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b4sorex1a · 2 months

Text

Soft I Scream —(English Translation)

Part I out of II “Barça Camping Smut”, Pedri González/Ferran Torres fic

Word Count: 5,5k

Summary: Because Pedri González always lets Ferran Torres do what he wants, even when it hurts deeply. They have sex in the camping tent.

CW: Rough Sex, Dom! Ferran Torres Sub! Pedri González, Rape Play, Non-Con, Fight Sex/Fighting Kink, Choking, Sexual Violence, Physical abuse, Smut, Dead Dove: Do not Eat, Consensual Non-Consent.

│❝Make me feel like I am breathing, feel like I am human❞ — The Neighbourhood.

Ferran Torres didn't really care much about being a celebrity. The club handed him a title dripping with greatness, elite forward. Despite his mindset built on determined phrases, the young athlete was like any man his age, entirely vulnerable to the greedy offering presented in Blaugrana contracts. But money in a debt-ridden Barcelona doesn't come easy or free, especially when the Catalan football entity belonged to the most corrupt league in Europe.

The administration found its goldmine in a group of attractive boys brimming with charisma, the players of the new post-Lionel Messi era. Hence, it was impossible to resist the promise of salary increases exchanged for some videos or interviews – the perfect mutualistic relationship between players and capitalist entrepreneurs hungry to push boundaries.

For these reasons, the noisy group of teenagers and adults found themselves playing around on the already paid-for travel bus. Shouts, laughter, insults echoed throughout the vehicle, even songs related to the trip played.

Ferran Torres hated the countryside; after all, he was a city boy. However, he enjoyed watching his teammates socialize happily among the comfortable seats of the enormous vehicle. Amid Lamine's laughter and Balde's jokes, complaints were drowned out, creating a light atmosphere filled with joy. The silly videos the youngest in the group showed to each member weren't that funny, but his laughter had a strange tone that made up for the childish taste in humor.

The Valencian finally headed to the back seats in search of a comfortable spot with a view of the window. The expensive journey lasted for many hours, so he impatiently sought his own corner among the characteristic red and blue carpeting.

He strolled down the aisle, ignoring Fermín's audacity, who was sitting at the back of the bus, almost devouring the lips of his boyfriend. He flashed a mischievous smile, baring his fangs at the blonde. This day truly evoked nostalgia for those school trips where hormones flourished in the air, overwhelming the adolescent bodies of the students.

Ferran glanced forward and locked eyes with a brunette girl sitting in the front seats, holding her phone. The social media admin, Ferran thought. He was alarmed when the female figure raised her phone to start recording the surroundings, a concentrated smile on her painted lips.

Being the good friend he was, he smacked his hand against the blonde-haired youth's head in front of him, who was completely lost in a passionate session of deep kisses with another guy.

—Fermín, dude, they're about to record you, wake up, —he whispered loudly but teasingly.

Fermín furrowed his brows as he separated from the other guy, dazed by the touches of the honey-brown-haired individual in his lap.

—Fuck, she's so annoying— impulsively came out of Pablo Gavira, whose toned arms were wrapped around the neck of the blonde. Pablo settled into the seat next to his partner, irritation stemming from being away from a much-needed physical contact he hungered for. His facial expression distorted, annoyance spreading.

Accustomed to the midfielder's piercing gaze, the admin ignored the death threats expressed by other eyes. Smiling, she pointed the flash camera at Xavi, who observed the whole situation with a serious and tired expression. The coach simply greeted in Catalan and returned his attention to the window, years of exposure to the press weighing on his shoulders.

Ferran found it amusing that the management insisted on bringing the coach on this trip. It was as if they had sent them a nanny in the form of a forty-year-old man with more stress in his body than is considered healthy.

With enough exposure to a hormonally charged couple for a month, the Valencian stepped back, moving away from Fermín and Pablo, towards the side, where he noticed a compact figure seated in a chair. Affability melted into his pink-cheeked face when he identified the identity of that mysterious silent person, the boy who entered to take the furthest seat from the others.

