premiership-lads-275

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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 275 Part 275: Do Blondes Have More Fun? The Cheshire riverside was peaceful, and in fact the idyllic quiet was only broken by his own gurgling laugh of victory as he returned his oversized catch of the day to the green-brown waters and wiped mucky palms across the front of his waterproof overalls. Phil Foden turned to grin proudly to his dad and pals who had joined him on the little fishing break, the first he’d been able to enjoy in a while, and a guilty bit of extra holiday time given that he was in no state to fully re-join the other Manchester City players in their pre-season work. The 21-year-old had made only the briefest visits in to his football club since the extended summer break for international players closed, but he had his first proper day of rehab work scheduled tomorrow, and it was a prospect that made the youth anxious and distracted when he really thought about it. The protective boot gave him a clumpy swing to his walk as he scaled the riverbank and was given a helping hand by his cousin, all of the guys ushering him protectively away from the water and clapping him heartily on the back as the laddish entourage celebrating a successful day fishing under the warm grey afternoon. Seeing him struggle a little bit with packing up his kit, Phil’s own dad grabbed him by the arm and gave him a reassuring grin — `You’ll be back in action before you know it, son. And City won’t be the same while they wait for you, everybody knows that, lad.’ The gruff sentiment was gladly picked up by the rest of the little gang and Phil could only nod and blush and allow himself to be helped with the awkward lifting, limping his way back up the scruffy paths that would lead them to the reserve’s car park. Foden was not actually worried about his place at the league-winning club… Really, he knew that he’d cemented his position there in the last two years, and a late season start like this was not as troubling or as disruptive as it might have been in his late teens. He was surprised by his own assertiveness when he thought about inevitably strolling back into the first team later in the year and making his vital contributions to, fingers crossed, another year topping the Prem. No, it was not his career as such that was bothering the bottle-blonde football star as he traipsed after the other men and paused to survey the attractive green vista of the parkland. With a little tremor of uncertain feeling, the England player thought back to earlier in the summer, and the way the 20-21 season, for all its triumph, had ended with a note of professional and personal pain. He pictured that gloomy decisive night in Europe and wondered what exactly he would be returning to City’s training ground to face when he met with Pep Guardiola… On the same hot Portuguese night that saw Ben Chilwell make his clumsy excessive advances at a surprised Mason Mount, drunk on Chelsea’s success, Phil had been in the opposite camp, imbibing only the foul mood of defeat and resentment. Losing out on the Champions League this summer had felt odd and wrong to Phil’s teammates, seeming to disrupt the smooth narrative of their League win — youth and Stockport humility made Foden himself a bit less entitled and sulky about the defeat than many of the older players, but he had still felt the weight of it and struggled a bit to keep his mindset positive that night back at their hotel. Foden spent the final hours of that night in a state of thoughtful impatience, sinking a few half-pints and socialising with the other fellas after supper as if he wasn’t absolutely straining to get into the manager’s hotel suite and be licked head to toe by the beautiful older Spaniard; his pale cheeks blushed pink when the pangs of lust came over him and he felt he must be doing a terrible job of hiding it, sitting there in the hotel bar fantasising about the soft warmth of his Papi’s chest hair and how tenderly he would be held before the heavy fucking began. As it was, the City midfielder had to sit and console his teammates instead, making little input to the group conversations of the older men around him at that corner of the bar, and just staring into the dregs of his half of lager. When he thought he could get away with staring, he let his eyes pierce the small crowd and find the tanned silhouette of Guardiola’s bald head elsewhere, circulating the gathering to speak to different members of the squad and his own coaching team… though Pep still looked angered and fierce rather than in the mood for licking wounds or boosting egos. But the time did come, and it was legit for Phil to sneak away from the others, heading not for his own shared suite but for a different corner of the spartan hotel interior, awaiting the 50-year-old at the door to his own room, skinny tracksuit clinging to his lightly sweaty physique as he anticipated the lovemaking that must surely be allowed after another burst of professional-minded abstinence. Phil’s face was all youthful excitement and misleading innocence, wringing his bare hands together in front of his zipped-up top, looking up and down the corridor in case any passing member of the City crew might wonder at his presence. Phil didn’t have to wait too long. Pep was soon marching down the corridor, scratching at the salt-and-pepper