Part sixty: Pep's Golden Boy
Phil Foden rubbed a hand across his face and felt his cheeks and nose sticky with the champagne that had been frothed over him in the melee of celebration. He laughed, blinked, and shook it out of his short-cropped hair, dropping to his arse on a bench in the centre of the bustling changing rooms. The medal about his neck weighed satisfyingly on its ribbon and he picked up the sturdy little trophy once more, grinning down at it in delight.
About him, the ecstasy was finally calming: various lads were making their way into the showers, others were still taking selfies and posting to social media. There was talk of quite a party back at the hotel, although the teenager suspected he wouldn't be the only one who would soon feel exhausted. Between the intense week of training, the exertions of the victorious game, and the exuberant locker-room partying, they were all wiped out.
He looked up from his seat as big John Stones swaggered by, and he noticed a fleeting expression of unhappiness or at least pensiveness on the 25-year-old's face, which seemed out of place in here, in this atmosphere. `All good, John?' he asked, getting back to his feet, leaning in closer to his recent roommate as the tall, muscular Burnley lad began to whip his shirt up and off.
Hmm?' The bigger guy gave him a distracted look, wiping his clammy face against his shirt. Oh, yeh, great... obviously! Fucking great...' But he looked away, and there was a heaviness about him that threw and confused Phil to see. Still, he wasn't about to pry.
You were fucking class out there,' he said admiringly. Was great to play with you.'
John flashed him a slightly mysterious smile, and nodded. Aye, same to you, wunderkind. You sure proved Pep fucking right to have faith in you.' A heavy hand on Phil's low shoulder. You are a talent, lad, you really are.'
Phil grinned with brazen pride, too excited and hyped up tonight to feel any humility. He nodded his agreement and began to strip for his shower. He tugged off his medal and his City shirt and the long-sleeved thermal undershirt beneath, then peeled off his damp socks and headed out across the quietening room. John followed and overtook him, naked now with his big pale arse on show for a moment before a towel was flicked about it, disappearing through the steamy rectangle into the communal showers with the others.
`Philip,' cut in another voice, and Foden paused.
Guardiola's warm hand landed on his bare shoulder with a gentle squeeze. There had already been gushing public congratulation from the Spanish manager out on the pitch, and it had been lovely and unexpected, and so very reassuring. But as Phil stood there with his much-admired boss's hand on his shoulder, looking up at the tall tanned 49-year-old, he could not think of that public celebration, or of the many great exclamations in his support Pep had made over the last couple of years... No, for some reason, Phil was just reminded of their last one-to-one conversation before tonight. Standing in that shared room in the harsh morning light, with Pep looming frostily over him. That did NOT happen,' the handsome footballer manager had barked right at it him, making him flinch, Do you understand that, Philip?' And, of course, Philip had fully understood, and put every ounce of energy into making this case. It hadn't happened, it hadn't, it had just been a ridiculous drunken dream, nothing more!
Once again,' slurred Pep, who had already been draining champagne as he celebrated with his precious lads, you were... Aha, excellent!' He squeezed his fingers tighter into the shoulder, leaned forward and planted a rough, bristly kiss against Phil's forehead. Again, it was impossible not to be reminded of... well, the stuff that had NOT happened. Really, though, it wasn't unusual for the Spanish bloke to be tactile and affectionate, and Phil had to fight back these crazed thoughts. After all, it hadn't happened.
Thanks boss, thanks...' He pulled round to look earnestly up at him. I am so grateful to be playing... I couldn't believe you let me START, I mean... it was incredible...' He realised how quickly and unintelligibly he was garbling. `I just hope I did you proud, gaffer, sir!'
A broad white-tooth smile against the tanned face and silvery beard. Oh, I was proud of you alright, you little legend,' he declared firmly and smoothly. Now go shower! We have a party to get to.' He patted Phil gently on the cheek and backed away, but... did his eyes linger for a second on the young prodigy, or was Foden just imagining it...? Probably the latter, given that Pep was instantly reaching over to hug and congratulate another guy, leaving Phil to make his way towards the showers.
