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Ağu 23, 2022 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 211: Rewards Part 211: Rewards At 21, the hulking beast of a centre-back had already spent a good few years muscling his way through the top flight of European football, but the matchday excitement was not yet losing its novelty one bit. Peeling himself out of a fluffy-lined designer sweatshirt and baring the large pale muscles of his torso, he grinned excitedly from side to side and enjoy the eager atmosphere of his fellow Juventus players readying themselves for tonight’s Champions League confrontation with Dynamo Kiev. A win would take them cruising through into the knockout stages of the elite competition, and confidence was high at the Italian club, a confidence that young Matthijs de Ligt could not help but share aplenty. He was not long back from injury himself, a thin dark scare still slicing into the pale pink skin near his shoulder, but his return to the Juventus defensive line had been much praised by the other men and by the management, as well as Italian football commentators. After the long recuperation he had endured, the huge young man felt as if he was in his mid-teens again, fighting his way into a senior squad for the first time and relishing every second of it; he hadn’t been able to wipe the smirk of anticipation from his handsome face all day long, eager to be back out on the pitch tonight and proving himself all over again. He was adamant that they would secure a clean sheet against the Ukrainian side. Matthijs picked up his iconic monochrome home shirt and stretched it across both wrists before wriggling it up the bulbous strength of his arms and over his head and shoulders, tugging it down across his chest and six-pack. He then dropped his baggy tracksuit bottoms to start stepping into his shorts, just the bulge of his black sports briefs exposed below the front hem of the football shirt, but he was interrupted with his white shorts bunched in one strong hand as his most famous teammate marched by and slapped a hand to his bicep roughly. `Ready, friend?’ demanded Cristiano Ronaldo in his roughly accented English, neither of them particularly effective in the local language. `More than,’ the 6ft2 Dutchman declared confidently to the much older and more experienced man, still somewhat in awe to be here playing on the same squad as this world-class gentleman. The prospect of playing alongside Ronaldo had been a huge factor in luring him here from Ajax. `We will smash them,’ he said cheerfully, patting Cristiano’s dark-tanned forearm and giving him a nod. The Portuguese legend paused beside him, fully kitted up himself like a warrior ready for battle, one of those long inscrutable grins on his face. `Yes,’ he agreed but in a slow distant voice, `we will, with a beast like you in centre-back, huh.’ An ambiguous wink. `Thank you,’ de Ligt responded, nodding eagerly. `Your trust means a lot, Ronaldo.’ The striker’s large hand lingered against his arm, tracing the outline of his tricep with the smooth edge of his fingers, his dark eyes fluttering attractively against his bronzed features and lingering in lock with his own stare. `Oh, we all trust you,’ the 35-year-old assured him. `You are our warrior boy. We will look after you.’ His thumb and finger squeezed briefly against the contour of Matthijs’ arm before pulling away, and finally his deep brown gaze broke away. `Keep a clean sheet and I will make sure you are rewarded, boy.’ Matthijs didn’t like the `boy’, as such, but you always had to assume something was lost in translation, in this awkward international swirl where half the team spoke rapid Italiano and the other half did their best in mutual tongues. As with all sons of the Netherlands, de Ligt was convincingly fluent in English, but it was hard to tell how much Ronaldo had really learnt in his Manchester years, his speech always so stiff and awkward in the language of the Premier League. Still, he was being very kind and supportive, wasn’t he? `Thank you, thank you,’ he said humbly, nodding gratefully to the experienced forward, glad of his patronage in this competitive top-flight squad. He grinned a bit awkwardly back at him, not sure what more to say on the matter, and not quite picking up on the seedy vagueness of `rewarded’. He just tried to look as grateful and honoured as he could and backed off to stretch and step each hefty leg into the glistening white shorts of their home kit, receiving a second uncomfortable wink from the other tall muscular sportsman before Ronaldo marched on to start joining the queue of men into the tunnel. De Ligt grinned uncertainly to himself, wishing he could figure the big guy out a bit more clearly — it would be so fucking cool to tell his pals back in the Netherlands that he was actually close mates with CR7 himself, but at the moment he still felt a bit like an overgrown fan-boy trailing him for an autograph at training sessions. He replayed Cristiano’s kind words, awkward and formal as always, but kind and well-meant and pretty fucking amazing, when you thought about it. He adjusted the hang of his shorts about his thick waist and started stretching out his arms, trying to dispel a vague discomfort or uneasiness with the way the Portuguese icon had looked him up and down there. The incident in the hospital lingered somewhere in his young mind, boxed off within several compartments of repression; it was hardly the sort of thing for a lad of his type to dwell on, it had seemed unreal and irrelevant almost the second he was out of hospital and holidaying with his supermodel stunner girlfriend. Over the weeks and then months, it had been fully written off as something to be forgotten and ignored, not revisited or curiously probed. It was Memphis Depay, his good national teammate, one of the coolest footballers he knew — it could hardly be weird or wrong coming from HIM, could it? Still. He hadn’t told a soul. `All good, buddy?’ chimed the voice of another of his fellow Juve players, ambling past him in the middle of tucking his shirt into the waist of his shorts, giving him a warm grin. `You look a bit troubled, is all.’ He enjoyed the singsong Welshness of Ramsey’s accent, feeling more culturally connected to the Brit in many ways than these languid Mediterranean blokes. And Aaron, pausing beside him and briefly knocking elbows in that pandemic-friendly little greeting of the year, was someone more genuinely welcoming and supportive to him than the aloof charisma of Cristiano. Matthijs had spent a number of afternoons and evenings dining with the Ramseys, made to feel at home by their more simple tastes and easy-going nature. `I’m good,’ he reassured him, shaking off the little vague cloud of uncertainty that Ronaldo’s intense eyes had cast on his pre-match confidence. He shook that sensation away, flexing his broad chest and cricking his thick neck. `All good,’ he repeated vaguely, patting Aaron on the back and falling into step behind the Welshman, ready to troop out towards their night game. But he still looked past the few men in front to the tall outline of CR7, trying to put his finger on what was so intimidating and unnerving about the big champion. Well, 749 professional goals, he supposed, wasn’t that enough? 750, by the end of the night. Juventus had bulldozed Kiev 3-0 and Ronaldo had reached the milestone achievement in the 57th minute; inevitably, the team celebrations centred around him after the win, both on the pitch and in the sweaty musclebound changing rooms afterwards, and on the noisy coaches that ferried them all from their stadium in Turin to the training ground on the outskirts where they would disperse for their journeys home. Not that de Ligt at all resented him the pomp and fanfare. It was an incredible achievement for an active player. As a centre-back, Matthijs had no aspirations to such a feat for himself, but he could do nothing but admire and defer to the supremacy of Cristiano Ronaldo and his long illustrious career in world football. Like all of his teammates, he was honoured to play with him, and selfishly delighted that he got to benefit from that presence in his team at this early point in his own journey. Even so, he found himself watching Cristiano distantly on the coach, slumped in a rear seat with a large bottle of flavoured water clutched in his hands, noting the rather obnoxious way their talismanic forward posed for selfies with the other two goal-scorers and fussed around near the front of the bus, not noisy himself but basking so pleasantly in the hype of his fellow men. There was just something about him and the way he carried on. The way he preened at himself and posed at every opportunity. The way he made those stiffly formal comments to Matthijs from day to day, somewhere between a creepy uncle and a secretly mocking rival. Sitting here in his loose tracksuit and yawning at the exhaustion of the game, de Ligt felt himself remembering the intense dark stare of those eyes and the way they’d cast over him in the changing rooms before the match, up and down him and at the girthy trunks of his blond-fluffed thighs, maybe pausing on the half-exposed dark package of his briefs. And had he been looking at him in the showers too afterwards, or was de Ligt really becoming totally paranoid now…? `Aha, we will party tonight!’ exclaimed the athlete across the aisle from him, similarly sprawled across two seats and wriggling his socked toes on the edge of the inner seat. Paulo Dybala yawned widely and stretched out his bare arms up against the window behind him, cooling off in a thin vest about his lean tanned body, kicking his legs out further into the aisle. `You will stay at the training park for a drink, yes? Matti?’ He turned his head that way with a soft smile. `Sure,’ he agreed with the Argentinian player, vague but warming to the idea. `There is much to drink to.’ `750 drinks,’ chuckled Dybala playfully, pulling his legs back and hugging his arms about them, something mischievous in his expression as he looked this way. Matthijs smiled and nodded back to him, a little taken aback yet again by the intensity of these Latin types, but glad at the prospect of a quasi-illegal drinking session at the training ground to mark the night’s big win. `Just 750?’ he joked idly back, turning to glance again down the length of the coach, seeing Ronaldo bowing and gesturing with faux humility to the adoration of a few other players; just another testosterone-fuelled footballer getting carried away with his own immense talents, he thought, nothing more than that. Stop being touchy and weird about things. Another of those little flickers of memory: lying almost paralysed in his hotel room, unable to move half his body for risk of disturbing the corrective surgery on his shoulder, and staring wide-eyed across the bed at his smirking visitor, and- `You need a beer!’ Paulo chuckled at him, kicking his thigh across the gap between their seats, then retracting his white-socked feet. `We need to get you drunk, de Ligt. Welcome you back properly.’ The Argentinian smirked widely, his grey-brown eyes sparkling between the fine dark arches of his brows. `You mersin escort were a monster in defence tonight. It is SO good to have you back.’ `Thanks,’ de Ligt told him distractedly, shifting his large body on the seats to get more comfortable, draining the dregs of his water bottle and licking his top lip. `Good to be back, too.’ `You wait,’ Dybala said in his impish voice of fun, `and I show you how much I missed you, heh.’ The Dutch lad paused and looked back at him, caught off-guard by the tone and words of this. He blinked and stared at the dark-featured South American forward, the wiry little attacking midfielder who had been here in Juventus for years longer than most of them. What an odd turn of phrase, he thought, but again… it was tough to judge what was meant in these third-language exchanges, full of cliché and platitude as the men negotiated a dozen language barriers. `Hah, yes,’ Matthijs said slowly. Dybala winked dramatically. `Party time, yes?’ he said. `Yes.’ He waved an empty water bottle in some vague gesture of agreement, sinking his broad shoulders back into the awkward corner of seat cushion and cool glass window, really too tall and well-built for these vehicular confines after a big game. He smiled vaguely at the 27-year-old footballer, dismissing his odd phrasing again, and yawned himself, enjoying the prospect of a cold Italian beer once they had bustled into the training complex and could relax for a little while before traveling home to their luxury pads. He did quickly feel better for a beer, ice-cold from one of the small fridges in the large well-furnished player lounge and down his gullet in minutes. It was another of the things he was slowly getting used to in the Italian league: a much more relaxed attitude to drinking and relaxation once the hard work was done, far removed from the austerity and discipline that marked sporting life in the Netherlands (or most countries, he hazarded). The bosses did not exactly encourage it, but they happily turned a blind eye to it; no sooner had the coach deposited the players outside the training centre than their bosses were heading off and the majority of the squad were making their way indoors and upstairs to raid the supplies. A very different culture, but one he could get used to! Someone was proposing a toast to the three goal-scorers of the night, and so he had to cast about desperately for a fresh drink so he could participate. Drifting by him with a glassy grin on his features, it was Dybala again, pressing an icy fresh bottle of local beer into his hand then moving on, winding through the crowd of tracksuited men. De Ligt put the bottleneck to his lips and slugged back its amber contents, turning his already tipsy eyes to the far side of the room where the three forwards were basking in the attention and laughing along with chants of their names. Federico Chiesa was almost dancing on the spot at the celebration of his own contribution, a petite 23-year-old winger here on loan from Fiorentina, acting as if his early goal had been a decisive one in a tournament final; beside him, the lofty Spanish figure of Alvaro Morata was more humble and chuckling, a hairy arm draped about Chiesa’s shoulders to lean on him, embracing his other around Ronaldo’s waist as the talented threesome took a clumsily synchronised bow to their colleagues. `It’s not the same, being a defender,’ he found himself saying, two beers later, slumped in one of the many boxy seats that were spaced out along the side of the room by the big misted windows, his legs spread wide and his near-finished bottle resting in against his crotch in both hands. `We don’t get the same glory, do we…?’ Poised on the seat opposite, Ramsey shrugged one shoulder and glugged noisily from his bottle. `Best of both worlds in midfield, I suppose?’ he said distantly, wrapping his lips briefly about the bottleneck then popping them away, wiping the back of a hand over the reddish-brown fluff of his short beard. `You feeling jealous?’ the Caerphilly lad asked him with a wry look, lifting one eyebrow. `No!’ de Ligt protested. `No, not that. I am just saying!’ He grinned at Aaron and knew he was already quite drunk. Despite his height and frame, it didn’t take much. Footballers of his generation hardly got the chance to misbehave on the beers before reaching the media spotlight, especially in the regime of the Dutch game, and the small strong beers were quickly intoxicating him. He knew he would have to abandon his car and use a taxi to get to his riverside apartment. He snorted clumsily at his older friend and mentor. `I am just saying, I will never be a Ronaldo,’ he said vaguely, not even sure quite what he meant, waving a hand at the Welshman. `Not on 750 goals, maybe,’ Ramsey said a little more quietly, `but physically… well, I’m not sure you will be far off him in fitness, if you don’t mind me saying. Thunder thighs. You’re like a wall in the centre-back, Matti.’ He chuckled at these ambiguous compliments and shifting his heavy legs self-consciously, lifting the beer and draining its final sour drops. `I will not be modelling underpants for Armani, don’t you worry!’ he joked. `Not with my big fat bottom.’ Ramsey smirked slightly, leaning sideways in his seat. `Hmm. Quite.’ `What am I even talking about?’ the former Ajax defender chuckled in a daze. `Sorry. I think I am drunk. I am not jealous of anyone…! Don’t worry.’ `Ah, Matti, mate,’ said the Welsh midfielder soothingly, `don’t worry, we all love you.’ He was leaning over and slapping a firm pat down on one the aforementioned thighs, clipping its firm muscle beneath the glossy black of his tracksuit. `We just want you to know that you’re appreciated. We don’t want you to go unrewarded just because you aren’t scoring the goals.’ There it was again, he thought, that odd word: rewarded. He smiled blearily back at the 29-year-old player, who was unfolding from his seat and collecting his empty from his hand with a glassy clink, then reaching to muss up his spiky blond hair before leaving him alone, with compliments and ambiguous promises ringing vaguely in his cute little ears. For several minutes, he patiently awaited Ramsey’s return with more bottles for them, staring half-interestedly about him at the pairs and groups of their fellow players that dotted the large relaxation area, perhaps a little thinned out from the larger gathering that had bowled off the coach, but still a good fifteen or so men. But he became bored and distracted, specifically by the pressure of his bladder; he clambered out of the seat and strode across the room, bumping elbows and high-fiving two or three other blokes on the way. Out into the corridor, bopping his big muscular body idly to some dully thumping music on someone’s portable speaker, and finding his way to the toilet block at the other end of the floor. Two other players were speaking in rapid Spanish (or Portuguese? Who even knew) by the sinks and he ignored them, unable to tune in and pick up a single word of it, just ambling into one of the broad urinal spaces and unfurling his equipment from his briefs and trackies, pissing heavily and loudly into the bowl. He focused on balancing himself at the spot, increasingly aware of how much the beers were affecting him, then heard a disturbingly close whistle sound just by his right shoulder. `Whew, look at THAT,’ cackled the voice of his bus neighbour, wheezing and sniggering beside him and thumping him playfully on the broad muscles of his back, `jesu Christo, what a monster…!’ Instinctively, Matti pushed his body forward and bunched his shoulders to close off the view, simultaneously laughing matily at the invasive comment, glancing about the room to confirm that Paulo’s pal had vanished from the bathroom and it was just the pair of them; the Argentinian now up on his tiptoes and leaning into his shoulder to peer over him and the divide and ogle the long flaccid girth of his piece spraying golden piss at its target. `Oi,’ Matthjis grunted, slipping for a moment into Dutch as he loudly instructed him to `back off and chill out’. Dybala just sniggered and moved away, leaving him blushing hotly into his own private view of his crotch, finishing up and shaking clean his tip, while the winger lingered in the room with him, arms folded across his chest. Matthjis blushed uncontrollably as he met his smirking face, pushing himself safely inside his undies and tugging up the front of his tracksuit. `Dybala!’ he barked embarrassedly at him, pushing past him to aggressively switch on a tap and push his hands beneath it. He swore in Dutch and watched the sniggering behaviour of the older and more experienced footballer hovering beside him, reaching for his back again and giving his shoulder a squeeze; seen together in the mirror, they were an amusingly inverted pair, the manly giant at 21 and the boyish imp at 27. `I am just saying,’ giggled the more established Juve man. `Wow. Big boy.’ De Ligt grunted and shook his head, scraping handwash across his palms. `Stop that.’ Dybala muttered more to himself but either too low to be understood or back in his own language, still bouncing about on his heels and grinning wickedly as if he had discovered something particularly sordid and exciting; Matthijs was partly amused, not quite annoyed, but a series of dull reminders of that strange summer experience were chiming together in his tipsy mind, making him want to elbow the smaller athlete aside and storm away back into the main room. He knew was a well-hung guy, his beautiful girlfriend told him every time it impaled her, he didn’t need to hear it from this Argentinian weirdo…! He just shook his head and elbowed the other man playfully on his way past, bursting out into the corridor with a low, concerned chuckle of uncertain mirth, shaking his hands dry and trying not to remember how it had felt to have Depay’s inquisitive hand slide towards him under the silky hotel bedding. The notion of men being interested in his impressive physicality was alarming to Matti, something distant and uncertain becoming intimate and pressing. In the corridor, he tried to leave that thought behind, stomping his way down the paces back to the rec room, stretching out his upper body in the loose-fitting darker Juve training jersey, adjusting the front of his trackies self-consciously and thinking about the mischief in Dybala’s eyes looming beside him at the urinal. He paused at the door into the players’ lounge, squinting about and judging that at least a few more guys had made their exits, the gathering thinning out somewhat from its raucous start. Somewhere across the other side he spied Ramsey, a beer in each hand, hah, thank fuck… But passing in front of him, momentarily barring his path, were two of the match’s many heroes. `Matti,’ yelped Chiesa eagerly, waving a plastic cup of beer in his face, `my brother. How are you? Fantastic performance tonight, Dutch. Fantastic.’ The giddy young winger reached for him in an awkward drunken hug, Morata looming behind him at his impressive 6ft3, his own cup almost empty. `Yes, escort mersin our star,’ agreed Alvaro more quietly, `well done, and welcome back.’ De Ligt grinned at both men and muttered out repeated congratulations for their respective goals, aware they had already had these snatches of generic conversation after the game, glistening wet and towelled up, and over their first beers on arrival here. But now he felt unsteady and a little lost, and he got the impression from their vague grins that these two men were somehow laughing at him, something knowing in their eyes. `You were important in that game,’ Morata told him in a simple, thoughtful way, stooping a little to steer Chiesa away, folding his arm about the Italian player’s shoulders and nodding his large head towards the doors out. `You were vital. Just like our goals. You deserve rewarding too.’ The big handsome Madrid man gave him an oddly hopeful smile that he couldn’t quite understand, darting his eyes curiously to Federico now. `Yes, just like us,’ the Fiorentina transfer sniggered. `Where is he?’ he asked Alvaro now, dragging at the sleeve of his shirt. `Let’s go get our reward. Cristiano said-` Morata seemed to give the smaller man a warning glance, something stern and authoritative in his soft features and dark brows. He grunted a string of words in Italian, of which Matthijs only really caught `quiet’ and `hurry’. And then he was shoving the other forward player on his way and flashing De Ligt another quite odd smile, sort of apologetic but secretive at once, steering both himself and his teammate out of the doors and away, leaving the Dutchman hovering behind them and feeling like no one conversation he’d had tonight quite made complete sense. `Where have you been?’ demanded Aaron jovially when he joined him, pushing the spare of two beers at him and turning away from the ageing goalkeeper he had been speaking to, throwing his arm grandly around one of Matti’s shoulder. `I was about to send a search party. Here. Drink up. A lot of fellas are starting to head off. You don’t need to go, do you?’ He was speaking in a quick and excitable manner that wasn’t totally himself, normally fairly terse and reserved in public. Clearly as tipsy and excitable as anyone else tonight. `You know you can crash in our guest room if it’s easier tonight, Matti, you are always welcome.’ He found himself just making a non-committal mumble of noise at this, still awash that nebulous discomfort he had felt even before the Dynamo game, confronted and stared down by their goal-scoring hero and leader. He glugged from the proffered beer and then looked at the little leering expression on Aaron’s face as he pulled closer, patting him affectionately on the back. `What?’ the Dutch youngster demanded suspiciously. `You’re not in a rush to go?’ Ramsey asked again. `I will already have a headache,’ Matti muttered dismissively. `What is it?’ `Erm, just a thing,’ the Welsh player said, then made an almost childish giggle at his own vagueness, supping beer and slipping away across the room, making a jerking nod gesture. `Come on.’ `What?’ de Ligt demanded more forcefully, slow to follow, but unsure what else to do. `You are being strange, friend.’ He scratched at his chin and cheek and drifted after the former Arsenal hero and family man, taking long slow steps after him and realising just how quietened the rec room actually was now, just a couple of handfuls of players propped up draining beers or half-asleep in seats. No sign of troublesome Dybala, perhaps still hovering about in the toilets comparing dick sizes! And no evidence of Ronaldo, he distantly noted, wondering if that particular hero had finally become tired of celebrating himself and gone home to wank over his own reflection. Matti balked at his own petty thoughts, questioning why he had any ill-feeling for the GOAT he got to play with. Aaron had stopped short of the doors back into the corridor, turning to give him a strange excited grin, waiting until he was very close before leaning in to speak. `You are such a star,’ he said, running a hand against the side of Matti’s thick neck, `you should come join this, y’know.’ `Join what?’ he asked, becoming annoyed now. He swatted the charming hand away from his throat and jawline and glared at his friend. `What are you talking about, pal?’ `Well, if the goal-scorers get it, so should we,’ said Aaron with a stifled snigger, nudging their arms together. `After all, we do most of the work for them, in our positions…! Right? It’s like you said — we’ll never quite get the Ronaldo glory. Except, maybe, tonight…’ `Glory,’ de Ligt echoed confusedly, and followed Ramsey step for step out into the passage and then away to the right, the opposite direction of the loos where he had been ogled; to the right and then around another corner, to the top of a short flight of steps into one of the physio treatment areas up here, where a long row of side-chambers broke off down to their left, and… the furthest of these doors was ajar, and voices emerged quietly from it into the corridor. Chuckles and — gasps? He moved on in almost autopilot, Ramsey pausing again and fixing him with a sweat-sheened expression of drunken excitement that looked almost nervous in its red cheeks and wide eyes. Then he was darting forward and de Ligt was following him, and the other player was shouldering open the door to lead them into one of the small square physio rooms, crowded with male presence and scented with a mixture of beer, hair product and aftershave, and — utterly dominated by the sight that greeted him, beyond the loitering figures of Morata and Chiesa, beyond the welcoming gesture of Ramsey himself, shifting to the side to let him in, then reaching