk,' he announced coolly. He didn't need to have his stalled sexless marriage rubbed in his face on a hot frustrating night like this, with a Champions League Quarter-Final hanging in the air and all of Guardiola's reputation and expectation needling at them. Aguero was not fit enough to be selected tomorrow night, no wonder he could be so loose and contented -- that and all the fucking sex he was apparently having with his gorgeous Latino missus. Fuck! `A walk!' Aguero scoffed. `Yeah, a walk,' the Belgian told him firmly. He kicked his feet into a pair of sliders and marched across the room without pausing to explain himself, picking up a key and bursting out of the door to get away from Sergio's verbose self-enjoyment and all of the marital ideals that poured off his storytelling. It just was not what KDB needed to hear tonight! Guardiola glanced between them, agonisingly stuck in a moment he had never quite imagined happening to him. In front of him were the two most important footballers in his life, surrounded by a complicated swirl of feelings and pressures -- but awkwardly, the one that stood out most to him was pure lust. They both just looked so damned attractive there. Phil, poised aggressively in his slim-fit black tshirt, all bunched up aggression like a territorial puppy, clearly ready to fight for his master. Leo, worn down and anguished-looking, but so majestic and rugged, the man he had watched him grow into from a painful distance these past eight years. Messi was trying to explain himself, demanding that they speak properly. Foden was saying nothing, just scowling oddly. Guardiola could hardly focus on either of them at once, just consumed by the sight of how beautiful and exciting they both were together in front of him. He should send them both away, this was stupid -- he needed to rest, tomorrow was massive. The middle-aged coach let out an angry sigh -- angry more at himself than either of the footballers -- and moved past them, away from the door, pulling his beer bottle to his lips and glugging it back. Messi fell silent and with slow subtle steps, both of his golden boys seemed to edge after him. `You should not have come here,' he told Leo with some difficulty. `We were destroyed,' the Argentinian said in a wavering mersin escort voice. `Where else would I go?' Pep felt a horrible stab of feeling for him, remembering the slight young thing he'd been at 20 and the way he'd held him during secretive nights in that first season together at Barcelona. He knew his nostalgia and his greedy lust showed on his face and he looked guiltily at Phil, who stared intensely from him to Lionel. The latter was coming at him, grabbing for one of his arms, his face a scowling frown of unhappiness. But Phil was moving in to, and Pep stood his ground awkwardly, unsure what anyone here really wanted or needed. But whilst Messi grabbed hard at his wrist and glared pleadingly at him, Phil didn't touch him -- to his great surprise, the young City star slipped between them and reached down. Leo's face registered the surprise, and then Pep felt one of his hands too. He looked down: Phil stood right between the pair of them with a hand gently cupped at each of their crotches, stroking the firm front of Pep's trademark dark grey jeans, and finding the mass of flesh in the front of Leo's blue trackies. Guardiola felt a shudder of desire and laid one hand on Foden's shaking shoulder, then twisted the other out of Messi's grip to squeeze his hand instead, touching and holding both younger men for a moment. Who said you couldn't have everything? Doyle was both ferociously worried about his AWOL roommate and sanctimoniously uninterested in where he often vanished too. Mostly he was looking at Google Images of Gerard Pique on his mobile phone and curled up on his side in bed, staring at stills of the Barcelona player and trying to remember the smell and taste of him in the musty changing cubby of the other hotel. He slid his finger across the screen, scrolling through different pictures of that distinctive Barcelona kit and the strong, warrior-like poses of the Spanish centre-back. Mad, he thought, wondering when he would actually risk calling the solicitor and finding out what the hell signing an NDA actually involved. And was he really about to be paid some big whack of Euros just for keeping his mouth shut? He wondered how often Pique did things like that, to have such a contingency in place. The knock at the door was so soft and hesitant that he initially dismissed it as part of the low buzz of background noise that a building like this always had, but then it came again, a tiny bit sharper and