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Subject: Premiership Lads Part 165: Dutch de Ligt Part 165: Dutch de Ligt It was a fairly large and comfortable room -- this was what big money at Italy's top football club bought you in the way of special treatment, then. A spacious private recovery room in a big specialist hospital on the outskirts of Rome, all paid for by the management team at Juventus and lavished upon him at the end of his first season. He had struggled with the shoulder injury since well before Christmas, denting his debut campaign for the Turin football club and Serie A winners, and now a complicated operation had hopefully resolved all of that and three months of recovery lay ahead before he could properly re-join his Juve mates and be a more solid centrepiece to their defence, starting here with a couple more doors of hospitalised recuperation before a long sunkissed holiday awaited him. Still, it didn't matter how surprisingly plush the hospital room was, or how musical the birds were outside his open window in the private treatment centre's courtyard garden; it was no place for a hot-blooded young Dutchman to weather his 21st birthday. A scattering of large birthday cards and balloons sat gaudily in the corner, many of them delivered by the clusters of visitors this morning and afternoon, including family and some Juve players passing through Italy's capital. The remains of two very different celebration cakes sat out on a low table by the visitor chairs, and he laughed to think of the large sugary slices he'd consumed, taking advantage of a rare moment where the quality of his diet mattered very little. Still, he'd have to be careful he kept lean and strong during the months ahead...! Yes, the young Dutchman had enjoyed his visitors today, they'd certainly taken the edge off a hospitalised birthday, for a while at least; but now they were gone and Matthijs de Ligt lay alone in the comfortable recovery bed, his head and shoulders a little propped on fluffy white pillows, the starched sheets resting just above the nipples to leave his chest and shoulders mostly bare, an attempt to keep himself cool in the hot Italian day. The minimal breeze that swam in through the open window would occasionally brush his big bare shoulders and resting face and give him some relief from the heavy warmth, but not the sudden isolation of having those lovely visitors and then being left alone again to while away the rest of the day on his back. They'd be back tomorrow, some of them; a few family members and close pals from the Netherlands had based themselves in a nice hotel in the same Roman suburb, and they would be spending informal shifts here tomorrow again to brighten his recovery before he could check out the following morning. He appreciated this deeply, so glad to see his Dutch squad after the long separation of quarantines and professional duty. Only his model girlfriend was missing, busy away on an important shoot and meeting him at the airport in a few days for their flight to paradise -- god, what he would give to see her! Mind, even if she was here, he thought with mischievous bitterness, he was hardly in the physical state to `enjoy' that reunion properly... Bedbound and one-armed and still a little dopey with painkiller drugs. Not exactly his usual powerful sense, hah, it would be quite funny for his girlfriend to see him now! And he'd not be able to do anything to her, not really, fuck -- even when he was released and they headed off together for two weeks on a tropical island, would he actually be able to have sex without endangering his recovering shoulder?! The fresh 21-year-old cringed in horror at an unforeseen aspect of the rehabilitation process, one none of the sports scientists or physios at Juventus had thought to mention while he was being primed for the surgical intervention. 3 months without sport, fair enough; 3 months without a shag, what the fuck? He was just frowning to himself in his comfortable but boring position in the bed when he noticed a figure in the half-open doorway of his private room; he'd been so bombarded with visitors today that he could only assume this one would be for someone in a neighbouring room, and he didn't initially recognise the man there behind his big outlandish sunglasses and the tiger-print face mask over his mouth and nose. Matthijs tilted his head, taking care not to move his big injured shoulder, and looked questioningly at the hovering figure in the doorway, then watched them rap a knuckle to the wood and tug down the face mask a little, exposing some more of their face. `Matty boy,' cooed a faintly familiar voice, and the figure bundled in. A fairly short and broad figure, bulging with muscle beneath a loudly printed t-shirt and glossy pair of green-and-white trousers, something immediately recognisable in the tattooed canvas of their brown legs. The sunglasses were tilted upwards and the mask tugged more fully below his chin, and de Ligt blinked in surprised realisation as his Dutch international teammate fully entered the room. `How are you?' he asked brightly in Dutch. `How was it?' Still faintly drugged and dozy, Matthijs immediately