of his beard and staring distractedly at his feet as he approached. Phil lit up with pleasure to be alone with him even out here in the corridor, straightening up his posture and pushing his hands into the zip pockets of his tight trackies. `Sir,’ he breathed with artless seduction, alert and ready beside the door as his gaffer rocked up here with a key dragged from the pocket of his jeans. Guardiola looked up sharply and at him, or… through him, in all honesty. Taking a moment to properly register him, leaving whatever reverie of tactical recriminations he was in, Phil’s Papi sighed heavily and gave him an oddly critical look. `I’ve been waiting,’ Foden told him with a brattish hint to his murmur. `You need not,’ Guardiola informed him ambiguously; already, his posture was wilting and the vibe didn’t feel right. He grimaced and looked searchingly at the tall slim football coach, seeking answers in the deep tan of his facial features. `Filipe, it is late,’ the boss announced. Foden gawped at him, a silent `But’ forming in the thin pink of his lips. He dragged his hands from his pockets and scratched pointlessly at the limited stubble of his pale jawline, looking at Guardiola for some elaboration or negative confirmation there. When it didn’t come, and the attractive middle-aged stud just continued to stare quizzically back, he scrabbled for words that didn’t sound as sulky or bitter as he suddenly felt. `Right, then,’ Foden announced flatly. `Silly me.’ Pep heaved a slightly impatient sigh. `Surely you can see that now is not the time.’ There was an unpleasant snap to his voice, just as there had been in his conversations with other lads down in the bar — it was not the usual jovial positivity of the esteemed football manager, but a blunter disappointment that seemed selfish and personal. The Champions League clearly meant more to Pep than most prizes, and another summer without that cup was hitting him hard — of course Phil knew and appreciated that, but to him that seemed all the more reason for the pair of them to slide in through that door right now and shuck off these clothes… his chubby young cock throbbed in his briefs as he thought this, even as his face frowned sulkily at his Papi. `I’ll go,’ he said hesitantly, daring to hope that Guardiola would now contradict him. `Filipe,’ sighed Pep disappointingly, `that is best, right now, of course…’ No affection or wistfulness, no real explanation or sign of interest. Phil stared at him in alarm, and snapped back himself — it wasn’t just the greedy lust of the hot night, though that was a big part of it, having been sat fantasising about their night together from the minute he left the pitch a loser. It was more. This was the true end of the season, the City elite would be dissipating tomorrow after the flight home and Foden would be soon entering the tight bubble of international football as a young hope in Southgate’s Three Lions! They would not see each other for many weeks and chances for even digital contact would be severely restricted. Did Pep realise any of that? Did he even care? `I’ll just go then,’ the young scally scoffed at his manager, side-stepping him — in his first move of apparent tenderness, Pep’s hand came reaching for his shoulder but Phil shrugged away from it and took another step to the side, glaring at him. `I can see where I’m not wanted, boss,’ he muttered in a nasal voice of outrage that just wasn’t him. `Filipe,’ Guardiola intoned, suddenly stern. `It’s Philip, for fuck’s sake,’ the voice that wasn’t quite Foden barked at the man who’d made him. He stared narrowly at the Spaniard. `See you around after summer, I guess.’ And off he trotted, ignoring the murmured `Filipe…’ protest from his gaffer, but horrified when Pep’s footsteps didn’t follow his own and one of those strong hands wasn’t grasping at his thin wrists. When he got back to his own hotel room, Foden stopped and just cried, horrified by his own sulky behaviour, and immediately convinced that the intimacy between Golden Boy and manager was decisively over, just like the Champions League. Something magical and electric had slipped away from them both just as easily as the prize Chelsea claimed. When his roommate for the trip, Zinchenko, returned to the suite, Phil had to fake a simpler focus on the football defeat, for which the Ukrainian hugged him tightly and laughed away with promises of next summer. No consoling message arrived, nor apology was sent. Instead, Foden slipped through that sleepless night and the next day’s travel in a quiet outrage, isolating himself from the other players and even struggling to show excitement when Sterling, Walker, and Stones made reference to the England training camp that had already begun without them elsewhere in England. He made the journey back into England in a state of immediate grief: Guardiola had lost interest in him completely, and he had failed to be winsome and cool in the face of that problem. It was over! By the arrival of the next day and time for Foden to hit the road again, heading north-east for Teesside and the England training camp, he was resolute in his sadness and determined to push through it and become excited about the Euros. He sat in the chair of his barber shop, staring at the shock of blond hair left behind when the conditioning substances were rinsed away. The youngster was vaguely aware of the cliché of it all, staring himself