Part 182: Escape from Madrid
The gathering on the roadside was impressive, albeit not very socially distanced. The 31-year-old multi-millionaire sat in the passenger seat with a fixed toothy grin, staring at the `welcome home' banners hoisted by the horde of Spurs fans lining the drive into the club's training grounds where his medicals and other meetings would take place this afternoon. And it did feel like coming home, even if English London was hardly the Cardiff suburb of his childhood and family; it was seven years since he'd quit the North London club for the big money and excitement of La Liga, but he had spent near enough seven years at Spurs himself, arriving as a fresh-faced 18-year-old from the valleys, leaving as a powerful and revered sportsman.
The drive and arrival proceeded with the same fanfare: the Spurs staff who had collected him from the private jet, along with his moving teammate Sergio Reguilon, treated him especially as visiting royalty who needed to be courted and fawned over at every opportunity. Stepping out of the plush black vehicle beyond the gates of the suburban training complex, Gareth found himself stepping out and waving back at the fans on the street in the same manner, unable to suppress a little laugh at his own stature and hype right now.
Years of dwindling position in Madrid had made these scenes feel surreal and unwarranted, but the excitement of the diehard Tottenham families out on the roadside was infectious, and he hadn't stopped grinning all the way here. His Madrid and now Spurs teammate Reguilon looked bewildered and starstruck -- perhaps he too couldn't quite adjust to seeing Gareth adored and celebrated in this way after his pariah years on the very fringe of Zidane's plans.
Bale followed the polite, patient instructions of their keepers, leaving the crowd at the gates behind and crossing the quiet car park, hands tucked into the baggy pockets of his long plain grey joggers, black tshirt tight around his long muscular upper body, tied-up dark hair bobbing gently with his eager stride. Homecoming, he thought again, though not quite: this was all new, uber-expensive investments since his departure, a whole new training ground and a whole new stadium. Who, if anyone, actually remained on the squad or club staff from his former spell as a Hotspur...?
They made their way inside, and he looked back out into the September sun, glad even at the cooler fresher English air, even the mundane grey of concrete seeming pleasingly British and homely now after such a long-awaited return. He thought deliriously of safe calm golfing breaks in the Welsh and Scottish countryside, regular contact with his own family in Cardiff, less trouble from his wife's notorious dodgy relatives. He thought about Jose fucking Mourinho, and the chance of transforming Tottenham's bad luck and claiming an actual victory over the dominant forces of the current Premier League.
But also, being led through a suite of offices to meet the `Special One' himself and began today's formalities, he thought about the sun-drenched madness of outer Madrid, the tanned bodies and dubious appetites that had emerged in his final months of Spanish life; he thought about this week, and his return from the heady Wales trip, and the madness that he'd stepped back into... the debauchery that had pushed him to escape Madrid at last. He shuddered prudishly, promised himself that he wouldn't dare step over that line again, and did his best to put the thoughts out of his mind...
After the Wales trip, he'd flown back to Madrid full of bittersweet hyperactive triumph. Two 1-0 wins for the international underdogs in the Nations League, captained successfully by Bale in the footballing environment where he felt most comfortable, most beloved, most respected -- the way Giggs had consulted in him over every aspect of strategy had really stoked his sore ego after another season with little role in Real Madrid's victories. But the whole experience had been haunted and shadowed by that first night in a Finnish hotel, his `relaxing' pool visit late in the night... even on a dozy flight back to Spain the day after the home win over Bulgaria, every time he'd shut his eyes he'd pictured himself in the small changing hut with Daniel James, that wide-eyed twunk of Manchester United, and the guilt and shame had been overwhelming.
That night he'd fucked his wife repeatedly, ignoring her giggling pleas to be quieter and not wake anyone up, pounding her in multiple positions and ensuring she came repeatedly -- wet gasping orgasms that spilled over his face and chest as he licked her out or stained the bedding as he took her from behind -- but even that hadn't quite deleted the knowledge that he'd tupped a bloke in that hotel pool room, giving in to Dan's sluttish request and shooting his load inside him. Fucking hell!
A difficult week and a half followed. All of his agents' best efforts to secure him a safe permanent transfer out of shitty Madrid and Zidane's bad books had fallen flat and it looked increasingly likely that he would be stuck here for yet another season of substitution, media scrutiny, fan antipathy. Fucking cunts. He could do nothing to please or placate them. There were talks of loan offers but it felt wrong for a man of his experience and status to accept such tenuous deals, he flat refused to engage with them -- even from Tottenham Hotspurs. Besides, he thought at the start of the week, wouldn't that be a step backwards anyway...?
And then there were the messages from Dan himself. There'd always been a distant brotherly friendship between the two, Gareth informally mentoring the English-born player when he first turned up as a sparky youngster in Wales training. And James' messages this week weren't exactly explicit, not the slutty or demanding ones he dreaded when he saw his name flash up on the phone screen, but their tone still troubled him. How's things been since the weekend?' Was great seeing you for international duty mate, big love' `Hope you get a new team sorted asap, chief xx' After sticking his mighty Welsh cock up the United player, how could he not read his friendly text messages in a flirtatious or wistful tone...?!
