premiership-lads-284

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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 284 Part 284: Agent Phil The 21-year-old England player woke up slowly. It was a sunny week and the clocks had yet to go back, so the cracks of sunshine entering their hotel room were fierce and invasive, casting golden stripes across the unused other bed and onto the sheets that covered him; the sheets that covered him, but also the sturdy arm with its fine dark hair, slung about his side, weighing him to the mattress. He could feel a stubbled chin on his neck and hot stale breath creeping past his own sharp jawline. Jack’s snores were gentle and loveable… puppyish, like most things about the 26-year-old Brummie stud. Squinting sleepily, Foden sought out the bedside alarm clock that told him it was not so early as he had assumed, and that their first session of the day would be kicking off in about half an hour – Southgate had a surprisingly brutal schedule for them this long weekend, considering the low stakes matches against Switzerland and the Ivory Coast. Phil let out a thin sigh, resisting the brief little thought that had taken him, the idea to push back and rub into the hot heavy body of the 5ft9 footballer behind him, to stir him awake in that most pleasant of ways; there wasn’t really time, and he needed to get his head away from such carnal matters to make sure today was an effective first full day on international duty. The 21-year-old Stockport lad was many things, but he was also a dedicated professional and a working-class patriot. Instead of indulging the sleepy semi in his boxer briefs, the young athlete climbed out of bed, provoking a grouchy moan from the man behind him, and he went over and opened their curtains, which looked away from the training ground, and over the surrounding Surrey countryside. `Morning,’ he said brightly, looking back at the bed. Grealish tossed this way, a shaggy curtain of highlighted brown hair falling across his squinting eyes and ruffled brows. He screwed up his face in dissatisfaction at an end to his slumber. `Mornin’,’ he grumbled back in the deep rich accent of the Midlands, then turned over and buried his face in the pillows again, tangling the duvet with him over the bare tanned muscle of his shoulders. Foden just laughed lightly, stood slim and bare in his underpants, and then he moved back to his own bed, still neatly made, and began searching for his toilet bag amongst his things. He glanced occasionally bag at the sleepy figure of his teammate and roomie, but left Jack to his gentle snores and went to shower first, allowing himself a moment more of languid imagination and recalling the night before – just a little bit of relishing it, he told himself, fingering his prick as he stripped and turned on the hot water, and then his thoughts would be as cold as steel and just as sharp. Work mode. But for now… Foden got into the shower and let the hot water crash over his pale skin, making it blotchy and pink, and his mind wandered… To a Mancunian nightclub, where it had kinda begun: so many sweaty bodies, a stereotypical meat-market in the run-up to Christmas 2021, so many December parties spilling across the sticky dance-floor and making even the elitist VIP section a rammed sweatbox of perfumedflesh, made-up faces, muscle-filled skinny fits. And few people were acquiring the attention in that crammed VIP balcony than the two Manchester City gentlemen at the bar, buying obscenely large bottles of Grey Goose vodka for anyone who said `hello’. At some point that night, Phil switched to soft drinks, aware he was already far too drunk; when he felt Jack grab him roughly about the shoulder and join him at the sturdy rail overlooking the main dancefloor, he was supping self-consciously from a J20 and expecting the hard-drinking Birmingham party boy to call him out on this behaviour and give him grief. But nope, Grealish was as hyped-up and affectionate as he had been all night, squeezing fingers against the sweat-damp skin on the back of Foden’s neck, and leaning in far too close to shout in his ear: `Look at all the pussy down there that would be dripping at one second with you or I!’ the former Villa captain roared mischievously at him, shaking him by the shoulder and pulling in close. He clinked his vodka drink against Phil’s orange bottle without any interest in its sensible contents, just sniggering at his own filthy thoughts. `Yeah,’ Foden agreed, contemplating the throbbing mass of revellers below and behind them, and enjoying the touch of Jack’s fingers, hand and arm against him. His long-sleeved designer top of