down in the mirror with that first golden layer that would become glossy platinum after mersin escort a couple more applications — he was washing someone out of his hair, quite literally. Bleaching him away. The jokey Gazza comparisons were a convenience and a relief to Phil, since they blustered over his fragility and the rather desperate attempt at newness that he’d launched into on a day when his full attention was supposed to be on Team England. This, he thought, was a shiny new Foden, a golden bullet! He preened and pouted at himself before the leaving the salon of his favoured stylist, posing for a few photos for the guy’s social media. Catching his own eye, the 21-year-old winked pointlessly at himself and smirked — time to join the England squad and find out the answer to an age-old question: did blondes really have more fun? And did the gentlemen really prefer them…? The Stockport lad grinned wickedly at his own reflection and posed for one final shot with his barber, ready to shrug off the bittersweet end to City’s season and become a Lion. Did blondes have more fun? The answer, it kinda turned out, was no. And it was not for lack of trying. For Phil, the tournament turned into something of an anti-climax, both with his surprisingly limited minutes on the pitch, the lack of prolific goals and assists he had imagined, and with a real shortage of naughtiness behind the scenes that he had lustily speculated on when joining this array of rugged hunks at the first boot camp in Middlesbrough. First and foremost, he found himself following Jack Grealish about the tournament like a frisky young dog who needed to be neutered. He wasn’t entirely sure that the Villa stud was open to a little bit of lad-on-lad fun, but he found himself intoxicated by the older lad’s attractiveness and confidence, and took to trotting along after him at every occasion. They’d befriended one another on Jack’s other brief appearances for England before the Euros, and in the past Grealish had seemed fully of mutual admiration and quite receptive to Foden’s fanboy attention… but during the summer of slow and steady progress, Phil found that Jack was just morose and distracted, and any frisson or potential existed only in his own randy brain. Then there was Mount and Rice, whose company he’d indulged in quite sweetly once before, youth players who had risen through the ranks of the national team together. Foden had casually assumed that a repeat three-way might be on the cards at the Surrey basecamp or on the trip abroad to Rome for one game, but Dec and Mase were similarly preoccupied. Their moods seemed to deteriorate as the tournament went on, and Phil was sensitive to pick up on the tension between them… at that point, he started avoiding them too, not wanting to end up making things worse. He might have assumed a back-up option in the defensive hunks of his own City line-up. Foden was equally intimidated and aroused by brash Kyle Walker, and he enjoyed the titillating secret of the time Guardiola had pimped him out to John Stones as a bonus for good performance. But when he actually tried to strike up interesting conversation with those two, he found them as thick and thieves, even more than they already were at the Etihad — there was absolutely no wriggling in between the tight company of the two defenders, who barely gave him a second glance, where once they’d both taken a great interest in his mouth and bottom. Foden was forced to accept that apart from the Gazza nods and the jokey agreement that a Euros win would see the whole squad grab the bleach, his short blond crop was not bringing hi many more `fun’ or `gentlemen’. The slim 5ft7 midfielder, desperate not to reflect on how things had ended with Guardiola in the Portuguese hotel, found himself giving searching looks across changing rooms and showers, trying to catch Harry Maguire’s eye and attract the huge Yorkshireman with coquettish near-nudity before a shower… Or deliberately dropping a bar of soap to the floor tiles when he was in there between Dominic Calvert-Lewin and Conor Coady, desperately hoping that one of the tall rugged lads would notice his peachy backside and think that any hole might be a goal. In hotel beds and on coach seats, the football ace pawed frustratedly at himself in his England tracksuits and ground his wiry body against cushions, craving close contact that would bring him relief. By the Semi-Finals, Foden had given up on his lust, and just tried to throw all of his energy into the prospect of an actual international final where he might make history and define the rest of his career. In all of these weeks, he didn’t hear a peep from his Papi. And then came the day before the England-Italy final: the little training ground knock, the awkward wait outside the medical room, the X-ray result and the grim-faced discussion with Gareth Southgate. When Phil found out that he had no chance of appearing in the final against Italy, he burst out crying in front of his manager, and was briefly supported and comforted by both the gaffer and his chief medical staff, but it was all with an awkward Englishness and not the close tactile Iberian manhandling that he might have received on a club tournament from the very man he was supposed to be moving on from. Twenty minutes after the heartbreaking news, Foden was sat alone in a plastic chair on that corridor, quite alone and only dimly