He discarded his shorts and briefs and pulled a towel off the shelf, holding it self-consciously over his front before entering the sheltering steam of the showers. He dangled it on a hook and entered the damp heat of the shower block, the vague outlines of multi-shaded flesh and muscle beneath the gushing water. Soap suds, bare buttocks and groaning faucets; slippery biceps, dangling cocks and lots of banter. Phil always found showering a bit of an intimidating experience now he played with the big boys. He always felt so slight and young alongside some of these burly blokes, especially lads like Stones and Walker, or even shorter men like Aguero whose presence was so dominating. But there was still a jubilant atmosphere and Foden relaxed into his shower, enjoying the loud laughter and joking about him.
Next to him, Kyle Walker was rinsing off soap suds from his pale mocha skin, exposing the intricate tattoos beneath the frothing shower gel and scrubbing at his puffed-up pecs. `Well, we sure showed them bastards,' he crowed, thrusting his hook-nosed face beneath the blast of his own shower.
On the other side of Phil, John Stones let out an awkward laugh and paused in rinsing under his armpits, which were surprisingly hairy for such a big smooth bloke. `We did,' he agreed in a slightly less forceful voice. Phil nodded his silent agreement, not sure if they were speaking to each other or him.
`Could say we really fucked them,' he heard Walker cackle.
`Oh... er, yeah... stuck our big dicks in them, haha...' returned Stones.
`Really came in their mouths, hahahah,' finished the other defender.
Jesus, you two!' Foden had to protest, washing his champagne-sticky face and looking from one naked wet bloke the other. You kiss your wives with those mouths? Seriously...' They both burst out laughing, flicked soapy water at him, and finished off their showers, leaving him alone. He laughed prudishly to himself and rinsed off, marvelling at how coarse those two bastards really were with their stupid jokes. What a pair!
In the hotel bar, he nursed a double vodka and coke, and tried to work out if the caffeine in his mixer would be enough to perk him up. He'd just taken a couple of phone calls, first to his mum, and then to his girlfriend (and briefly, to his little boy, who couldn't yet talk but whose gurgles were enough to listen to down the phone). In the short time he'd been out in the lobby speaking to the two ladies at home, the drunken buzz of the Manchester City squad seemed to have died somewhat.
It was already getting late, as they'd been in Wembley so long after full-time, and they really were an exhausted bunch. The guys in here were largely drunk already, but not the rowdy exuberant drunkenness of the changing room champagne, or the short coach ride from stadium to hotel. In the past half hour, it had wound down to a lazy, giddy drunk. Walker was slouched by the bar loudly mouthing off to Sterling and Hernandez about some near-miss moments where he (and he alone) had powerfully resisted Villa's attempts at a second or third goal; Mahrez and Otamendi were slumped in nearby seats, toasting what looked like triple measures of whiskey; one of the senior coaches was showing a video on his phone to Zinchenko and Mendy in a strange mix of post-match analysis and after-party chatter.
Foden found himself looking around involuntarily for his manager. He had a vague sense that he'd failed to really express his gratitude or pleasure properly when speaking to Pep out on the pitch in the exciting moments after the win, or while queuing up to accept the trophy and medals, and especially in the changing rooms after. He hated how inarticulate he could sound when excited or emotional. He just wanted to explain to Guardiola quite what it meant to him to be here right now on this winning side that he'd loved since he was as young as his son.
It could wait, though. He took a long glug from his drink, which tasted too strong.
He eased his way about the bar and found himself looking repeatedly at the watch on his wrist, wondering if it was late enough to call it a night and to head to bed. Well, others clearly had. There was no sight of his own roomie, already, though he half-expected Stones and Walker had some filthy scheme in mind again, after their puerile jokes on the coach. He could never make out what those two were bantering about at the best of times.
