Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Babes

Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 285 Part 285: Vamos When the match-winning goal curved beautifully in, he was still on the sidelines; admittedly, tightening up the laces of his boots and warming up his leg muscles at the instructions of the Barcelona manager who had given him the nod, but still stuck on the sidelines and feeling oddly detached from the sudden eruption of celebration from the players out on the pitch tonight. Poised by the dugout, Pablo Gavira had seen it happen as if in slow-motion, the skilled opportunistic play of his teammate and best friend, and now hovered there on the verge of substitution, watching as the Barca men exploded around the goal-scorer – already, 19-year-old Pedri had been borne to the ground in a three-man tackle of brotherly excitement, and now he was being grabbed and clapped by one man after another. Here at the side of the pitch in their home stadium too, the other subs and the coaching team were all going crazy as if the 1-0 lead were at least triple that – but for a few moments, young Gavi felt oddly isolated from the action, just a random kid plonked down at the heart of this La Liga intensity, unable to really let go of himself and join in. His eyes flitting almost impassively about the excitement, he noted the towering figurehead of the Barcelona defence approach the goal-scoring central midfielder with hands raised for double high-fives, but then swapping this for a manly hug – and hoisting the dark-haired prodigy right up off the ground as if he was weightless. Seeing Gerard Pique hold and then drop his friend like that brought on a mix of feelings for the 17-year-old Spaniard on the sidelines – the unfading adoration he could only hold for such a longstanding national and club hero, of course, and the immediate sting of envy that the slightly older teen was so utterly central to Barcelona and Spain already – but also something more ambiguous and lingering, a distrust and curiosity that had begun at the Real Madrid game a couple of weeks ago. He was being slapped on the back himself now, but not in congratulations, to snap him out of his dawdling and to urge him running on – the player he was to replace was already dashing this way, looking exhausted and excitable, wide-eyed blond-haired innocence at 24. But again, it was difficult for Gavi to record Frenkie de Jong in the same simple light that he might previously have revered the Dutch maestro. Now, quickly grasping hands with the substituted midfielder and being urged onto the pitch by the boss, Gavi helplessly pictured the frosted sauna windows and the moment of staring revulsion. Pedri was still being widely celebrated as the 17-year-old jogged into the final quarter of the league game, the 1-0 lead still being roared about by the sizeable army of home fans in the stands above; but Gavi found himself unable to go running in the direction of the fist-pumping young star who was still courting that mass attention for a moment more. Instead, the sprightly youth jogged into position with a businesslike frown on his face, clinging to readiness and professionalism rather than addressing how uncomfortable he would feel dashing over to hug and congratulate his bestie after all – because that was the real problem, wasn’t it? That was why Gavi felt oddly detached from the Barca excitement tonight at the Camp Nou… things between himself and his close pal had just felt strained and difficult since that thing that had happened in the Madrid darkness, making him embarrassed and ashamed. Even a jaunt into international duty in a Spanish shirt had not lifted the sudden distance between himself and his friend, and now Gavi could hardly look him in the eye. At 72 minutes played, Pedri’s silky goal put the Nou Camp team in front, and at 73 minutes, Gavi manoeuvred into position just as the whistle went for play to resume – but he didn’t go anywhere near the feted scorer and join the celebratory mood, just keeping to himself and launching into quiet action. The 1-0 win put them on a particularly impressive unbeaten streak, and though the Spanish reporters in the post-match interviews seemed very keen to trip him up with pushy questions about their slim league title chances, Pedri basked in the positive attention of it all, trying his best to remain calm and humble whilst his goal was lauded and glorified, and his importance to this iconic club richly overstated. Sometimes young Pedro Lopez could be intimidated and almost nauseated by the attention, but tonight it felt deserved, and he buzzed with the significance of his contribution and the result itself, nodding and smiling and chatting volubly with a short string of sports reporters until a press manager was grabbing him protectively about the shoulders of his huge padded coat and steering him away to head indoors after all. Even leaving the field, applause still ringing overheard, he was grabbed and congratulated by a number of teammates, and then in the Nou Camp home changing facilities, he was clapped and chanted and grabbed all over again by the same heroic teammates who had wrestled and hoisted him on the pitch. The 19-year-old could only grin bashfully and shrug away the attention, particularly as almost everyone was in a state of undress, having not been delayed outside for media attention quite so long as their young talisman. He wriggled away from a hug by Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang because the French striker was glossy wet from the showers and his skimpy towel was falling away from a knot at the hip; he deftly avoided a muscular embrace from Dani Alves, who had already rugby-tackled him to the ground in excitement after the goal went in; he was less quick in avoiding the