more distinct. He lifted his head and stared over the small twin room, supposing that Foden may or may not have taken a key with him -- the dumbass. What if Tommy had been asleep already and was now being woken to get up and help him out? Fucking hell, what a diva he was becoming, who did he think he was?! The Mancunian teenager closed his embarrassing image search `hot pics of Pique' and planted his phone on the dresser between the beds. He slid out from beneath the duvets in just the pair of tight grey boxer briefs he'd worn to bed, far too warm for anything else, and stomped sulkily across the room, ready to give Phil the dirtiest of looks as he let him back in from whatever melodramatic stroll he'd been on. He just couldn't face being Tommy Doyle Mr Nice Guy tonight, the strange twist of this afternoon's events had left him feeling a bit unappreciated and sidelined -- by his mates, by his club, by his footballing hero. He unlocked the door and yanked it inwards, hovering there in just his pants, and clammed up with awkward tension when he found not Foden on the door but the tall impassive figure of Kevin de Bruyne, not quite looking at him as he'd waited for the door to be opened. Very slowly, he lifted his head and darted his eyes this way. Tommy, feeling suddenly very exposed in his undies, clung to the door-handle and stared back. `I need to apologise to you,' Kevin said in a low rumble of speech. `Can you... can we walk, and...' Tommy took in his big anxious face and his hunched shoulders. He saw his eyes flicker up and down, taking in his own state of undress. `Er yeah,' he began, but then stopped and looked behind him into the empty Foden-less room, `but... I'm alone. You could... come in?' He stared uncertainly back at the older player and waited for some reaction that didn't come. `If you like,' he added quietly. `And you don't need to apologise for nothin', mate.' Kevin stayed outside on the threshold. `I do,' he murmured. `I owe it to you.' `Then come in?' Tommy suggested again, shifting slightly back, opening the door a creak more. He looked hopefully at the man to whom he'd confessed so much and received his first tantalising scrapes of pleasure. It was like he was back on his own doorstep again last weekend, shocked and half-asleep and unsure why De Bruyne was visiting him in the night. This time, though, he felt pretty sure about it. `Come in,' he whispered again. `Please.' Phil squeezed the contents of each hand and grinned with nervous lust at one and then the other man. Then he pulled his hands away and began to roll his black tshirt up and off his slim toned torso. Immediately, his paler skin exposed, their hands were on it: one of Pep's soft warm hands brushing his lower back and sliding up his spine, Leo's fingertips finding his belly button and rubbing a little at the central line of his six-pack. It had begun. As he was pulled into an embrace by his Papi, he reached for Messi's bulge again, fondling it admiringly through the soft nylon even as his lips locked onto Guardiola's and he was kissed roughly from the taller fella. Messi was cuddling in against them too, he felt his hand on his buttock through the thick grey of his shorts, then his face coming in close, kissing Phil very lightly on the cheek then kissing the rough silver hair of Pep's much more forcefully. Phil squeezed and pulled on the shape in his crotch, already marvelling at the obvious size of what he could feel there, and with his other hand he began to pull at the button flies of Pep's jeans. Rapidly he was losing track; it felt like there were strong hands everywhere, on his shoulders and neck, squeezing his lean arms, rubbing down his flat chest, pulling at the fabric of his shorts. And the hands were so warm and impossibly soft but so strong and commanding. He shivered, hard in his underpants and so excited by the two fine masculine creatures at his sides. He turned around to properly face the newer figure in his fantasy, the stocky striker he had tried to square up to earlier today. He slid his arms about his sides and looked into his puzzled face, then kissed him lightly on the lips, sensing his uncertainty as their mouths touched and rubbed. Behind him, Phil felt another pair of lips coarsely kiss the back of his neck, felt Pep's hands reaching around and scooping inside his shorts to find and rub his hard-on. He was briefly sandwiched between them, the tall Spaniard rubbing and caressing him from behind and above while the Argentine hunk just passively met him in front, clearly unsure about the unfolding threesome. And then he began moving down, letting his hands settle on the hard-packed