able to hear the distant noises of his England pals finishing up for the day, full of pre-final banter and camaraderie as dinnertime approached. The City player stared balefully at the single crutch that he was supposed to use when he headed back to get food with them, and wondered if he could even face it — perhaps he should just move on through to the hotel itself and go back to his room. Could he really be part of tonight’s merriment? Could he even face the coach trip into Wembley this evening? More tears threatened his eyes. He twitched and shuffled shyly when he heard the noise of doors, unsure who would be passing by and stumbling across his emotional moment — the nearby double doors pushed open and a sweaty-faced fellow player in matching training gear was tumbling rapidly through, boots hanging from one hand and large socked feet slapping against the lino. `Mate,’ wheezed Jadon Sancho concernedly, `are you? I just saw Southgate and heard you can’t play tomorrow night. FUCK.’ Phil’s one-time City classmate was rapidly close to him and flopping into the next of the waiting seats, putting a clammy hand on his shoulder and leaning close, his wide honest face full of friendly interest and horror. Jadon’s concern and empathy was all the more striking to Phil given that the Dortmund wunderkind had been more neglected and under-used than anyone during this tournament. `I’ll be fine,’ Foden told his friend through wobbly lips, his eyes misting. Sancho squeezed his shoulder and then the back of the neck. `Shit, mate, and you might have got five minutes in the tank in that game if you were lucky,’ he joked sarcastically with their shared disappointment at Southgate’s squad preferences, forcing a bitter chuckle from his tight grimace. The fellow City Academy graduate reached for him in a sideways hug and Phil just leaned his head sadly into his taller pal’s broad shoulder, accepting the rough manly contact and the strong smell of sweat and aftershave that poured off his used kit. In his gritty need for action, Phil had dared to look hopefully at Jadon a few times but stopped short of making even the most teasing comment to the other 21-year-old attacker. After all, there had been some real awkwardness between the old friends after what happened in that parked car in Manchester a while back during the UCL knockouts — Phil was sure that Jadon highly regretted the things he’d done and allowed to be done in that sweaty front-seat clinch after a few discreet cans, as fun as it had actually been. And his long-time relationship with the Bundesliga player made it riskier and more dangerous to allude to what had happened, making Phil shy and cautious even when he was desperate for some sex. Now, facing an emotional crash at the end of the tournament, Phil angled his head and looked across into the pale brown of his friend’s face, cheeks and brow a little glossy with sweat, and felt… emboldened. Jadon’s thin strong arm surrounded his shoulders, pulling him in across the two chairs, and the London lad’s wide dark eyes met his own shifty gaze. The medical corridor remained very quiet, just the two of them here. Salty tear remnants stung at Phil’s narrowed eyes. He let one hand stray across to the top of his mate’s thighs, touching his exposed smooth skin where the England shorts ended shy of the knee. Phil rubbed a couple of fingers gently there, rustling the material of the shorts and letting his tips tickle onto the edges of the kneecap. Jadon twitched inevitably, shifting in the seat but not releasing his hold on his shoulders, uncertainty playing on his laddish features. `Oi,’ Sancho murmured, `I know what you’re after…’ `Do you?’ whispered Foden. `I’m not even sure I do.’ He moved his own weight a little, flinching as he leant the wrong way on the sore foot, and then pulling in even closer to the other seated lad, pushing their thighs and knees together at the side, and letting his hand slide just a little bit down the inside leg towards the radiating heat of the winger’s crotch. `Watch it,’ Jadon muttered at him, their faces ending up only a couple of inches apart now, but he parted rather than closed his meaty upper legs, allowing Phil to crawl spider-like with his fingers over the glossy white. Phil breathed in the manly scent of this confident stud who had been so surprisingly submissive in the car that night after a cider or two. He leaned closer and again had to put pressure on his sore foot, but he ignored the jolt of pain and grabbed loosely at the hem of his mate’s England shirt, beginning to pull it away from the dense stomach muscles that lurked beneath. But then there were footsteps and the same rustling thud of doors, making both young men jolt instinctively apart, Phil hurting his foot as he tumbled sideways back into a more awkward posture in the plastic chair, while Jadon practically leapt from his own, tugging yobbishly at his crotch like a youth in the streets, shuffling away from his friend and turning defensive eyes to the door as the England medic returned on the way to his office, seeming surprised to find them both here. Sancho mumbled something unclear and pushed past him the other way, leaving Foden to make sad eyes at the man who had confirmed his fate. Phil didn’t see much of Jadon for the rest of the evening or the following day, which seemed like quite the achievement given that they were both on the periphery of the