bouncy, chanting attention of Memphis Depay, who was just in tight-fitting lycra shorts and seemed to be live-streaming the dressing room straight to his social media following – one bulging muscular arm had him in a passionate friendly headlock and the obnoxious Dutchman was spitting rap lyrics into his phone camera about how Pedri was taking over the world. When Lopez had wriggled away from this excitement and staggered across the lengthy changing rooms, unzipping the big puffer coat and trying to calm himself down, he found himself stumbling straight into eye contact with the one person who had yet to congratulate him – freshly showered and swaddled in fluffy towels, his young accomplice gave him a wide-eyed and doleful stare, pursing his lips as if about to speak, but staying awkwardly silent and not getting up from where he sat. Pedri hesitated in front of him, caught somewhat off-guard by the intense quiet presence of the other teenager as the loud fanfare behind him dissipated into the more general chaotic noise of footballers enjoying a victory and hurrying to change clothes. There would be celebrations in a bar elsewhere in the stadium, he supposed, knowing how eager everyone had been to enter April with another win, and the showered athletes were hurrying to re-dress so that they could get away to it. Still, he thought, taking in the more mellow sight of his buddy here, that would be a party that excluded poor 17-year-old Gavi for now, firmly barred from any alcoholic activities with the rest of the senior team – no wonder the handsome kid looked so inappropriately gloomy? `Brother,’ Pedri quipped lightly, sticking a clammy fist his way to be bumped, and feeling Gavi’s knuckles only gently graze against it. `A win!’ he barked a bit more impatiently, and this time Gavi’s eyes flicked back at him and there was a ghost of a smile. The younger central midfielder nodded his agreement and muttered something quite non-committal, echoing the loud sentiments of the rest of the room, and just seemed to fold back into his mass of towels, drying his fluffy golden-brown hair and bare tanned chest, while Pedri stood beside him and shrugged out of the big warm coat and then started peeling away the iconic Barca strip that was glued to his lean muscles with sweat. Keeping his voice friendly but low, Pedri asked, `Everything okay, Pablo…?’ Not quite looking at him as he spoke, Gavi insisted, `Yep, yep, all great, amigo.’ `What are you doing tonight?’ Pedri demanded, in the middle of wrestling out of his shirt and compression vest, bearing the compact developing muscles of his chest, tummy and shoulders, the faint spattering of dark hair sprouting across some of it. Gavi gave him an uncertain glance. `Dunno. Home.’ A little flash of frown across his boyish features, and then, `Everybody is going to the bar, I think.’ He said it lightly enough, but his usual frustrations at being under-age showed in his eyes and creasing brows, and Pedri leaned over to nudge him in the bare shoulder. `Not me,’ he promised simply. `Not in the mood. Shall we hang out…?’ Gavi give him a long, odd look – he really hadn’t been himself since they got back from the national Spain friendlies last week, Pedri reflected – and seemed to start and stop speaking a couple of times before mumbling, `You will be the big star tonight, you should go there and be toasted!’ He turned away at that, burying his face in a furrow of towels, which then slipped away from his arm and sides as he hunched over on the bench to dry himself. Pedri stared at him a moment longer, knowing the answer was fair enough, but seeming to suddenly appreciate just how off things had been between the close buddies for days. `Hah, I am big star with or without a beer,’ was all he said, giving Gavi’s warm smooth shoulder a gentle grab and then backing away – with the deft skill of a naturally shy young man, he slung a towel about his waist at the same time as dropping his shorts and briefs, protecting his quiet dignity and then glancing towards the steamy entrance to the showers, out of which a couple more players were last to emerge. `Wait for me,’ Pedri suggested in as light and friendly a voice as he could muster, trying to sound encouraging and chilled. `Wait for me now and we’ll hang out after, yep?’ There was merely an uncertain `hmm’ noise from the other young Barca player, but Pedri left him to it, having to avoid more back-slapping macho attention from other players on his way to the showers as he did so, keen to wash his body and get out of this over-excited environment. For just a moment, about to round the corner and into the emptying communal shower blocks as the last lad to get changed, Pedri glanced anxiously over his shoulder – his friend was still hunched quietly on his own, swathed in towels, and not getting up to chat to any of the other guys at all. Gavi was usually bouncing with a mixture of teenaged energy and overt hero worship, desperate to be one of the guys. This was odd. Pedri left off looking at him, about to head on into the showers, but as he turned, his eyes fell momentarily on the nearest older guys, who were buttoning up crisp white shirts and clearly readying themselves for a few Estrellas upstaris in the bar. Nearest to him, Gerard Pique was doing up the tight collar of his own shirt, 6ft4 and intimidatingly broad, chatting away with Alves and Atsu, and not looking this way. An absolute hero here, Pedri thought, and an even more, erm, beloved member of the Barca fraternity than he’d previously realised, if that scene outside the sauna had been everything it looked like! Pedri stared contemplatively at the 34-year-old for a second before turning away, but it was only in the showers, hooking up his towel and baring himself gratefully to an empty room of lingering steam