premiership-lads-274

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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 274 Part 274: ADIOS He thought back to that morning not so long ago when today’s situation would feel absolutely ridiculous, and the complicated problem of his career future seemed cleanly resolved — the aggro around his contract had seemed over, and the final years here were stretching gloriously ahead to complete his legacy. That holiday, mingling with other footballing legends on an exclusive patch of the Ibiza coast, everything had seemed complete and sorted, the world had felt secure at his talented feet, and he cast his mind back pleasantly across those bright days. …Across one bright morning in particular. Lionel Messi woke slowly, a bit confused and annoyed that he had left the bedroom curtains open to have this dawn sunlight playing against his face now, irritating sleepy eyes and rousing him from heavy whiskey-drenched sleep in the final days of his summer freedom, riding high on the Copa America victory that had cemented his legendary status. He realised very gradually that the surface below him didn’t feel quite comfortable enough to be the huge master bed of the extortionately hired yacht, and in fact the reason he was being blinded by sunrise was having fallen asleep on the white leather couches in the upper deck of the vessel, rather than tucked away in the opulent comfort of his proper bedroom cabin. The 34-year-old Argentine opened both eyes narrowly and let out a little purring moan of wakefulness, pressing back with his shoulders and glutes against the leather, annoyed with himself but more amused that the night with their guests had actually become so drunken — he could remember a bit of terrible karaoke, an out of character duet with his beautiful wife, and refusing to let most of the guests leave even when the champagne had run dry. With a slightly louder groan, Messi brought the heel of one hand up against his clammy brow and tanned face, beginning to shift the compact muscles of his body and thinking it was time to crawl through the boat and get into his own bed. He pictured his wife in there waiting for him, ready to be curled up in his arms, and perhaps if she stirred then they could greet the day with something more intimate. The world-famous striker let one hand begin to rove down the front of his plain white t-shirt towards the loose waist of his patterned trousers, silky and baggy against his splayed legs; he opened his eyes a bit more as he did so, fingers creeping across the fabric and his privates tingling a bit with a new waking up. But he stopped himself, realising where he was, and that he was not actually alone — he remembered his loud insistences about the guests staying, but he also remembered them exiting the yacht with their partners, the other footballing icons making their way back to their own luxury accommodation rather than occupying the Messi yacht… well, all except one. After the other guys went, one had loyally remained, committed to Messi’s party spirit, even if his own wife had put an end to the music and whiskeys soon after. Leo twisted his neck a little to inspect the close proximity with which the younger athlete was curled up against the low couch, his head resting inches away in a gap between cushions, and his limbs all dragged up onto the furniture rather than sprawled out and resting over the coffee table like Leo’s own sturdy inked calves. Lounging incredibly close together, but not quite touching. The Argentine smiled wearily, blinking his eyes and examining the recumbent position of his former colleague, casting a fond and tender appraisal of the snoring Brazilian whose team he had bested in this summer’s American tournament. Neymar Junior’s colourful shirt was open and showing a little of his chest muscles and relaxed tummy, and his shorts barely made it a few inches down his thick thighs, leaving a lot of golden-brown leg on display at his side. Leo drank it all in, amused at how closely the two had fallen asleep together, drunk and exhausted, and thought of the many times in their Barcelona partnership where they had shared a discreet hotel bed in sober comfort. In the difficult years after his Papi left him, Leo had taken real comfort and strength in the affection of the younger star, and lounging here on the white leather, he had a strong urge to revisit those intimate moments. Lionel’s hand stopped short of gently stroking the side of Neymar’s face, his thoughts turning from how beautiful the 29-year-old looked in the shafts of morning sun to the fact that his wife and children were aboard the confines of the yacht, and he was not tucked away in some random hotel room on a Barcelona away game. Those were different times, he told himself nostalgically, and he slid away from the sleeping Brazilian, moving instead towards the tinted glass of the sliding doors and out onto the deck to take in a little fresh sea air. Ibiza