Pedri. Pedro González López. Pedri, lifelong. Adorned with his short, disheveled black curls and an oversized black hoodie, with a sun-kissed tan warmer than Ferran had ever witnessed. The midfielder played with the cord of his earphones, lost in the green view of meadows and cows displayed by the window.

Without thinking, the Blaugrana forward chose the perfect corner to spend the entire journey, one where he was accompanying Pedri in the corner of the vehicle, isolated from other curious looks and the girl bothering them with recording new content. His presence became noteworthy as he greeted Pedri with a surprise, his hand suddenly colliding with his muscular thigh.

—Hello— Pedri turned his head in surprise and shyly smiled, opening his space amiably to welcome Ferran.

—Don't mind if I sit here, do you?—he said, but he had already settled into the seat, a mischievous smile decorating his proud lips.

—Nah, if you don't sit, I'll be too lonely and look like a weirdo— he replied sweetly, years of friendship allowing the younger one to open up in the best social way.

Ferran moved his backpack beneath him and looked at Pedri again, waves of happiness coursing through his heart. His hand, claiming space on soft skin, hadn't moved from that leg, now comfortably settled there with no intentions of letting go of the pleasant sensation. Ferran remained seated with legs apart, arm extended to the side, leaning on Pedri's thigh, testing the limits of the midfielder.

It was a friendly game he liked to play too many times, relishing in stretching the boundaries of comfort for Pedri. He loved playing with the lines, knowing that the Canary Islands native would adapt to the new, uncomfortable structure. Because that was their dynamic – hungry, both figuratively and physically, pressure that Ferran exerted against the other guy.

His hand remained where it was, slowly caressing from the appropriate area, inching upward at a centimeter per hour. The voices, complaints, the sound of the engine, and Xavi's frustrated shouts faded into the background from that isolated corner, allowing the duo sitting there to concentrate on the presence they had between them. Everything exterior became blurry for those hidden youngsters in the corner, narrating a new promise of confidentiality.

The golden sunlight adorned Pedri's marked face, his eyes quickly turning vanilla in the exposure to the sun's rays. The shy smile lay on those pink lips, directed towards the Valencian, casual conversation settling between the two.

The high temperatures of the Spanish weather tormented the confined moving space, but the multi-million-euro-valued commitment kept the Barça players calm.

—It's so hot in here; we're cooking, — complained Torres.

Pedri emitted a little laugh.

—I don't think they can install air conditioning, huh?— Pedri replied calmly, shedding himself of the heat in his oversized hoodie.

Like the most torturous paradox, the midfielder folded and stowed his garment in some bag, then lifted the armrest, closing the distance to share a thermal touch of bodies. The canary's head rested on Ferran's shoulder, complete trust demonstrated through innocent actions.

Without the annoying seat divider in the middle, the brunette felt the need to adjust so that both could occupy the space more 'efficiently.' So, he woke up the younger one with a movement, firmly took him by the waist, and placed him on top, shifting towards the center.

An eager commotion sat in conscious uncertainty. Pedri looked at him uncomfortably in the new position, analyzing as if he were at Camp Nou. It was a charming phenomenon to witness the analytical anxiety of Pedri, who moved restlessly at the possibility of being discovered in a compromising position.

—Ferran...— the beautiful boy who sat with legs spread on either side reproached.

—I know, trust me,— Ferran decided to convey with confidence. However, in response, he received a skeptical Pedri trying to get out of that position.

—Stay still— an assertion came out more like a threat painted in a dangerous red, as he reached a hand to the midfielder's neck and pushed forward. The dark-haired one's head was hidden in his neck, unable to get a visually satisfying response, but apparently, Ferran already had one foot in the semi-open door, and Pedri remained static, sitting on his lap.

—Such a good boy, are you my good boy?— he whispered into his ear, leaning in to offer a friendly kiss on the cheek. The athlete withdrew from that space, scandalized.