Phil hovered near a couple of pairs and groups but decided not to force his way into the slow, lazy conversations of his older teammates, drunk and impassioned in their debates and dialogues. Instead, he drained the last of his over-strong vodka drink, popped it on the bar, and made a quiet exit from the bar and back through the lobby. He was reminded of how drunk he had felt at the last such hotel celebration, in Madrid rather than London. He could get used to this winning feeling, but it was obviously so different being a key player in the game rather than an unused substitute! His frustrations at being on the bench were always heavily mitigated by his utter joy to be working at his beloved City, but still... today had been something else.
He grinned and whistled cheerily to himself in the short elevator ride to his floor. He came across their talismanic goalscorer Aguero in the corridor there, and the short sturdy Argentinian wasn't alone. He was dashing along the passage in the same matching designer denims they'd all changed into post-game, dragging an attractive young barmaid with him. Phil goggled in surprise at the married striker, who just turned and flashed him a wink. `What she doesn't know, eh eh,' the Latin American whispered, then turned and snogged his one-night stand before dragging her away down the hallway. Phil stared after them for a moment, a bit taken aback, but drunkenly happy for the older guy, married father of however-many. How could Foden judge, anyway? He'd fucked that slapper with Stones and Walker just to prove himself a man, and the guilt had riddled him for DAYS...
And now you've tossed your football manager, you little fag, an inner voice rebuked him.
It was just a drunken hand job. He barely remembered. And besides... it had NOT happened!
Foden tried to dismiss the jumbled tipsy memories and found his way to his own hotel room. He let himself in with a swipe of keycard and was surprised to find John already up here. The 6'2 defender was sprawled out on his back with his hands above his chest, thumbing away at his phone with drooping lids to his unfocused eyes. He still had his denim shirt on but his jeans were off, and his striped boxer briefs bunched up about the top of his thighs next to his prominent bulge, which Phil whipped his eyes away from and tried to ignore.
Already called it a night?' he remarked, traipsing the room to switch another lamp on. All good, Stones...?' A grunt of affirmation, and nowt more. Right well, something was definitely up with him, Phil concluded, but he was buggered if he had any idea what.
He unbuttoned his denim shirt, the matched designer ones they'd all been kitted out in this last week and slung it over the door to their shared wardrobe. Kicking off his trainers, he nipped into the bathroom in just his close-fitting white tshirt and tight dark grey jeans and did his little routine. Toothbrush, face-wash, moisturiser... his girlfriend was trying to get him trained up to look after himself, partly because she claimed in five years' time he'd be picking up modelling contracts left, right and centre as one of the biggest names in English football. He enjoyed her optimism!
By the time he was back in the main room, he could hear Stones snoring. The iPhone had half-dropped from the limp hands and rested at the top of his broad chest, and the head was tilted a little to the side, at just the right angle to emit some gargling snores that would normally have spelled a sleepless night: but Foden knew how tired and drunk he was himself, and he was pretty sure he'd sleep right through it.
`Hmm... didn't do nothin' wrong... huh...'
Phil had never realised Stones spoke in his sleep. He raised his eyebrows but tried to ignore it, undoing the belt of his jeans and sliding them off, so he was just in baggy grey boxers beneath his tshirt, his slim but muscular white legs exposed in the cool of the hotel room.
Yeh... hmmm...' John twitched and rustled a bit on top of his bedcovers, the phone sliding right off his chest now and nestling in somewhere between neck and shoulder. He wanted it... huh...' The unclear murmurings were followed by a little snort and then the big lanky bloke rolled over with his back to Foden, curling up into an almost foetal position, and both the snoring and sleep-talking came to an end. Phil let out a sleepy, intoxicated chuckle, and turned over the indistinct monologue: what the hell, was John re-living some vicious defensive tackle in his sleep or summat?