doomed final escort mersin and England’s best efforts against Italy. Foden cursed himself for the moment’s boldness, knowing that a bit of cheeky fun wasn’t worth risking a friendship that went back to their early days in the youth ranks of Man City. And now Sancho was back in Manchester. It was a fact Phil could hardly hide from on social media, and a deal that had been on the verge of completion for as long as anybody could remember. His friend had come back to the city, but not to City. Foden stepped clumsily out of the cab, steadying himself with the slight overstep of the protective boot on one foot, turning to thank the driver again and repeat his promise to send signed merch to his young son. And then back towards the apartment building, a slick-looking place whose windows all seemed tinted and blacked out against the late summer evening. Sancho had just been showing the place off on his TikTok when Foden happened to respond supportively, catching his pal’s attention and initiating the invite for this drink. He’d been chilling at home after his day of fishing, but the thought of his mate feeling a bit isolated and bored in a new city dragged him out of home comforts and into the taxi. Phil made his way into the foyer, checking the instructions in the last message. With a silly touch of vanity, he faffed with the collar of his short-sleeve shirt in the mirror beside the lifts, looking critically at his bright blond hair and trying for the hundredth time this summer to decide if it had been a disastrous heartbroken decision, or a cool new look to grab attention in the Euros. He checked himself out in the tight-fitting pale shirt and the gaudily decorated designer jeans, then stepped into the pinging elevator to whizz up to his friend’s penthouse. Sitting home, he’d convinced himself Jadon was a bit blue and lost… The reality turned out to be very different. He was welcomed in a blur of heavy hugging and ushered through into the long open plan space, which thrummed with music from speakers so loud that Phil briefly expected to turn a corner and find loads of other lads from United here. But nope, it was empty but for all of the brand new furnishing that filled it, and he quickly realised how drunk Sancho was. `Welcome drinks after my first training,’ the Londoner told him in a belch, steering him across towards the big windows and their city view. Jadon’s breath smelt of beer and he had a glassy look to his eyes. His monosyllabic messages took on a different tone now to the cry for help that kindly Phil had picked up via text. `Had a few too many but none of the fellas wanted to stay out. Boring. Gonna have to shake them up a bit!’ He laughed a bit too loudly, separating from Phil’s side and going to fuss over the obnoxiously loud music and fix their drinks. `Everyone nice, though?’ Foden asked idly, feeling a little taken aback by the tempo. Sancho either ignored or didn’t hear him but returned with a strong rum mixer for each of them. `So fuckin’ glad I got your message,’ he burst out. He was pissed, but he was also himself — this was the effortless confidence that Phil associated with his pal, and had been a bit absent in their time together at the Euros, because of… what had happened. `Been in Manchester for almost a week and not seen my Philly boy,’ Jadon complained, clinking the heavy cut-glass tumblers together. `Fixed that now, broski, yeh?’ `Sure,’ he agreed, and flinched a bit when he tasted just how strong it was. `So cool that you’re up here. Y’know… even if we are… total enemies, ha.’ He grinned heavily to show he was kidding and didn’t see him that way just because of the red/blue divide. `Sick place you got here.’ Jadon shrugged. `It’ll do for now. My agent sorted it out. Was in a hotel until last night. Fuckin’ great to have all this space.’ Emphasising the point, he sashayed away, breaking out a few awkward dance moves and spilling enough drink to make Phil wonder just how long he’d been at the bar with however many of his new teammates. But he grinned and nodded his head, trying to match his mate’s energy and vibes, sipping more of the noxious rum, and following Jadon’s erratic steps across to a different loose section of the apartment. `This season is gonna be quality,’ Foden mused ambitiously, ignored or unheard again. `You should see the bedroom,’ the new Old Trafford signing was excitably barking, and gesturing him along. At least the volume of the music went down a bit as they passed through a couple of doors and entered the big square bedchamber with its sunken central bed. Jadon stumbled quite drunkenly into the room and almost tripped right into the bedding, sniggering and hooting as he steadied himself and rescued his drink. He turned and waved the glass Phil’s way, trying too hard to look sure. Foden took a final measured sip and then found a spot on the shelving beside him to abandon the glass, unable to take its strength. He smiled approvingly at his mate, and was about to make some sensible suggestion about maybe a drop of water or asking if Jadon had remembered to eat, when suddenly the 5ft11 winger was lunging closer to him at this side of the room, grabbing one of his arms and spilling a smear of coke and rum down the front of his shirt. `How’s yer foot?’ Sancho asked in an odd hiss. He didn’t wait for an injury update, moving instead to a previous encounter between them: `Was weird when that guy came bursting through and interrupted us, wasn’t it?’ Phil tilted his head and laughed uncertainly. `Weird? I guess.’ His attention was mainly on just how out of control Sancho now seemed, and he began the difficult task of prising the drink from his sticky fingers and putting it down on the same empty shelf as his own… but no sooner had he achieved this than Jadon was grabbing at his hand and pulling it down, clamping it in between his legs, on the bulging front of his cargo shorts. Phil stopped stock still against him, excited and alarmed by the sudden progress, and greeted with a totally wasted leer in his friend’s face. `This where we were, wasn’t it?’ Jadon mumbled. `Before we were interrupted.’ `Something like that. Hah, you feelin’ okay, matey?’ `What? You not into me now?’ `Buddy…’ Foden felt hesitant and conflicted. This was a bad idea, they were both of them in dodgy positions in their own ways. But Sancho smelt so good. Sweat, aftershave, alcohol. He felt so close and present. Phil’s hand lingered against the bulging front of his baggy shorts, feeling the mound that waited there. Their faces rested close together, simmering eye contact, and Jadon gentled licked his lips. Phil took this as a glistening invite and went for it. He rubbed his crotch as he kissed him, pressing their lips quite gently at first, then giving the other footballer a more full-on snog. He regretted it quickly, looking again into Jadon’s glassy drunk eyes, and hearing his snort of giddy laughter… he was too drunk for this, it was stupid… (And what about tomorrow…?) Sancho grabbed at his shirt then and lunged backwards. In one stupid move, the two 21-year-old athletes tumbled down on the sunken bed, and Phil let out a little yowl of pain. Jadon rolled away from with sudden concern, and Phil gritted his teeth, looking down his leg. `Careful!’ he said, meaning it to sound severe and warning, but unable to suppress a playful laugh. His foot throbbed, but his body was sprawled comfortably against the tiger-print sheets of Sancho’s bed. `You twat,’ he cursed through his laughter, and suddenly Jadon was back at his side, grasping at his arms and at his shirt. Phil went for another kiss, but their faces twisted and angled, Jadon seeming unsure, even as he wrenched at Phil’s buttons and collar. With a sudden pang of forcefulness, Phil pushed at his biceps, pinning him back down and planting his lips on his, tasting his rum tongue, kissing him deeply until they both moaned and ground their bodies. Off came his shirt, damp and sticky as it was, and then Jadon’s hands pawed uncertainly at his sides and his back muscles. Phil scooped his hands into Jadon’s baggy black t-shirt and swept it up and off until they were even, their sturdy young torsos on show. `Fuck,’ giggled Sancho. `This is naughty, innit?’ Foden didn’t want to address that. He just pulled their bodies close and lowered his face to kiss and lick one stiff pink nipple on Sancho’s caramel pectoral, ringed with a little frizz of chest hair. He felt Jadon’s curious hand grab and tug at his cock in his jeans, then fumble at the button fly. The need for male attention that had haunted him throughout the Euros took control, and he pushed himself back, making himself comfortably available — he just hooked his hands behind his neck and stretched out his 5ft7 body, allowing his friend to wrench open the jeans and push them down enough to stroke his big hard-on through his grey boxer briefs. `You wanna suck it again?’ he asked almost shyly. Sancho didn’t answer with words. He carried on rubbing and gripping it experimentally, while lowering his face to kiss around Phil’s defined tummy. His fluffy goatee tickle on Phil’s smooth porcelain skin. Reaching down with another little surge of dominance, Phil found himself pushing at the back of Jadon’s skull, positioning his mouth properly over his crotch until those wet sticky lips were sucking his outline in the grey. `Mmmm,’ he moaned encouragingly, `feels so good, mate…’ That did the trick. Sancho was peeling his boxers back and slopping his chops about the thick stubby length of Foden’s meat. `Oh fuck,’ the Stockport kid groaned out, stretching back and stroking the short fuzz of the other lad’s hair, pressing his face between his legs and feeding him his girth. `Oh fuck yes, J… mmm, bro…. fuckkk…’ Jadon tried and failed to push his jeans all the way down, realising that the protective boot was in the way. Sniggering, he went back to work, stooping to lick and kiss the prize. Phil watched him and shuddered with enjoyment, his cock in real need of this, and his amazement at his friend’s dirty readiness as strong as the last time. But he was hungry himself, and he quickly set about encouraging their bodies into the 69, pushing down on those slack cargo shorts and the skimpy white briefs beneath until he was holding and sniffing Sancho’s own chunky brown rod. Foden sucked on this sweaty meat, interlocking their prone bodies on the tangled tiger-print, heads bobbing and licks smacking, stifled groans and jerking motions of excited young bodies. Eventually, Foden had to attend to the boot, unstrapping and shoving at it, hurting his foot a little but not caring. Discarded, it rattled against the hardwood, and he could wriggle out of his clothes completely, encouraging Sancho to do exactly the same. mersin escort bayan Two naked lads, Jadon a little stockier and more overtly