behind him to tug the door firmly shut after them, closing them in. And all Matthijs could do was stare across at the tall, relaxed outline of Ronaldo, his shirt now needlessly off again to expose the artwork of muscle that formed his torso, the deep lines of his six-pack drawing the eye down to the head in front of his crotch, the hands upon his waist, and the slow bobbing motion with which Paulo Dybala leant in and out from between his smooth shiny thighs, fellating the icon with noisy wet gurgles. Cristiano sighed happily and reached down, stroking his fingertips through the soft thin strands of Paulo’s hair, and turning his own face to grin at the newcomer in the room, confidently ready to judge his response. For a moment, the 21-year-old really looked his age, not the giant Nordic centre-back, just a puzzled and intimidated young lad far from home; then he seemed to rally, frowning with a show of disgust, and glancing sharply side to side at the others. But Morata, Ronaldo happily saw, already had a hand down the front of his dark trackies to feel himself up, and Chiesa was taking out his cock, pulling up the front of his shirt over his tight tummy muscles while he fingered his short red prick out of his underpants in readiness. `Dybala,’ Ronaldo growled, selecting English for the sake of the newbie, `you should share those slut lips with the others now…’ And reaching down, he pressed the Argentina player away, dragging his soft whore mouth from his own big Madeiran meat, relaxing back against the edge of the treatment bed with his bare glutes. Ronaldo took hold of his own cock, feeling it slick and damp with saliva, and pulled gently at himself while Dybala, on his knees, turned and readied for a second round: the young Fiorentina visitor moved forward swiftly, eyes alive with eagerness. Quickly, Dybala was attacking the prize, grabbing him around the thighs and tugging his bottoms further down, while Federico himself began dragging his Juve shirt up and off to expose his lean body in a slim youthful parody of Cristiano’s own brazen nakedness. Not much was said, the room was occupied just by the gurgling of the cocksucker and the soft excitable moans of the first goal-scorer; and Ronaldo moaned too, sighing softly as he ran his hand up and down the extensive length of his shaft, enjoying the sight of his favoured slut kneeling for the new loan player, face bobbing back and forth into that hairy crotch of the Italian lad, devouring his little Genovese prick with loud enjoyment. Again, Cristiano eyed up Matti, seeing his indecision and conflict, but the curious firmness with which he stared across at both giver and receiver. And next to him, Ramsey was stroking his shoulder, playing his other hand across his tummy, edging his fingers lower; the Welsh bloke’s excitement was palpable, and Ronaldo felt a surge of gratitude for his support in engineering this, knowing his closeness to the Dutch talent. Knowing that, of course, and knowing how much the seemingly wholesome Welsh midfielder loved to cheat on his wife with any talented mouth going; they had shared sluttish little Dybala before. And then, on the other side of de Ligt, there was Morata too, whose temptations into deviance had been known to Ronaldo for many years, their paths crossing in his Real Madrid supremacy too… And Dybala, jerking at Chiesa’s cock and making him whine in Italian, was moving over to try and get to Morata’s prized piece, so large and apparent in the front of his tracksuit bottoms now… out it came, long and thick enough to earn a gasp of desire from the Argentine slut, but too short by a couple of inches to threaten Ronaldo’s great delight in his own generous endowment. He wanked a bit harder at his big cock as he saw Paulo go down on Alvaro, saw the sordid innocence of the big Spaniard’s gasping face. Morata was a beautiful man and all the more beautiful for how easily corruptible he clearly was, as Ronaldo had discovered years back in the Spanish heat. Cristiano met eyes with Aaron and nodded forcefully — the hint was taken, and down went the Welsh player’s pants, first the trackies and then the black CK trunks, out came with the shapely uncircumcised meat and the spitting in his palm, the slow pulls of his hand over that pink head slowly revealed by curling foreskin. Only Matthijs now was fully clothed and frigid, caught there in front of the door with excited men on all sides, and Dybala beginning to look hungrily at him. `Matti,’ Ronaldo purred, `come here…’ He patted firmly at the soft leather of the bed behind him, shuffling an inch or two to the right, squeezing the base of his big Portuguese weapon. Matthijs looked at him with conflict in his sparkling eyes, but then moved over — tiptoeing around the furious way Paulo mouthed and slathered on a Spanish cock — and rested his broad buttocks to the edge of the bed not far from Cristiano’s hip. Still jerking his dick with his right hand, he lifted his left and lay it around those broad young shoulders, not quite embracing him, but holding him there, asserting his authority. Now Dybala was moving to Ramsey, but the circle was closing, so that the chosen slut on his knees was really encircled by them, crouched down sideways on the floor in front of them with Morata and Chiesa both wanking so close to his face as he lapped at the tip of a Welsh bone and mersin escort bayan then took the whole thing into his mouth. His handsome tanned face was slick with his own drool and maybe little traces of pre-cum, his hooded eyes rolling and staring up at each man he pleasured, enjoying the sights of them. Ramsey was quieter and deeper in his growling breaths than the Spanish or Italian guys, holding his tshirt halfway up his iron six-pack, closing his eyes and trying to control his breaths, but red-cheeked and lost in pleasure. `See how good he is?’ Ronaldo growled towards de Ligt. `Watch him go.’ `Fuck,’ sighed the Dutch lad in a voice mixed with quavering uncertainty and that deep manly confidence that defined the big youngster. Already he was pawing at the front of his tracksuit bottoms, beginning to be intoxicated in the same way as the rest of them; Cristiano grinned smugly and patted the back of his head approvingly. `Get it out,’ he whispered to him, but already Paulo Dybala was turning back this way, licking his bottom lip, and pulling stray dark hairs away from his sweaty brow. Ronaldo watched with sordid second-hand glee as the smaller footballer rubbed hands across the expanse of de Ligt’s delightful thighs, working his way inwards, finding the shape beneath the folds, then beginning to drag down at the material, towards and past the knees… around the crouching bitch, the others wanked on, lazily in Morata’s case and with frenzy in Chiesa’s. Ramsey looked almost close to cumming already, the overexcited British prude! There was still something hesitant about Matthijs’ body language, but Cristiano helped and encouraged him, guiding him to lift up his body for a moment so his trackies could be pulled clear and across those mighty thighs and down rustling over his shins and calves. The black briefs followed with an elastic twang, and out came his privates: his long fat semi and the droopy sag of his balls, the bristly stubble of his shaven pubes. Dybala, surprisingly, moved more slowly and tenderly, clearly wishing to savour virgin territory, not thrusting his face in there to eat it like he had with the other men. As he began to toy with the Dutch snake with fingertips then lips, Ronaldo lifted his hand to hold and stroke the back of de Ligt’s neck and head, soothing but authoritative. He felt the head tilt back and heard the young hunk’s long sigh as his cock was taken into a hot wet mouth. Oh, yes. The slowness and gentleness of Dybala’s approach was soon gone; he was licking and playing with the hardening tool with the same frantic energy as he’d started on his master’s. And they all kept pace: wanking and groaning and sweating. Ronaldo loved the cramped fullness of the room, the closeness of his and Matti’s bodies on the side of the bed, with the other three forming a wall around their male toy, jerking their dicks aggressively in his direction… now and then Paulo’s hands would cast out for one, coming up to tickle Ronaldo by the balls, or taking tight hold of Morata and jerking his massive Madrid prize. As predicted, Aaron Ramsey came first — the poor British bloke must have needed it badly! He made a long whimpering noise before doing it, and Matthijs de Ligt looked left at him in obvious alarm; but no alarm from Dybala as he turned his face that way and caught as much of the spunk as he could in his curled tongue, the rest rolling down his cheeks and chins in an off-white mess. Watching that, Ronaldo needed service again, reaching for and dragging the cum-smeared face back to his own prick, fucking into that sticky mouth while Ramsey whined pathetically and the other men just panted furiously and jerked off, even the 21-year-old newbie. Ronaldo, however, wanted to delay his orgasm a little, and after another couple of minutes, he pushed Dybala away, encouraging him to nosh another cock. Ramsey, he saw, had fallen back against the closed door, panting with eyes closed, his tshirt falling back down his abs and his cock dripping cum down the leg of his trackies. Ronaldo averted his dark excited eyes and watched excitable Chiesa cum inside Dybala’s mouth, thrusting his hips at his face like he was fucking a girl. Dybala did not make it over to suck Morata before the big Spaniard was cumming too, and the load form him was explosive, flecks of it falling into the strands of the crouched man’s hair like gel or wax. Now, Ronaldo thought, now it’s my time… and he reached greedily, pulling at Paulo by the shoulder, urging him over and directing his big hard-on in between his quivering lips. He stretched his left arm about Matthijs again, enjoying his heat and firmness there beside him, the clumsy jerk of his big body as he tried to pleasure himself in a hurry; Cristiano’s right hand fell powerfully on top of Dybala’s, feeling his cum-smeared locks, and pushing his face down into the hot playground of his crotch, also pressing up with his strong core muscles and fucking his gagging mouth until he could feel himself ready to shoot. Usually, he loved shooting inside a guy or girl’s mouth, giving them no choice but to gulp his sauce, but he had a new audience here; he pushed Dybala away and really down onto his haunches and finished himself off by hand, adding a second explosion of cum to the Spaniard’s performance minutes ago. Ronaldo swore loudly and gasped in contentment as strings of his seed blasted across Dybala’s desperate face, lancing his tongue and eyelashes — but also, messily, down the glistening insides of his own thigh muscles, and over the bulging veins of his strong hand and wrist, oozing over his own skin, filling the room with that salty scent. `Now, the boy,’ he barked at Dybala, who barely needed telling, leaning clumsily over to nosh down on de Ligt, while pushing his hand inside his pants to jerk himself at the same time. Next to him, the Dutch giant was convulsing and