He climbed into bed himself and lay there for a while with the lamp on. John's gentle sleepy breathing was actually a faintly soothing background noise. He thought about the highs and lows of the day (mostly highs, almost non-existent lows), the sheer rush of a game like that, the early sense of triumph that the cup win had brought. Sure, they were never catching Liverpool in the Premiership now, but still. He turned to look at the League Cup medal resting on the bedside table beside the rest of his things.
An earlier thought returned to him: he just really needed to thank the boss, didn't he?
A little wired from his drinks and the lingering energy of the evening, he sat up in bed, and let this thought take hold, take motion. He was pretty sure he'd caught the number of Guardiola's room during the prolonged fuss of checking in last night upon their London arrival, so... Yes, he'd be upstairs in the next corridor, probably in a SLIGHTLY nicer room again, like the last two trips! And he'd last seen Pep in the bar, what, twenty-five minutes ago, max? So... He was unlikely to be ASLEEP yet, and... Phil's brain was jumpy and restless, and the thoughts spilled on, snowballing. Of course it was better to say thank you properly TONIGHT, rather than waiting for tomorrow's hangover, and...
In a moment, he was pulling a white hotel bathrobe on over his tshirt and boxers and slipping his bare feet into some Nike sliders, and picking up his key-card. He switched off the two lamps and left John to the rise and fall of his snores, and whatever odd mumblings he'd release into the darkness. Foden took the lift one floor, and double-checked his memory, wandering along a parallel corridor a floor above his own, until he was rapping his knuckles softly against another sturdy door, and swaying back and forth a little on his heels.
There was a long moment where no answer came and Phil regretted this impulsive decision, but then there were some heavy footsteps and the twist of a lock. When the door opened, it was obvious that he had disturbed the Spanish manager. Standing in the gap holding the door, Pep Guardiola blinked sleepily at him with tired eyes. He was shirtless, the dark rug of his chest exposed and its slow diminishing crawl down his flat torso; he was wearing only a pair of thin grey pyjama bottoms that were quite baggy and stretched, but still revealed some of the strong contours of his legs, and the sizeable presence between them.
`Philip,' yawned the City head coach.
Oh fuck,' Foden exclaimed quietly, I'm so sorry, I just...'
What is it?' Pep asked, a slight hint of alarm in his face and voice, as if Phil must be up here due to some crisis amongst the lads below. Is it ok?' The door edged open a little more and Pep leaned more into the light of the corridor, still blinking sleep from his eyes. `Is it morning?' he asked then, looking genuinely lost.
Phil cursed himself and chewed his lip. No, just – fuck – so sorry chief, sorry... didn't mean to wake you, just – He shifted from left to right foot and rubbed his chin. `I just wanted to say my thanks properly, but...' He trailed off uncomfortably, wishing he'd never come up here, and just let Stones' snoring lull him to sleep after all!
Oh, erm,' Pep drawled, still seeming a bit confused, but standing back again and pushing the door more, well – come in...?' He rubbed at one sleepy eye and stepped aside, letting Phil take a few uncertain steps back into the manager's room. Pep reached for a panel on the wall and flicked one switch, turning on a wall-lamp by the bed, not enough to light the big suite, but enough to cast atmospheric shadows and save them from darkness. Pep let the hotel door fall shut with a little thud and click, and stared blearily at his visitor.
Phil twitched and shifted under that slowly focusing gaze, and rubbed his sweaty palms together. `I just thought I mucked up my thank yous earlier,' he said humbly.
Thank yous?' muttered Pep, and then he let out a croaky little laugh. Philip, my boy... You have earned everything you do. You have no one to thank but yourself.' A dim smile on the older guy's face then, and he reached to pat and then stroke Phil's smooth cheek. `Hey, stop worrying, Philip. You know I believe in you. I tell them all that. Every time.'
Phil felt a hot blush rising in his cheeks and he squirmed at the sincerity. I know, I know... that's... That's why I really felt like coming up to thank you, I just...' He let out a little laugh, cringing at himself and pulling the bathrobe tighter about him. I just feel so fucking grateful, you know? Like... I dunno. I'm so lucky to have you as my boss.'