laughed at the oddness of this sighting, and resisted the instinct to lift himself form the bed and throw a manly handshake or meaty hug at the other Netherlands player standing beside his bed. Instead he weakly raised his left arm, uninjured but tired, in a vague wave. `Memphis,' he said slowly, `what the heck are YOU doing here...?' The sunglasses and mask were coming off more fully, revealing the sharp trim of beard and hair and the wrinkling smile of eyes. Depay leaned over and briefly clasped his left hand in a friendly squeeze, hovering over the bed. `What, can't a brother swing by and say hello?' the older footballer chuckled warmly. `Happy birthday, my man. No, no... don't worry. Didn't come all this way just to say that.' `What are you doing in Rome...?' `Fashion shoot,' Memphis said dismissively, none of the coyness that de Ligt might feel over such showy side-hustles outside of their sporting career. Depay was backing off to gently close the door and moving around the room now, sinking into the closest of the visitor chairs by the bed, one formerly occupied by his concerned mother whilst the close family shared traditional Dutch cake and toasted to his recovering health. `It was just a brief thing,' Memphis said with a wave of one hand, jangling the thick platinum bracelet that hung there, matching with the even thicker chain about his sturdy neck. The 5ft9 forward was a solid brick of a man, bulging even more in his tshirt as he settled in the chair and turned to inspect the birthday display in the corner. `You know how it is, some fancy little underwear brand stalks you on Instagram and then flashes money until you agree to shoot some stills for their media.' He turned back and winked. `They like what they see, like everyone else.' `Flashy bastard,' Matt chuckled weakly, grinning at the pomp and ego of the celebrity footballer, wondering where his own well-paid modelling offers were but then dismissing the vain idea, seeing himself as far less attractive and charismatic than the experienced international player in front of him. `But bro... very sweet of you to come and say hello...!' Memphis squeezed his hand again. `It's been too long, man! We should have been out in orange together long before now. I've missed seeing you and the boys. So when I saw on your Insta you were getting fixed up here...! Well...' His smile was broad and flashy and his eyes twinkled with friendship. Matt grinned back -- few guys had made him more welcome on the Dutch national team when he made his teenage debut than this confident striker. `You're a good man,' de Ligt told him. `Seriously, this is so cool... thanks, Memph.' The surprise visit was the perfect remedy to the weary drop in his mood. He lay still and listened quite happily as Depay told him more about his flying visit to the city, passing through on his way back into France to re-join his teammates and head to Lisbon. Matt laughed off the sting of rivalry as this led inevitably to almost apologetic commentary on the fact Juventus had been beaten out of the Champions League by Depay's own team, Olympic Lyonnaise. `We didn't even get to speak that night,' Memphis sighed, `that's why I was so sure I had to drop in before I leave Rome...!' `I know, I know,' Matthijs agreed. `I hoped we could hang out before or after that match, but...' `All these fucking rules,' Memphis said. `And it might not have gone down well with your Juve mates.' `No, probably not...!' Depay spoke with careful eagerness about Lyon's impending Quarter-Final against Manchester City in the Portuguese capital, de Ligt trying his best not to wish his own Italian side were occupying that spot and coming up against Guardiola's crew. If it had been any rival other than his 26-year-old Dutch mentor, he might have resented the topic, but he was so pleased to see him and particularly chuffed to see the noted forward back in action after his mersin escort own long injury rest. Conversation smoothly switched to this, Memphis reflecting on the many months he'd had to miss out on and his gems of advice about how to remain focused and positive in that time; it was great to hear these things from a trusted and experienced friend rather than just the rather clinical and impersonal team at the football club or the hospital, and Matthijs felt a calm even more relaxing than the drugs still in his system. `It's all about holding on to an image of yourself when you're fully fit,' Depay advised him sagely after another little monologue. `Keep in mind where you want to be by the end of this year, don't let it get washed away by boredom or frustration or any distractions... keep your head in the game even when your feet can't be.' He looked pleased with himself as he finished on this, spreading out in the visitor chair and patting his knees through the silky fabric of his couture trousers. `But I know you are a warrior, Matty, so no worries -- you will rise up from this stronger than ever!' At this comment, de Ligt just made a less certain smile, suddenly doubting the certainty of that, some vague anxieties about his disappointing start at Juventus hanging about on the edge of his weary fug. He saw Depay's little