muscular, but clearly surprised and excited by the hidden strength of Phil’s lean arms as he thrust him onto his back and hovered over him, reaching down to jerk him off whilst propping himself over him to enjoy the groaning expression on his goateed face. Foden went back on his haunches then, remembering just what had excited and finished this dirty bugger last time. He licked two fingers of his left hand and ran them beneath those chubby balls, tickling the hairy edge of Jadon’s crack. Phil knelt before him, between his thick convulsing legs, hairy and heavy; with one hand, he jerked smoothly on the fat cock, and with the other he slid one digit into the tight grip of those muscled buttocks, rubbing it repeatedly over the blinking sphincter and making Sancho really groan out. He fingered him like he had in the car, prodding that wet digit inside his friend and seeming to drive him really crazy. For a while, he stooped so that he could suck the tip of Jadon’s cock whilst fingering his hole. He added a second when he could and made himself comfortable between those hairy thighs. Sancho was all breathless whimpers and indistinct strings of words that alternated between swearing and affection — `Fuck shit bro, fuck Philly, fuck it, you cunt, mmm, shittt…’ Foden loved how vocal he was, and he could feel the few mouthfuls of strong rum going to his own head, never mind how pissed his mate was. He grinned and pretty much drooled, excited by Jadon’s stocky body, the loose muscles of his chest and tummy, the power of his legs. He kissed at hairy flesh and smooth tummy, went back up to nip those nipples again. His own cock was raging hard, and he progressed without real thought — helping Jadon up, tugging firmly at his weight, shoving him up onto all fours, then kneeling behind him and spitting down on his own shaft. He had the tip of his dick between Jadon’s round cheeks before he knew what he was doing, breathing heavily and gobbing some more lube onto the smooth shapely rod of his manhood. Gasping with excitement, Phil edged forward and slapped his hands to Jadon’s hips, beginning to slide the wet pink tip between those cheeks, feeling the hairy quiver of crack that he’d pushed and prodded with his fingers, and… `No!’ Sancho yelped, looking over his shoulder, `Not that!’ He jolted away, falling onto his side and giving him wild panicked eyes that shamed Foden’s rush. `Sorry, sorry,’ he muttered in a hot wet rush, embarrassed. He grabbed at Jadon and kissed him on the shoulder. When he tried to reach below his ball-sack and try to slide the wet finger into his greasy arse again, Jadon clamped up his cheeks, and pushed at his arm. `No, no,’ he was murmuring in that strange sobering panic, unsure what he’d started. Phil relented carefully, gripping and wanking both of their cocks instead. `It’s okay,’ he promised him in a long gasp, `it’s okay buddy… cum for me, let’s cum together, yeh…?’ Jadon was all blurred whimpers now, confused and conflicted. Phil felt awkward himself, but also mad horny. He stopped playing with himself and just slapped their cocks together. Then, pulling himself together, Jadon was rushing him and thrusting him roughly onto his back. Drooping back to the earlier job, closing his mouth about Phil’s quivering hard-on. `Ohhhhh,’ Foden groaned to the room, naked on his back and losing his cock inside the greedy mouth. `I’m going to cum!’ he warned shrilly, but with too little notice if that was going to freak out his mate. He rasped and shook as he spent his salty load inside that hoover mouth, messing onto Jadon’s searching tongue and palate. Sancho pulled himself groggily away, lips sticky with either cum or rum or both. He fell to the side, seeming dazed and nauseous. Foden felt awkward guilt — had he taken advantage here? He reached desperately for his friend’s cock, wanting to please and finish him. But Jadon couldn’t seem to look at him. He lay more or less on his back, clamping both hands over his own face, making a grimacing expression with those shiny lips. Phil grabbed and jerked his cock regardless, crouching at his side and whispering to him, `It’s okay. You’re so fuckin’ hot, mate. Cum for me. Cum for me?’ Foden hovered at his side, spitting into his palm and reapplying the busy hand. He kissed at Jadon’s chest and nipples and down his tummy, his hand never ceasing its piston motion on that sturdy London cock. Jadon made almost no sound, so he was surprised when the lukewarm flecks of cum hit his arm and the side of his face, but he still laughed happily, sticking out his tongue to catch and taste a little… `You sexy fuck,’ he moaned for him, still teasing his throbbing cock, `that was amazing…’ Jadon just groaned in response. Not a groan of enjoyment. It was the groan of that one Jagerbomb too many, the groan of hangover regret — it was his way of saying how drunk he was and how much he was going to pretend to remember nothing the next time they met. Phil let go of his twitching cock and sighed to himself, edging away from his friend’s body and realising how much his foot actually ached. `You need a pint of water and a cheese toastie,’ he informed his old classmate simply. Getting dressed was a hobbling difficult process, but he did it, and left the new United star still sticky and groaning on the bed. Phil moved around the unused kitchen of the new apartment, feeling an odd mix of giddy satisfaction and