—We're going to get recorded; let me sit down— he warned, a variety of unspoken pleas invaded his tone.

—But you're already sitting, look,— he pointed out, letting out laughs.

Pedri González wasn't in the mood for this banter, agitated in a thousand breathing rhythms. Ferran seemed to understand that, releasing his grip on the hands that rested on Pedri's waist.

Except that the Valencian's coldness under long lashes hit much harder than the warmth.

—Okay, if you're going to behave like this, I think Félix wants me over there— he casually pointed three seats ahead, where the pretty Portuguese was sitting.

The younger player lifted his eyelids instantly, panic filling his mind, agitation rising as he felt the body beneath him start to move away.

—No, stay, I want to sit like this— he pleaded earnestly.

Victory tasted like euphoria in Ferran's mouth, but as always, when the limits were stretched to the supposed maximum, he wanted to push them much further.

—Dude, don't mess with me; I'm not going to force you, move— Ferran insisted, lazily pushing the nervous guy on top of him.

Rejection tasted painful on Pedri's tongue; he knew the flavor of fear very well. Usually, he subdued it with calmness, but this was different. He didn't speak; the death of syllables came so easily when nerves traveled through his entire system. Like almost never before, he decided to resort to one of his most inconsistent tools – impulsivity.

He hugged the older one tightly, pressing his body against the other's. He prayed for Ferran's greater ignorance as he leaned against his lap, a guilty friction electrifying the air.

Ferran pushed him away, using his strong arms to encircle his neck, risk and insecurity settling into tanned skin.

—Mmnh... no, no— the canary denied, trying to remove those hands from such an intimidating area.

The punishment for innocent disobedience came in the form of hard slaps to Pedri's face. The first two showed no shyness, leaving temporary crimson marks on the younger one's cheek. The strong impact caused the dark-haired one to turn his face in pain.

With one hand threatening a jugular and the other free to assert dominance, Torres coldly eyed Pedri.

—Shut the fuck up.

Another blow, an extended hand applying upward force in several more slaps. Almost-silenced screams filled with pain were unheard outside of that corner.

—Why?— Pedri's pained expression lacked tears, but the emotion of betrayal unfolded, burning into his own flesh.

Immaculate white fangs appeared mischievous in the vexing curve of Ferran.

Another collision, drier, more painful – one caused by the bluntest part of Ferran's hand – was the fitting response. Pain surged like an electric current through the younger one's face, forcing him to twist while sitting, processing what was happening.

It wasn't a punch; it was something lesser, something more condescending, a warning like those given to disobedient little children. It was the perfect message to keep him in check, offering him his only role in that environment; one of complete inferiority.

Pedri was beaded with cold sweat, terrified in a state that struggled against submission, trying to devise a negotiating dialogue. Seriousness mixed with concern covered his entire face, the marks on his cheek turning redder, his heart racing at a thousand, swelling with adrenaline and cortisol. His survival-mode brain recognized the situation – Ferran was a bigger man, asserting dominance – the easiest evolutionary way out he developed since childhood smiled at him more and more.

To surrender, show his neck, and offer a pathetically curved smile. The values his family taught him, that conflict is never good, words are the key to resolving everything, tranquility is essential.

Hesitation only earned him another blow. One, two, three; the player number seven amused himself by impacting his hand, toying with the force. The last one detached from any shame or fear and collided brutally with Pedri's cheekbone.

His reaction was instantaneous, bringing his hand there while he wrapped himself in the unbearable feeling that expanded through his side.

—No, no, please, please, no— he could barely shout as Ferran's palm quickly covered his mouth, stifling the painful screams.

Pedri whimpered with that limb pressed against his mouth, eyes closed and brows furrowed, in need of a break. He was granted a pause, lying in Torres' lap, so he decided to hide again in his neck.

—You actually let me hit you— Ferran said into the air, stating it as a fact.

The midfielder's chest rose and fell interrupted and irregular. Torres finally relaxed, intrigued by the exciting paradox he felt in the lower part of his body.