flash of concern at his reaction and waved his left hand at him again. `Yeah, you are right, you are right,' he said half-heartedly. `I just need to take my time.' `Come on, look at you,' encouraged the 26-year-old. Memphis patted him heavily on his good shoulder, leaving his hand a moment on the bulging white muscle where it left the bedsheets, making the 21-year-old a little self-conscious about his shirtless pose. `Built like an Alp, Matty. You'll be destroying all of Serie A again before Christmas.' Matt nodded his head as little as he could and lay there smiling gratefully at his visitor, appreciative of the phrase even if it made him wish he was wearing a tshirt. The sheet had slid down a bit as he shifted, baring more of the bulging curve of his pectorals and the mousy brown hair sprouting between them and in halos around his pink nipples. He listened to Memphis dart from topic to topic, thrilling at the prospect of the Lisbon tournament but also on his plans for the rest of summer, the friendlies his French team had lined up. Tired, de Ligt found himself slowly less and less interested; less delighted with the surprise visitation and more frustrated by the fact he would not be able to move from this bed for another thirty-six hours. Always quite perceptive despite his happiness to talk at length about himself, Memphis slowed down and fell quiet and patted his bicep. `You need me to make a move, Ligt? You look a bit tired out. Sorry.' `Mmm, perhaps,' Matt said uncertainly -- he felt tired out and a little moody but he also anticipated the gloom that might settle as soon as the bright, charismatic presence of Memphis Depay had left him. `Sorry, I don't mean to bad company, hah... Just keep thinking about the long road ahead. And you know, how odd life will be for a couple of months with this...' He gestured at his wrapped up right shoulder and the carefully slung angle of his dominant arm, out of action for at least the next few weeks. `It's going to be so weird, Memph.' Depay nodded. `Sure. And then there's the things they don't tell you, like how you can't fuck full strength for AGES,' guffawed the visiting Lyon player out of nowhere, snatching Matt's idle thoughts out of his brain and making him cringe at hearing it out loud. `Sorry -- am I making you blush?!' `No, no,' Matt laughed wearily, `just ashamed that I have been worrying about that too...' `Why ashamed?' Again, Depay was patting his bicep and shoulder with one of his dark hands, thick fingers soft and caressing against Matt's warm skin. `You are only a young man... what, 21 today...? It will be a tough month for you, for your girlfriend...!' Matt laughed at this, wondering if indeed she would be more troubled than him by his lack of hearty performance in their beachfront bedroom on holiday. Perhaps, but she was usually more pleased by how many Likes their selfies could get than by his rampant efforts to make her cum. `Tough,' he agreed with a comfortable laugh. `My right arm, too...!' He didn't quite mean what it immediately seemed to signify, both of them bursting into laughter and he having to suppress his because he couldn't risk shifting or flexing his injured right side. `No self-pleasure for you,' Memphis teased, leaning forward and squeezing his good shoulder, `unless you are quite skilled with your left...?' De Ligt huffed wearily. `Even that one is weak as shit right now...!' `Oh you poor boy,' chuckled the older continental footballer. He hung there, a naughty smile on his broad pale brown features, a little sparkle in his eyes and on his diamond stud earrings. Matthijs looked at him with cool enjoyment of the banter, very glad after all that Memphis had stayed by for so long; he knew he would be gutted when he left, knew the evening in this comfortable room would be long, even with PSG vs Atalanta to watch on the TV. `You shall have to get a pretty nurse to sort you out,' muttered Depay sleazily now, still looking at him. `You got your eye on any of them...?' De Ligt laughed at this. `I think that might upset my girlfriend more than six weeks without a good pounding,' the big rugged centre-back mused, looking absentmindedly down the 6ft2 stretch of his body under the thin white sheets. He thought awkwardly about his blunt speech and the dirty smirk on the older man's face, a little embarrassed to speak candidly about something he always treated as deeply private. And then, alarmingly, Depay's hand shifted over and patted him around his waistline, awkwardly close to where his crotch rested passively. He tried to laugh, a bit surprised by the tactile move, and looking at the playful expression on the forward's face. `Oh come on, she will know you are in great need,' Memphis said, at the same time as sliding his hand downwards and brushing across the fold of white sheet where it lay over Matthijs's privates, coddled in the loose cotton of some shorts, vaguely stimulated by the surprise contact through these two thin layers, and sending a little jolt of panic up him; conscious of his operated shoulder, he just lay still, and stared anxiously at the stocky athlete beside him. `Memphis!' he hissed. Depay chuckled softly. `You need more morphine