yawned nearby and other luxury boats glittered on the sea here and there. `A beautiful morning,’ croaked Neymar’s voice. He turned to watch him pad out of that same open window to join him, shirt hanging open across his front, one hand adjusting the front of his skimpy shorts, eyes blinking and lips smirking. `Didn’t mean to wake you,’ Leo apologised in a quiet murmur, leaning one hand against the rails of the boat, a little regretful at losing the solitary moment he’d been enjoying. He still had every intention of creeping below deck and to the master bedroom for his rightful place, but he’d been savouring the few minutes alone beforehand; he hadn’t even realised that his cock was beginning to swell and warm to the prospect of waking his wife up, now pressing quite visibly against the front of his loose-fitting trousers as Neymar walked close to him. The Brazilian’s smirk drew his eyes down to this fact and then, unconcerned, his hand was there too, Neymar just giving him a gentle stroke against the crotch whilst leaning on the rails at his side, all sleepy eyes and sighing breath. `Are you talking to me or that thing?’ Neymar chuckled at him. `Mmm. Last night was fun.’ Leo sighed, resting his back against the rails, clutching both hands to its cool metal, and feeling his cock twitch and shiver at the stroke of his friend’s fingers through two layers of silky fabric. Blinking a bit in the bright early sun, he examined the handsome man at his side, slightly taller and leaner, much more manly and mature than the eccentric youngster who had arrived at Barcelona in 2013. The two were such close friends now, and right now they were very literally close, could smell one another’s stale aftershave and musty bodies. Gentle and cautious, Leo pushed Neymar’s hand from the outline of his heavy prick, shaking his bearded head and murmuring, `No, my friend, no…’ Neymar smirked and chuckled at him, playful disappointment in his features, but they were close enough for him to understand and accept. `Here?’ teased Lionel quietly. `Idiot boy. My wife is just below us. My kids asleep. And where are the staff?’ He chuckled too, nudging and knuckling his friend in the arm. `You dirty fool.’ `You know I can’t help myself,’ whispered Neymar seductively. `Those were good times,’ was all Messi would allow himself to comment on that, his voice nostalgic but firm. He inched a little away from his good friend, one hand still clutching the rails, and the other trying to rearrange the front of his trousers so that his huge semi was a little less obvious. `The best,’ Neymar murmured. `Come to Paris. We’ll live it again.’ `Don’t start that again!’ chided Messi playfully. It had been last night’s running joke between the guys, the invitation for Lionel to join a couple of them at Paris Saint-Germain as had been rumoured earlier in the year when his conflict with his own beloved club had seemed impossible — but by that Ibizan holiday, Messi had felt so sure of the reduced salary deal and the chance to stay put in the team and city that meant everything to him. Drunk on this yacht, he’d been able to take the jokes well and enjoy the good will of his friends, all of whom wanted to play with him one last time, and Neymar in more ways than one. `Paris,’ urged Neymar teasingly, his fingers creeping back down below the waistline, until Leo caught and squeezed his hand and fixed him with a friendly but authoritative stare. `Barcelona,’ he said simply. `Forever.’ Surreptitiously, Messi did check how alone they were, glancing left and right down the sides of the boat, and into the hazy dark of the upper cabin where the partying had taken place. Then he leant forward, having to edge onto his bare tiptoes a little, and kissed Neymar once on the brow like some generous king. `Thank you for everything,’ he sighed, patting him once on the arm and then moving past him before the temptation could be much worse, leaving his guest alone in the sun and disappearing down through the boat to find his wife and a more conventional offer of pleasure. Lionel closed his eyes, thinking wistfully of how safe and happy he had felt that night and that morning, casually resisting temptation and so sure of what lay ahead. Not like today, when everything had fallen through and he was bidding adios to the city that had been home for his entire adult life and longer, arriving here as a naïve teen from Argentina, carrying little more than a dream. He kept his eyes closed and steadied himself, adjusting the collar and tie of his suit, and then clearing his throat before following the PR aide in front of him, past the swathes of red curtain and out onto the stage area that had been set up for today’s big event: his goodbye press conference to FC Barcelona. The 34-year-old footballing icon made it through the next difficult hour, but not without shedding public tears. He did his best to convey his love for the club, city, country, and to end on a note that preserved his