black cotton felt heavy on his damp skin, as did the gaudy chain necklace about his thin neck. But Jack was in a bulky white hoodie beneath a grey denim jacket, and seemed to be sweating buckets beneath the brim of his black baseball cap. They shouldn’t be here, technically; there were big festive fixtures around the corner and they had training tomorrow. But City had blasted Leeds 7-fucking-0 and when nobody else had wanted to join Jack for a few bevvies after the official celebrating ended, Phil had been quick to offer his company and follow the older lad out into the Manchester drizzle. Grealish was trying to talk to him some more, but between the bassy music and Jack’s slurred Brummie voice, it was hard to tune in and really catch more the basic gist of anything he said. Nevertheless, Phil turned and grinned encouragingly at the other Premiership playboy, really just excited to be out and about, and to bask in the more brash and confident company of the Villa graduate. Despite being only 21, wild partying had hardly been a big feature of Foden’s own youth to date – even as an academy boy, he’d been far too fixated on his career goals, and too loyal to the regimen of his coaches and management. No wonder he was wasted already and swaying on his designer trainers, unable to keep up the ridiculous drinking stamina of his party pal. He giggled foolishly at himself, spilling a bit of the sugary soft drink as he went for a glug, and then just abandoning it on the ledge and stealing a sip of Jack’s drink instead. `Oi!’ the Brummie remarked with a flash of aggression that seemed real but then turned into deep laughter. Then, sniggering like a schoolboy, Jack pushed two fingers into the vodka mixer and then pushed them roughly into Phil’s mouth to give him a more urgent taste of the drink. Foden thrilled at this, but was very aware of their public spot, so it was just a precious moment of appetite as he sucked teasingly on those fingers and let his eyes bulge in wonder at his playmate… and then pushed him away with a big show of laddish disgust, retching and laughing and swigging from his own bottle, mouthing `Yuck’ at Jack but also shooting him a wink. `Here, have it,’ Grealish giggled, giving him a lingering look and grabbing his arm (giving his slender bicep a good squeeze for a significant few seconds), then nodding back in the direction of the VIP bar. mersin escort `I’ll just get us more.’ For a moment more he stared this way, as if weighing something up, and Foden just grinned eagerly back. Okay, he told himself, maybe I can handle a drink or two more… The December night spilled on in a progression of double vodkas and posed photographs with partygoers, staff, local Z-listers and Insta-famous wannabes. Repeatedly, attractive women of near his age got a bit too close to Phil, pushing their breasts at him or coiling against his lean physique; each time, he giggled and blushed and shook himself free, reminding them that he was a dad with responsibilities. He had weathered one shagging scandal in Iceland before with his disgraced friend, and he had things to keep steady on the home front. For every aspiring WAG that showed interest in Phil Foden, he noticed, there were about seven or eight trying to get a piece of Jack Grealish; women of all ages throwing themselves at City’s new big-bucks signing, still a novelty in Manchester. If Phil had a shot of tequila for every time he heard a giggling admirer demand that Jack got his calves out, he’d be… well, even more pissed than he was now, and he felt like he was on another planet as it was. And yet, the grinning star seemed to spurn all of the girls. He was not STRICTLY single, Phil knew – an on-off romance with a childhood sweetheart from Brum was in and out of conversation all season between Grealish and the other red-blooded men of the City squad. But still, Jack’s easy disinterest in his admirers belied his crude remarks up on the VIP balcony, and he seemed to have no interest in courting the attention for his looks, his muscles, his status – really, all he was interested in was plying Phil with too much drink and grabbing sweaty hands at him, encouraging him out of his black jumper until he was strutting the club in just a skinny white vest, pale skin on show, while Jack shed his jacket and hoodie and let his arms bulge a little at the sleeves of a black t-shirt. Phil watched him fend off a trio of interested beauties, tingling and intoxicated; he admired the wiry strength of the slightly taller player, the compactness of his upper body against the way his ripped jeans clung to those immense thighs and calves below, so improbably proportioned