rather than jostling muscular bodies, that he made any connection mersin escort between his friend’s mood and all that funny business the other weekend in Madrid. Washing himself in a quick and businesslike fashion, the 19-year-old Spain graduate felt a few cents click into place in the machinery of his brain, dwelling briefly on a midnight episode that he’d already shelved dismissively away. Pedri frowned his serious features into the empty steam and rinsed soap away from aching hairy legs, then knocked off the final showerhead and grabbed for his hanging towel. The changing rooms were just about empty, and the last noisy gaggle of other players were on their way out of a door – among them, Ferran Torres leaned back to wave in his direction, gesturing a simple mime of beer-drinking and shooting questioning eyes this way. Pedri made a vague shrug gesture, provoking loud shouts of `Vamos! To the bar!’ from the older athlete as Torres disappeared away with the others, leaving the home changing room of the Nou Camp still and silent. But not empty, because when he glanced to the left, he found that Gavi had indeed honoured his invite to wait. This was reassuring to him after, he now noticed, at least a week of quiet from his usual training partner, but the otherwise empty chamber of the dressing room threw a little intensity on what Pedri wanted to think of as a very minor matter. `You waited,’ he remarked quietly, taking a few wet footsteps towards his friend. `Yup,’ Gavi said, but distantly. He’d dried himself off and pulled on the bottoms of a loose retro Adidas tracksuit, his usual, though his slim toned upper body was still on show, an unfolding white t-shirt in his fingers. He didn’t properly look up, which was oddly cold given that he’d waited around and took up Pedri’s friendly gesture of spending time together when he could be off in a club bar somewhere being lifted on Pique’s shoulders – he felt his irritation rising with the thought, and stopped himself, but it came out in his tone. `Something’s up, then?’ he asked – it came out as a bit of a bark, rather than the friendly concern he aimed for. He stood there, awkwardly bare with a little steam rising off his scrubbed torso. Gavi looked at him now, a worried expression marring his features. `What? No, nothing-‘ `You’ve been funny all week,’ Pedri told him in an awkward rush. `Well, two weeks, maybe.’ He said this timeframe meaningfully, feeling pretty sure he knew what the issue was after all – the hot blush on the other lad’s cheeks and the falling sadness in his eyes just confirmed it. `Pablo,’ he whispered earnestly, `it’s all okay, you know-‘ `Actually,’ Gavi told him a bit tartly, `I think YOU’VE been funny with me.’ This threw him. `What?’ `Too fucking special for your mates,’ the 17-year-old said quietly but sourly. `You’ve not sat with me once at lunch since you put on that Number 10 shirt for Espana, you know.’ He looked and sounded sulky and brattish, but also like he knew how ridiculous he sounded. Pedri faltered. `Sorry?’ was all he could muster, flushing himself and wondering if this was at all true – had he been snubbing the youngster a bit this week? It had certainly taken him until today to decide that there was anything off with their friendship. `I came on the pitch just after you scored,’ Gavi mumbled, `but you didn’t celebrate with me.’ He was really pouting now, and hanging his head rather than looking Pedri in the eye. `Normally we’re so close, but this last week, or whatever, you’ve just been-‘ `I’m not like that,’ the 19-year-old complained quickly and hopefully. He prided himself on being grounded and humble, had he really been blanking or neglecting his friend? No, this was nonsense, they’d still worked side by side all week, and travelled and roomed together at the Spain friendlies, as usual, and so- He HAD perhaps kept his distance physically, he thought, because when he’d grabbed and hugged his friend at a training session two days after the Madrid clash, it had just seemed- `I’ll go,’ Gavi mumbled in a forlorn tone. Pedri frowned and set his sharp jawline, stepping much closer to the other young sports star, unsure what he was going to say until he said it – `We don’t have to be weird because of what happened,’ he snapped, `not cos of what we SAW, or what you did, or-‘ He saw the panic and fear on the younger midfielder’s face instantly and he cringed at his own words, especially the almost accusing `you’, as if it had taken both of their bodies to let that happen in a Madrid hotel bed two weeks ago tonight… Gavi mumbled wordlessly and Pedri felt the conversation slipping away – the other Barca starlet looked mortified and as if slapped, and he himself suddenly felt a lot less firm and dismissive of the discreet moment than he had been the following morning or in the tough training days since, club and country. His rushed panic of what to say was both rescued and worsened by the chiming of a phone, making him glance to the side away from the other shirtless teen – it was his own device, nestled atop some of his sweaty kit, its screen flashing with an incoming video call and… well, the most unlikely of caller IDs. Gavi began to mumble something incoherent but instinctively, Pedri reached past him, leaning slightly, and grabbed up the phone to register that yes, he was receiving a video call over Whatsapp from Leo Messi – gawping at the screen, he thumbed to answer it unthinkingly, barely conscious that he was just a towel-clad youth in a football changing room. Instantly, the loud chatter of another changing room hit him, and there was an equally shirtless Lionel, the absolute GOAT, grinning into a camera and shouting greetings at him. Gavi started and shifted away for a moment but then, fascinated, was huddling beside him, bare arm to arm, and they were connected live to the Paris Saint-Germain camp and another victory celebration. `Pedri, our hero!’ boomed Messi down the line, and a second clear voice joined in – the camera angle swung and revealed the former Barcelona icon to be seated side by side with another ex-player of the Spanish club, Messi’s special wingman. `We love Pedri!’ sang Neymar Jr excitably. The whole video call was an absurd blur – it seemed that PSG had enjoyed a big victory of their own tonight, and Gavi actually seemed a bit more clued up on it than Pedri, who had been far too lost in his own success. Gavi congratulated both the Argentine legend and his Brazilian friend on their goals, and looked utterly starstruck as the rocky camera footage danced about another changing room and then their callers were pestering a grinning Mbappe to add to the congratulations – Pedri huddled there next to his friend, both of them hunched over the phone, grins plastered from ear to ear. Both of them had met Messi a fair few times as youth trainees in the Barcelona camp, Pedri especially as he made his early senior debut, but then a saga of contracts and finances had taken their hero away from the Spanish club and into France. But now Messi was taking the time out from what looked a very exuberant Parisian celebration to video call and congratulate HIM. Pedri found himself starstruck and awkward, even though he had briefly trained and played in the great man’s shadow, and it was a suddenly chirpy Gavi who did much of the talking – suddenly loud and effusive about Pedri’s goal despite the awkwardness between them, more than happy to describe it to Messi and Neymar. But it was over in quick surreal minutes, with Messi getting a string of PSG players to chant his name, then wishing his love upon the rest of the Barca men – `Hug Pique from me!’ Messi finished before clicking out of the call, and leaving the two teenagers stunned and quiet. There was a reverent moment of such silence before they laughed, and sank down into seated positions on the bench, Pedri in his towel and Gavi still fumbling with a t-shirt. `That was mad,’ the 19-year-old summarised quietly. `You are a big deal,’ Gavi said seriously. He didn’t sound jealous or petty there, just admiring and respectful. Pedri glanced and grinned foolishly at him, shrugging bare shoulders that were still a little damp and hot from the shower. `How funny that they called,’ was all he mumbled. He sat quietly, rubbing at the fine dark grey stubble of his jawline, and listening to a few more fanboy murmurings from Gavi, who was astounded to have spoken directly to so many PSG stars in a matter of minutes – but then the tumbling discomfort of the conversation before the call was coming back to him, and he couldn’t just brush it away with joky banter about how their midfield partnership would one day replace such greats. `It’s fine, what we did,’ he told his amigo in a moment of quiet, not looking at him, but patting his leg. `It doesn’t mean anything funny, it doesn’t have to make things weird.’ `I know,’ Gavi said, although he sounded incredibly unsure. `I’m sorry.’ `Sorry for what?’ Pedri insisted. `Like I said, it’s totally fine and okay!’ `I know, I know – I just mean -‘ `I didn’t mean to be odd with you if I was, seriously.’ `Nor me,’ Gavi assured him quickly and desperately, looking apologetic and worried. `I appreciated the, erm, help,’ Pedri said with impossible politeness, shrugging expansively and becoming suddenly a little more aware of his own nudity here beneath the tight damp towel. `And I’d do the same for you if you needed it,’ he added, the forceful brotherliness feeling necessary and important, though if he’d really thought about it, it was hardly a comment to ease their tension. `You would?’ Gavi mumbled. He sounded… wistful? `Sure,’ huffed Pedri, and he did mean it – he’d given it an awkward bit of thought that night, lying alone in his bed after it had happened. And his thoughts had turned to what they saw, of Pique seeming to take the service of another player like that as if it was his legend’s prerogative – he thought now, for an awkward second, about beaming Leo Messi on the call, wondered for a second if his hero might have ever taken such a helping hand, and then felt his cheeks burn red for even daring to question it. But that night he’d asked himself the question repeatedly: would he do the same for his friend? He turned and gave Gavi a quizzical grin. `Maybe I should,’ he suggested. `Settle the score. Maybe then you won’t think I’m some stupid superstar who’s going to leave a friend behind and treat them shitty…!’ Gavi scoffed, blushing more deeply than him. `You don’t have to do that.’ But as he got up, Pedri felt like he saw signs of disagreement in the loose 80s material of the tracksuit, and he rose up to his own feet with a giddy boldness that had come in part from the headrush of being praised by Lionel Messi. He laughed foolishly and let his hands swing at his sides, eyeing up Gavi as he began struggling into the t-shirt – he snatched it aside to get his attention and then fixed him with an intense look. `Maybe I do,’ he insisted, `if it stops you worrying about what you did?’ Gavi giggled uncomfortably. `I’m not worrying,’ he said, an obvious lie. Pedri bit the bullet. He squared up to the other teen, ever so slightly shorter and slimmer than him, and reached down for the front of his tracksuit, taking hold of what he found there, grabbing inexpertly at the neat mound through the fabric, but not quite taking hold of anything – it was a slippery nylon material and Gavi twitched instinctively away from his surprising touch, and both of them sniggered and blushed. `You’re horny,’ he said, hearing his own uncertainty escort mersin about a `?’ on the end of the sentence. `I’m seventeen,’ Gavi said simply, bright pink in the face. Pedri grimaced a bit at the line he was crossing but shoved his hand down the front of those tracksuit bottoms, and inside the stretching material of his mate’s undies, finding the fuzz of pubes and then the warm softness of another lad’s cock against his fingers – yikes, this was a bit weird, but it was only what his buddy had done to him, right? He held it, pulled on it a bit, but then they both just burst into nervous giggling and Gavi pushed lightly at his arm. `This is silly,’ he mumbled, `we’re in the Nou Camp, not some dark hotel room…’ Pedri sniggered back at him and couldn’t quite meet his friend’s eyes, but he didn’t quite want to pull his hand away – he could feel the stiffness of the thing in the pants, wondered if in some weird way it was an excitement partly for him. Or for his success, his growing status, the other player’s friendly joy for him… or something. But another more serious part of him felt the imbalance between them for what he’d let Gavi do for him in the dark, felt a kind of need to reassert that they were just two amigos discovering this sport together. `Come on,’ he muttered with a bit more certainty. `Try it a different way.’ `Hmm?’ `Erm – like… turn around? And… through here, erm…’ Pedri steered him by the arm, shifting back into the cooling air of the showers, all tiles and metal drying slowly, air perfumed with the scent of bathing products. He shifted himself into position behind the other player, because he figured they couldn’t look at each other and keep a straight face, and THEN he pushed his hand back inside those layers, standing close to Gavi behind him – he was determined he would do this, and prove his friendship, his humility, their equality. This was about showing Gavi something, he told himself, and nothing to do with the way Messi and Neymar had looked at him on the phone-screen, or the way Pique had grabbed his body and thrown him about on the pitch. No, nothing to do with that. Gavi stood still, embarrassed but excited – the square block of the showers was marginally less exposed than the well-lit empty changing rooms, but this was still risque and mad. He tried to relax, conscious of Pedri’s firm body behind his, but of course particularly conscious of the roving hand now stretching the waistband of his boxer trunks and finding his semi-hard teen prick where it jutted awkwardly. He suppressed a nervous giggle, feeling Pedri’s slightly rough fingers slide about his piece, taking it in hand, and his breath come out in a thin straggle of coughs. `You don’t have t-‘ the young footballer began, but Pedri just made a shush sound close to his ear. The other Barca youth was standing so close to him that he could feel the slight graze of his muscular front on his bare back, and the edges of their arms brushing as Pedri now reached BOTH hands around to his front – one hand deep inside the undies, stroking on him, the other resting on his flat tummy, just above the navel. Gavi’s body shivered in spite of the residual warmth of the hot shower block, and the close intense heat of his friend’s body at his bare back. He parted his lips as if to say more, but just held them open, sucking in some air, and feeling Pedri’s hand form a fist about the base of his cock. `Mmm,’ he let out gently, relaxing himself back a bit into the stronger teen – letting his back muscles ease against Pedri’s broadening chest – and feeling his Adidas pants pulled as the fist pumped his length, the other hand and arm holding him by the middle a bit more firmly. A moment ago, he thought, they’d been chatting to megastars over his friend’s phone, and those absolute heroes had known all about him too, not just Pedri himself – the thought of it all was exciting him so much, and he didn’t need much to get him going! As the front of his trackies dragged forward and down and his cock was pulled loose by Pedri’s hand, it was rock hard and an angry red at the tip, and he stared down his front at it, alarmed but excited to see it in those strong pale fingers! Holy fuck. `Uhh,’ Gavi moaned softly – `Shh,’ came Pedri’s voice again, right by his ear. In the hotel room, it had been so dark he could hardly see what he was doing, taking instinctive hold of the big hard rod between the other lad’s legs and just pulling at it – but he could see himself clearly in the dim glow of the showers, see his own soft abs tense up, see the veins bulge on the other lad’s reaching arm, see the fat red length of his own manhood gripped and teased – god, was this really okay and allowed?! It felt good, he thought – had it felt this good for Pedro when he did it to him??? `Ohhh,’ he gasped, `Pedri…’ `Shh,’ hissed the other youth, but Gavi couldn’t quite contain his long moaning breaths, as much as he tried. He felt himself strongly gripped by Pedri now, held about the middle, that hand flat against him just below the chest, the other pumping the length of his excitable cock, tugging repeatedly on it at an angle that just felt SO good – and he could feel his friend pressing at him from behind, body to body, intent and strong. Chest against his back, nipples hard points rubbing into his own smooth skin, the faint tickle of chest hair somewhere on his spine – arms down the length of his arms, and when he tried to reached instinctively for himself, his arms were pushed aside, kept out of the way by Pedri’s strangely commanding hands, taking control of his throbbing teenage dick. `Let me,’ the Tenerife-born football prodigy hissed into his ear with fiery determination. `Ok,’ Gavi mumbled, but his voice so thin that he might have thought it more than said it aloud – he just felt totally rapt in the moment of physical support, given over to the rapid and tight attention of Pedri’s hand on him. No, he