legacy here. He skirted questions about his future, knowing full well what the likely direction mersin escort would be, but not wishing to fuel any hype when the contract was still being written up ready for tomorrow’s formalities and negotiations. Today was not about PSG and his probable move there, today was about closing this huge fucking chapter at Barcelona. When he thought fondly of his early morning flirtation with Neymar Jr, it was not in easy excitement at their French reunion, but in sad longing for the Barcelona heyday they had shared with Suarez. The surge of emotions came back even stronger as the conference ended and he was escorted from the press room, swaddled in an entourage of staff belonging to the club and his own personal team. He dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, not too embarrassed to have become so emotional on camera, but now wanting to be alone — he muttered his respectful thanks to the entourage of men one by one, hinting this need to them heavily, then glancing across in surprise when one suited guy broke through the muddle of people and followed him on his way through another set of double-doors to a different part of the Nou Camp. `Leo,’ hissed the other football, walking swiftly along until he was in step with him, `are you okay?’ Antoine Griezmann looked overwhelmed with concern, reaching to hold him gently and discreetly at the elbow, his lustrous hair tied neatly back and accentuating his fine French features. He stared worriedly this way, slowing his pace as Lionel did the same. The 30-year-old forward glanced behind them, noting the doors that had fallen shut and screened them from the rest of the press conference dispersion, then squeezed his arm more firmly and leaned in much closer. `You were so brave,’ the handsome Frenchman urged, sliding an arm about his back, and following his slow steps, and Antoine’s own eyes looked glossy with tears that threatened to fall. `I need to be alone,’ Messi said simply, not meaning to sound blunt or aggressive, but overwhelmed by the crowded room who had just watched him struggle through that interview, Griezmann and many other fellow players included. He balked at Griezmann’s emotional face and needy touch, a little taken aback by how affected the French player was today. `That must have taken a lot,’ muttered Antoine, still pawing at his arm and back, and now shedding one glossy tear down his smooth boyish cheek. `Come on, let’s get you away from those crowds, and-` `Alone,’ he repeated simply, holding his close friend at arm’s length and shifting ahead. `I need to be alone,’ he grunted. `Sorry, Antoine.’ Griezmann looked a little bit stunned by this. `Ah,’ he mumbled simply, `okay, I see…’ Then, wiping his face on the sleeve of his blazer, he edged after him. `But we can meet later tonight, before you travel?’ he hissed. `Or early tomorrow, I don’t care. I need to see you before you-` `Griez,’ he said carefully, `hold yourself. This is too much. We are not…’ He hesitated over how to put it, saw the younger man’s lip wobble and his eyes mist even more. `I am leaving,’ he said with as much warmth as he still could, `and we need to accept that. Please forget what we did, it needs to end here, yes? I’m sorry, friend, I am.’ He pushed away from him and marched on into the other parts of the stadium, unable to bear last look back at the fellow striker who had become another key part of his Barcelona experience in the last few years. He was being harsh, he knew that — he could see how upset Antoine was to lose him from Barcelona, and in a different mood he might have been able to support and comfort him on that. But the truth was that Messi was just too lost in his own feelings about the exit to be the sturdy older man that his French lover needed right now. He simply couldn’t be the man that Griez needed him to be today… or in fact, generally. It had always been a mistake to get closer to the romantic guy, he’d felt that in his gut, but he had been missing other playmates and the handsome twink had slid into his bedsheets too easily in recent seasons. One by one, Messi had indulged these younger men who idolised him, but he always knew that the gap he was trying to fill could not be answered by them — not by Neymar, not by Frenkie de Jong, not by Eric Garcia. And sadly not by Antoine either, no matter how hard the bisexual striker had tried since moving here from Madrid two years ago. Did these other guys not realise how massive all this was for him? He felt a little angry at Griezmann for his emotional reaction to this, his selfish grief at the end of their casual fun, when Messi was going to be leaving SO MUCH behind when he flew for France tomorrow. And it wasn’t just his attractive fellow forward. He’d had to suffer a couple of furious rants from another of his best pals, Sergio Aguero clearly outraged that he had moved here from the Premiership only to be ditched — he’d seemed accusatory and betrayed last