and powerful on the pitch. Fuck, he was a hot fella, as Phil had hardly failed to notice from a distance in the League, or when they were playing alongside each other in the summer’s European tournament. It was far from difficult from the sexually fluid 21-year-old to understand the national mania that had erupted for Jack the Lad. Grealish seemed to notice him staring, meeting his eyes and winking, raising one of those angled brows, a sidelong smirk… and then he was extricating himself from the female attention and bearing this way, throwing himself forward and grabbing Foden in a hug that brought their slim athletic bodies together and Jack’s sweaty arms wrapping about him in an affectionate cuddle. `CITY,’ the newbie roared into his ear, `SEVEN FUCKING NIL! LEEDS SCUMMMM…’ And then the next thing, they seemed to be leaving, hitting the cold hair of late December and being ushered by paranoid security staff into the private hire car that the club management had arranged for them; Jack was pointlessly belligerent as he yelled instructions at the perfectly accommodating driver, and also loud and aggressive when Phil dared to suggest that he needed to get back out into Cheshire to the home he shared with his extended family – `Nah, nah, you haven’t even seen my crib,’ Jack practically belched at him, digging an elbow into his arm and man-spreading with his mighty thighs on the back seat of the slick vehicle. Foden wound down his window a little to let in a threat of cold air against sweaty skin and the beery smells of their breath, and more than anything to keep himself awake. He felt some guilt at not making it home to his girlfriend or family, but really… he had no intention of making that trek, getting back to the new Grealish residence was a MUCH better scheme, wasn’t it…? He turned, a nervous grin forming on his lips, and Jack leered this way too, an expression of complacent satisfaction on his relaxed features. One hand reached over, discreetly enough to be invisible to the nosy eyes of the hired driver, and grabbed Phil’s leg just above the knee, through the skinny-fit black denim of his jeans; Jack’s lips curled into a fuller smirk, his sleepy eyes only half-open. Then his hand slid up the thigh a little, fingers kneading significantly close to the parameters of Phil’s crotch; JAck bit his lip as he did this, pulling Phil’s eyes towards him and letting his mouth drop open in an awed sigh. And then for a moment Grealish, this big star and his new pal, was grabbing meaningfully at the semi straining at the black denim, giving his crotch a grab, then pulling away in a relaxed posture as if it had never happened, just grinning and winking. `Oi!’ Grealish barked at their driver. `Can’t we get some tunes on in here?!’ Okay – it hadn’t REALLY begun that night, drenched in sweat and vodka and smirking at him across the back of the taxi, had it? No… A wintry afternoon about a week earlier. Mid-December and heavy northern rain lashing at the windows of a high-rise apartment not far from the Etihad. But Phil was perfectly warm, largely submerged in hot bubbly water, and with two strong hairy arms enclosing him from behind, olive on the pale gooseflesh of his own skin. The stormy weather hitting the high windows of the large chic bathroom just flavoured the rich-scented comfort of the shared bath with an extra layer of enjoyment. It was a rare occasion: Guardiola had managed to clear several hours on his schedule and escape to the club-owned property, the one that he pretended to use for visiting football agents but really kept entirely private and reserved for the only hobby that gave him real pleasure. An apartment that sometimes felt more like home to young Foden than any room of the big mansion he now owned. The conversation began in this bath tub, with Pep’s older hands gently sponging down Phil’s shoulders and arms and a stray soapy finger occasionally drawing slow circles about the small hard bullets of his nipples. `How do you think he is settling in?’ the Spanish 51-year-old had asked him in a thoughtful purr, though Phil could not quite remember how the conversation had turned to his new-ish teammate after all. Phil, already quite awestruck by the presence of his England ally, had spoken very positively about Jack, of course; careful not to say anything that might allude to his obvious physical attraction to the Villa import (he had eyes in his head, didn’t he?), he backed up what everybody said about Grealish’s special talents and the real fight he had compared to the more disciplined and clinical men in Guardiola’s usual roster. escort mersin `But is he happy?’ his Papi had murmured thoughtfully in his ear, and at that question `Filipe’ found he did not have a particularly convincing answer. Jack was a grinning puppy dog of a man, but… well, he probably DID miss Birmingham, and Villa, didn’t he? He’d sacrificed a lot to make this move, in a sense, though the pay-offs were gargantuan. Phil had the personal experience to appreciate his friend’s boyhood devotion to one team, though Phil was rather privileged that said boyhood team in his case happened to be quite so… champion. Conversation had left Grealish after that, not least because Foden had to shift about in the bathtub to get comfortable and his movement further aroused the underwater monster jabbing his lower back. He rolled over in the frothy water and kissed the older man through the steam, still resting against his 5ft11 ageing physique, feeling held and protected and utterly devoted. The pair left the bath in a clumsy splash and a rush of swirling steam fingers in the air, and then Papi was drying him, dragging soft towels about his hot body while his own remaining glistening wet, matted chest hair an even softer towel for Phil to rub his face on a little as they stood and dripped on the mat. In the bedroom, wet footsteps left on the carpet, he was thrown over the side of the big kingsize, his tummy and chest pushed down onto the soft covers, pert white arse sticking out behind him. Phil gripped his fingers into the sheets as he felt the tickle of Pep’s salt-and-pepper beard on the curves of his cheeks, and then his spittle in his crack: when that masterful tongue slid down to his damp hole, he whined loudly and whispered his bratty demands: `Oh god yes papi, oh yesss, morrrre…’ Beard hair prickled the insides of his cheeks and they were pinched and slapped by commanding older hands, but the licking of his still-tight hole was loving and luxurious. It went on forever, Pep seeming to relish the task as much as the first time he had done it for him, preparing him tenderly for the inevitable power-fuck that would climax their time together; and this cold December afternoon they had even more time to lavish on one another, and so Phil was bent over the side of the bed for an age, pinned there and making animal noises as he was rimmed and fingered and rimmed some more. When he was almost silent with breathless pleasure, Guardiola stopped, but didn’t immediately impale him on that massive Iberian rod. Instead, he dragged both of their drying bodies down onto the rug and kissed him instead, cuddling him whilst rubbing their hard pricks together – Phil’s so surprisingly large for his slender frame and lesser height, but still not matching up to the curving olive sword of Papi’s meat. `I hear things,’ Guardiola murmured. `About him.’ Phil was pink-cheeked and lost in desire, so it took him moments to identify the `him’; it was the distant and managerial thoughtfulness on Pep’s face that allowed him to return to their abandoned conversation, though it was hard to give much thought with Papi’s hand squeezing his hard-on. `Mutterings,’ Pep told him confidentially, `that he may have regrets… It must be hard for him, yes, to be a… how you say in England? A small fish? Big pond?’ He looked hesitant on the idiom, still managing to rub and fondle Phil’s balls at the same time anyway. `Yes,’ Foden sighed distractedly, feeling one of Pep’s fingers slide under his gooch and find his slick wet hole, which was quivering for a fucking. `Yeah, I guess…’ `And one hears other things,’ Pep muttered into his ear before kissing his neck. His tone was telling, and Foden was not a stranger to his meaning; he’d heard the passing comments from those two beautiful brutes of the City defence, as careful as he always was in their brash company. Walker and Stones hadn’t actually said anything so specific, really, but their lewd tone when they made their little remarks on Grealish… well, he’d half put it down to wishful thinking, but there were other rumours, whisperings on England camps, via his other close buddies Mase and Dec… Suddenly, he was being pushed down against the gentle scratch of the rug, Pep on top of him, their faces hovering close. `I think I have another mission for you, my boy,’ the City manager whispered affectionately, beginning to lift and part his footballer’s legs. Those brown eyes were dark and intense. `The club has too much riding on our friend Jack being a success, you see…?’ As always, Phil looked at him earnestly and nodded. `Anything, Papi.’ But just fuck me first, he thought greedily, lifting his legs higher and wider, grabbing desperately at the softening biceps of the olde rman’s upper arms. `Make him welcome,’ purred Guardiola meaningfully, stroking his cheek. `Nobody can do it quite like you, my Filipe… You understand?’ Foden told him that he did, nodding and biting his lip, and at last his Papi abandoned such business talk: he pushed his cock into his wet hole and held him tightly, and fucked him into the floor of the apartment bedroom until he wept with pleasure. Foden had played with Grealish’s cock the entire way up to the apartment, pulling it out of his jeans in the elevator in spite of all risks. They kissed, but not on the mouth; Jack snogged him so roughly on the neck that he would probably leave hickeys, wrestling at his slighter body and sniggering dirtily as his cock leaked pre-cum on both of their clothes. Inside the flat, Grealish was boyish and eager, bouncing about the flat with his big hard-on and heavy balls flopping from the flies of his jeans. He put on music and poured more alcohol, though Foden couldn’t possibly touch another drop. The only liquor he wanted was inside the sexy Brummie’s massive hairy bollocks. `Filipe’ stripped himself off, shedding jumper and vest and skinny jeans, leaving on his ankle socks as he dropped his tight briefs and got down on his knees in front of the gaming armchair that the young king now occupied. He slobbered eagerly over Jack’s sweaty cock, dragging the tattered designer jeans down and away, whilst Jack himself wrestled off the jacket, hoodie, t-shirt… baring the ripped muscles of his torso and folding his arms behind his neck. Filthy and hungry, Phil kissed his way up that six-pack and chest and sniffed and licked the musty pits, making Jack giggle and slap at him and push his face back down to resume sucking on his big uncut dick. There was lots of drunken giggling from them both, no real chat other than the odd jokey insult or bit of crude instruction from the newer attacking midfielder on the City squad. And then he was dragging Phil into a bedroom by the hand, and finding lube and condoms in a drawer. Jack sucked him off briefly and Phil played with his hair, but it wasn’t long before he was being flipped over and pinned beneath the more muscular 26-year-old, who kissed mersin escort bayan the back of his neck and humped him playfully before stopping to roll on a johnny and splodge lubricant onto exploring fingers. The fuck happened through a vodka haze, and Phil was aware of being a little numbed by hours of booze, but not numb enough to ignore the powerful thrusting and ragged grunting as he was topped by one of the most desired men in the country. The guest bed that Jack had dragged him to rattled beneath them, and Grealish pushed and pulled him into increasingly athletics positions, though none of them as intimate or tender as Foden was actually used to from his Papi; it was an altogether different experience, being humped and sweated over by the almost rabid drunken bugger from Birmingham. Foden knew his mission, but it didn’t take a lot of acting skill: `Fuck me,’ he begged, `fuck me you massive stud – fuck me with that big Brummie cock…! Oh god you’re amazing…’ And so on. Actually, Phil didn’t shoot his load that night, too numbed and drunk, but he did swallow all of Jack’s; the condom dragged off and tossed aside and the big sweaty tool pushed between his parched lips. He gagged on it and Jack lasted less than a minute in his mouth, jizzing onto his tongue and squeezing his eyes shut while he rocked back and forth on his knees, emptying his low-hangers and seeming to lose his powerful momentum, just all wheezing sighs and almost sad murmurs of a name that didn’t sound much like `Phil’. And then he left Phil to collapse and doze off on the guest bed, disappearing away through his big new Manchester flat, his hairy peachy cheeks jiggling as he vanished through the door, almost the last thing Foden saw before he fell into sugary dreams. That had been December, and this was March. Foden wrapped a fresh towel tightly about his slim waist, rubbing condensation off a mirror to check himself out and fiddle pointlessly with the short blunt cut of his dark hair, idly contemplating the icy blonde that he’d experimented with last summer. The door was yanked open and a sleepy Grealish was stomping into the bathroom with him, scratching his balls in his loose white trunks, the other rubbing knuckles at his eyes and dragging back his contrived hairstyle. `Good shower?’ the 26-year-old demanded in a vague, half-asleep way. `Hot,’ Phil told him blandly, still pink and blotchy from it. The bathroom coiled with steam, just as that wintry bathroom had as he lay against Guardiola’s body. That afternoon seemed such an awfully long time ago in many ways. He had truly followed the instructions of his Papi that day and in the short follow-up conversations that had emphasised the agenda: please Jack Grealish and make him as comfortable as possible at Manchester City, at all costs. His ego must be stroked, his position reassured; his every pleasure must be protected to keep him committed for the rest of his debut season there. It was a mission that Foden had thrown himself fully into, of course, just as before he had been handed over as reward to Stones, and as a desperate bid to sate Aguero. `What?’ Jack demanded, seeing his distant face and evaluative eyes. `Nowt,’ the young Stockport scally responded evasively. `What’s that look for?’ The question felt harsh, but Jack followed it with a gruff accented laugh. `Out the way, matey, or I’ll never get showered in time.’ He reached out and patted Phil’s warm flank with one of his broad hands. Phil had followed the mission entirely: he’d already had a good rapport with his England teammate, and they trained together a lot, two attacking midfielders with a lot of skills to offer. But on Pep’s orders, he had intensified this, and hung out with him even more. The entire Leeds victory night out had been at Guardiola’s insistence and bankroll, and Phil had just had to accept the official punishments for it with a quiet dignity, even the scoldings from girlfriend, mother, and agent. It was all worth it, he told himself, if it helped out Papi – if it helped to keep Guardiola secure and respected, the best manager in the English league, and the protected favourite of the City executives. Foden would do anything for Guardiola, anything. Befriending and seducing this red-hot footy stud was no challenge for him in any way, it had come naturally to him and been an easy task over the past three months. `Come on,’ Grealish urged him, reaching in and knocking on the controls to get the water blasting, testing it against his hand and then giving Foden odd curious glances – the towel-clad youngster lingered in the bathroom, getting in the way, quiet and watchful, but Grealish just laughed at him and yawned, and yanked down his undies, cock and balls flopping massively between sculpted hairy thighs. Foden couldn’t resist it. He reached out to stroke them, smirking and pulling a bit closer to the musty-smelling stud who had fucked him senseless last night and spooned him through to morning. Jack grinned knowingly and stood there naked between he and the shower, letting him fondle at his cock and balls and sidle closer… then grabbing his shoulders and holding him at a short distance. `Felt so good in me last night,’ Foden whispered devotedly. `Glad it did,’ Jack sniggered at him, `just had to keep you from screamin’ about it, eh…!’ Phil giggled nervously. `Totally. Mmm… how long have we got…?’ He stared with wide adoring eyes at the charismatic older midfielder, this man who he’d shot covetous looks at last summer in the Euros, a striking and boisterous leader in the England ranks, far more-so than lost in the international elite of City’s roster. He’d followed Guardiola’s instructions almost entirely to the letter, falling drunkenly into bed with the City newcomer, and offering up his mouth and arse… then, and repeatedly since, on almost any available occasion. Filipe had been a good boy and done just as his Papi had commanded. Almost entirely as commanded. Staring Jack in the face and holding his chubby prick, Phil cursed himself: there had been nothing in those instructions about falling in love. One of Grealish’s hands landed firmly on his shoulder and pushed him back slightly. `Nice try kid,’ Jack chuckled dismissively, `but big boy’s gotta shower now, okay? Another time, Philly, yeah?’ He backed off, privates swinging, and grabbed at the loose shower curtain. `I love it when you fuck me,’ Phil murmured, too quickly and too intensely, his youthful feelings tumbling out and his innocent confusion showing on his anxious face. Jack smiled back at him, but it was an uncertain and lopsided smile from beneath the shaggy fringe of his tousled bed-hair. `Er yeah,’ the older England star told him quietly, `it’s fun having a friend to play with on a trip away, isn’t it?’ He flashed a toothy, FRIENDLY smile, then dragged the curtain aside and disappeared into the hot steam of the shower with another flash and jiggle of that perfect big behind, and then Phil was left alone in the bathroom, cock semi-hard against his tightly wrapped towel. He glanced to the side and caught side of his treacherous blush in the condensing mirror – Papi’s secret agent, falling for the target. Fuck.

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