By the middle of the second week back, days from La Liga resuming, his mood was low and his frustrations high. His wife, initially amused and excited by his refreshed libido, had quickly tired of his nocturnal hyperactivity, and after three nights of heavy sweaty lovemaking, had insisted he spend the past few nights in a spare bedroom and `settle for a wank you silly bugger!'
So at the Wednesday training session, Bale was taking his annoyance out on the football, sacrificing grace and accuracy for brutish force that earned him scolding muttering from the coaches and puzzled looks from younger teammates. He was alienating himself from the ranks of the Madrid squad, but what was new? He'd been more and more isolated here for the last few seasons, he knew that, and he sulkily brought his day's training to close with a petulant blast of the football right into Zinedine Zidane's chest when the French football manager tried to lecture him about his attitude and work ethic. Red-cheeked, the 6ft1 Welshman stormed off the parched grass of the training field, ignoring the low Spanish murmurs of shock, and exited the session in a foul mood.
He moved into the cooler air of the long changing rooms, wrenching the glossy dark grey Adidas off his torso and tossing it inaccurately at a hook on the wall, then rubbing both large palms over his clammy face, strands of hair loosening from his tight man-bun. Professional regret conflicted with a deep satisfaction at acting out and spitting his proverbial dummy at this stupid arrogant club that held him as its expensive unused captive, and he tried a single punch against the wall; quickly regretted it, his knuckles burning and blistering and his frustration at his professional predicament and personal crisis not even a little bit lessened.
A little sucking tut noise of disapproval, and he jolted shortly aside to see who had followed him.
Aha,' he said in a gruff growl, my captain...' He stared unhappily at the Real leader swaggering on in after him in the same tightly fitted dark grey training gear, though of course Sergio Ramos seemed compelled to fold in the sleeves of his shirt and the legs of his shorts until he was wearing the equivalent of a skimpy vest and nappy, exposing as much as possible of his golden limbs, ripped with muscle and adorned with gypsy-like tattoos.
Gareth could remember a point where they had got on well as equals, his first couple of seasons after selling out on Premiership life. Sergio had been a little less arrogant then, though only marginally, and they had felt like important allies in a dynamic team. But with every year that Bale's place in the club had slipped further off the mark, Ramos had risen: he was pretty much the most feared defender in the world and scored an impossible number of goals for a man at the back of the pitch. In the same way that the fans, media and management had rejected the Welsh winger, they clamoured with love for their aggressive Spanish matador.
But standing at opposite sides of the training room now, Bale didn't feel stung by the resentment for his captain and superior footballer, but annoyed at the sexual perversion of the Spaniard and how they'd apparently infected his own life this year. It made him scowl and frown as Ramos took slow smiling steps across the changing rooms and joined him, fiddling with a gold crucifix about his neck and stroking his excessive gingery-brown beard.
Gareth,' sighed the 34-year-old. What was that?' He exclaimed something else in Spanish, some exasperated blasphemy. He smiled in a patronising manner and stood there, fondling his Christian cross and making knowing eyes at him across the cool gloom.
I'm not in the mood,' Gareth told him sharply. I'm not having this talk now.'
Another tutting noise. I was sent to talk sense into you, again,' the defender said, taking his time over the words and seeming to resist slipping back into angry Spanish. The season is around the corner, my friend. We do not need this... this...' He waved a hand away from his beard. `This child behaviour.'
Gareth reached up, fiddling with his tangled hair, untying and retying, taking his eyes away from his softly smiling superior, desperate to avoid this talk now. He was in no mood to defend or explain himself or confide any worry in Sergio, he just wanted the debauched weirdo to fuck off and leave him alone. He thought about being cornered by him in the president's party in summer, the shock he'd felt to see El Burro get down on his knees like that... it made him nauseous to remember!
Come,' Serigo hissed quietly, talk to me.'
To you?' the Welshman demanded defensively, turning his back on him, bringing one big strong leg up onto the bench to undo his laces. I'd rather not, thanks. Go back to your precious team, Serge. They need you more than they want me.'
A scoffing little laugh and the other player was swinging into a sitting position on the bench very close to him so that he occupied his personal space, resting back against the wall and laying tattooed hands down on his bare veiny thighs. You are sulking,' Ramos told him smoothly, locking eyes. You are here for one more season, no? You need to enjoy, need to take part. Come, Gareth, you cannot-`
He straightened up, pulling away from the oppressive manly scent of his teammate, kicking off the loosened football boot and then reaching down to yank and tug the soiled white sock down and off his large foot. He bunched it up in his hand and tossed it irritably but playfully at his sort-of friend, annoyed but keen to evade him. `Leave it, we'll talk another time,' he insisted, as Sergio caught the garment and laughed. Then, making Gareth pause and shudder, he brought the bunched up sock to his lips and nose and inhaled deeply. The two men stared at each other, Bale standing on one bare foot and Ramos reclining on the bench, chuckling.