He felt Pedri's hard cock, pressed against his own stomach.

(…)

The hours passed as the bus roamed through routes; the entire staff remained calm in emotions. Many were content with listening to music or checking their social media, while others slept peacefully. Ferran Torres gently stroked the small, toned back of a sleeping Pedri.

The Valencian diverged his gaze to witness the bold scene of Fermín emerging from the bathroom, with flushed cheeks, legs trembling with tics, and the facial expression only found on a satisfied man. Not even three minutes later, Gavi exited the same bathroom, resembling a disheveled prince, saliva spilling from his corner, teary eyes, and pure disorientation. The eldest of the group amused himself at witnessing Pablo's stumbles across the entire floor, completely out of it.

Ferran surveyed his surroundings again. The sun descended, and the sunset purples invaded the sky. The heat dissipated, and typical LED lights illuminated the entire bus aisle.

Minutes were left to reach the destination, and mentally, the camping gear already weighed on him. The work they would have to do on the unstable ground, at night.

A male voice snapped him back to the present.

—In ten minutes, we arrive. We've organized, and it's been decided that seat pairs will share camping tents for the night— Xavi shouted from the middle of the bus, capturing everyone's attention.

—I believe it's unnecessary to mention what's appropriate or not in a first division sports camp— Xavi shot a bit with his typical stern gaze at Pablo Gavira.

—Yes, míster.

Contained laughter echoed amid the silence of that confirmation. Torres shifted to make room for the male figure waking up in his grasp.

—Have we arrived?— Pedri asked, still half-asleep, his cheek slightly swollen from the earlier teasing.

Ferran gently touched the bruise, enchanted by the mark it left.

—Yes, we need to grab your stuff, come on.

With neutrality, they lined up at the front of the door; everyone was already eager to exit. The scent of nature and fresh air hit them positively. It wasn't often that they left big cities to admire views as beautiful as the ones in front of them.

In the sky, lights of various bright and dark colors moved, painting a starry picture of a peaceful night. The groups quickly divided following the guides' instructions. Alongside them were the photographers responsible for promoting this adventure on social media, and the cold flash light blinded the players every minute.

After a quick dinner consisting of fat-free chicken salads, Ferran noted that their tents were already set up. He read the small paper Xavi handed him minutes ago, trying to identify their designated area.

He surveyed the entire place, a path filled with rocks and uneven ground greeted him knowingly.

From afar, he could see the large red tent, where a minimum of three people could enter. His sleeping spot was far from the original zone, away from the other blaugrana boys, tall bushes covering most of the ground.

Surrounded by conflicting emotions, he turned completely around, investigating the whereabouts of his night partner. Pedri wasn't far; the dark-haired boy seemed a bit dazed, bathed in moonlight, backpack on and a black coat wrapped around his waist. His soft locks tousled to the sides and upward, offering a pleasing view to Ferran, who admired from not too far away how those big eyes explored the forest.

Pedri's hint of facial maturity didn't convince anyone at that moment; inappropriate thoughts of Torres likened him to a lost kitten that might jump at any moment to protect itself.

—Pedri! Over here!— he raised his hand, and Ferran's heart melted a bit as he discovered, for the tenth time, the soft and affectionate change of expression when Pedri recognized him.

The midfielder followed the rocky path to the secluded area, using the mobile flashlight as the main source of illumination. With instructions to unpack and sleep – according to Xavi – the night would pass easily, everyone resting to the sound of chirping crickets.

Ferran Torres had other plans for that night. Pedri dropped his backpack inside the tent and went out to accompany the culé forward, seeking company. This time, the cold wind danced across the sky, gently pushing the camping tent fabric, creating soothing sounds.

Both stood looking at the sky; the midfielder reached his hand to entwine it with the older's arm, relaxing his awareness, bringing his cheek closer to the other's worked biceps.

Pedri was shorter than Ferran, so his honeyed brown eyes looked upward, embarrassment easily settling in his chest.