if you are this uptight,' he chided. `It was just a little pat. I hadn't even offered to sort you out yet. Which we both know you will need!' His laugh was soft but loud. `The look on your face, young Matty...!' `Very funny,' de Ligt scowled at him, `winding me up when I can't smack you in the face. I think all this modelling has gone to your head, Depay...! Seriously... maybe I'll need a pretty nurse, I definitely won't need a... well, are you a footballer, a supermodel, a rapper? I can never quite remember...' He glowered smugly at his visitor, pleased with his digs, but also alarmed by the way the other man's hand hung about the offending area, resting now on the mound of one thigh, the summer bedsheets so thin that he could really feel the creases of his hand on the big muscle there. Memphis made a little cooing sound and slid his hand back up, resting it directly between his legs on the pile of his privates, cupping them through two layers, making Matt blush hotly in the cheeks and stare in dazed outrage. `You really want to touch me up,' he said accusingly, `you sure you shouldn't be checking into the hospital yourself, they have a ward for mental breakdowns probably...' His sharp comment and scarlet blush hid the little tremor of pleasure that he felt at having his neglected cock touched so lightly. `Seriously,' he said in a lower and shakier voice, `what are you doing?' Depay sighed a little, hunched over the bed a little from his seat, playing his hand very idly against the sheets, tracing the shape rising in it between the splayed mounds of meaty thigh, one finger then two fingers then much of his palm, testing out the idle outline of de Ligt's dong. `Just playin',' he said back in the same quiet, earnest voice. `Don't it feel good, Matty?' `Buddy, does that matter, you're -- we're -- I mean, I'm not-` `But does it feel good? I bet it does. I bet you haven't been touched in... days?' `Memphis,' he said shakily, feeling thumb and finger trace the soft chubby length of him, shifting the fold of his shorts, tickling life into his squashed clammy balls. He swallowed loudly and looked down his body at the other athlete's wandering hand. `I don't know if we should be doing this. A joke's a joke, pal, but...' `You've never been touched by a bloke before?' asked the Lyon striker in a distant, thoughtful voice, and then he pulled his hand back; for a second, it seemed the joke was over, but then he was lifting the edge of the sheet and sliding under it, and Matt escort mersin could feel his fingers dance over a curve of strong thigh and onto the loose light cotton of the shorts and back to where it had been, stroking his cock again but through just one layer now, the outline of his knuckles visible in the white bedsheet. No, actually, this wasn't the first time a guy had touched his cock, was it? Not really. How long ago had it been? How many football matches into the reopened league after lockdown? It had been a stormy night, a wet one at home just as their dominance of Serie A looked almost confirmed; they must have been only a few points away from a definite win at that point. Now, tired and drugged, he couldn't actually remember who they'd played against or quite what summer month it was, but he remembered the rain, the way his black and white Juventus kit stuck to his tall broad body and became translucent against his muscles and the black outline of his trunks. He remembered being the toast of the game, his rigorous defensive action making up for some sloppy errors elsewhere. Tense celebrations afterwards, the harsh Italian experience of pandemic still so fresh in everyone's mind, physical contact limited. But still, half-hugs and slaps to the back and many twinges of his on-and-off shoulder injury, the one hopefully now solved by surgery. How long had he hung about in his rain-soaked kit, enjoying the string of interviews to Italian press who were among the very few allowed to witness the clash in Turin. He'd certainly been one of the last to shower, peeling see-through sports kit from his big body and feeling the almost deserted echo of the home changing rooms. Still a few of his teammates and the less important coaches were there, throwing delighted praise his way as he slithered out of his kit and finally removed his black boxer briefs, as sodden as his socks, and padded naked into the communal showers, desperate for the relief of a hot wash, especially on his aching shoulder. He'd assumed the showers were empty now, him being so delayed by the interviews and attention, but not quite, one other Juventus player was still there, stood in the very centre of the row of showerheads, a pillar of gleaming muscle. Most men would gravitate to the dim privacy of corners, but here was a guy who always seemed to want centre-stage, for whom the communal shower or recovery pool or any other moment of footballing life was just another opportunity to expose his physical superiority, a muscle density most men found unattainable. Cristiano Ronaldo had been a big swing factor in de Ligt's decision to join Juventus from Ajax; he'd wanted to move country and to take steps that would advance his career, but his offers