night, arriving at Messi’s home and demanding explanations. Like with Griezmann, Messi would have held a lot of empathy for his disappointed friend if he wasn’t too busy processing his own emotions and trying to find the energy to get excited about starting a new career chapter at 34. Aguero had been irrational and even aggressive with him, and there had been a moment where Leo had felt laughingly uncertain if his Argentina friend was going to punch or kiss him in the garden terrace of his mansion. It had ended in tight manly hugs and reassurances, the two stocky players muttering affectionate words but feeling like they’d just fallen out. At least the club’s other big new signing had been more supportive. Earlier this week and today especially, Memphis had been coolly dismissive of the fuss, offering him sincere congratulations and cheerful encouragement about what it was like to play in the French leagues. Leo strongly suspected that the Dutchman was perhaps enjoying his exit, since it made Depay a much bigger fish in the Barcelona pond, but he was happy to forgive this egotism when the charismatic man was avoiding the melodrama and neediness of the other men in his life. Or, he thought grimly, the radio silence of the one man whose words would be most welcome. He hadn’t received the slightest contact from Pep Guardiola, nothing more than hearing an interview clip over his breakfast this morning, watching his Papi discuss the importance of his Jack Grealish investment and how City were certainly not in the market to welcome Lionel Messi as well. He’d not been foolish enough to believe that he would go there, but it had still been painful to hear, and he’d bitterly switched off the footage, angrily speculating whether this Grealish lad was replacing the known `Golden Boy’ of his ex-lover’s affections. Had Filipe done something to displease Pep already, he wondered dispassionately. Why was everyone going so crazy for some poser from Birmingham? Instead of pandering to Griezmann’s feelings or anyone else from the fuss around his press conference, Messi stalked silently through the stadium and found his way up into the stands, taking a seat somewhere he could hide alone and survey the field that had housed so many of his life’s biggest moments. Here he could calm himself from the emotional rollercoaster of that interviewer and think sensibly about what needed to be done. He could not enter tomorrow’s meetings with PSG an emotional wreck, and he could hardly approach his prospective new club lost in misery at the fact he had to leave his old one. He’d said his goodbyes now, he’d paid his respects to this great place, he needed to start thinking more carefully, and looking after himself. But this was much easier said than done — leaving Barcelona felt like divorcing a spouse. He wasn’t sure how long he remained up there before being disturbed, but he did a lot of thinking, and was much calmer until he suddenly realised he was being watched, and started in surprise. He hadn’t noticed the other guy, in his matching club suit, mount the concrete stairs and join him up here, nor heard him slide into the rows of seating and take up his spot of vigilance a short distance away. The surprise left Leo just blinking confusedly at the other footballer for a long minute before giving him a nod of acknowledgement and getting up from his seat. `Pique,’ he said simply, dropping down a few steps and closing the distance between them. He adjusted his slim-fitting suit as he went, trying to seem so much more composed and professional than he feared he might have — would an old traditionalist like his friend Gerard Pique be as comfortable with his emotional display as a young romantic like Griezmann? The kindly smile behind Gerard’s grizzled beard suggested yes. `Leo,’ the legendary defender said, unfolding up to his feet. The direction of the concrete steps belied the significant height difference between the two 34-year-old stars. Pique gave him a calm, friendly look up and down, and Messi descended the steps slowly until he was level with the 6ft4 giant, standing side by side with him and as conscious as ever of his own diminutive stature he always laughed to remember how easily coaches had once dismissed `Little Leo’ in his youth, encouraging him to prove every single one of them wrong. Pique laid a large hand on his shoulder. `Well, that was something.’ `Sure,’ he agreed. `I’m exhausted.’ `No wonder. You did well.’ `Did I? I think I lost it a little bit.’ `It was powerful. We all had a tear in our eyes watching.’ `Really? Even you?’ `Hah. ESPECIALLY me. It has been a long time, friend. You think I can imagine playing here without you?’ Messi smiled softly at his fellow Barcelona stalwart. `I suppose not. Strange thought. Sorry.’ `Don’t be. None of this is your fault.’ `Tell that to Kun,’ he muttered with some resentment for last night’s strange encounter with his fellow Argentine, his thoughts then slipping regretfully to the recent scene with Griezmann. escort mersin He sighed unhappily at the thought of how curt and dismissive he’d been with the French boy, but what else was there to do? Antoine was hardly a kid at 30, he needed to toughen up, not get silly ideas about these things. `Hey,’ he murmured at the big defender, `do me a favour, will you? Look after Griez when I’ve gone. He’s a bit of a lost soul, you know?’ Pique raised one of those thick dark brows, and chuckled. `Look after?’ he growled. He cut a huge and imposing figure in his blue-grey blazer and crisp white shirt against the deep tan of his neck and face. He had always been an imposing man, a powerhouse at the back of the Barcelona squad, and someone Leo respected as an equal. Over the years, he had come to realise that the pair of them had more in common than their long commitment to the Nou Camp, though. He knew that for all of his celebrated marriage to a Colombian popstar, this big imposing Spaniard had played around a little like himself, and had been worshipped and idolised by horny younger players in much the same way. `You know what I mean,’ Lionel chuckled. `Keep an eye on him. Anything else is… up to you.’ `I’ve always kept my hands off him,’ Gerard murmured. `I knew he was your territory.’ Messi, for all his guilt, was uncomfortable with that idea. `He is a good friend, that is all.’ When had he actually realised that Gerard Pique was not so faithful to his famous wife? It was hard to pin down those memories, but Messi knew how shocked he’d been to hear murmurings that Pique might play around with men as well as women, this uber-masculine Spanish specimen. It had certainly made him feel a bit better at a time when he’d been terrified to be in an intense secret relationship with a man, his own manager, and allowed him to accept his appetites as something positive and surprisingly common. Guardiola, god knows how, had been fully aware that Pique took his pleasures where he found them, and there had been a time when Papi seemed to worry that Messi would be led astray by the Barcelona captain — Pep had always been possessive and moralistic, he thought sadly, knowing how he had eventually let him down by straying at that awards ceremony. After Guardiola left Barcelona, Lionel finally got a taste of this Basque stud. Guardiola’s fears had been unwarranted, Pique had never come close to tempting Messi away from his Papi, but once abandoned by the coach, nature had taken its course, and there had been a handful of sexual encounters between the two Barcelona legends in the last decade, much more tentative and muted than when Messi dominated young sycophants like de Jong or Griezmann. Pique was not a man to be toyed with like the wide-eyed twinks who had always flocked to Messi’s ample crotch. `What do you say?’ Pique asked in the low growl of his voice. `To what?’ Messi demanded, aware his thoughts had drifted. `One last game,’ the big centre-back said in that sexy growl, and it was clear he was not talking about football, despite their surroundings. He hulked there on the step, a huge presence in the tailored suit, not needing to say or do much more to make himself understood; such a magnetic presence, no wonder Guardiola had once been so cautious and jealous. `Gerard,’ he muttered with a half-laugh. Being grabbed at by Antoine had felt unwelcome and inappropriate. But now that he was a little calmer and more philosophical about today’s enormity, and alone up here with his longest serving teammate… `Is this a good idea?’ he asked breathily. Pique nodded his bearded head once. `It always is. Come.’ He started on up the stairs, and Messi found his entire muscular body compelled to follow, his pants prickling with the same downstairs wake-up that had distracted him that morning on the yacht, stroked and teased by beautiful Neymar. It was just a scruffy storeroom down a passage on the top floor of access behind the stands, hardly a romantic scene, but the dusty darkness felt exciting as the door fell shut behind him and he stepped closer to the big powerful physique of his teammate. His cock was already semi in his underpants, straining against slim suit trousers, and he felt like this surprise treat was everything he needed as comfort after the stress of the goodbye press conference. Messi felt Pique’s large strong hands on his arms, rubbing him with a controlled gentleness, and he licked his dry lips. He leaned in close but knew better than to try for a little peck of a kiss with this man, who would never submit to that. Pique stroked up his back and on his neck, encouraging him downwards, and he happily complied. He ran his fingers against Gerard’s flat strong tummy through the white shirt, pulling it loose of his belt as he began to kneel. Knees to the hard floor, he found and undid the belt buckle and the zip fly, parting the shirt tails and reaching in to stroke the front of the loose plain boxer shorts inside. There it was, the big thick piece that always swung