`You need to be one of us,' Sergio told him.
Huh,' Gareth muttered back. Are you still talking about the team, or your dirty fuckin' tricks...?'
`Oh, my English friend...'
`Welsh, please. Not fuckin' English. Fuck's sake.'
`Same thing... both, how you say, prudish men...'
`I'm prudish because I love my wife, eh?'
`You prudish because you won't admit you enjoy, hehe...'
Leave it, captain,' Bale grunted more loudly and firmly, backing away as he twisted off his other boot and sock and shoved them beneath the bench, down to his glossy grey shorts now. I need to shower and leave before Zinedine finds me for another fuckin' lecture. Let's not do this. You do your thing and I ain't telling anyone what I know, okay? That's all... best I can say...'
Come to my party tonight,' the captain said suddenly, interrupting him and leaning forward, elbows to his knees, stroking his beard again and curling his lips in a knowing little leer. Poker night -- it been a while, my friend... tonight will be good one, eh... very careful guestlist...'
Bale stared at him for a moment then sneered dismissively. I think I will skip that,' he said more quietly, uncomfortably, able to read the unsaid filth on the bearded warrior's face and in his tensed bronze limbs as he relaxed there and patted at his legs and chest and fondled his crucifix. I think your careful guestlist does not need ME on it,' he said tartly. Now go back and tell the boss I was apologetic or something, will ya...?' He huffed loudly. I appreciate your trying, skipper, but...'
You are still a Madrid player,' Sergio told him, his voice smoother and less seedy now. I am still your captain. I want see you happy, Gareth, friend, I want see you... at your best.' But he got up, rising up off the bench to his muscular 6ft as if he could tower over and dominate Gareth, who just stood passively in front of him and tried to ignore the puckish glint in his deep dark eyes. We will make you great again,' purred the 34-year-old Spanish champion, we will make you a legend...' He grinned, his pink lips pouting between his bushy facial hair. `Come to my party, friend. Come play with the real men, eh?'
Bale was repulsed by his oozing confidence and debauchery, his clear sense of superiority and certainty. He just grunted his distaste, not risking dropping his shorts and exposing his sweat-stained white briefs in front of his captain (who knew what funny ideas the cunt would get!), just marching off to grab a towel and stomp away to the showers. He heard Sergio snigger quietly to himself and leave, the studs of his boots clicking slowly but firmly as he exited the changing rooms and rejoined the last hour of training, leaving the team pariah to sulk in the showers and try yet again to wash away the shame of his man-on-man infidelity.
But then came the night, and the quiet intimate moments once the kids were in bed and the dishes were soaking in the sink, the kitchen still smelling faintly of the homely casserole they'd enjoyed, a comforting buzz from a couple of large wine glasses -- but Gareth's wife wriggling testily out of his hands in the doorway and giving him an impatient pout as he reached for a closer cuddle, warning him to calm down and hold that thought for another night when she was less tired.
The tall athletic man followed her sulkily through into the massive lounge, playing his fingers against her palm and stooping to kiss her neck, softly hoping for the man-and-wife action that he needed to calm and soothe him tonight.
I'll find us a film,' he mumbled, picking up the wine bottle from the table, sloshing out top-ups for them both and grinning across at her as she passed by the comfy seating and went to pick up her phone from a distant side-table. What are you in the mood for, babe? Something nice and romantic?' His intentions were surely transparent: a soppy romantic drama on the box would get her in the mood and soon he'd be sliding his fingers under her skirt and `another night' would be tonight. His big cock was almost hard in his relaxed-fit chinos as he lingered by the sofa, checking their glasses were equally full now.
His longtime Welsh sweetheart turned and gave him a distracted look. `Actually hun... I think I'm going to pop out, if that's okay...?'
He could hardly say no, since she'd been left alone by his international duty with Giggs and the boys, hadn't actually had any time for herself in weeks; the little `soiree' that Benzema's wife was throwing in a nearby villa of similarly opulent proportions tickled Bale with an awareness that this clearly coincided with another gathering in the Ramos property. It was obvious that a bunch of WAGs were assembling for some fizz and gossip in one big home while the so-called poker night took place at Sergio's for their husbands. His mind turned to that suggestive and forceful invite as he hugged her goodbye a matter of minutes later, hiding his quiet resentment and kissing her slowly on the neck to try and hint at what he needed later tonight.
Off she went, and he was alone. He picked up one of the wine glasses on the table and emptied it into the other, then threw his tall body down onto the sofa. Taking large sips from the overloaded glass and stroking a large idle hand over his lower tummy where the bottom buttons of his pale grey shirt had come undone and spread over the furry lawn of his navel.
His mind went back and forth over the prospect of it: it was such a short walk from the end of their main garden over to the front of the Ramos villa, they were very close neighbours here on this sprawl of luxury developments. He could poke his nose in, couldn't he? He could just see. If he was going to be stuck here, then he needed to make some effort. The kids would be fine upstairs, wouldn't they? The security system they had was insanely fool-proof and he'd be literally minutes away in the next house, and only for a short visit to see what was going on. Poke his head in, say hi. Sergio had been trying today, had been offering an olive branch, in his arrogant pushy way, and...
