premiership-lads-279

Subject: Premiership Lads Part 279 Part 279: The Return of the King There was an atmosphere of defeat in the hotel bar with its bleak wintry view of the motorway — the United players were subdued, hangdog and surly. But for their celebrated striker, they were not subdued, hangdog or surly enough. The mighty English club had just been trounced 4-1 by a middling-at-best yo-yo club as if they were nothing, and for Cristiano Ronaldo, these unambitious fuckers were simply not disappointed enough; not hungry enough, not invested enough. For them, he was realising, this up-and-down non-performance was acceptable and even inevitable, but for Cristiano, it just wasn’t good enough. It was NOT what the Portuguese legend had come `home’ for. The 36-year-old pillar of muscle supped from a faintly flavoured soda with his polo shirt clinging to the ageless physique of his upper body, watching with undisguised contempt as up and down the bar from him, the younger men of Old Trafford bought alco-pops and pints of ugly beer, ready to pollute their bodies and waste their potential. The 6ft1 demigod scoffed quietly and shook his head, backing away from the service area and shooting these judgmental glares about him, evaluating how righteously disappointed each teammate seemed to be in light of the Sunday’s embarrassment — none of them, he told himself, cared enough. Idiots. Weaklings. In fact, he noticed, the team’s one lucky scorer, Donny Van de Beek, even looked like he was celebrating a win. Yes, the boyish blond had passed some personal milestone in achieving that goal, but it hardly mattered! And really, why was the fucking idiot so resigned to his shit role here as a bench-warming pretty boy? Cristiano scowled at him from a distance, irritated by the way a few of the other players congratulated and clustered around the Dutchman as if he had just belted them into the final of a tournament. Fools. Ronaldo saw little else to respect in some of the more regular first-team men of Manchester Utd, disappointed to see Rashford excitedly showing Shaw some magazine he was pictured in at one corner table, and big McTominay doing shots with Sancho and Dalot. Lingard was filming himself for some cringey social media update and even their glowering captain, brutish Maguire, was wearing a bland smile and telling Mata and Matic about his wedding plans at one end of the bar. Ugh! For a minute, CR7 stood alone in the centre of the bland corporate bar area, a quiet rage juddering through every muscle and bone of his 6ft1 frame. And then he marched out of the room, clapping his near-full pint of sugar-free soft drink down on a spare table and elbowing open the double-doors that took him out into the quiet grey-beige corridors of the hotel. This had gone on too long. He slid a smartphone from the deep pocket of his black tracksuit bottoms, storming further down the corridor and coming to a stop in a quiet vestibule area beside the elevators, other hand on his strong hip and gaze fixed out on the Watford drizzle. He tapped through his contacts and made the decisive call, too fed up to give the situation any longer. The transfer had come as some shock to the football world this summer, and it had certainly happened in a rush. But in the end, Ronaldo’s sudden and surprising leap from Juventus back to the club that had made him was not really the product of his growing boredom and distraction in Northern Italy, nor about his steely ambition to end his career on a high. Nor had it been a cold calculation of fees, salaries, and endorsements. No. It had come about on a dull weekend in the middle of summer when Turin baked beneath the sun and his Argentinian girlfriend was supposed to be on a girly weekend in the city rather than at their mansion in the suburban hills. But there she was, at the door to the basement games room, her hands loaded with designer shopping bags on either side like a laden donkey, and her heavily made-up face a mask of familiar shock and envy, her mouth a perfectly rouged `O’ of horror. And there he was, leaning one hand on a trophy cabinet and using the other to hold his teammate’s head in place, pinning the other forward in place even as he turned his intense gaze to the surprisingly open door and the screamed interruption to his afternoon pleasure. For a few long moments, the younger man’s mouth continued to do pleasant things to his swollen balls and the long rigid shaft of his manhood, but then Paulo Dybala was turning around and staring back at her too, his mouth and chin glistening with saliva and pre-cum. Ronaldo remained still, not taking his stern grip off Dybala’s waxy dark hair, letting the two Argentinians stare each other down, those two mouths that most regularly swallowed his precious seed. The legendary striker just sighed just once, looking at his female partner with no explicit apology, and then pushed Dybala away so that the younger striker tottered and slid off his knees, humiliated on the floor while Ronaldo’s huge erection juddered and dripped with his fresh spittle. And Juventus was over. `He needs to go,’ he ended the call, repeating the imperative in brittle English after already saying it thrice in Portuguese and Spanish. `It is ridiculous now. The man is a fool and we are lying to ourselves every week. He must go now, there is no more time. Make it happen or I retire. It is that simple.’ The faceless executive on the phone began gabbling some more soothing platitudes at him, but the Portuguese striker was already ending the call, frowning out of the window and feeling utterly sure of his harsh sentiment. There was a moment of quiet where the only sound was his shallow angry breathing and the patter of rain on the window, and then the thick Sheffield accent of another man bursting out behind him. `What the fuck have you done?’ demanded the captain’s snarl. In front of Ronaldo, the twilight view shifted, and his eyes concentrated instead on the dim reflection of his own presence, then picking out the sight of Harry Maguire looming a few metres behind him. Without turning, he let out a single hollow bark of laughter. `What we should have done weeks ago, Harry,’ he said dismissively, putting the phone away and then turning around to face the other big athlete. The tall defender’s face was twisted uglier with unhappiness as they faced each other in matching red polos and the same Adidas tracksuit bottoms. Maguire hulked there in silence for a few beats, his huge shoulders tensing up and his lips opening and closing. `Who were you talking to?’ he demanded with loud suspicion. `You don’t run this fucking club, mate.’ It seemed as if the dismissive `Harry’ had riled Ronaldo’s current captain as much as the conversation that he must have overheard. Ronaldo paused with knowing arrogance, folding his tanned arms across his mighty chest, and squaring up to the taller Englishman. `Don’t I?’ he remarked simply, then more firmly, `His days are numbered here, you idiot. If only everybody else could see it. He’ll be out by the time we’re on a coach to Manchester, and good riddance.’ Heavy confused breaths from the big English idiot. `You don’t have that-` `If you don’t believe me, then why are you shaking with rage?’ Cristiano snapped bluntly at him, shaking his head. He knew that the captain did not really underestimate his power or influence, otherwise this tension would not have bristled between them since the moment Ronaldo arrived back on English soil. He smiled poisonously at the other man and then shrugged his shoulders with no regret. `Football is a tough business. Ole is not cutting it. He’s over.’ `You’ve no right to act like this,’ muttered Maguire bitterly, and it really was tough to see if it was empathy for the manager who had loyally supported him, or just proud outrage at his own leadership being usurped, that made him look so white-hot with impotent rage. His fists curled in and out of bulky fists and he took a step closer. `I’m the captain.’ Aha, the latter. `You’re a big deal, yeah, but you ain’t in charge here, and Ole has been good to us all and we think-` `Just because he turns a blind eye to how awful you all are,’ Cristiano spat, and then his supposed superior lunged. Harry swung a fist like some big drunk idiot in a backstreet pub, and his power was evident in every bulging muscle of arm and chest; but Cristiano was as sharp at 36 as 15 years ago, and he dodged to the side with lightning reflexes, letting the fist sail past its target and then reaching up to snatch Harry about the wrist with fiery calm. Maguire stopped, his arm held, and no doubt he had the strength to pull free and make this fight happen — but he stood there heaving, meeting Ronaldo’s eyes, and every inch of his big stupid face revealed his regret and embarrassment. `Did you really just try to punch a fellow player?’ Ronaldo asked him quietly and slowly, squeezing tightly on his thick wrist. He made a hissing little tut sound. `It will be interesting what the board makes of that. Very, very interesting.’ His own anger flared and raged and much of him wanted to take the fool on, show this young dunce what a man of real power and experience was capable of — but he pushed Harry’s arm away and scowled silently at him as he stepped around him like a piece of shit, controlling his posture and voice intently: `I’ll let you sleep on that thought, captain.’ He made sure the two syllables of the final word were icy and brittle and didn’t bother looking back at the great big shape of the awkward Englishman, stomping imperiously back down the corridor instead. Maguire had caught his eye in those first locker-room moments of his second Old Trafford chapter, but then so had many others; in Ronaldo’s fussy eyes, the overpaid defender was as ugly as sin, but he was also a huge figure (in several ways) and he had given his 6ft4 muscular physique a clinical looking over in one his first communal showers at the club, from the plateau of his big shoulders to the rich dark fur of his upper thighs. And, of course, a cursory glance at the thing between them, sizeable enough to give Ronaldo’s planetary ego a wobble — he was unsure which of them swung and dangled more in that department, but he had not risked dwelling on it. After all, he was under strict orders from his woman, now pregnant with his latest child, and for now Cristiano intended to keep to them. The Juventus incidents had been embarrassing, and he knew her threats of going to the world media were deadly serious. It was not