between the defender’s legs. He could remember staring thoughtfully at it across a sauna years ago, then plucking up the courage to touch it once the other guys were gone and the pair of Barcelona diehards were sweating alone. He had touched it about five or six times, and only sucked it maybe twice. God, it was beautiful. Leo held and breathed on the impressive swollen rod, feeling Pique’s blunt fingertips in his hair. He relished the big stud’s manly smell, enjoying the moment before running his lips against it, kissing the veiny shaft and then rolling his mouth around its bloated head, taking the defender’s manhood gently into his mouth and beginning to roll his tongue against it. Mmm. He rarely went down on men any more, having settled into the pig-headed selfishness of spreading his shapely thighs and letting younger players worship the GOAT’s cock. For a long time after Pep, he had been unwilling to sink to that level again — he felt that once you gave yourself up to a man in that way, they could only hurt and abandon you. It was much easier to be the dominant one, he knew, and to just casually take pleasure from eager young idiots… but for Pique, he’d been unable to resist it, had been so delighted when he finally got it in his mouth, just as he was now. Sucking on a big manly cock like he had almost daily for his Guardiola in those magical seasons together. Pique made very faint groans, almost dismissive in his enjoyment of this touch. He was less pushy and brutish than Messi remembered, sucking him off that first time in the toilets of an airport on the way to a big final, guzzling his cum and wishing it was Pep’s. This afternoon, in this dark corner, it felt like Gerard was being gentle and tender with him, as if out of respect to the momentous occasion. He liked it. He slurped at his cock, licking right down to the fat balls, running his hands up and down the trouser legs of Pique’s suit. He shifted his weight repeatedly, trying to get comfortable on his knees, glad to lose himself at the foot of this big powerful friend, putting aside all of the pressure and expectation to just be Pique’s slut for a moment. Gasping and breathless, he leant back, drooling a little into his short red-brown beard, and stared hungrily up at the smirking face of the centre-back. `It tastes as good as I remember,’ Messi told him, flicking his tongue against its head and squeezing his hand about the base. `And your mouth feels like luxury,’ returned Pique pleasantly, `now… get up.’ Messi was helped to his feet by the other man’s strength, and then pushed to the side, his back hitting into the wall. Much taller, the 6ft4 hunk pressed into him and towered over him, and his forcefulness excited Leo almost as much as the big strong hand reaching now to squeeze his cock through his trousers. Pique didn’t say any more, just fixing him with that brooding stare, but then beginning to hunch and bend over — Messi was in shock. He could hardly believe this was happening. But yes, his flies were tugged open and his cock dragged loose of his boxer briefs. He heard Pique spit uncertainly into his hand and then rub it on his hard-on, and then… oh, fuck. Messi leaned against the hard wall with his eyes shut and felt a warm mouth enclose his big South American meat. Jesus! Had Pique ever sucked dick before? He was hardly sure. He had always assumed not, the other man being so guarded and reserved. Someone who took pleasure rather than gave it. And here he was, stooping his huge frame low, pushing Messi back at the six-pack, and sucking on his thick hard-on, pulling his lips across it and tasting his pre-cum. Fuck. He couldn’t help but let out a string of curses and thankyous, breathless and shocked, his dick sucked excitingly by this macho defender, somehow more thrilling than Griezmann’s subservience. It didn’t last long, which was perhaps for the best, as he might have jizzed very soon if it carried on. Pique looked a little surprised at himself, standing there with damp lips and drool in his beard, laughing gently and pushing at his body. `That’s your goodbye gift,’ he growled, reaching down and stroking their two big cocks together despite the height difference, both of them groaning and twisting against the wall. They laughed and muttered out their pleasure, grasping at one another’s clothing. This was more intimate and powerful than the sketchy interactions that had happened before, Messi nervously tugging him off in the sauna or kneeling beside him in a toilet cubicle, both of them barely wanting to acknowledge how much they desired the other. Two alpha males sharing a kingdom, unsure what the other was capable of. Off came the tailored blazers and the starchy shirts, a scrabbling rush of clumsy strength. At the perfect height for it, Messi kissed across the stubble of the bigger man’s chest and bit at his nipples, feeling himself grabbed and held and pushed against mersin escort bayan one wall then the other. Trousers were dragged down strong legs and underpants joined them, socks discarded in a hopping rush. Messi grunted and gasped, and tried to stoop down to suck off his friend again, but was held away, Pique still just wanking their two cocks together in one hand, spitting down between them to lubricate both rods, and then growling and laughing into his face from above. `Goodbye my friend,’ he said roughly, `remember me like this, will you, haha?’ And then he was reaching around. Messi felt one of his hands clamp about a strong smooth buttock, and he started a little. He stood stiffly against the bigger footballer, groaning as their cocks rubbed and butted. `Come on,’ huffed Pique’s voice. `You know what I want.’ `Funny,’ Messi grunted back, tensing his backside and kissing again at one pec and shoulder of the big bare body in his arms. `Seriously,’ insisted Gerard. `I’ve wanted this since you got here, you sexy little fuck.’ `I don’t do that,’ Lionel told him in the dark. `You do it for the right men,’ came the Spaniard’s bitter growl. `Pique…’ `He’s been gone a long time,’ grumbled the voice in his ear, Pique’s hands on his arse and his back, scratching and pulling at his smooth toned body. He let out his own long growl of pleasure and frustration, reaching down to squeeze and feel Pique’s big Basque prick. `He left you,’ Pique snapped at him. `But let me… take what was his.’ He was a little shocked at how well Pique understood him. He had never explicitly communicated much of his relationship with Guardiola to the other player, but it was clear that the Barcelona hero fully understood what had gone on, and what he liked… Only one other man had been allowed to top Lionel Messi, and that had broken everything. His hard intense fuck with Cristiano Ronaldo had ruined his life and sent Papi away. Since then, nobody else had taken him from behind, and the only timed he’d been fucked in the last couple of years was when reunited with Guardiola, sandwiched between him and Foden in Portugal that night. `Let me fuck you,’ hissed Pique imperiously. `I can make you feel so good, Leo.’ `I don’t take it,’ he grunted defiantly back. `No, but you want to.’ Oh god, yes he did. He closed his eyes and hugged close to Pique’s body, enjoying his heat, strength, smell. `Let me say goodbye properly,’ Gerard told him more softly. He thought about the way the big defender had bent down and taken his dick in his mouth, to his great surprise. This was… different. They were moving their bodies, Pique pulling around him and towering from behind now, nuzzling at his hair and rubbing his shoulders, his dick slapping against his hip. Messi moaned and rubbed backwards into him, knowing how much he needed this. The bigger man’s hands roved across his strong chest and tight six-pack — one went down to stroke his big prick and the other came up to softly grip his throat. `I’m going to fuck you so good you’ll never forget it,’ promised Pique in his ear, and Messi nodded his head greedily. `Yes Papi,’ he whispered in a small voice. Too many years of being the big strong hero for lovesick sops like Griezmann. He missed being held like this by a man as charismatic and powerful as Pique. As charismatic and powerful as his Guardiola had seemed then. Pique held him like that, by the dick and the throat, and pushed his wet cock between his tight muscular cheeks. Messi relaxed as best he could, stretching his body and pulling back against the big strong frame of the defender. For a moment he was back in that Portuguese hotel room again in his mind, with Guardiola piling into him from behind and kissing his neck, whilst his dick squeezed into that Manc scally twink who had taken his place. But no, he shook that memory away and focused on the present rather than the past, looking down at the slow strong wanking of his cock by Pique’s hand, feeling his girthy tip press up against his ring from behind. It was difficult, both because of Pique’s size and his own recent experience, but he was soon filled up with cock, held tightly and humped. He let out a series of desperate moans, unable to properly form words, enjoying the painful sensation of being stretched and entered like this. His strong striker’s legs wobbled and twitched with the effort of taking it, but he was held in place by big Pique, who panted simply and repetitively and lived up to his promise, giving him the fucking of his life. Over and over, the big powerful man bent his knees and thrust up, half-crouched to overcome their height difference, slamming into him from behind and then tugging his body back against himself as he threatened to slide limply away. Over and over, noisy and animalistic. `Cum inside me,’ Messi begged him when he could find the words to do so. `Fill me up.’ `Fill you up with Barcelona?’ heaved Pique, picking up pace. `Fill you up my Barca cum, you dirty fuck?’ `YES, oh yes, please… fuck me good… mmmm…. Yes, Papi!’ `Beg for it. Beg Papi for that cum. Forget Guardiola. You’re mine.’ `Yes, yes, yes, cum in me, fill me up, mmmm…’ `You dirty bitch.’ `YES! Oh Pique, just… ohh…’ Gerard gritted his teeth as he shot his load and Lionel just felt the hot wetness in him, squeezed tight in those arms and briefly almost choked by the hand at his neck. And then he was reaching desperately for his own cock, pushing Pique’s fingers away from it and pumping it madly until he was so close to cumming, the big defender’s dick still balls-deep in his backside. But Pique did the same, brushing his fingers away to take control, wanking him off in the final moments, pushing his cock lazily in and out of his hole and controlling his dick until he was spewing jizz across the floor, across their discarded Barcelona suits, spunking out his goodbyes to the club that had made him. `YES,’ he howled, `oh god yes….’ The fucking from Gerard Pique haunted him beautifully over the following couple of days, such a powerful and cathartic highlight of his painful exit from FC Barcelona. His arsehole throbbed and ached with a mixture of inexperienced pain and wistful longing, even as he faced the French crowds and held up his PSG suit for the photographers at the unveiling event. He beamed at the adoring new crowds of Parisian fans who were receiving him as their surprise hero, but a little bit of him was still thinking about collapsing in that storeroom with Pique’s cum dribbling down his crack, grabbed and kissed on the back of the neck by the massive stud who laughed and told him how much he loved him, how much he’d miss him after all this time. Pique, with strange quiet tenderness, had helped him to dress and tidy up, then sent him on his way with a short manly hug, telling him to never forget what Barcelona meant to him, meant to them both. Now here he was, the lifetime Barcelona hero bizarrely transported to a new city, new club, new chapter. He smiled as earnestly for the PSG crowd as he had cried openly for the Barcelona conference room, ready to begin anew. Before long, Messi was escorted away indoors, leaving behind the frantic madness outside the hotel venue of the event, and guided back through lushly decorated interiors to the small drinks reception that the big French club were hosting here. A champagne flute was in his hand and the other was being repeatedly shaken by excited managers, coaches, investors, and many of the other current players. They were as excited as any fan to welcome the legend to their squad, and the head coach Pochettino looked like a kid at Christmas. Across the function room, he inevitably caught Neymar’s eye, the stylishly suited Brazilian leaning on a mantelpiece at a quiet distance from the main crowd. The gentle smirk on his handsome features was knowing and triumphant, and took Messi back to the deck of his yacht, the bulge in his trousers, the Barca memories of nocturnal fun between them. There was no question of resisting it now that they were back together on a new team, he thought with fresh interest. Against that side of the room, Neymar’s sultry happiness contrasted amusingly with the folded arms and severe frown of the team’s other huge name, young Kylian Mbappe, who seemed to be regarding Messi’s arrival with scepticism or even rivalry. Messi watched as, for a moment, Neymar reached across to squeeze the young Frenchman at the shoulder — only for Kylian to sidle cautiously away from him and shoot him a surly look. What had gone on between those two talents? Messi lost himself in the high spirits of the event, emptying one and then another glass of the high-quality champagne. He chatted to other new signings, Achraf Hakimi and Georginio Wijnaldum, and enjoyed the friendly enthusiasm of his new manager once speaking to Pochettino himself; he spoke only briefly to smirking Neymar, knowing that there would be plenty of time for catching up between the old friends, focusing more on getting to know the likes of Donnarumma and Verratti. He felt strangely jubilant now he was here, in this environment, toasted as such a coup and a game-changer for the French club. What he didn’t notice, mixing with this elite crowd and sipping the fizzy drink, was that Neymar wasn’t the only PSG player who’d smirked thoughtfully across the function suite at him just then, intrigued and curious about his arrival here. At the other side of the room, just behind a cluster of high-up executives, was another big-name free transfer who had left La Liga for PSG’s high salaries. Stood on his own, Sergio Ramos swilled the remains of his champagne glass with a gentle movement of his hand and brought the other up to stroke thoughtfully across his tufty beard. He stared across the room at his great rival of the Spanish leagues, still quite amazed to have him here in Paris, and to think that they would be teammates now rather than arch enemies. This, Ramos told himself, could be a very interesting season. ‘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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