But then his thoughts would flipflop and he'd reason that steeling himself from the pompous braggarts here like Ramos was the only way to stay sane for this last season in the sun; he was so resolved that he would just have to leave next year, even if it was for the shittest deal possible. One more year, he thought, maybe it wouldn't be so bad, maybe he'd really genuinely get the minutes of play, or maybe...
In the end, his trigger came from a dull throb of activity on his iPhone on the other end of the sofa, and he used a foot to scoop it closer to him and picked it up whilst taking a long gulp of red wine. He flinched at the young lad's name on the screen, honorary Welshman Dan James: hey -- how's training going? Knackered here!!!' A sweaty selfie attached, the boyish features of the little midfielder collapsed on a sofa in an almost identical pose to Gareth's own lazy posture now. He looked at the string of emojis in the next message and then saw Dan is typing...' He locked the screen, shoved the phone inside his chinos pocket, and leapt up off the couch.
In minutes, he was leaving, checking the alarms and security set-up and glancing guiltily back on the house as he hurried down the garden, flip-flops smacking beneath his feet. But then he was ignoring the gate in the fence and just pulling himself easily over it, crossing a sweep of sharp green grass and sculpted tropical plants, onto the flat stone path that approached their neighbouring house. It was surprisingly quiet, he realised, but he continued on and hit the buzzer on the intercom. He hit it a second and third time when there was no clear response from within, or much noise at all; curiously, he moved on around the front of the big property, peering through in some windows and seeing the obvious evidence of the poker night he'd been invited to: half-empty drinks on the glass table, messy piles of coloured chips, the low mid-tempo of Latino R&B sounding through the glass. But, weirdly, nobody there. Empty rooms visible from here.
Curious, he moved on, shuffling his sandals off the path and around the perimeter of the big house, to the high fence that then enclosed its own retreating garden, following it with his hand, catching the faint hint of voices and moving onwards on his wander under the dark.
The voices became a little clearer, more definite, more recognisable, and music again...
Bale stood there against the edge of Sergio's garden, unsurprised that his ringing at the front had been ignored if the party had moved out to the pool -- he could hear a little splashing -- and there was music on, the same as he could hear at the front, so... He huffed out a long breath in the warm night air and sized up the border fence. Then he scaled it on one bounding movement, springing up and gripping his fingers over the rough top, pressing the balls of his bare feet to wood, then thrusting upwards until he was hoisting his weight onto both arms and swinging one long leg over, and then hopping neatly down on the other side, landing in the confines of the Ramos back garden and its sizeable central pool, and- swaying a little on his feet, blinking in the low reflected glow of some nightlights rippling on the surface of the pool, the bassy throb of the music washing over him as he stared at the scene in front of him, the poolside orgy he'd interrupted...
Karim Benzema looked up, holding in another soft guilty moan, his large and almost bare body sprawled out on one of the colourful sun loungers by the pool, his large French dick semi-hard in the front of his slim-fit shorts, tighter where the other lad's hand reached inside them to feel up his meat, pressing into its warm flesh and retracting a little at the sudden interruption.
The 32-year-old striker pressed his back and elbows more into the low recline of the furniture, staring over the pool at the tall figure of the intruder, both glad and worried as he recognised the tall pale Welshman staring all about him and opening his mouth in a silent `O' of amazement at what he'd arrived at.
For a panicked moment, Karim wanted to tear off the lounger and push his teammate away from him, but the tall British man said nothing and just stood there taking in the scene, and Benzema remembered his own confidence and authority here, one of the most powerful and long-established players outside of their shared captain; he'd been coaxed into this fun by Ramos himself, why should he feel bad about something new?!
Marco Asensio held his hand where it was, stuffed gracelessly into the waistband of his older teammate's shorts, leaning over to the left a little from his own sun lounger, raising his thick dark brows as he recognised Gareth Bale across the pool from them, staring first their way and then over to the left and the right, taking in the scene.
Nervously, he retreated his stiff fingers a fraction, then pushed his hand back in more fully, taking grateful hold of the sizeable content of the shorts, enjoying the soft warmth of Karim's big French tool on his palm now, twisting his neck to look anxiously at the bulky striker and check this was okay. Benzema nodded at him and reached to stroke his shoulder a little through his thin white shirt, massaging at his neck muscles and encouraging him to stroke and fondle more at his heavy package, the pair of them sprawled on the long flat chairs facing the pool.
The 24-year-old winger pulled greedily on it, feeling it stiffen, and looked back over the rippling lights of the water as one masculine figure dragged out of the water and onto the rim beside their visitor, his tshirt and linen trousers translucent and sticking to his short stocky body as he did so. Marco watched intently, wondering if Gareth would back off or finally say something, flee the scene and escape their dodgy little afterparty, but no...