the image or reputation the 36-year-old Yozgat Escort wished to end his glorious sporting career on, not at all. Even so… Eyes wander. You don’t go into an art gallery and stare at your shoes. Pogba entertained Ronaldo on the same grounds as Maguire — a big ugly brute, but just so much of him to admire, physically. And a worldly experience made Edinson Cavani interesting in a way, though he was not aesthetically pleasing to Cristiano’s long-refined tastes. He preferred to enjoy a discreet lingering look at the younger members of the squad, of which there were many at his senior footballing age: Shaw was a little bulky for his tastes, but he had a smile that would look good at crotch-height, and there was a raw cheekiness to that squib Sancho that reminded him of so many eager-to-please men over the years, all bouncy and energetic in the home and away changing rooms of the early season, desperate to establish himself and never quite finding his moment. And the equally fresh-faced Mason Greenwood, a promising striker who seemed to epitomise the awkward hero worship that Ronaldo encountered (and relished) in so many of that generation, the people who had grown up arguing over whether he or Messi (hah!) was the GOAT of their profession. Perhaps more than any, he enjoyed the physical neatness and ripped musculature of lads like Marcus Rashford, often positioning himself at the next locker or showerhead to the hearty Mancunian; even the wholesomeness and `apolitical’ activism of the local boy was additionally appealing to Ronaldo, who gave much to Portuguese poverty and would never forget his own humble beginnings. Still, it was Rashford’s tattooed limbs and perfect six-pack that he took mental snapshots of to briefly imagine whilst deep inside his Argentine woman. And there was no real frustration or difficulty in these visual delights, not for a man of Cristiano’s mental discipline — he knew that he could take what he wanted, and right now he was choosing monogamy. The Portuguese men in the team were a slightly more irritating matter, he had to admit. He caught the knowing little glances of Bruno Fernandes or Diogo Dalot from time to time, and thought about the things those countrymen had seen and heard in international camps, and the overly familiar or creepingly curious way they moved closer to him as cronies in the Man Utd squad. Gently and solemnly, Ronaldo kept these so-called friends at arm’s length, knowing that they might present far too easy an opportunity to him and threaten the current peace in his home life. But none of it was too difficult for him. After all, there was one man in those showers who he admired and enjoyed more than any other, whose body he craved and worshipped, and whose power and success on the pitch made him wild with lust: and that was the man he saw in the steamy changing room mirror, smirking back at him just as it had when he was a teenager making his debut here in the heart of Manchester. After clashing with his `captain’, Ronaldo had gone for a walk about the unattractive hotel grounds, bracing himself against the miserable British cold and watching night settle on the out-of-town environment. Better to be cold and angry out here than to have gone back to the bar and watched that collection of losers licking their wounds and chuckle through the club’s decline; only when he thought he could speak to another single player without punching them in the face did Cristiano re-enter the building and stalk back in the direction of his room. His solitary room, a contractual condition that had been made official before he re-signed for his former club, unwilling to share — he had pretended this was entirely his own decision, and not a product of the possessive paranoia of his woman. Right now, the isolation of his own hotel room was convenient for far more anger-related reasons, but it was also a source of some frustration and fresh indignation; CR7 was not a footballer used to sleeping alone when he needed to either celebrate or commiserate. Like some divine intervention or heavy hint from the gods, the 36-year-old then found his path occupied by another man in the same Man Utd sportswear and heavy puffer coat, stumbling along with a bag of sweet-n-salted popcorn in one hand and the other stuffing it into his young mouth. `Oh, `ello,’ mumbled the youngster through a mouthful of the snack, pausing awkwardly in the corridor and giving him the same respectful stare as so many did — understandable, when the 20-year-old must have entirely grown up watching his career trajectory. Not for the first time, Ronaldo looked evaluatively at the 5ft11 forward in front of him, the slight acne of his thin handsome face, currently vibrating with the nervous crunch of popcorn, then licking his pink pouting lips. `You alright?’ grunted Mason Greenwood now, hand pausing on the way back into the bag of snacks. Ronaldo stared at him silently, arms hanging at his sides, his chest lifting and falling beneath the padded layers of the Utd coat. He looked Greenwood up and down, evaluating the gawky youngster who had not even featured in the line-up for today’s disaster match — well, he supposed, at least this promising young twit wasn’t culpable in how badly they had fallen to Watford, not directly. And he did look more downbeat than most of the idiots up in that bar, who were ready to accept months more of this humiliation just to give their beloved Norwegian a `chance’. `Where are you going?’ he asked Mason suddenly in a low voice. The 20-year-old forward shrugged. `Just hangin’ out.’ `Alone?’ `Er. Right now, I guess.’ `I have my own room.’ `Er — right. Yeh. I know. Erm.’ Ronaldo reached out and with a simple flick of his hand, knocked the bag of popcorn away from Greenwood’s hands, letting it fall between them to the carpet, its popped contents spilling messily across the floor between their trainers. Mason stared dismally down at it like a kid who’s dropped his ice cream, and then back up at him, eyes full of questions, mouth hanging open a bit. `If you’re hungry,’ Ronaldo growled, `come to my room and let me feed you.’ He licked his lips, glared at the younger man, and then showily grabbed the front of his glossy black bottoms. Mason gulped. Being in the iconic red Utd kit again brought back a lot of memories of the past, as much as Cristiano wanted to look forwards rather than back, and as different a man he was now than in his wildly optimistic late teens when he first stepped into this kit. On his first real day of Carrington training, those memories stopped him short, cutting off his confident strut beneath the late evening floodlights and making him pause with his hands on his hips, tall and powerful but momentarily overwhelmed. He huffed out a loud breath and felt the warm sweat of a late summer night prickle at his deeply tanned neck and back. Rolled his neck slowly and let himself wander mentally for a few moments before he would have to pull it together and jog back across this training pitch to follow everybody else indoors. The striker stared away past the chalked lines, eyeing the space behind the goalposts and the corrugated wall of kit sponsors that bordered this end of the training space, creating a shadowy spot just beyond the pale glow of lights. A secretive edge to the pitch where the lights failed and the dark lengthened — on a winter night, such space would be darker, and it had also been quite wet and cold, he remembered. Over there, he knew, was the spot where he had been dragged to the ground in a damp, tense grapple with the other world-conquering teen of his early Manchester career. Their egos and bodies clashing out here on the turf, with the rain glistening in the beams of floodlight. But the other of those teenage bodies weighing down on him, pressing him to the grass, thick and freckled and red with effort. Shorts and tight underpants being wrenched away as they explored each other, wet and desperate and raging with hormones. Briefly, the ageing superstar pictured a much younger vision of himself, being thrown forward against that very wall. Different sponsors, same effect. Denting it with his elbows and his strength, clutched behind by that hulking ogre of a lad. He could still here his Scouse accent: `I’m going to fuck you like a girl!’ Cristiano’s stony face revealed no emotion as he recalled it, bending over for 18-year-old Wayne Rooney and giving up his hole to him — then and a few dozen more times over the six years they shared here. A flickering ambivalent smirk covered Cristiano’s features as he stared at the familiar spot and thought about that first rugged encounter beneath a Mancunian storm, and how far he had come since then, in so many ways… The boy followed him to his room, of course. Such gambits were low-risk for a man of Ronaldo’s status now. Even if Greenwood had been freaked out and alarmed, or just disinterested, who would have believed him? But things were as the 36-year-old had arrogantly come to expect: his young colleague traipsed after him with wide eyes and was now taking hurrying steps into the suite behind him, letting the door fall shut behind them with a soft thud. Cristiano gave him a knowing smirk and grabbed at his own crotch again, remaining a cool distance from the other footballer, but eyeing him intensely and feeling his mood improve already. There would need to be players loyal to him, he thought, once he had deposed Ole and started something new here at this flailing club of legends. Mason looked awed and devoted, perfect. Not that he was about to go easy on him. He almost sniggered, but remained still and silent, triggering a nervous frown and little gloss of sweat on Mason’s face. Cristiano squeezed himself and then took a step closer. `Well?’ he demanded. `I asked if you were hungry.’ Greenwood’s laugh was a hesitant noise, and he pulled at the collar of his polo shirt. `Mate…?’ Cristiano enjoyed the slightly unconvincing innocence of this, knowing that the 20-year-old had seen his lewd gestures and followed him here in a hurry. He grabbed and half-lifted the front of his tight-fitting red top, baring some of his ridiculous six-pack, and watched Mason’s eyes lunge down there to examine the perfect muscles, and the rising shape in the black nylon below. `Come on,’ the older striker snapped impatiently. `On your knees.’ Quickly, the younger United player did so, stumbling forward and then kneeling down on the rough carpet. Still, there was something clueless and naïve Yozgat Escort Bayan about him, but clearly he knew what was going on here, and he knew what to do. He stared open with wide eyes and gently parted lips, cute and earnest, while he grabbed the pockets of Cristiano’s trackies and dragged them down. Impatient, Cristiano hooked fingers inside the tight waistband of his own personal underwear brand, arrogantly bearing his own logo, and pushed them down too, giving Mason a face-full of his meat. He hooked a large hand under his flopping balls and stiffening prick, flopping it forward, then let the English lad lean in, mouth open and tongue out, and attend to it. `Ahhh,’ he sighed, `that’s it…’ Stood in the centre of the room, Ronaldo relaxed into the pleasing moment, feeling a warm and eager mouth on his dick and his balls, instantly certain that this was not the young tease’s first time at all, he knew his way round an erection. And it had been a few months now since CR7 had felt a man’s mouth doing this work — by god, they did it so much better! Nothing delicate or prissy about it, definitely not with this young buck. Ronaldo clamped that strong hand against the back of Greenwood’s head, feeling the rough fuzz of his short afro hair, and pressed his dick deeper into the sloppy mouth, making him gag, showing him his rightful dominance. And yet… As dominant and alpha as Ronaldo now was, his mind would still sometimes revisit the early days, the Rooney nights. Even then, Cristiano had been arrogant and sure of himself, had so quickly proven his ambitions true as he became a young force of nature at Old Trafford — but in the most private moments in the dark, he had allowed himself to be anything but the strapping warrior he personified on the pitch. No, he’d been a squealing bitch for that thuggish Scouser, and the memories drifted back to him now and then, splayed on hotel room floors, not even given the comfort of the bed, his lithe muscles rubbing against harsh floorings as he was borne down by grunting Wayne, the council estate lump smashing into him in a dozen cities across the UK and Europe over the years. Once or twice in public places, a few more times at the training ground. More vividly than anything else, Cristiano remembered the last time. It had been the same day his Real Madrid deal was revealed to the world, and Wayne had been furious with him. Words like `traitor’ and `snake’ had featured a lot in the lumpen Englishman’s dirty talk as he cornered him in a hotel room not so different from this one. Ronaldo had been quietly unapologetic, full of challenging stares and smug provoking disinterest, an exaggeration of his usual aloofness to his strange friend. He’d loved Rooney’s passion and anger then, and he could remember how forcefully he was thrown against the wall, one of the Scouse guy’s hands shoved into his pants and the other practically choking his neck to the wall, making him rock-hard. That night had been the last time he really gave himself up to somebody else, a dynamic so different to everything he had lived ever since, and so it remained crystal-sharp in his mind’s eye. He’d felt powerful in those moments, for some reason, seeing Rooney’s angry distress, feeling it through his meaty cock. He’d clenched and arched and pushed back as he was fucked, pulling Wayne’s stubby hands in against his abs, powering back onto his dick and listening to the near-sobs of his orgasmic grunts, feeling something more than club pride in the way he was insulted over and over. `You fucking traitor,’ Rooney had sobbed bitterly into his ear, `why are you leaving us?’ Their bodies smashed about the room that night, breaking a couple of lamps and a chair, and through it all Ronaldo said almost nothing to the other powerful athlete, just took and relished every thrust and grab and drip of sweat. Rooney had crushed him against the broken chair, filling him up and clinging to him as he growled and spat: `Traitor! Fucking traitor! Why are you leaving ME?’ By now, his shirt was off, peeled away from the hard sculptural muscle of his torso, and he had moved to the bed, lounging back to give the gobbling youngster better access to his cock. Ronaldo propped himself up on both elbows and smirked down his long body at the sight of pink blush in Greenwood’s cheeks, eyes watering a little as he did his best to slide up and down that shaft, drooling and hungry. His eyes looked at him with the same wonder as they had on the pitch when they first trained and played together, an aspiring young striker somehow linking up with his role model. Ronaldo stroked his own body idly, sliding fingers over the satisfyingly firm and smooth muscle, enjoying his own physique as much as he knew the other man was, and pressing up with his strong hips and glutes so that his big shaft buried further into Greenwood’s gasping mouth, enjoying the little chokes and gags that sounded from him. He stopped the action with a few commanding gestures, pausing the sloppy pleasure that was applied to his raging hard-on, but only so that he could drag the other United player up onto the bed with him and yank away at that top until it came off. Mason’s body was much slighter and leaner than his, still quite gangly despite the budding six-pack, and he sneered pleasantly to enjoy his own superior physique beside the 20-year-old. He said as much, demanding to know what Mason thought, while dragging his hands onto the pecs and abs and back down to his cock. `Well?’ he barked. `Tell me what you think of my body.’ Mason was all gasping approval, stooping to kiss him on the pecs and lick experimentally at his nipples. But when he lifted up and brought their faces close, seeking a kiss, Cristiano just frowned and evaded it, instead pushing his face back down towards his leaking cock, demanding a kiss there and never on the lips. `Mmm, yes,’ the older striker groaned encouragingly, `just there…’ He pressed up, choking him some more with his cock, and then dragged their bodies into new positions across the bed. A tall slim player, Greenwood felt quite light to his strong arms, easily dragged and positioned even at 5ft11. And Ronaldo was businesslike and directorial in his intimacy, only briefly bothering to push his hands inside the other lad’s trackies to check on his rigid boner, then commandingly stripping down those nylons and the designer undies below. He smirked, thinking that he would give Greenwood packages of CR7 briefs and insist that the youngster wore nothing else from now on. The possibility that Mason might refuse such a demand could not even enter his head. They were both naked now, kicking off their trainers and their ankle socks, fully exposed bodies tangling over the bed, with Ronaldo very much in charge. Fully nude, he knew his body was all the more impressive and Greek godlike, he saw the full impact of its visual beauty on the gaping youngster, and he flexed arrogantly for him, letting Mason stroke and kiss his arm muscles and his chest and up and down his tummy, all the while jabbing his wet cock at him and making his own gradual reaches for his own prize here — he reached around and squeezed one and then the other lean pert buttock of Greenwood’s rear, giving them short sharp slaps. Ronaldo sat upright with his legs spread, Greenwood’s face buried down there between his sun-bronzed thighs, his long back jutting upwards into the pleasant brown curve of his rump. Cristiano continued to squeeze and slap it, then spat in his fingers, and ran two of them into the fluffy crevice. It made Mason’s body twitch and convulse, and briefly disturbed the lapping of his tongue against the Portuguese balls, but Cristiano’s left hand guided his head back to work, forcing his dick into his mouth, and his right continued to prod experimentally into the crease of that arse, finding and rubbing the little rosebud. It dawned very slowly on the football legend that the arse he was beginning to tease and poke was entirely virginal. He could feel the tightness of the muscle, the nervous little clench as his fingertip threatened its entrance. He was surprised, noting how sluttish and compliant the striker had been from the second they entered this room, utterly devoted to pleasuring his idol — but nobody had popped his cherry? Ridiculous. His gawping naïve face of acne was begging for it. The bed creaked as he shifted positions. The prospect of what he was to give this inexperienced Englishman had him all the more urgent and greedy as he moved up onto his knees and pretty much threw Mason to the side, slamming him onto all fours and kneeling behind him. He grabbed and stroked his own cock, slick with saliva, while keeping his other hand against the virgin arse, spreading and playing with those cheeks. He stooped to examine it, enjoying the little dark curls of hair that sprouted around the crack, the rosy pinkness of the unfucked hole. Mason was breathing heavily and trembling, stiffly doggy style on the creased bedding and looking anxiously over his shoulder. Ronaldo met his eyes. `You will be fine,’ was all he said. He spat on his fingers again and pushed them more forcibly in there. One digit broke into the tight ring and Greenwood looked away again as he yelped and whimpered. In went the finger, then out, then just a few more times before a second was forced in, and the inexperienced ring could be stretched somewhat by Ronaldo’s expert gesture. The lad yelped some more and moaned, and Cristiano bit his lip hungrily. He loved a virgin. Even before he had departed Old Trafford in 2009, he had begun to stake his claim on other lads. Yes, he would still momentarily submit himself to the inexplicable charm of the scally thug who had deflowered him, but Cristiano Ronaldo’s ego and appetite were inflating wildly season after season, goal after goal, award after award. When a tumultuous European fixture had triggered some silly row with an experienced Welsh midfielder, even Ronaldo had been surprised to later find himself fucking said older player in the face in the alley behind their Spanish hotel. He’d looked down into the dark watery eyes of the senior player’s face, thrusting his cock in against his tongue and choking him like a bitch, shocked to overpower and dominate a club legend like Ryan Giggs like this, but also feeling that it was perfectly right and natural. By the late 2000s and the desperate bidding war to buy him from Manchester, the Portuguese man truly felt like a king among men. In Madrid, things had been Escort Yozgat a little different, but no less active. At the Spanish club, he had maintained distance and