vague empty disappointment at something. He poured the icy pint and made a rough sarnie from what he could find in the fridge, then took them both back through to the bedroom. Sancho was lying on his front now, face buried forward into the sheets, his smooth back and his round fluffy arse on show, the arse that Phil had momentarily became overexcited and tried to- well, that had gotten out of hand! Jadon was making loud performative snores. Phil stood discreetly at the door for a moment, unsure what to say and do. But then he just rested the water and sandwich gently on a side table, announced as such, and strapped on his protective boot, hobbling away to leave the flat and his drunken friend behind, pretty sure that Sancho didn’t want a cuddle and a chat. Clumping around the training ground like a pirate pegleg, Foden passed the main training grounds. He observed with interest the dashing figure of his England teammate Jack Grealish, watching his hair bounce and flick as he sped around the training ground with De Bruyne and Dias. But Foden moved on, not wanting to linger and watch the action that he was not physically ready for yet. His day would consist of simple repetitive upper body work and rehab on his ankles and would do so for a good few weeks yet. But first… His stomach flipped and his whole muscular little body tensed. He’d known this conversation lay ahead of him for so long now, but somehow a protective instinct had held it at bay. Only now, passing indoors and heading for the manager’s office in his baby blue training kit, did Phil really begin to process how difficult it might be to see Guardiola again after the way they had parted. Mentally, he revisited that hotel corridor and the coach’s dismissive fierceness… his own surly childishness when faced with surprising rejection. It was like he’d been burying his head in the sand for almost two months. Scurrying through the Euros madness and constantly craving cock as if that’s all he and his Papi had ever been. How had he managed to hold off the shock and upset of being tossed aside so casually by Pep Guardiola?! And then the hobbling youth was outside the chief’s office, staring in through a small panel window and spying the tanned bald figure at his desk. Alone. Phil didn’t even hesitate to knock and let himself in. He wanted this awkwardness and pain over. The quicker the meeting could take place, the sooner he could go and cry in the gym toilets on his own. Jesus, maybe he’d just save time and throw himself out of that window instead. Pep was up from his desk in seconds, pushing aside his chair and crossing the room. Reaching behind him to lock the door and then tugging down the little square blind that covered the panel window. Standing over Phil, his rich smell filling his nostrils, a gentle smile on his husky lips. He held him by the biceps and stooped to kiss, a kiss which Foden answered obediently and instinctively, tilting his face and parting his lips and allowing the bigger hotter tongue in against his. He shivered and froze at once, held and kissed and then, after an ecstatic moment, released. `My boy,’ the City manager sighed. `Filipe…’ As always, he said the epithets with a taste of luxury and decadence on his lips. His eyes were bright and loving, his smile so genuine and face-cracking. Phil stared quite blankly back, confused. They WEREN’T over? `You’re back,’ Guardiola sighed now, squeezing his arms and shoulders and pulling him into a cuddle, his body heat and firmness enveloping and holding Foden safe. `A long cruel summer with you.’ It was, Phil thought, as if their parting night in Portugal simply didn’t exist. No conflict, no difficulty; no explanation, no apology. Did he care? `I’m back,’ he agreed in an awkward murmur as he was partly released from the hug, and his older lover could now hold and stroke his face while they stared into one another’s eyes. `I missed you,’ he said earnestly. `I thought…’ `You thought what?’ Guardiola demanded. In those three words, he seemed to say so much: he seemed to mock and fling aside Phil’s doubts and fears, laughing in the face of a world where their connection was broken. But he also seemed to offer promises and reassurances. Foden never felt as safe and sure as he did when held (or fucked) by Papi. He stared adoringly at him. `Nothing,’ he answered weakly. `I’m just glad to be back with you here. That’s all.’ He thought guiltily about last night — oh fuck, and he’d got down and dirty with Jadon, thinking he was unattached! `Of course,’ Guardiola purred in his heavily accented English, rubbing and stroking at him. Slowly, he brought his fingers grazing up the side of Foden’s face, and he made a little tut noise, shaking his head and his silvery beard. `Oh dear.’ Phil’s heart skipped a beat. Was he just remembering? Was he thinking back to how rudely Phil had spoken to his Papi in the Portuguese heat and the face of defeat? Was there a danger after all? He clung desperately to the front of the man’s simple white t-shirt, feeling his body heat and hair beneath it, staring desperately at the gaffer for a message. `One thing,’ Pep sighed. `Yes?’ he answered tremulously. `The blonde hair,’ Guardiola said simply, contemptuously. `It must go.’ Phil gulped and nodded. At least now he knew what gentlemen preferred. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

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