—Qué chico más mono— Ferran whispered, —What a shame.

Questioning covered the atmosphere's sentiment for a few seconds; Pedri's affectionate expression vanished, replaced by a quickly-formed serious grimace. Ferran violently pulled the younger one's dark hair, intending to throw him to the ground.

He succeeded; despite Pedri's dedication to sports as a profession, he was ultimately a thin and weak boy. The midfielder crashed face-first into the ground, lightly staining his face with dirt.

Fear took residence in the canary's heart; he tried shouting for help towards the camp center, but it was futile. The punch to his eye left him dazed for several seconds amidst the rocks that hurt his muscles. His vision blurred, pain emerged from all sides, and tears threatened to surface.

In pain, Pedri brought his hand to the blow, babbling. There was no respite this time, and Ferran reveled in the dark purple color spreading across the younger one's eyelid.

Tingling sensations tickled his lower part as he observed the other's pathetic attempt to compose himself. The Barcelona 'Golden Boy' was lying on the ground below him, writhing breathlessly, covering his face with his hands, attempting to shield himself.

When he moved, a scared sound escaped from Pedri's pink lips, an instinctive reaction. Ferran used his leg to kick the flexed thigh of the younger one without measuring the force. A groan was heard, new dark marks emerging on the abused skin. The pain in the struck area allowed Ferran to see the terrified expression of the figure beneath him as he tried to cover his legs, exposing his face.

Deep sexual excitement ran all over Torres' cock as he delighted in the terrified view of Pedri, who had one eye narrowed and the other looked at him with fight; even even in the situation he was in. He took a hand to caress his member on top of the clothes, sending a disgusted look to the other.

Assuming that Ferran was distracted, Pedri managed to recover supporting himself by crawling, the ground of the floor hurt his hands and knees, but he still crawled in a pitiful way to escape.

When he walked away less than two meters, Ferran decided that it was a good idea to really chase him, since he found the painful attempt to avoid the inevitable very amusing.

He walked slowly but safely to Pedri, appreciating how the boy arched his back and how small his angular waist was from that angle. He drank from the sinful sight of the backside under the miserable canary's sports shorts.

—Where do you think you're going?— He expressed full of irony.

He closed his hand on Pedri's hair once again to stretch him towards himself, this time focusing on moving him in a more brutal way. Pedri held back a scream but began to whimper.

—I asked you a fucking question.

He wrapped his hand around Pedri's neck to push him back, letting him lie down on the floor. Once there, Ferran removed his coat and lifted the white t-shirt to the top of his pectorals, displaying the buttons standing on the culé.

—No! Agh!— He whimpered.

On the cold floor, Pedri González was agitated, with spots on his face and body, dressed in violence on his face, exposed to his stomach; he began to cry.

Ferran Torres' cock couldn't harden more than it already was.

Upon seeing the marked abdomen of the canary, the Blaugrana striker approached to give him a blow in the center, taking away his air at times.

He took advantage of those seconds to turn him on his knees and hands, waiting patiently for him to recover. When the crying returned little by little, Ferran aggressively stretched the black soccer shorts that covered Pedri. He used the fabric to handle the weight of the canary as he would like, lowering his underwear just because of the humiliation of exposing him in that way, and then releasing the elastic of the garment and leaving it hanging below his knees.

He hit the exposed buttocks of the midfielder with his palm, a small laugh escaped him only because of the theatrical, he fed on how bad Pedri could feel in those moments. The Valencian spat in his entrance that expanded and retracted to contact.

He took his two middle fingers to align with his entrance. He was perfectly aware that it was too much to put him in, but the thought that Pedri became miserable trying to endure the pain from interference made him dizzy.

He inserted both fingers at the same time into the salivated pink entrance, apparent difficulties when entering. Pedri crossed his eyes upwards and opened his mouth, failed attempts to breathe. The pain punctured all over its interior, the comforting thought of fainting came at times.