mystery around himself at the club, but fucked his way around the city like a monster. Male models mostly, but also men from other sports, and even some curious journalists. Whilst cementing his position as a world-beating forward, he exercised his perfect body against so many greedy men, always in charge, always overpowering them, always finishing first and leaving them to gasp and beg for seconds. On his international ventures, he had become rabid and indiscreet. Almost every Portugal player had some awareness of what he liked and needed, and many a fledgling Portuguese patriot had sealed their position in that national squad through a visit to the right hotel room in the build-up to a tournament. Never had the laser-focused football superstar developed any closeness or reciprocation with these men, just enjoyed the pure physical brilliance of it — fucking men was just another bit of exercise to him, another thing to be perfected and mastered as he built this body of a god. In Juventus, he supposed, he had become complacent and careless, long before the Dybala incident in his basement this summer. He had courted interested men at the Italian club like some decadent medieval ruler, finding a lot of seedy behaviour in the background of the Turin team, and enjoying easy access to sluts like the Argentinian who had been fellating him when his girlfriend walked in. Even then, after she’d stormed off with her shopping bags, Cristiano had finished on Paulo’s face and then banished him from the mansion before showering and beginning his entreaties to the woman he `loved’. The woman he loved to be seen with, to complete his image. Although, even in the heady days of his Juventus supremacy… he never had quite snatched the jewel that had occupied his attention in the final seasons, had he? That stolid north European defensive tower, Matthijs de Ligt, had somehow escaped his touch, because he’d been playing a slow game after corrupting him via Dybala’s mouth, and then the game had been cancelled because his girlfriend was screaming at him and threatening an exposé interview. Bitch. Now here he was. Back to his old ways. Breaking that promise. Fuck her. `This will be easier,’ he grunted coldly at his chosen plaything, though not soothingly or reassuringly, just commandingly. He was sat on the edge of the bed with his powerful legs equally apart, his posture very straight and assured. Mason was clambering awkwardly over him, directed by his hands, turning this way to face him, and staring down nervously. Cristinao pressed forceful hands into his flanks and lowered him, guiding his fluffy brown legs apart so that they frog-legged over his own thighs. Below, his cock quivered and stood to attention, its helmet glossy and wet with pre-cum and the lad’s spit. `Here, relax,’ he snapped at Greenwood, and wrapped one arm more fully about the player’s back, skin to skin, pressing him down into his lap. He held him powerfully, taking full control and force over the act, cradling the gangly body and easing that arse down onto the head of his cock, feeling it a little looser and softer for the new position and the unshakeable support of his grip. `Ronaldo…’ breathed the young Bradford lad. `Quiet,’ he barked, concentrating intensely. And then he was pushing into him, reaching down to squeeze the base of his own dick and guide it, while his other arm still clamped about the lad’s waist and back. Mason’s mouth hung open wide and his eyes shut, his long strange cry of uncertainty as he descended. Ronaldo’s cock spread and broke his virgin’s hole, and the dominant striker growled out his pleasure at the tightness shaping around the top of his shaft. He was only a couple of inches in, but he stopped, locking their bodies in this position and urging the youth to relax into it, but offering him no intimate words, just a powerful growl and a squeeze of muscle. Mason’s hands found his shoulder muscles and his neck and he knew that this was going to work. There was a devoted breathiness to his gasps. He was nodding his head and had a look of wired concentration on his own face. Cristiano pushed upwards with some muscles and dragged the Englishman down with others. His cock edged inside him a bit more, and he let out a rasping yell of satisfaction. `Feel that?’ he grunted at his latest bitch. `Feel that inside you? My greatness?’ `Yes,’ United’s promising young striker whimpered, `oh yes!!!!’ And then Ronaldo could really go for it. Not as fully and aggressively as he might on a looser bottom, but he didn’t let Greenwood’s nervous tightness make him lose any of his drive or control. He held the slim black 20-year-old in his lap and fucked him from below, pushing up into him, trying to nudge deeper in his hole every time. He grabbed and played with Mason’s body like some kind of fleshlight toy, gripping his sides and shoving him up and down at an opposite rhythm to his upward strokes. It was all quite easy for the power in his muscles. In his hold, Greenwood shook and sweated and let out repeated squeals, alternating between `owch’ and `ohhhh’. It was a position he could only bother to uphold for so long, however, and when he lifted Greenwood fully off his sticky cock, he could hear the strange relief and disappointment in