Isco pulled himself upright, still letting out a laugh of surprise, grinning at the newcomer on the stone tiles in front of him; water coursing down his torso and leg beneath the tight wet folds of his soaked clothing, ruined by his playful plunge into the pool with the other player who was emerging beside him in a clumsier grapple.
The 28-year-old Spaniard took a couple of gulping breaths then wrenched at the damp buttons of his thin wet shirt until it fell open over his waxed smooth chest and tummy, then shrugged it off until it fell to the tiles at their feet with a wet slap. Hola,' he murmured giddily at the new arrival who had dropped over the fence, then stepped closer to him and reached for one of his arms, brushing a wet hand over the curve of his bicep through his own loose grey shirt. Hola...'
And with his other hand, he reached down and grabbed himself a bit through the thin wet layers of his linen trousers and the body-hugging black trunks below, groping his own drooping chunky bulge with feverish excitement that had been mounting through the tequila shots and coke lines of the poker game, and really set aflame as they tumbled out here into the dark and wet. He laughed again, squeezing himself and patting Gareth on the arm, then turning to grin as the other lad emerged from the pool and slapped a heavy hand against his arse, then dragged at the wet fabric to pull him on past Bale and towards the garden furniture about the corner of the pool.
Ferland Mendy pushed and pulled at the short Spanish midfielder, guiding him onto the long cushioned wicker of the sofa, pulling his drenched blue tshirt up and off the rigid black muscle of his tummy and chest, rock hard already in his long clingy boxer briefs, outlined clearly in the burnt orange cotton as he pushed Isco down onto the furniture and draped himself at his side. Horny and thinking about the fun Sergio had promised him from tonight, consumed with the dirty new thrill of what his captain had whispered in his ear over the past few days, promising real hellish debauchery at the planned party, and here it was...
The 25-year-old Frenchman stretched back, throwing his elbows onto the back of the couch and his wet back against the fold of pillows, opening his dark strong legs and feeling Isco's hand dip into the gap to hold and stroke at the outline of his throbbing erection. The weird and taboo touch of the older footballer sent shivers through his body as the beads of water on his brown skin warmed and dried in the heat of the night, and he sighed excitedly, pushing up with his hips to edge his hard-on into Isco's surprisingly tender grip.
The Welshman drifted past them like a ghoul, looking pale and stunned by it all, but clearly as tipsy and excited as any of them as he took slow long strides down the side of the pool towards the others, his lips pursed and his eyes wide. Past him, Mendy could see Benzema climbing curiously up from his lounger, cock evidently hard in his shorts, and Asensio draping after him with gangly limbs and blushing bronze cheeks; all eyes on the lofty muscular figure of Bale stomping past, drawn inexorably to the far end of the pool and their host...
Federico Valverde was the last of the small gathering to notice the new addition, his eyes flickering open where he lay, his back down against the rough stone tiling of the pool's edge, his 6ft body trembling with pleasure where he lay. His open black shirt clung damply to his back and his arms where he lay, one arm draping over the edge to trail his fingers in against the lukewarm pool water, the other reaching out and stroking up and down the chief's calf muscles as he sprawled there, staring with drunken-tired eyes down his exposed chest and six-pack to the bobbing head over his crotch, the bright pink manly lips curled around his curved prick... the short dark hair of the attractive head bouncing back and forth to pleasure him in this shocking poolside blowjob, his first from a man and perhaps the best he'd ever had.
The young Uruguayan stared past him though, past the older athlete hunched between his spread legs, to the towering figure of Bale as he approached, standing over them with a creased frown on his rugged features, eyes wide and bright, hair tied neatly up atop his large head. He opened his lips to speak but nothing came down, just staring down impassively and his chest rising and falling, straining at a top button of his shirt.
Valverde moaned, couldn't hold it in, pulled his fingers from the pool and stretched his head down to stroke the back of the Belgian's head instead, pushing it further into his crotch, impaling his own fat South American hard-on into that surprising and soft orifice, fucking against his strong wet tongue and moaning more loudly, stunned by too much booze and excitement and the realisation that this man-on-man filth was what his captain had been murmuring to him about for the last few training sessions...
Eden Hazard dragged his lips from the satisfying pale brown shaft of the Uruguayan dick, sucking in his breath and letting out his own sniggering moan where he crouched, knees scraping a little against stone, bottom raised provocatively into the air in just the tight dress shorts that were unbuttoned at the front from reaching in to play with his own nob.
He wrapped his fingers about the wet length of Federico's cock instead, wanking gently on the 22-year-old fellow midfielder who he had so lovingly noshed at his captain's command, initiating the young player into their secret fun here as a VIP guest of the little poker night. Beside the prone South American, he could see Ramos stood, smiling patronisingly down at Federico and then at him, and then at the figure now standing just to his right, trembling from head to toe.