muscle of Messi's covered chest and tummy, grinding his back and arse into Pep as he descended, letting his bare knees sink to the carpet where he hunched between their sturdy legs. With one hand he finished undoing the front of Pep's jeans and with the other he took the knee of Leo's trackies and tugged greedily downwards until their waistline passed low enough to spill out the heavy bulge of black fabric where his briefs sagged with their manly contents. Phil kept both hands working, easing Guardiola's prick out of his silk boxers and into his hand, fondling and weighing the black bulge of Messi's front. Above, he realised, they were kissing. Abstract jealousy skirted around raw desire, the sight of his gorgeous older lover forcing his mouth onto the greatest footballer in the world. Both envy and arousal pushed him to lean over and kiss the tip of Pep's semi, adding to the great man's enjoyment but also claiming some ownership of this tall sexy DILF. As he kissed and licked it into life, he squeezed and fondled Leo's bulge too, his fingertips finding the waistband and wrenching down to release its big sweaty contents. He opened his lips around Guardiola's large dark cock for a long moment, then pulled away and planted the same hungry mouth to the fat curving nob of Lionel Messi, tasting them both. `I owe you this,' De Bruyne told him, spinning him around in his arms, at least partly because he wasn't able to look at that innocent young face as he did it. He wrapped both arms about the slighter body of the youth and held him from behind, resting his face down against the soft strawberry hair and breathing down his neck. `I was not fair on you, I was bad.' He gave up on his clumsy half-formed apology and just held him, feeling his slim young body against his chest. Tommy was shivering though it was certainly not cold. Consumed with guilt, Kevin knew he had to finish what he had so quickly abandoned. The poor teenager had only wanted some equality, some balance. He'd only suggested that Kevin, for a moment, return what he was trying out on him. And the Belgian had freaked out so much to touch and hold it that he'd not only ditched him alone that night, but barely acknowledged him once since flying out to Lisbon. What arsehole behaviour, he thought, the very thing he would judge some of his playboy teammates for! Keeping one arm locked about Tommy's narrow chest, he reached the other one further and slid his hand down his bare front, feeling the smooth toned skin and gentle muscular bumps of his physique. He found the tight waistband of those skimpy trunks, hooked his thumb inside them, and dragged down; in doing so, his hand already brushed the things that lay inside, the fleshy mound of cock and balls and the gentle tickle of teenage pubes. Doyle sighed in his arms at this but didn't risk saying anything, which was probably a good idea. Kevin couldn't cope with looking at him, so he wasn't sure he could cope with listening to him either -- he just wanted to feel him. Holding the boy tightly to him, Kevin took hold of his prick, feeling it already swell and twitch, and pretended their bodies were one, that he was just standing here about to wank himself, nobody else. He curled his thick strong fingers around the meat and pulled forward then back, forward then back. His breaths were hot rapid pants onto the sensitive skin at the back of Tommy's neck and his left arm unconsciously gripped tighter around his arms and front, clinging to him as part of himself as he began to clumsily wank on the horny youngster. Lionel Messi lounged back, glad of the soft luxurious bed beneath his battle-weary body, stretching his thick tattooed legs apart and staring down the hard-packed muscle of his naked torso. His thick long cock was halfway inside the hungry mouth of the English lad, sliding deliciously up and around his cock and sending shudders of enjoyment through his sore body. Oh, yes, this was good, this was exactly the gentle treatment he needed after tonight's disasters...! And even more exciting and pleasurable than the feel of tongue and lips exploring his big length... as the boy Foden hunched before him to fellate him, his naked back arched away behind, thin but muscular, ending in the curving outline of his bare buttocks. Between them Leo could see his former master's eyes, half-open beneath those dark brows, his nose resting just above the crack as he tongued at the backside of his new sub. It was a gorgeous little mountain range of manly flesh, from Leo's own rising escort mersin and falling pecs, down his hard stomach, past the pale wiry form of the Englishman, to Pep's bare shoulders