the younger man’s sigh. He then tossed him forward, letting him stumble to his feet and then his knees, then sliding off the bed with him. Pushing on his back, bringing him down into doggy position on the carpet, and angling his cock between those trembling cheeks. Cristiano could fuck him more properly now, thrusting into his pink ring and holding him by the hips, grunting rhythmically as he worked towards the one target that mattered, his own satisfaction. He fucked him like he’d thrice fucked Lionel Messi, mounting him mercilessly and imposing all of his strength and dominance on the rival goal machine. Cristiano looked searchingly across the hotel room and found their reflection in a mirror, ignoring the trembling all-fours posture of the other player, and just admiring the shiny statuesque top slamming into him. He grinned and winked at himself and charged towards completion, pulling his cock free at the right moment and then fisting his monster cock until he was jetting hot world-class cum across the cocoa brown of Mason’s lower back. When he was done, he pushed a couple of fingers into the wet hole, shocked at how fully tight it still felt, and teased it briefly while his plaything whined and groaned, then he pulled out and just slapped the cheeks. Mason drooped, rolled over, began playing furiously with his own cock, staring this way — there was expectation in his eyes, but Cristiano ignored him, finished and disinterested, and just disappeared into the bathroom to clean off. He did not protest when the slim young man crawled into the bed to stay the night, but neither did he touch or acknowledge him, sated and bored and ready for his highly controlled sleep hours. Young Greenwood did not join the manager-less squad on their Champions League trip to play Villareal, coached and guided by the temporary leadership of Ronaldo’s former teammate Michael Carrick. But in the build-up to the decisive game, which would unfold as a glorious 2-0 redemption for the Red Devils, the 36-year-old smirked and thought of how gawky and needy the other player had been in the morning, all mumbled excuses and pleading for silence. Cristiano had given him no promises or assurances, just gone to shower – when the nervous Bradford lad followed him into the bathroom, he had just stood naked under the watery blast and jerked off until the skinny striker came in and kneeled at his feet to blow him some more, swallowing his morning load then disappearing away to find his own hotel room, red-cheeked and looking greatly ashamed. He was a lot less experienced than Ronaldo had initially assumed, then. Here at Villareal, Ronaldo was buoyed by the success of his influence. Ole was out, and there was no clear replacement, but the revolution had to start somewhere. He could not have just settled for mediocrity and allowed things to proceed as they had. He was born to win, and he could accept nothing less. Recent disappointments with his Portugal team had only affirmed his need for United to do well and deserve his presence. Lining up in the tunnel before the UCL game, there was that same bristling tension between him and the taller figure of his captain, just ahead of him in the line. Maguire’s big head turned to look seriously at him over the shoulder, but there was some surprising hint of intelligent thought in the Sheffield yob’s features for a change, and Ronaldo suspected the truth that was soon muttered privately to him just before they stepped out to play. `I know you just did what you had to do,’ the neanderthal centre-back grunted at him, touching him on the arm. Maguire must have spent several anxious days since Watford, he thought, remembering the failed punch and the obvious consequences had Ronaldo reported him for it. Now that it was obvious that no repercussions were coming, the English captain had apparently reconsidered his attitude towards his gloried teammate, and Ronaldo just gave him a tight-lipped smirk as they both unzipped and removed the tracksuit tops over their kit tops. Now he nodded at Harry. `I did,’ he agreed. `It was time,’ Maguire assented moodily, the three words loaded with so much more compromise and diplomacy between them. `I am glad you can see that,’ allowed Ronaldo tersely. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his arms, and stared the defender down on the edge of the roaring pitch. `And now we must win,’ he said simply, and started away from his so-called superior, ready to lead this team. When he scored his goal in the 78th minute, it was the giant captain who was first to grab and hug him, to beam admiringly at him and roar victory into the watching crowds. Ronaldo just stared coolly at him and felt a bigger victory had been made here than a simple goal or tournament progression, and certainly a bigger victory than sticking it to a needy young sub like Greenwood. He watched the lumbering oaf of his captain with a thoughtful nostalgia, thinking about a different working-class brute in a Manchester kit who had been so integral to his first run at the club, and then got back into the zone for what little remained of the game. The king had returned, and he had no intention of letting United settle for second-best. ‘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