thought, I bet it didn’t feel this good when I did it for him, cos I had no idea what I was doing! He pictured himself on the hotel bed, stooped beside his friend, holding his engorged length and pulling weakly at it, terrified for all of his agreement and willingness to help. This was different, he understood, he could feel all of Pedri’s strength and certainty against him, and his… when the thought took form, he blanched and shuddered, realising what exactly that hardness was, pressing abstractly against the plump flesh of his rear, the form of it obvious even through layers of towel. He could feel the other teen’s hardness pressing against one chubby buttock and the thought of it both horrified and thrilled him, making his balls tingle and his cock all the more responsive in Pedri’s rapid tugs. `Ffffuck…’ `Sshh…’ `Mmph…’ `Shush, just let me…’ Gavi’s hand had strayed again, feeling a need to reach for his cock or his balls. But it was pushed aside, his arms pinned down and splayed by Pedri’s reaching limbs instead – he could feel the tickle of stubble on his neck, and the soft warmth caress of released breaths, close to the smooth skin there, making him shudder and tingle and sigh. Pedri’s mouth was just by his skin, he could almost feel wet lips on the very top of his spine, but NOT QUITE, ohhh… Now, maddeningly, it wasn’t just that right hand of Pedri’s wanking him off, but the left one sliding down too, reaching under to grab at his balls, pushing and pulling on them. He was pulled tightly back against the other lad’s body, unable to move his arms, his cock and balls teased and tugged, and his gasps reedy and wordless – he came just as some of Pedri’s firm fingertips pushed beneath his balls and rubbed against his gooch, and he felt his balls unload. Gavi stared down, seeing the gush of white fluid leave his cock and splatter on the shiny floor below, mingling instantly with a slow stream of draining water. He hefted out silent exhausted gasps, suddenly dizzy and out of control. Pedri’s hand kept going as if he didn’t release his goal was scored, pulling ferociously on a cock that felt numb and electric at once, and even more of Gavi’s weight and body relaxing in against his friend’s strength. The hard angle of that thing against his butt cheek felt all the firmer and more immediate, and in the headrush of orgasm, Gavi knew he needed to do something about it. As soon as Pedri’s arms were releasing their grip on him, he was turning, dizzy and grasping at his friend’s upper body for support. Pedri was breathing heavily and trying to say something to him, but he ignored him, hanging his head dizzily and pressing one hand on the other lad’s chest for support – but then reaching down with the other to grab his dick through the towel, finding it as huge and firm as it had felt poking into his glute. `No, we’re even,’ Pedri muttered, but Gavi had no idea what fictional score he was on about, was just following giddy euphoric instincts as he found the fold of the towel and pulled the thing loose, taking it in his hand as he leant in against Pedri’s shaking body – suddenly, the 19-year-old didn’t feel like this sturdy wall of support, but someone just as confused and excited as he was. He gripped his cock and embraced him, burying his face against his shoulder as he jerked urgently on him – his own cock still tingling, rubbing against the towel, or a flash of hairy leg, probably still trailing a little loose cum at the tip… `Mmph,’ moaned Pedri now, muttering again some vague argument – `You shouldn’t, because…’ But Gavi was driven by an excitement quite outside of himself, pressing urgent hands against Pedri’s developing six-pack and bending a little at the knees. He was folding down on them before he really knew what he was doing, and staring at the curved white length that protruded from the gap in the other lad’s towel. A clearer view of it, he thought, than in that dark hotel room. It was rock-hard, veiny, greedy-looking – and he took it first in his hand and then, eyes rolling upwards to meet Pedri’s dark stare, into his mouth. He couldn’t help himself, had no idea that he was going to do it, but there it was – its hot firmness on his lips and tongue and then inside him, immediately making him feel a bit choked and sick and needing to stop, to pull away with saliva trailing… but then Pedri’s hands were grabbing the side of his head, fingers sliding through his soft hair, and the huge length was pushing back into his mouth, gagging him as it hit the back of his throat… Pedri thought of Pique – they’d seen it, hadn’t they? There was no mistaking what de Jong had dropped to his knees and done for the legendary Barca defender, the `old man’ of the Nou Camp and the stalwart of Spain’s national side for over a decade. And so it must be okay, it couldn’t be something wrong and seedy! Still, he had instinctively resisted, had murmured his protests, had not wanted Gavi to take this on – but now it was happening, he didn’t know what else to do but push his sizeable cock into the soft wet mouth, grunting and gripping at the other lad’s head. The nervous uncertainty fled and he was animalistic for an important few moments. His cock was sensitive, had gotten harder and harder as it rubbed against the chunky backside of the other lad whilst he shook his cock to climax, and now it was ready for its own explosion – it didn’t spend long in Pablo’s mouth, but in that minute, Pedri really gripped and grabbed at the lad’s head, forcing his cock inside, too fast, too deep. He kinda heard the spluttering choking noise but ignored mersin escort bayan it in a moment of dirty climax, all sensations muffled other than the tingling eruption down south – and then he felt himself spilling his seed again, and pulling back, and suddenly the coughing spluttering panic was clear and audible and he was opening his eyes and staring down. Gavi reeled back, eyes blinking and shiny, and his lips even shinier – as Pedri’s cock pulled away, silky white goo oozed from between pouting lips. Gavi swayed and leaned to the side, trying to spit it out, and Pedri shook with a rush of guilty shame. He’d got carried away, hadn’t he? He’d been way too rough and demanding. He cringed and shuddered and reached down to help his friend, who trembled and panted. `It’s okay,’ the 19-year-old whispered, stooping and wrapping arms about the other lad’s shoulders and back, `it’s okay, isn’t it? Are you okay?’ He mumbled and murmured, stroking Gavi’s back muscles and the side of his neck, then angling his face to look at him. Gavi nodded, but he had tears in his eyes a bit and was coughing uncertainly. Pedri let his bare knees slide to the shower floor and he just crouched there, holding his friend in a tight side-on cuddle, letting their bodies rock a little bit. He flushed deep red and was embarrassed to think of the way he’d fucked his dick into his friend’s mouth like that, gagging him on its size, then emptying his cum into his mouth like some dirty slut in a porno… he felt ashamed and scared, but his cock and balls tingled still, and he knew how much he’d wanted to dominate another player like he now imagined Pique must do to de Jong. `Are you okay?’ he whispered at Gavi, who was clinging to him and coughing. `Yes,’ mumbled the younger footballer, `I’m fine, I’m fine…’ Pedri left him, fetching him water, and stroking his hair and neck as he tilted the bottle and helped him to drink some. He watched Gavi spit nervously out against the shower floors and wipe the back of an arm across his eyes. `Sorry,’ Pedri whispered. `Got carried away, that’s all.’ Gavi made a non-committal noise of response, just nodding and looking away. He seemed as gripped by sobering regret or uncertainty as Pedri did, and the friends staggered out of the shower in a quiet that was uncomfortable but mutual, shooting meaningful glances at each other. Gavi hurried into his t-shirt and the top of his tracksuit, zipping it up and rubbing hands over his pink-cheeked face. Pedri dressed more slowly, staring down at the limp but engorged length of his meat between his furry thighs, pushing it away into his fresh underwear like a badly behaved pet, and peeling clean jeans and shirt over his slim warm body, still trembling a bit with that heady mixture of excitement and shame. When they were both dressed and quiet, he reached out and rubbed Gavi’s lower back a little bit. `Did I hurt you?’ he asked sensitively. Gavi shook his head, but his blazing cheeks and stooped manner said otherwise. `We both got carried away,’ he mumbled. Pedri’s shame was lessened by the memory of the other lad’s hands pushing down his body, the hissed `Let me’ as the towel was loosened and his cock was swallowed. He’d tried to stop it, he told himself, he hadn’t wanted to go so far, or let things between them be like that… `You’re the superstar,’ Gavi mumbled ambiguously, toying with the zip of his top. Pedri stared at him, unsure what that meant, but feeling the dynamic between them shift uncomfortably yet again. `Maybe,’ he said darkly back, picking up his phone and pushing it away in a pocket, remembering the video call and how much it had made them both overexcited, hyper, risk-taking. `Still wanna hang out?’ Gavi said to him in a small voice. Pedri was relieved. `Video games at mine?’ he asked in an equally cowed murmur, neither of them quite ready to acknowledge the lines they’d stepped over back there. No sooner had the other man finished inside him but he was retreating, moving away with heavy stomps of this thickly muscled world-famous legs; this left Neymar on his back at the foot of the opulent bed, his own tattooed legs pulled up and apart in position, his throbbing hole gaping from the powerful but passionless fuck it had just received. He lay there for a minute more, jerking lazily on his own Brazilian erection, and feeling the seed of the most respected man in football trickle out of his twitching hole. Neymar jerked himself frustratedly but realised he was too drunk or high to climax properly and gave up, letting his wet dick slap against his thigh and the fuzzy hair growth below his belly button, lowering and spreading his legs and letting out a long sigh of unfinished pleasure. `What are you thinking about?’ the Brazilian international demanded in a quiet but fierce voice, looking across the bedroom, a favoured spare in his big Parisian apartment – the short but stocky muscular frame of his night’s lover was silhouetted in windows that showed a view of cliched landmarks lit up, a studious frown on the bearded face of his fellow PSG import. For all their shared past and the night-time fumbles of their Barcelona prime, Neymar and Messi had largely kept things platonic and professional at their new Parisian playground – Neymar was often in enough trouble with the French management for his playboy antics and sporadic commitment to the sport, whilst Messi was trying for a statesmanlike dignity in the final years of his career to cover up his obvious regrets at ending up here. But tonight’s 5-1 victory over Lorient, the first game where both they and their famed colleague Kylian Mbappe had all made the scoresheet – and roundly denounced the recent booing incidents against them by their own fans – had led to too much champagne for sensible Lionel, and here he was, naked and sweat-shiny in Neymar’s penthouse, even if he did look grumpy as anything. Neymar pulled himself off the bed, his wilting hard-on swinging, enjoying the familiar ache in his athletic body from being thrown about and then ploughed by someone with the strength and stamina of this man in front of him. A pleasurable pain and something he had longed for in their years of separation – he didn’t get a taste of it as regularly now as he might have hoped when PSG secured the Barcelona man, after all, but he must savour it when he did. Messi had picked up a spare silky robe and pulled it about himself before slumping into a seat by the windows – it hung open across his firm strong chest and just below the waist, doing nothing to hide the droop of his big privates which until moments ago had been pumping Neymar’s eager hole. He tried not to stare longingly at them, still not quite satisfied by the sloppy drunken action that he had teased out of his reserved friend. `What are you thinking about?’ he asked again. Messi seemed about to say a dismissive `nothing’, but then saw his knowing look, and pulled the robe a bit more appropriately closed about his clammy body. He glanced at a watch and just announced `I must go soon’, but then made no movement from the spot where he’d settled. He just stared intensely out of the window at Paris. `You were so happy after the game,’ Neymar used, sitting opposite him, still stark naked, playing idly with his balls and prick. `I am happy,’ grunted his dear friend unconvincingly. `I should be there,’ Messi muttered after a moment more of contemplation. `Barcelona is home.’ Neymar just raised an eyebrow and shrugged one bare shoulder. `South America is home,’ he corrected quietly. `Europe is… our playground.’ He stared curiously at the moody stud, wanting him to relax and climb back into bed with him instead. `Is it the boy?’ he demanded sharply, thinking back to that excitable call across wi-fi. `Is it him that interests you so much?’ Messi shot him a cynical look and got up from the seat, the robe dangling open and treating to Neymar to tantalising fresh glimpses of his ripped body and generous endowment before sweeping away towards a dressing table where his discarded clothes were left. The robe slide away and Neymar turned to watched his rippling back muscles and glutes as he dressed. `Pedri is special,’ Messi murmured. `But it is everything. I should never have left.’ `You had no choice,’ Neymar told him, getting up and padding across the carpet towards him. `Perhaps not,’ Lionel muttered, mainly to himself. He was buttoning up a shirt in a hurry, getting it wrong. Neymar, naked and smirking, butted in, pushing his hands away and correcting it for him with slow dextrous fingers. He sighed and lingered in front of the short but well-built other man, willing him with his eyes to give up this sensible midnight exit and stay overnight here instead, in Neymar’s penthouse of sin. But Messi’s face was serious and disinterested, and he knew not to push it. Tonight had been fun if unfinished, and it would have to do – he looked around the big guest bedroom they had used, thinking about the athletic positions this compact power-fucker had wrangled him into on the bed and other furniture before unloading deep inside him. Neymar did not remember such aggression and force from the handsome older athlete when they had been at Barcelona, but then those had been the years of heartbreak, where his Leo had pined for some unnamed lover, man or woman, that he would never admit to. The mystery of it burned at his curiosity. `He IS special,’ Neymar mused naughtily, picturing the two teens on the video call, shirtless and clammy in a changing room that they both knew well, `but we have special men here too to… mentor, hehe.’ He thought of prudish Kylian and how gently he had pushed at the French stud’s boundaries, but not yet brought him out of himself and gotten a taste of what he really wanted. Maybe Lionel could help, he mused. `Barcelona is in my veins,’ Messi snapped at him, stepping away and looking angry now rather than just distant. `Paris means nothing to me,’ he muttered, despite having danced about the stadium at the 5-1 victory earlier on. He really did seem to have fallen down a pit of nostalgia and regret, and Neymar just backed off, unwilling to poke the bear. `We just need to find our own ways to make it worthwhile here,’ Neymar insisted quietly, dropping his bare body back onto the bed and playing with himself whilst Messi did up a tie in a nearby mirror. His cock was still so big that it bulged obscenely in his suit trousers and made Neymar giggle longingly, but he didn’t reach over to try anything; he could sense the fiery mood of his friend and lover, and wondered what could calm him down and make him accept his duller existence on the fringe of this French squad. The boos and disapproval of fans had cut him deep, Neymar saw, though he himself was more used to shifting fortunes and letting people down. `Is it Barcelona you miss,’ he dared to ask with a little surge of mischief, `or somebody in particular…?’ Messi turned and stared silently at him, but said nothing. Neymar smirked, but apprehensively. He knew not to push it any further. There were gulfs of unsaid things between the two close pals and fuck buddies, and he was teetering on the brink of one of them. Instead, he turned it into a joke about the present: `I just know you’d love a piece of that Pedri,’ he quipped, `but then who wouldn’t?’ He took his own dick in hand and began to wank himself idly, while Messi just snorted dismissively and headed for the door – leaving the complacent Brazilian to pull on his own semi and sigh greedily at the thought of a few hot Spaniards joining him in bed. Instead, he reached around for a sex toy. ‘Writer guy’ – Premiership Lads on Nifty fty//gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share

Ben Esra telefonda seni bosaltmami ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Bir cevap yazın

E-posta hesabınız yayımlanmayacak. Gerekli alanlar * ile işaretlenmişlerdir