Hazard licked his wet lips and took in the handsome profile of the Welsh player who he had once tasted himself, enjoying both he and the captain in that first revealing night of filth when porn on Sergio's tv had led from one thing to another, and his homosexual moratorium had been shattered; his chaste loyalty since ending things with his Chelsea bloke. As always when he thought of John Terry, his ring twitched and ached wistfully between his sizeable buttocks, and he swooped back down in front of him to kiss the tip of Valverde's bone again, slavering his tongue over the head and pushing his hands roughly up his tanned six-pack, possessive and greedy.
Sergio Ramos grinned widely and continued to unbutton the front of his Versace shirt, letting the swirling stripes of the fabric fall open on the deeply ridged muscles of his chest and abdomen. `I knew you would join us,' he told Bale in a low, teasing voice, shrugging the floaty fabric of the shirt away from his body and flexing his bared arms, then pulling his calf away from the nervous strokes and grabs of Valverde's hand, and stepping up to face and challenge his latest guest.
Bale stared back at him in anxious silence, but his presence was enough to confirm Ramos' most filthy hopes for this brutish outsider. He'd come after all, followed the invite; sneaked over a fence when he needed to, such was his need! Hah, just as Sergio had always suspected... still waters ran deep. The big prudish Brit needed more fun and satisfaction, of course he did, Sergio had always known it... he couldn't wipe an ounce of smugness from his expression or stance as he squared up to him, cracking his own knuckles then reaching down to undo the button flies of his denim shorts, saying nothing more for now, just meeting Bale's steely gaze and pouring his frustrating bearded grin into his face.
Pushing open the flies, the 34-year-old defender reached inside his silky briefs and removed his fat sweaty semi, holding and tugging on it until it began to swell and stiffen, playing with it openly in front of this big quiet man who had been there when he first experimented. He grinned to think of the white-faced terror with which dumb Gareth had fled this very house that night, freaked out after the pair of them let Eden stoop and play with them. To Sergio's right, Eden himself was sitting up again, wiping the back of a hand over his mouth, and turning to grin at Gareth. `Go on,' Sergio purred, and Eden leaned in, reaching for his own cock with one hand and then grabbing at the front flies of Bale's loose chinos with the other, fondling them both once again, just like in that heated drunken summer night before... mmm, delicious...
Gareth Bale felt hot and overwhelmed, but deeply excited. He stood there for several minutes, allowing Hazard to fumble and pull at his cock as it was removed from his trousers and his boxer shorts, stroked into life and squeezed tightly in moments; at the same time, Sergio was reaching forwardly and tugging one button after another loose until his shirt was falling fully open and he felt very exposed, rock hard prick jutting from the mouth of his trousers and his long chiselled torso on show from neck to pubic hair.
Around him, he saw and sensed the others move: Benzema had prowled down the side of the pool towards them and was sat on the edge now with his thick hairy legs hanging forth into the water where he sat comfortably, arms sloping behind him to prop up his sturdy 6ft1 body. Asensio sliding down into the water in front of him and holding onto his knees, leaning his delicate handsome head in over one thigh on its side and licking tentatively at fat hairy balls and the base of that big French monster at his crotch...
Somewhere just behind him he could hear the fap fap of the other two wanking, Isco and Mendy, wet feet slapping a little at stone as they approached and surrounded him. Crouching up on the floor nearby, touching himself and touching uncertainly at the shoulders and back of Hazard, Valverde stared at him with wide frowning eyes and a gently pouting mouth, seeming more high and bewildered than anyone else here.
Bale let out a long rattling breath and tensed up his body, pushed Eden's hand off his dick, pulled gently on it himself instead, electrified with arousal and lust. He stared at Ramos and it was like some perverse telekinesis between them. The Madrid captain nodded. `You can fuck him,' he said in a breathy voice of authority, and up Hazard was getting, reaching once more for his cock, then giggling as Bale grabbed at his arms instead and took control of him.
He moved with animal speed, like he had in that poolhouse with Dan. He pulled his shirt off, annoyed when it caught on bony elbows, casting it aside and pushing down on his trousers, his boxers remaining tight stretch across his thighs just below the bulge of his buttocks. He pushed and pulled on Eden's body, forcing him forward into the pool in a long arcing plunge, both of their muscular bodies hitting the water in a crash and ripple of light, but then powering through it into the corner... where the pool's edge descended in a series of low curving steps, concentric circles that felt firm and helpful beneath his feet and then shins. Pushing Eden around and forward over these steps with more heavy splashes...
Down he pushed him, pressing his hands flat against his bare back, feeling the fleshy strength of his toned body, slight and athletic like Dan's. His arse, when Gareth pulled down on his shorts, was big too, bigger and rounder actually than Dan's, more prominent and meaty. He grabbed roughly at those cheeks, finding the dark hair between them and pushing his fingers in roughly. Their bodies made the water splash noisily and lap at the pool's edge but Gareth worked on with fixed determination, shoving a finger in and swirling it around his ring to loosen it, barely hearing the throaty whines and Flemish swearing of the stocky midfielder he'd bent over the steps. On and on he jabbed his long index finger into him and then a second, slapping wetly at each cheek and shaking forcefully at Eden's obnoxious form, angry at him for the lust now shaking through his own core.