and gleaming bald head. Foden wriggled between them, unable to gasp his enjoyment at the wet rim job because he was too busy sucking on Messi. The Barcelona man gasped out curses in Spanish, reaching down himself and squeezing the hard flesh of Phil's shoulders, then cupping one hand about his head and pushing him to swallow more of his giant cock, supposing that even though Guardiola was very well-hung, he would not be used to QUITE so much length to play with. But he took it well, not gagging and really going for it on Messi's pipe, making him purr and groan and swear more. And behind the youth, Pep had paused in his work, lifting his head to stare adoringly across the shared 20-year-old, their eyes meeting. That same fire, Leo thought, that had been so intoxicating for him as a naïve young wannabe in 2008. He had never remotely considered another the beauty of a man before befriending Pep Guardiola that season. Staring hungrily at him, his former manager licked his greasy lips and managed to convey without a word what he wanted. It was, after all, what Lionel desperately wanted to. He gently pushed Foden away from his aching cock, shuffling to the right a little over the bedspread, parting and lifting his thick strong legs more while Pep and Phil moved positions, pausing to kiss. And then Guardiola was going down, lying on his front, his jeans and underwear still halfway down his dark-haired legs as he pressed his face down to start kissing and licking at Leo's arse cheeks. The prolific striker held his powerful legs up in the air, his huge hard cock flopping back against his abs, and Pep's crinkled brow just visible over his bulging ball-sack as the skilled man began to tongue between his big strong glutes. Phil, he realised, hovered awkwardly next to them, stroking and holding one of Leo's suspended legs, but unsure what else to do. Naked but for white Adidas socks, the 20-year-old looked excited but lost. Lionel reached out his left hand for him and took hold of his cock, satisfyingly thick for such a lean young man, and pulled on it -- not just the gentle pulls of a hand-job, but an imperious and directing pull this way. Foden staggered closer on his knees and Messi lifted his head up from the bed, wrapping his left arm about one of the lad's thighs; while his arse crack tingled with the hot wet attention of Papi's mouth, he sunk his thick lips in against the boy's hard-on and began to suck him back in return for what he'd received, making him gasp in delight and cry out his name. `Oh Messi, oh my god, Messi....' Tommy shot his load with a speed that would have embarrassed him in different circumstances. He'd been so fucking horny all day, even before sneaking into the Barcelona hotel and catching sight of those famous men at the pool, then stepping straight into a teenage wank-fantasy and losing his oral virginity to the big Spanish meat of Gerard Pique. He hadn't touched himself since, busy with lunch and training and dinner and the communal horror show of watching Barcelona lose; now, having someone else properly touch him like this, wank him with such force and ardour, not quite kissing his neck but nuzzling it and breathing warmly on him, well... In only a few minutes he was creaming from his quivering teen cock, splattering droplets of his seed forward onto the pale carpet, heavy little noises of spillage and the trembling choked cry of his own orgasm. He loved the strength with which the older midfielder held him, even then as he shook and gasped, and even as the final smears of his load emptied onto the skin of De Bruyne's own fingertips. He began to mouth a sort of daftly polite `thank you' but found he couldn't even speak; was glad, because he felt anything he said now might be very awkward and ruinous. Even in the tightness of his hold, he could feel the Belgian's fear and uncertainty, the way he'd reacted when he first touched Tommy back in his own bed. But he was straight, and married, so of course... Doyle had not resented the older man's behaviour one bit, but his apologetic handjob seemed more meaningful and glorious than anything he could imagine. As his breathing recovered and he became more still again in Kevin's hold, he reached up and stroked the hairy arm that stretched over his chest, feeling the soft downy fur across the muscle, stroking the other man's hot skin. He pushed back a little with his shoulder-blades and his bottom, rubbing against the City hero's sturdy physique. Kevin's grip on him loosened very slightly, and he began to turn as best he could, wriggling around in his hold until they were, briefly, face to face. He could see so much conflict in the