groaning so deeply, pushing back into the fold of Cristiano’s arm; his huge legs really spread and stroked as the eager handsome face of Dybala buried between them to swallow as much as his massive dong as he could, really eating it back and working it with speed and skill. Speed and skill that Ronaldo had taught him this past couple of years since arriving here in his fourth major European league. Ronaldo watched as de Ligt was pleasured beyond his highest expectations, the perspiration on his face and neck revealing the intensity of his feeling. But he would not settle for just watching. More was needed to claim this boy as one of his. He removed his aching right hand from the lofty tool of his cock, still full-mast now it had blown, and brought his hand slowly up to chest height and then across. He jutted out two digits, looking at the drooling smear of his own cum that decorated them, and brought it close to Matti’s face. The lad’s eyes rolled this way and bulged. But he was so caught in a moment, Dybala bouncing up and down between his legs and literally choking on his dick, that he didn’t know how to resist or move away; he looked entranced like the victim of a snake. Ronaldo brushed his sticky fingers against those dark pink lips, then pushed more firmly, breaking two digits not his mouth, feeling the quivering softness of them close over his fingers as he slid them into the first and second knuckle, feeding a small sample of his flavour to the red-faced lad, who at that very moment was piping hot jizz into Dybala’s gob. The room was awash with the panting of everyone, mingled gasps and heavy breaths and high-pitched sniggers, but Ronaldo just fixed his eyes on the beautiful sight of his fingers leave Matti’s mouth, leaving a little silvery trace of cum on his bottom lip as he gulped down air and jerked his face safely away, almost collapsing sideways on the bed. On the floor in front of them, Dybala yelped out his own climax, swearing to `jesus christo’ and stooping to kiss Ronaldo gratefully above the knee, thanking him for the gift of this orgy. Matthijs moved across the dark lawns in front of the Ramsey villa, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trackies, eyes on the path, trainers scuffing across the old flagstones of the renovated old property. A few yards ahead of him, the midfielder stalked carefully through the grounds of his own home and eyed dark windows above, suppressing the jingle of keys in one bunched fist and patting himself on the hip with the other. `We’ll need to be quiet,’ Aaron purred in his soft Welsh accent, leading the way up to the side entrance of the property. `I don’t want the kids waking up. You’ll be okay in the downstairs guestroom yeah, buddy…?’ The handsome 29-year-old paused where he was, unlocking the door and looking over his shoulder with a sleepy but cheerful expression on his face. `Yeah?’ Matti, who hadn’t really been listening, lifted his heavy head and stared at him. `Sorry?’ Aaron just grinned softly, pushed the unlocked door open an inch, then reached behind him to pat him quite patronisingly once on the cheek. `Downstairs bedroom again, okay…? Sorry if the kids wake you early but the missus will cook us a nice Welsh fry up. None of this continental shit. Sound good?’ He grinned, that same friendly expression that had been very welcoming to Matthijs in his first weeks here training with Juventus. It seemed tainted now, loaded with shared knowledge of things that footballers weren’t supposed to engage in. De Ligt couldn’t hold in the brusque question. He scratched his stubble quietly and frowned up at his host, keeping his voice low out of caution and loyalty. `You do shit like that often?’ he snapped coolly, having kept his silence on the way out of the party and in the long taxi ride around Turin to the village where his friend lived. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. `Is that a normal thing where you come from, or something?’ Aaron’s smile didn’t fade but there was a little flinch to his expression, a hesitation to his body language as he held the door just a fraction open and kept their quiet conversation out here, away from his perfect domesticity. `It doesn’t need to be a big deal, lad,’ he grunted unconvincingly. `It’s just one of those things, Matti. Didn’t you enjoy it…? No…?’ Matthijs sighed disapprovingly at this conclusion, trying to indicate through his pouting lips and flared nostrils that this was hardly the point. `I don’t know if I can look Paulo in the eye!’ he said crossly, but Aaron just sniggered at this and rubbed a hand over his sleepy eyes and soft beard. `You’ll find a way,’ he said sagely. `Was it really such a shock to you? You’ve never…?’ `Never!’ he hissed back at him, though as soon as he’d said it, he knew it wasn’t totally true, not having been jerked off out of kindness and compassion by that handsome playboy Depay in his hospital bed. He’d allowed that once, so was it a surprise that he had allowed… THIS? Could he truly judge any of them for their use of Dybala like that? But — and this was where he felt nauseous and confused — how could Paulo submit to it like such a bitch, and…? He screwed up his face and edged forward, already regretting asking anything. On the way indoors, Aaron just patted him on the back and gave him a last goodnight smile. `You’re an impressive lad, Matti,’ he said in a sighing yawn. `You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t overthink it, buddy. Just sleep well. And be glad Ronaldo likes you. Heh.’

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