`Your boss and your friend,' Pep corrected in a low voice. Phil nodded.
Guardiola turned away, the shadows rippling over the dark tan of his smooth back, and Phil drifted into the centre of the room. He wasn't sure what to say or do now, since his gratitude had been expressed and understood, albeit slightly dismissed. He felt the glow of Pep's faith and praise warming his rosy cheeks and he felt the alcohol still in his system, making him bold and reckless. He undid the waistband of the robe and shrugged it off, draping it on a spare chair as he watched Pep move over to the mini-bar fridge to pour them both some sparkling mineral water. Phil moved over towards the foot of the solitary king-size bed, and sat on the edge of the high mattress, near the disturbed sheets where his gaffer had been sleeping. Pep turned around, a glass in each hand, and looked a little surprised to see this subtle movement.
`Here, drink this.'
`Thanks, sir.'
`Pep, por favor.'
`Er, yeh. Pep.'
Noisy slurp of refreshing fizz. Glass held gently against cheek to cool down. Eyes roving up and down the hairy chest of the older man, up his slender stubbled neck, to the lined weariness of his handsome face. Phil drank some of his water, held the cup down between his gently parted legs, letting the glass press teasingly into his warm white flesh on his thighs.
`Is there something else, Philip?' Pep asked. Filipe, it sounded, in his sexy Spanish accent. Sexy?
`No, nothing else,' Foden said tremulously. Another long sip.
`You are... sure?'
`Sure.'
`Hmm.'
Pep looked at him with a piercing gaze. Philip,' he said in a very quiet way, do you... wish to sleep up here... tonight?' Guardiola looked away as he asked this question, about the room and up the ruffled sheets of the only bed in the room. Phil gulped his mouthful of fizzy water and took his time before answering.
`Er, maybe. Is that ok?'
Pep just let out a sigh. It was a mixed, distant sound: frustrated, uneasy, resigned, wistful. And then the Spaniard got up from where they sat, and leaned gently to take Phil's half-empty glass away. He drifted over to place these heavy cut-glass tumbles back on top of the mini bar, leaving Phil alone at the edge of the bed. He turned around and stared at the bed himself, unable to really believe what his boss had asked and what he'd responded. What was he really doing up here...? Just as he asked himself this question, the room went dark. For a second, he thought it was a power cut, but as he blinked and turned, he could make out Pep stood back by the panel of switches, a faint outline in the grainy gloom after all. Over he strolled, with agonisingly slow footsteps.
`Philip,' breathed Pep's husky Spanish accent in the dark.
`Mm?'
`You should not be here,' the manager grunted, reaching him by the bed and reaching both hands out to take Foden gently by the wrists.
`Oh?'
`I am married,' insisted Guardiola with a gentle groan to his voice, sliding thumbs and fingers up the tingling skin of Phil's forearms and then letting them drop and pressing these hands to the sides of the teen's tshirt instead.
`Oh.'
`I cannot be doing this,' Pep continued, and in spite of his words, he pulled on the fabric of Phil's tshirt. The young footballer lifted and stretched his arms to make it easier, and up came the thin white fabric, up over his shoulders and his neck and head, off and tossed aside. The cool air tingled at his bare skin, and so did Pep's fingers, stroking the outside of his thin shoulders with slow, sensual touches.
`I'm sorry, boss,' Phil whispered.
`Hmm. It's... not your fault.'
Pep's hands left his body and reached down to undo the little cord tied at the front of his own pyjama bottoms. Phil reached his hands hesitantly down his tummy and hooked them into the tight waistband of his baggy boxers. Then he pushed them down in sync with Pep's own movement, and in the half-visible dark of the hotel room, the two men became naked, stood by the bed, one tall and hairy and tanned, one short and thin and smooth.