had been many. Juve had seized on his admiration for CR7 -- what young player in Europe did not idolise the Portuguese icon? -- and it had made a big impact on his slow decision to sign with the northern Italian club. The prospect of playing alongside a living legend like this, to be part of what must be the final years of such an illustrious career! The reality was not quite what he'd expected. Oh, Ronaldo's irrepressible talent had almost single-handedly won the Serie A, and he was a marvel to see in action on the field. But in truth Matthijs found him odd and difficult in person, unpredictable and a little tense. He had failed to strike up much rapport with the Portuguese genius, was unsure many of the more established Juve players found him that much easier. Of course everyone admired and cherished the brilliant athlete, for sure, but was anyone here actually close to him? Did anyone really know or understand what made him tick...? So wandering naked into the showers and being alone with Cristiano was a mildly unnerving moment for the then 20-year-old centre-back, even though at his young age he was one of the only men in the squad who matched him in height and came close to his sheer strength and bulk. Beside the chiselled Renaissance sculpture of Cristiano's golden-brown body, though, the Dutch boy felt a pale flabby wreck. He offered a vague smile of greeting to the other Juventus player and took up a position politely distanced from Ronaldo, who was massaging soapy suds down his washboard front. Matthijs didn't know at what point Cristiano began to approach him, but one minute he was just privately washing his thin blond hair and rubbing water out of his tired eyes, and the next the Portuguese warrior was right beside him, leaning into the tiled wall and giving him the most oddly intense look. What had he said? The dialogue didn't linger very well with Matt's memory: something about his body, his physique, half-compliment and half-criticism. Some idle review of his progress since joining the squad, some admiration of his strength and size for his age. Matt had felt immediately intimidated by the status and presence of his team's goal-scorer. And then, somehow, impossibly, Cristiano Ronaldo had been examining his dick, hadn't he? Openly staring down at his crotch in a way nobody ever did. You just didn't. You might be curious or want to compare but you didn't look below the waist, not in the changing rooms or the showers, not ever! That was like the number 1 unwritten rule of sporting life for a man, right? Right? But there in the hot steamy showers, the glistening sculpture of Ronaldo's body right next to him, the other 6ft2 hulk had begin to comment on the proportions of his soft meat, something about how it was fittingly sized for a tall broad man like himself, just like Ronaldo's own! So of course Matthijs had looked at it, how could you not when given comments like that...? And what he'd noticed really was how oddly similar their pricks were, long thick sausages of different shades, and the second thing he'd noticed was the way Cristiano began to touch his own, to stroke and lift and weigh it in his hand. He remembered considering backing off and fleeing the shower at that point, so freaked by the legendary man's openness and his fixation on their appendages. But he'd stayed. He'd stared up and down the dense muscles of his teammate and at the oddly intense expression of his long tanned face. Had he only touched himself when Cristiano suggested it, or had he unconsciously began to feel at his own dick and balls then too, inspired by the relaxed and authoritative way that the older guy did? Ronaldo was 35, had played in so many leagues and tournaments, knew the footballing world of Europe inside out! It was okay to take some cue from his behaviour, yes...? Either way, de Ligt had found himself standing side by side with the other tall athletic brute, both teasing and stroking their cocks into life. Matt's was quickly long and hard and veiny beneath his fingers, which seemed okay because so was Ronaldo's now. But then it had got weirder, and he'd cringed and shuddered nervously. (Or had he? Was that revulsion something he added now, in the months of nervous reflection? Had he just passively accepted the normality of what Ronaldo did next?) Cristiano had stepped closer so that their chests and shoulders almost touched and then their bodies DID touch, but not up at torso height, down below; their shafts brushed and the striker wrapped his hand around both, holding them together as one. De Ligt was frozen to the spot, looking down between their thick chests at this bizarre sight and slowly realising what was going on. Ronaldo shifted back and forth a little, causing the most slight and stimulating of frictions between their meats. But all he was doing, Matthijs realised, was comparing. He held them together then made a brief satisfied snort. `I knew it,' the champion declared quietly. `I knew I was bigger.' The confused young centre-back made some comment of agreement, seeing it. They were both incredibly large and thick but the Portuguese dick, more smooth and tan-coloured, was about an inch longer in its