frowning pale features of KDB. Tommy might have left it there if not for this afternoon's initiation into another level of freedom. He reached down and grabbed Kevin's package through the thin basketball shorts he wore and jerked his head lightly towards his bed. When he spoke, he tried to keep his voice very firm and level, avoiding a squeak of immaturity or fear. `Lie down,' he told his older friend, `I'm going to suck you off, okay?' Now Guardiola was the one on his back, sprawled sideways across his bed, fully naked now with so much of his bronzed hairy body on show. He kissed hungrily at Phil's lips, his left arm wrapped about his shoulders to hold him close, the wet tip-stain of his prick rubbing somewhere just above his left hip. One of Phil's hands scratched over his hairy chest between his hard nipples. Pep's other arm reached down at the right, stroking through the silky mane of hair as Messi slurped at his cock, lavishing wet attention over the head and down to the hairy balls. All three men groaned and sighed in turn. Pep unfolded his left arm somewhat and stroked back down the hard path of Phil's back, finding his chubby little backside and slipping his middle finger in between the cheeks. He prodded at the wet hole he had rimmed, running his digit in circles over it and prising the pert cheeks apart. He got his finger in and kissed him even more aggressively on the mouth, then felt Messi's tongue and lips move from his dick to his tummy and up the hairy trail. As Leo's body hunched closer, his mouth now descending around one hairy nipple, he reached around, stroking his hard chunky body and finding his arse, much bigger and more solid than Phil's. Now he was fingering them both, holding their smaller figures to him and stretching his arms to cup and squeeze their behinds, middle fingers in their tight holes, groaning happily and twisting his head back as he frigged his two favourites. Kevin held one hand firmly over his eyes in an almost symbolic gesture of his guilt, lying flat on his back and holding the other arm away, tucked behind his head to stop him from touching the boy under the duvet who bobbed up and down on his sensitive neglected cock. When he came, he did his best to hold in his gasp of utter relief and enjoyment, feeling like the noise would make the betrayal five times as bad. It was really so long since he'd been sucked off that Kevin couldn't actually remember if it always felt this good or not. There was something adorably clumsy and stop-start about it, and every now and then he would flinch at the grazing of teeth or his dick being pulled at a funny angle -- but the tongue felt so great on his shaft and his head, the lips so tight and eager, the panting little breaths so erotic and gorgeous. He wanted to reach down and grab that head and fuck that mouth but he held back, pressing his heaviness back into the bed and keeping his arms splayed up by his head and shoulders, clamped over his eyes, allowing only his burning crotch to engage with what happened. When he came, he felt a new surge of guilt, as if he should have stopped things and warned young Doyle what would happen, but no -- the teenager took it, holding his hot wet mouth around Kevin's throbbing hard-on as he spilled his load there, a gushing week's-worth of seed fed to the lad. The buzz of the orgasm seemed to go on forever, making his legs jerk involuntarily and his six-pack tighten as he stretched longways down the bed. He panted his wordless gasps into the air and lay very still as Tommy slowly pulled away from his dick, panting and gurgling and stroking one of his fluffy thighs. It took a few long moments of recovery for De Bruyne to appreciate that while he lay there, very still, his teenage friend lingered halfway down the bed, hidden beneath the duvet. The realisation that this was probably a product of his own ashamed behaviour hit him hard. He was determined not to misuse or hurt this sweet younger footballer. He reached under the covers, found his arms, dragged him up a little, while shifting and moving his own body to the side. With surprising ease, he pulled Doyle into place, both of them settling on their sides so that he could wrap his arm about him once more and spoon the youth in the curve of his big naked body. Tommy settled wordlessly into position, never turning around to look at him or say anything, still gasping breathlessly at the magnificent blowie he'd gifted him. Kevin held him from behind. `Just a moment,' he promised or warned ambiguously, cuddling the hot shape of the younger lad to him and letting the duvet fall over their sides up to the shoulder, `just a moment