Then Pep leaned in, kissed him on the forehead, and rested his arms on his shoulders, pulling him in towards his own body. Phil reached one hand across the narrow space and wrapped his fingers once more about the heavy drooping outline of that Spanish cock. His other hand he pressed against the trail of hair on Pep's satisfyingly firm abdomen, and slid it upwards, into the rug of his chest, rippling the thick curling hairs between his fingers. Pep let out a soft moan and squeezed his strong arms closer about Phil's shoulders. Another kiss to the brow. Phil pulled and squeezed very carefully on the shaft, running his fingers up to graze the low sag of the older man's bollocks.
`You shouldn't be touching me like this,' Pep hissed, somewhere by his ear.
`I can stop, sir...'
`I didn't say you should stop.'
`O...kay...'
Phil lifted the weighty prick in his hand, remembering how much bigger it could get. He slid his palm up its shaft and tried to fondle those big balls behind it, then tickled his fingertips up through the silvery pubes. He enjoyed the vibrating murmur of Guardiola's groan into his ear. When the middle-aged Spaniard pulled away from him in the dark, he thought it might be over: but Pep was climbing onto the bed, and grabbing his right arm with one hand and pulling him along. Phil allowed himself to be led onto the bedding, hands and knees, seeing Pep's outline sprawl back over the duvet now, sinking into the pillows with his close-shaved head... Phil realised what was expected of him, resting on his and knees over his boss's body, and staring down at the cock below, flopped semi-hard against one dark hairy thigh.
He leant slowly down and kissed it on the side. `Ohhh, Philip...' came the response.
He ran his tongue uncertainly over the thick form, feeling it strain and throb. With each dart of his nervous tongue, fresh sounds of gentle excitement emerged from the big man beneath him. His arms and legs trembled as he hunched there, and leant further down to lick slowly over one then both of Pep's big bollocks. More pants and gasps. He lifted the hardened prick in one hand and began to kiss and lick at the circumcised head, a bulging pink form in front of his dry lips.
Phil lifted his head quietly and stroked each hand up and down the inner thighs, feeling the warm muscle and tangled body hair. `Is this okay, boss?' he asked in a tiny voice.
`It is... it is good... Philip, I have a wife, and...'
Before more contradictory protest could come, Phil sank his head and pushed his lips about that fat cock-head, trying to take a few thick inches into his uneasy mouth. He was reassured when he felt one of Pep's hands rest on the back of his head, and he tongued the thick meat hungrily, enjoying the musty taste, his nostrils full of sweat and aftershave. Then the hand on the back of his head became more commanding, pushing it down, guiding him, a little roughly... He gagged a little and was allowed to retreat a little, then guided back to work. He tried his best, opening wide and realising quickly that he had to be careful with his teeth. But Pep's dick was so solid and big that it was difficult, and he kept having to pause to catch his breath. Sorry,' he kept saying, taking to licking rather than sucking, then trying again. It is okay, it is okay,' Pep kept shushing.
Then Guardiola seemed to give in to animal instincts, and he was pushing Phil's head down with both hands, and that crazy prick was forcing deeper into Phil's mouth until he spluttered and snorted and had to be eased away by Pep's controlling fingers. He rested his face, little tears pricking his eyes at the difficulty of it all, against one of those meaty thighs, licking his tingling lips and rubbing at knees and calves and reaching to tickle and stroke the big balls beneath that swaying erection.
Again, Foden had the strange sense that these fumbling moments might be over, but no... He felt commanding hands push and adjust his body until he was flopped onto his back sideways across the bed, and now roles were reversed. His eyes, adjusting to the dark, saw Pep's head descend down at his crotch level, and he saw his own sizeable boner silhouetted for a moment before it disappeared into that silvery dark bearded mouth... `OH!'
Phil had actually only had a few of blowjobs in his life, as his sweetheart hated giving them, and beyond here there were only a couple of other lovers, including that paid mouth in the hotel room with John and Kyle. So the pleasure of a hot wet mouth on his prick was still quite new and satisfying to him, but this... wow... He pressed his shoulders back into the bedding and pulled his hands up to his face, eyes clenched shut, mouth forming a permanent round `O' of utter shock and sensual delight, as he felt Pep's fumbling mouth find its way up and down his dick for slow minute after slow minute. Jesus fucking Christ...