When he pushed his cock in, it felt as good as he remembered, as urgently tight around his dick -- no, no, not quite so tight as Dan had felt, but still, so different to a cunt, so muscular and taboo. He pressed on, forcing his thickness into that impossible space, inching into his target, beginning to hump at him in short pushes until his fat Welsh prick was entering him more fully and the water was splashing up his thighs and tummy and over Eden's cheeks and backs, their bodies trembling and interlocking.
Yes,' came Sergio's purring encouragement, speaking at last or his voice just finally breaking through the white noise in Bale's head. Fuck him, yes, push into him, make this slut yours... Eden loves it, don't you, dirty dirty man... yesss... oh yes Bale, fuck him good, smash his hole, si...' Slipping into Spanish, incoherent to Bale's ear, just background noise along with distant chirping crickets and the wet maelstrom around his body. All he knew was the feel of Eden beneath him, pressed hard into the steps and the pool's edge, squashed beneath the grinding force of his own athletic shape, fucking him now with the same dread force that he'd pressed his Wales teammate up against the changing room wales in Finland. He held him hard around the sides and forced his cock more deeply into him, again and again, mounting and mastering him, the voice of his captain sliding back into his consciousness: `YES, FUCK THAT BITCH, OWN HIM, MAKE HIM YOURS GARETH....'
He realised the voice was close to him. Sergio was in the pool with him, grabbing and squeezing his shoulder, leaning close by and laughing harshly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the Spaniard was wanking, pulling on his own massive donkey-dick almost in sync with Bale's strokes, his arm was about his shoulders now, he was really there with them, commentating on the violent fuck and yelping his honeyed dirty talk, all filth and control. And not just that, he realised, but the others had moved closer. He saw Benzema standing over them now, towering up on the pool's edge, his big chest bulging as he reached down and wanked himself with both hands.
Bale tried to ignore them, uninterested, dismissive; all that mattered was the burning pleasure of his own rod as it buried deeper and deeper into the soft mounds of the Belgian arse, fucking this kinky slut who had first troubled him with that secret experiment inside this house. He was punishing him with his big cock, slamming angrily into him for first making him confused or tempted; but he could hear the screams of enjoyment from the ex-Chelsea man beneath his body, wailing his name and a series of expletives.
Someone else was in the pool to his left, hugging at him and stooping down -- a hot strong manly tongue on his left nipple, wrapping over it and then flicking it and then kissing at the firm skin of his pectoral. It was Isco, he realised, the other short attacking midfielder laughing and grinning and reaching behind him to slap his arse; he and Ramos holding at him as he thrust back and forth, and two other lads sat in front of Hazard, feeding him their dicks in alternate mouthfuls: wide-eyed Valverde and loudly cackling Mendy. But they all faded away to irrelevance. Bale swung his hips and arse back and forth, pushing down on Hazard's back, pulling him closer so his cock could really bury into his hole like some mythical source, slamming his full weight and strength at his behind until... until... until...
His orgasm was so powerful that he roared like the MGM lion. For the second time this bizarre month, he was spilling his dirty seed inside the backside of a man, creaming Eden's arse and releasing all of his tension and lust in a big final thrust, practically pushing the whole of Eden's body underwater now over the shallows of these steps, roaring and growling and panting and then... then... shuddering, coming to, feeling the reality of it all slap him like a cold fish. He gripped Hazard's body guiltily, willing a trick of the mind to make him believe it was a woman he'd just fucked, it was his own wife, not... no, but... ugh... he couldn't...
The Welsh hunk came to with so many pairs of eyes on him. Sergio was squeezing his neck and cackling in his ear; Isco was pulling away in the water, throwing himself into it and rolling down the steps, kicking his hairy legs in the air; Mendy was holding Eden's head in both hands and fucking his face, staring over him at Gareth with a wicked excitement in his wide white eyes; Valverde and Asensio were wanking furiously where they sat, naked and glistening, and staring admiringly at him, shocked and amazed to have watched him take that step; and Eden, twisting about a little, looked over his shoulder and stared lustily back at him, about to speak, but...
Gareth pulled back with a splash, almost slipping and going underwater, but regaining himself and pushing his captain away from him. Sergio shouted something at him but he spun around and grabbed the pool's edge to yank himself up and out, a cascade of wate rushing down his broad back and off his buttocks as he scrambled ashore and found item after item of his clothing, his dick still hard and sticky and bobbing about with every movement, a comic puppet next to his physical distress.
Ramos finished himself happily, unconcerned by the wet scampering figure of the prudish Brit leaving the party, dashing indoors with his shirt in one hand and his trousers pulled up his wet legs and arse, wet patches showing all over the thighs and calves. The arrogant Spanish icon just laughed and lounged back on the steps in the shallows, looking down at the eager and anxious face of the first-timer about to tongue his thick hard cock. For a moment, he grinned indulgently at Ferland, then reached an imperious hand for the head of the 24-year-old left-back and pushed his open lips against his dick to suck on it, thrusting gently into his gob and taking in the tangle of muscles that splashed and writhed in this corner of the pool.