of this.' Messi pulled down on the bony hips of the slim younger man, dragging him into position as they all clambered to and fro. He squeezed those red cheeks and then pulled them apart, looking at the slick dark hair of his crack. His cock throbbed dangerously close and he wondered if this young upstart would really be able to take it. Few had. Behind him, two of Pep's fingers were inside him, calming all of these worries with their powerful insistent prods. He groaned and relaxed his chunky behind backwards, enjoying the brush of arm and chest hair on his back muscles and then another kiss of Guardiola's lips on the scruff of his neck. He edged forward, pushing the thick bulbous head of his South American cock between the pale white of Foden's cheeks. As he pushed his cock in there, he held one hand firmly against his hip and reached the other round to tease his balls, dragging back on Phil's hunched body as he did. Stimulated by fingers in his own crack, he inched his thickness inside the wet hungry ring. Foden gasped and seemed to duck forward, dropping his head down between his elbows, but Messi pressed on. Behind him, Guardiola muttered to them both, slipping between Spanish and English, repetitions of `my boys' and `yes, yes, yes' and `take it for me, Filipe'. Messi had to fall forward with Foden to hold him properly and to drive his girth into the resisting tightness of his young arse. But as he did so, Guardiola pulled closer to, and he felt those fingers leave his wet rimmed arse, because Papi was readying his cock, spitting on it and holding it. He could feel it pressing between his big glutes in the same way he'd approached and entered Phil. `You're massive,' Foden was gurgling, `this feels insane, ohmigod...' `Yes, come on,' Messi urged him, `you feel so good and tight, boy...' `You are both so beautiful,' uttered Guardiola, `my boys, I love you both...' For the first time in almost a decade, Messi felt his ring open for the beautiful strong tip of his old manager's cock, even as he still squeezed his own deeper inside the Englishman. With slow tender force, the three men pulled their bodies closer mersin escort bayan as one, and Lionel was sandwiched between manager and player, master and protegee. He leaned heavily down on Foden's petite frame, holding him as best he could with one arm, while reaching behind with the other to stroke Pep's side. And Pep was reaching around him to hold them both, cuddling two bodies at once as two huge dicks buried in two appreciate behinds. And then the three of them were really fucking. Guardiola's thrusts were long and slow, each time driving Messi deeper into Foden, who squashed down against the bedding and groaned. Messi could feel the hairy chest on his back muscles, feel his old master deeper and deeper inside him until it was almost all he could sense. Locked between their cock and arse, he groaned out his enjoyment and satisfaction to the night, everything forgotten but this. He was so overjoyed he could cry. Pep was picking up the pace, shoving inside him with the strength and ferocity he remembered from hot passionate nights back in the day, fucked hard after every Barcelona win -- and there were so many wins. In turn, he fucked Phil harder, letting Papi's stride and rhythm command his own. He reached below to find Phil's cock, tugging him properly as the two heavier men pressed him down into the bed, as their three bodies writhed and rocked and twisted. It was Messi who came first, squashed between the sweaty hairy thrusts of Guardila and the quivering toned receptiveness of Foden. He exploded inside his own replacement and at some point in the dizzying moments of orgasm that stretched ahead, he felt the others do the same: Filipe exploding sticky young seed onto his hand and his own abs, and glorious Papi filling him up just like old times, emptying his spunk inside of his original Golden Boy. It was just beginning to look like daylight in the narrow gap in the curtains when Tommy Doyle woke up, a heavy arm still clasped about his shoulder and chest, clammy skin almost stuck together. He could feel the faint presence of a thickly stubbed mouth and chin in the crook of his neck and shoulder and -- more alarmingly and joyously -- the fleshy shape of a dick resting somewhere against his bum. He held his breath for a few dazzling moments of disbelief, a scene from his teenage dreams made physical, then thought sensibly about the situation. The other bed, across from him, was empty and unused. No sign of Philip Foden. But -- what the hell? What if he'd come back at some point in the night and found them like this? Seriously... With