shaft, or certainly seemed it from this angle and in this light. And then the striker was moving away from him, hard-on bouncing and juddering with each step, knocking off the shower he'd been using, and leaving the room with wet slaps of his bare feet. Matthijs had been left alone staring into the steam, horrified by the veiny swell of his own hard-on, still partly stiff when he'd finished washing and emerged into the empty changing room to dry down alone and wonder what the hell had possessed one of the world's greatest sportsman to inspect his manhood. And now his stiffening prick was being eased loose of his shorts, pulled gently through the loose leg and massaged against the inside of his thigh. Memphis was hunched comfortably the bed, with one hand resting gently against his elbow, the other scooped under the sheets. His touch was slow and very gentle but he was poised, glancing repeatedly at the closed door as if anticipating hospital staff at any moment. Matthijs lay there with a strange sense of both powerless (he wasn't sure how could push Depay away if he needed to without damaging mersin escort bayan his resting arm and shoulder) and relief (he'd literally been worrying about his neglected prick when this man appeared in the doorway like a guardian angel). He might have been more anxious and appalled if he wasn't somewhat drugged still, the whole experience having something of a surreal dream to him: Memphis fucking Depay, one of the coolest footballers he knew, powerful striker and hip-hop wannabe, teasing his semi into hardness and grinning at him as he did it. `It feels good, yeh?' the Lyon player murmured. `Kinda,' was all Matt could bring himself to say. His cock was really hard now, like it had been in the Juventus showers; as it got rigid, the man's touch got a bit firmer too, pulling at it in a funny angle, wanking him against his own thigh down the loose leg of his shorts, rubbing his cock into his muscle and teasing the fold of foreskin. He heard his own grateful little purr and took a few moments to realise the sound was his and not Memphis'. Since he wasn't sure how to stop Depay, his dilemma over WHETHER to stop him was easily solved. He could just stare at it happening and marvel at how sensitive his cock actually was; he hadn't really touched it in a few days and it was more like a week since he'd last been inside his girlfriend, fucking her goodbye before she flew back to Holland. As he experienced the surprising softness of Depay's palm and fingers, he kept thinking back to the shower incident, a little confrontation he'd slowly managed to box away but now, fondled by a bloke for the second time, seemed to demand some answers. Memphis pulled his hand free from beneath the sheets and Matthijs felt a purely physical disappointment, a tenderness to his stiff large cock, softly tenting the sheets where his shorts restricted it. But Depay just spat heavily into his hand and went back to work, sliding his hand in and taking a good grip of his hard-on, massaging it against his slick palm with shorter tighter strokes that made his breath quicken and his body tense up, provoking the faintest pain somewhere on his recovering side. He had to be careful not to move his body as he felt himself heat up and build in excitement, and Memphis began to chat in a low soothing voice. He spoke vaguely about how impressed everyone was with Matty back home, how his move abroad had ironically secured his place as a Netherlands icon; he went on about what a beast and a lion Matty was and how he knew he'd power through his recovery and be ready for the Euros next year when they could fight side by side and get a big win for the boys in orange. De Ligt heard this purring encouragement as if from a distance, his eyes half-open and his mild worry for the exposing doorway in the corner dismissed. He silently climaxed, releasing a four-day load down the cliff face of his thigh. He opened his mouth wide, his head pushing back into the pillows and his eyes rolling up to stare at the plain white ceiling. The hint of a long gasp escaped his lips and then he closed his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut for a minute, still feeling the warm buzz of that hidden eruption. After a couple of awkward minutes he looked at Depay, who was still leaning slightly forward, his one arm tucked under the sheet, the other very gentle rubbing the side of Matty's bicep, tracing the bulge of it affectionately. `You alright?' the Dutch striker asked warmly. `I think so,' de Ligt responded in a voice that sounded wavery and vulnerable to himself. `Cool,' Memphis said. `Cool.' He smeared his hand a bit against the hairy top of Matt's thigh then took his hand out from below the sheets. He seemed to stare at it a bit and Matt couldn't bear to look, imagining his thick gooey seed all over the brown-pink of the other man's hand. Depay got calmly up from his seat and went to a soap dispenser on the wall where he sanitised his hands and turned round in a sort of business-like fashion, wiping them together and smiling distantly at him over the room. Matthijs felt his limping cock droop against his leg, felt the sticky warmth cool