Next to him, Eden slurped up and down on Isco's incredibly fat piece, and beyond that, Marco was gobbling on Karim. In Sergio's left hand, he was jerking powerfully on Federico, so that it seemed they were all entangled and connected, just a heaving pile of well-trained muscle. They jostled and rippled with some shifting of positions, Mendy's shocked face leaving the captain's dick with precum glistening on his bottom lip, and Sergio just standing up over them all to jerk himself off, enjoying the way his men sprawled and writhed around him.
When he came, he came over them all, exploding fat blobs of his juicy load out from the thick tip of his dick, showering spunk over Mendy's chest and into Hazard's dark hair, and in long trails down Isco's shaven tummy; he dribbled it onto Valverde's shaking muscular arm and grinned sleazily at Benzema, meeting his shifty eyes with triumph at how far he'd led him and the others astray. Sergio just stood there, still pulling on his huge shaft, teasing out final drops of his semen, throwing his head back and almost howling to the night, utterly happy with his sexual command of these curious studs and their bodies.
Bale rushed through the night, down the sloping path and steps that connected the different multi-million villas of the compound. His fingers seemed too thick and clumsy to button his shirt so it flapped loose around his big body, but he had managed to tug his trousers fully up and fasten them, though they clung to every flex of muscle with constricted wet fabric. Beneath them, his still quivering cock and balls rubbed sensitively, as he'd been too rushed to find and pull on his boxer shorts, going commando in his nocturnal rush between buildings on the site.
He was nearing the steps that would take him back up towards the front of his own residence when he almost crashed straight into another lost figure in the pale moonlight of their lush green grounds, another half-dressed man drifting oddly around.
When Bale had backed off, pulled his shirt shut and recovered from the fact that nobody would look at him and assume he was wet and dishevelled from publicly pounding Eden Hazard, he realised that the other night wanderer was another teammate: another Sergio, in fact, young Reguillon, the club's 23-year-old left-back local.
The youngster stared at him in distracted alarm, clutching a mobile phone in one hand and an illicit cigarette in another, a baggy open shirt over his shoulders and a pair of Nike shirts pulled up about his waist and crotch, as if he'd crawled out of bed for the phone call and smoke that now occupied him. The two Madrid men stared at one another questioningly. Bale, unwilling to try and lie on the spot, ignored his own obvious distress and pushed on.
What's up?' he demanded hoarsely. What's wrong, mate?'
The young Spanish defender blinked and gawped at him but then seemed to think better of asking any questions, taking a puff on his smoke. It happens so fast,' Reguillion murmured quite vaguely and ambiguously. Another puff. One minute you are sitting down to dinner with girlfriend, next you are...' He laughed oddly. `Being booked onto first private jet out of Madrid.'
Bale, a bit out of the loop with transfer gossip among his younger teammates, pulled uncomfortably at his shirt collar and the front of his damp trousers. Sorry?' he muttered. Private jet to...? Are you okay, Serge, kid...?'
Tottenham,' the defender mumbled. Your old Tottenham, hah! Tomorrow, amigo... I fly to London, to London!' More nervous laughter. So fast. Agent only spoke to me about possible move this morning, and now...' He flicked the half-finished cigarette away with a brief flicker of orange flame and then folded both hands shakily about his phone. Just speaking to agent now, sorting it out. Fly tomorrow. Yikes. Hah!'
Bale nodded slowly, staring intensely at him. `Big news, Sergio, yeh...'
`I should go to bed,' Reguillon told him dimly, looking away, seeming to almost instantly forget his presence; he looked like he needed his sleep, so Bale said nothing, just moving quietly past him and onto the gentle incline of steps that would take him up towards the front of his own home. He paused a couple of steps up and looked down at the swaying overwhelmed figure of the young player facing his Premiership transfer, then moved quickly on along the last of the path and into his own home, gladly slamming the door behind him and resting against it, glad that the house seemed quiet and safe and undisturbed in his brief sordid absence.
For minutes, the tall Welshman rested against the door, catching his breath and shutting out the mental images. And then he dragged the phone up to the side of his face and thumbed through his contacts to find his agent's number. The London guy would be fast asleep by this time, perhaps, although it was a couple of hours earlier over there, so maybe... dial tone, impatience, shallow breaths... He thought back to that abortive conversation just last night. A loan deal. A temporary transfer fee. Simple personal terms and conditions. A homecoming to Tottenham Hotspurs? He calmed his breathing as a click and a beep on the other end signalled an impatient late-night answer from his long-time footballing representative.
`Hullo? Gareth? Do you know what time it is...?'
The Welsh stud took another deep breath, steadied himself at the door, then grunted it down the line in a bit of a rush. Make it happen,' he told him. Get me to London. There's a private jet leaving here tomorrow with Reguillion for Spurs. Get me on it. I'll sign anything. Just get me the hell out of Madrid and back into the Premier League. Please.'
'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/
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