Sir,' he gasped, whimpered, oh sir... oh dear god...'
One of Pep's hands found his mouth and pressed over it to shut him up, though it was unclear quite why. Perhaps the older guy needed to concentrate. Phil lay there, paralysed with enjoyment, a clammy hand tight over his mouth and a mouth tight over his clammy prick. His legs twitched and fidgeted, and his hands grasped tightly at the bedsheets. It seemed to go on forever in aching moments of sexual heaven, and then he couldn't contain himself. He couldn't say anything to warn Pep, since the hand was clamped over his mouth, but Guardiola seemed to know, and pulled off just in time to avoid a mouthful. Phil's orgasm felt explosive, and he wondered how far across the room it shot. When Pep's head hovered above his in the dark, he could see no trace of his seed on that peppery beard or those full pouting lips, and he felt a slight pang of disappointment.
Silently, Guardiola was rising up onto his knees at his side, and wanking on his massive cock. Phil gasped and writhed and stared up at it, and reached out to stroke and rub at one of Pep's thighs, then sliding his hand up to tickle the balls. Then it came: the familiar bestial cries and yowls of this powerful man nearing climax. It wasn't long before heavy droplets of cum were raining down, splashing Phil's cheeks and nose and chin and neck... he held out his tongue and a wad of Spanish semen drizzled it. He tasted it nervously and found it quite pleasant on his buds.
When he was spent, Pep collapsed back, away from him, and the two footballers of very different generations just lay there, connected only by one tangled lower leg each, letting themselves recover from the violence of their excitement.
But then, a little dizzy and crazed, Phil rolled over and crawled round, and found Pep's cock once more, licking cooling spunk from the head and nuzzling the sinking beast with his lips. Then he just rested his face in the heat of the older man's crotch, desperate to share that intimate warmth, comforted to be close to it. But Pep was sitting up now and lifting him away, gently.
`Philip...' Filipe, it sounded, so sexy and sensual in the darkness.
Philip,' Pep repeated, you... you must go back to your room...'
A spell was broken by that remark, and Phil lay there, shivering a little. He hoped it was too dark for the disappointment to show on his smooth young face. He pulled back slightly, hunched in front of the big tanned body, hands still resting on its taut thighs. He wanted to stay here, to curl up alongside his manager, to be held... He was drunk, and emotional, and tired.
Suddenly, a single hand was stroking his cheek and holding his head in place. Pep was leaning over, closer to him. You have to,' Guardiola murmured. It will look... odd, if you do not. You have a... "roomie".' Another sigh from the 49-year-old, just like the one earlier tonight: heavy and wistful and irritated. And then, to Phil's complete shock, came the kiss. Brief, momentary, so soft it was almost didn't seem to happen, but it did. Their hot wet lips met, and perhaps Pep even tasted his own salt on them. No sooner was Phil feeling the tickle of beard on his chin than Pep was pulling away again, and pulling gently on his sharp jawline.
He nodded his head and sank back away from the warmth of Pep's body, knowing he was right. What would John say if he woke up and his young teammate was missing...? Foden got up off the bed, still shaking a bit, and began fetching his scattered clothing. When he turned around, Pep was still lying there, bollock naked on the bed, dick flopping about sleepily between his spread legs. But his eyes seemed to have closed, and he was asleep, or pretending to be, at least. Phil tasted that fleeting kiss on his mouth, and hurried into his tshirt and boxers and robe, and exited.
MADE IT TO 60... NEXT TARGET, 100 EPISODES??? HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS MAN CITY TRILOGY AND DIDN'T GET SICK OF THE LEAGUE CUP FINAL! LET ME KNOW IF YOU WANT TO SEE MORE FROM THESE GUYS OR ANYONE ELSE. HAPPY READING!