and dry on the soft blond hair there, wondered for a moment if it would smell or be visible to a nurse checking on him this evening. He found he was not overly bothered, just immensely relieved to have been milked like this, a chore completed and less chance of unwanted and untouchable boners occurring in the night or tomorrow while he had visitors. He even found himself thinking idly of his girlfriend and hoping she was capable of such a slow gentle handjob to help him out while he was unable to muster much herself. Would he be able to pleasure HER in some sedate way...? `You look even sleepier,' Depay interrupted, stood beside the bed with his hands on his hips, his arms and chest bulging as he did. `I should let you rest, right? You gonna be watching Paris tonight?' `Yeah,' de Ligt answered dozily. `For sure. Will be close. See who your competition is, huh.' He stared uncertainly at the way his friend was hovering a bit, seeming hesitant to leave but reluctant to say more or sit back down. After an uncomfortable moment or two, Depay picked up his sunglasses and slid them on, then hooked his mask back around his ears and saluted him on the way out, leaving the Juventus stud to slowly catch his breath and cool down, still marvelling at what had just taken place. The girl's body spread forward over the shelving, her top pulled up almost to her shoulders so that as he fucked her he could reach around to stroke and grab at her plump tits. He made quiet, assertive grunts as he pushed deeper into her from behind, fucking the curvy barmaid solidly but without the force that might make undue noise from the shelving, their bodies or her mouth; after all, a thin door separated them from the quiet hotel bar where he'd been sipping a small red wine and mulling over the day. It hadn't taken much to sweettalk and then seduce the bored woman, his own age or a little older, 30 perhaps, once she'd opened with vague recognition of him as a celebrity. Now his cock was a good seven to eight inches deep in her body and he was stroking down her curved sides and gently slapping her full behind. Casual and spontaneous sex was a delight but not a fixation for Depay. Handsome, rich, famous, he never particularly worried about his string of sexual partners -- he never had to try hard to find one but he was not some ravenous lothario either, he'd never let it be quite the day-to-day obsession for him as he knew it was for other men in the sport or in the music and fashion worlds he flirted with. In short, he was a bit surprised at the speed and urgency with which he had picked up the first woman to smile at him in the Roman airport as he awaited his first flight to the south of France. He'd been a little stiff in his expensive designer trousers as he left the private hospital and hailed a mardy Italian cab on the road. It had not quite faded at any point in the busy vibrating journey around the fringe of the city, and sat chunkily in his briefs as he made his way through security and ended up sitting at a bar enjoying a rather naughty sip of rouge, strictly against the match prep he was in for the City game in only two days' time. Of course he'd pulled quickly, he was a charming and handsome fucker, and women could rarely resist his smile, his muscles, his ink. Even if they didn't know anything of his specific career, they registered him as a celebrity and a hunk. Of course he'd got his dick wet, of course she was whining quietly for him and risking her job with his cock buried in her. But was this fuck really about her? He'd enjoyed himself in the hospital, teasing that brash youngster, a lad whose energy and humility he'd greatly liked and respected on a number of Holland outings. But even handsome big Matthijs seemed a little besides the point, when he thought about it. He was a little startled at what he'd done -- the risk and the transgression of it -- but only a little, the idea that he'd tossed off a younger lad in a public place mostly made him want to smirk and chuckle and imagine how much a 20-year-old version of himself might have lapped up that attention. No, it wasn't really the seedy risk or the sexual fluidity of giving the hand-job that bothered Depay, it was what he'd let himself think about it as he did it, what he'd dared to dwell on internally. He creamed inside her, his muted orgasm the solid outcome of his rhythm and her wetness. He allowed himself some groans of pleasure, pulling her close and kissing her neck, but finding when she turned around that he wasn't that interested in her after all. He was smiling but dismissive as he pulled up his undies and his trousers and took the offered napkins to dab at his thick neck and sweaty biceps. He didn't want any post-fuck chat here at the bar so would probably abandon the rest of his wine and find an anonymous café to wait out the next forty minutes instead. The problem, he thought, wasn't in de Ligt, that big Dutch lump. The problem had been his eagerness to grab the dick of a tall blond defender with a mix of innocence and ruggedness. The problem, he knew, was Luke Shaw. *LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK... GLAD TO SEE MEMPHIS MAKING A COMEBACK?*