heavy reluctance, the teen wriggled against the gently snoring man holding him tightly in his sleep, whispering his name. `Kev? Kevin? De Bruyne...?' Vague murmurs and slapping of lips signalled the 29-year-old's slow wakeup and Tommy hated to disturb him -- when he turned to look at him, his face looked so peaceful and angelic, his pressed bicep and chest muscles so perfect. `Honey,' murmured the Belgian sleepily, `you see to them, please, let me sleep... I have a game...' `Kev,' he hissed regretfully, shoving his elbow at his chest a little and jerking him awake. `I think you need to go back to your room?' He tried to make it clear in his voice that this was the last thing he wanted, but probably KDB was still too asleep for subtleties of tone. `Whu?' mouthed the big guy slowly as his eyes fluttered open and he lay very still, taking in his predicament. Tommy hung guiltily in his arms, seeing every dash of shock and worry in those eyes and twitching lips. From a sleeping angel to a worried brute. He tried not to take it personally. `Come on,' he whispered to him, sliding out of the bedding, naked, and looking about for the other man's clothing. `We need to get you back to your room so Aguero doesn't suspect you were anywhere, right? And fuck knows where Phil is right now...' Ungainly with sleep and confusion, Kevin followed him out of bed, allowing Tommy to witness his bare pale body with dozy eyes and enjoy the swing of his big loose cock that he'd tasted in the heat of the night. He passed him his underpants and his shorts and sourced his tshirt from where it had fallen down the other side of the bed, still naked himself. Then he found and tugged up his own tight grey undies and went into the bathroom to splash cool water on his face. When he came back through, Kevin was pulling his sliders on his feet, dressed again in tshirt and long baller shorts. `Thanks for waking me,' he said gruffly without looking up. `It's okay,' Tommy mumbled back sheepishly. `I don't want you to get in any trouble, mate.' `No,' Kevin agreed. `You're very right.' He got up and approached him with stiff friendliness, laying one hand on his shoulder and giving him a searching look as if Tommy should suggest something vaguely appropriate for them to say at this juncture. `I don't mean to confuse or upset you,' De Bruyne said finally. `It's just... I liked helping you. And things at home, for me, have been...' `You don't need to explain,' Doyle assured him, reaching up to pat and squeeze the hand on his own bare shivery shoulder. `Just... thanks, man. You don't need to say any sorries, you've been so good to me, y'know? Come on -- get back to yours -- Aguero will wake up and wonder where you are, so...' He glanced thoughtfully at Foden's bed, too tired and worried to give space to his suspicions. `We can't get caught like this. It would be bad for you.' Bad for us both, he thought, but realised how much he craved that exposure, that opportunity to just be himself and embrace his truth. But he needed to protect this big beautiful man who had helped him. Silently, he went and opened the door and led the other City player out into the deserted corridor of the early-morning hotel. They exchanged a final look and then he closed himself into the room, went to his bed, buried beneath the covers and, grinning wearily, tossed himself off at the thought of his most sexually active day yet. Guardiola lay awake for a while in the bed before getting up. He had become vaguely aware that there were only two bodies sprawled there, and then that a cool early breeze was tickling through the room from the windows onto the balcony. As he swung out of the big kingsize bed, the 49-year-old Spanish man took care with his movements, not wishing to disturb the sleeping form beside him. Once he was on his feet, pulling a robe about his naked body, he could looked down on him in the half-light, naked and outstretched and a little curling smile on his face as he dreamed. His Filipe, his boy. Pep made his way out onto the balcony and looked at the man who had once been his smiling young lad too. Lionel Messi was leaning forward on the balcony railings, surveying the view of Lisbon and the sea. Sunrise was behind them, so they were staring into a creamy darkness on the horizon and a slow-burning reveal of the Portuguese city below. Messi had pulled on his tight black briefs but nothing more, leaning thoughtfully forward with his compact body pulled in tightly. He shifted his head a little at the sound of Pep emerging beside him, but he didn't immediately say anything. Guardiola embraced the strange dawn silence and gripped the metal rail himself, pulling the robe a little tighter about his naked body. `He is a sweet boy,' his former striker said softly after several minutes. `Incredibly,' Pep assured him in the same low Spanish murmur. `You would like him a lot, Leo.' `I can see that,' Messi agreed, but distantly. `He is deeply in love with you, you know.' `I know. I see it.' In the cool morning light, honesty seemed possible. `Just like you were, once.' Messi turned his head and gave him a strange hard look. `Hmm. Once? Yes.' He looked away again across the vista. `He did all that for you, you know -- last night, what we did. It was all for you. He isn't interested in me.' `They all look up to you,' Pep said. `You are that player, the one they all worship. That's what we made you, Leo. He probably adores you like the rest of them, Lionel Messi, the greatest there was...' `No,' the other man said simply but not sadly, `no, it's not that. He isn't interested in me at all. He just wanted to make you happy, to give you what you wanted.' He straightened up, giving Pep a better view of his glorious torso and the bulging front of his briefs as he rested his side on the rail now. `But what will happen when you tire of him, Guardiola...?' Pep didn't like being addressed so formerly by his one-time favourite, didn't like the tone of the question. He squeezed the metal of the railing, his turn to stare distractedly out at the slowly glowing view of the city and coast, unable to focus on the presence of the other. He chose to ignore the question. `We did great things, you and I,' he said ambivalently. `But it seems a long time ago now.' Messi laughed, an odd heartless kind of laugh. `They say you will never win a Champions League without me, you know? Well, I have won one without you, but last night...' He sneered and shook his mane of hair. `Maybe we are nothing without each other after all, eh?' Pep sighed sympathetically but clung to his ambition. `We will beat Lyon tonight and City will take the Final by storm,' he promised. `Not just for me. For you, for Barcelona.' It was a weak promise and he felt the insincerity of it as soon as he said it. `There is more to life than tournaments,' he added with private relish. `Is that really Pep Guardiola speaking...?' teased Messi, his voice almost a yawn. They looked at each other searchingly in the grey-and-gold light of the morning, Pep tracing every detail of the other man's body with his eyes, hugging the thin white robe to his own slim ageing physique. Then, thinking about his claim and Messi's retort, they both laughed gently. `I will be thinking of you tonight,' Messi promised him. `I hope you destroy them and win it all. You know how many of your games I have watched and prayed for you like that, eh? Too many, Papi. Too many.' Pep didn't know what to say to this or even how to digest it. He stood very still and tried not to let any of the dozen different emotions rattling through him come to the surface. He just looked longingly at the man he'd made and then glanced back indoors, towards the bed and the still flat out sleep of the lad they had shared last night. He saw that Messi was looking that way too, a sad crestfallen expression on his face. The silence between them was dense with eight years of conversations that perhaps both had imagined and rehearsed and abandoned; all the things never said since 2012 and their parting at Barcelona. `We were great, weren't we?' Guardiola dared to ask. Messi nodded. `Yes. But it was a long time ago.' With that, he finally let go of the railings and prowled past Guardiola through the doors and into the hotel room, muscles flexing and ripples as he stepped lightly away. Pep watched him, watched the bounce of his cheeks hugged by the briefs, the swing of his arms and the twitch of his fingers as he collected and slid into his clothes. He remained out on the balcony as he watched him dress, not saying or doing anything. Finally, Lionel was standing beside the bed, so he could see both him, kitted back out in Barcelona colours and smiling sadly behind his beard, and naked sprawling Phil, waiting for him in his sleep. They shared a nostalgic moment of eye contact and then Messi left, creeping from the room and out of the hotel. Pep stepped back inside the room, shed his robe, and climbed into bed. Foden made the slightest sleepy groans as he pulled their bodies closed and kissed him on the crown. *...AND THEN CITY GO AND GET SMASHED BY LYON AND OUT OF THE CHAMPIONS LEAGUE. OH WELL! AS KEVIN DE BRUYNE PUT IT, 'SAME STUFF, DIFFERENT YEAR'. JUST MANCHESTER UNITED LEFT IN A EUROPEAN TOURNAMENT NOW, AND THEN SOME SUMMER HOLIDAY FUN FOR OUR FAVE PLAYERS.*