—I can't! I can't take it anymore! Why are you doing this?! Why don't you just kill me if that's what you want?— Pedri screamed with his shattered voice, loud enough to attract attention from afar. Ferran reacted quickly, withdrawing his fingers from the tight entrance, vaguely hearing approaching footsteps.

Dragging the canary's body by the neck, he placed him inside the tent. Adrenaline surged through him. He entered as well, zipping up the fabric door, surveying his surroundings.

Pedri resembled a deer caught in headlights, utterly bewildered, almost naked, lying on his stomach on the flat mattress. Ferran approached the submissive Barça player, his training and match companion since his debut in the first team.

—Quiet— he commanded. Swiftly, he removed the remaining garments from the athlete. An idea Fermín had recommended weeks ago crossed his mind. He crumpled Pedri's underwear and forcefully placed it in his mouth to muffle the screams.

Everything was going as planned until he underestimated how much fight the canary would put up. Something that felt like a metal brick collided with his face.

Pedri’s phone. Pedri had thrown his phone at his face, violently.

Anger boiled at maximum power inside and outside his entire body; finally, Ferran understood the phrase 'seeing red' as his anger blocked the calm and playful response he would have had in another context. The pain was sharp and electric, leaving a horrendous taste in the his mouth. Pedri, who apparently didn't think things through so clearly, sat covering his face while crying.

The Barcelona forward sucked all the oxygen from the room, inhaling and exhaling in an effort to calm the desire to strangle the younger one. Some minutes passed, the sound was noticeably absent; only Ferran remained fully dressed in sports attire, and Pedri, who refused to lift his head amidst his whimpering.

Ferran approached and separated the other's legs.

—Chaval, I just don’t get it, you practically try to kill me, but when I hit you, you get all horny and hard— he said, while directing his hands to Pedri's dick, massaging from top to bottom.

Crimson colors exploded all over the abused face of the canario, fear still latent in his dilated eyes. He positioned himself on his knees, moving away from the friction that Ferran gave him.

Pedri and Ferran looked physically battered from the fight, the striker felt blood fall down his nose but decided not to pay attention to that detail, Pedri on the other hand was caressed by the painful marks of previous brutality, his eyes were tired and an intense red color emerged from his cheeks.

Ferran decided that his favorite art was to paint purple and darkness on the sun-kissed skin of the boy who gave himself on his knees in a tent where no one would come to help him.

—You're like a bitch in heat, addicted to pain, eh? do you like to be hit? I'm going to fuck you up while I put my dick inside you— he slapped Pedri’s cheek again, with sickly softness.

—Mmhg, I don't want to, Ferran, please, let me go,— he begged all pathetic and drooling.

Torres walked his tongue through the trace of liquid enjoying Pedri's saliva, sucking until he reached his mouth, savoring his mouth abruptly. When separating from a union that he thinks could not be considered as a kiss, a line of saliva interconnects them for seconds.

—This is happening, I'm going to rape you anyway, so make the best of the situation and try to enjoy it— his diction was cruel, Pedri's empty look of hope confirmed it, he still nodded, accepting what was offered to him.

He excitedly handled the almost motionless body of Pedri, spitting in his face to remind him of his place. The confinement became heavy, the smell of sex was combined with that of nature, the wind entered through the grids of strong fabric and distant sounds of insects and other animals were noticed.

He placed Pedri on the floor like a puppy, positioning his body on all fours. His cock jumped at the sight of that small figure arched completely at his mercy. To violate him, he smiled when he licked the entrance, corrupting his privacy completely, sucking and kissed that area enjoying the mixed sounds of pleasure and shame.

He had to stop to remove his clothes. This day was one of the great reasons why he loved Pedri so much, the boy would let himself do anything, he could try to kill him and somehow the midfielder would affirm that it is his own fault, that he was provoking him to commit those actions.

The attractive Spaniard was there in front of him, delivering his body despite the fact that sex is not something he wants right now. Veins of excitement were throbbing in Ferran's thick arms, he loved that the important thing all this night is if he wants, what Pedri wants or needs is not a priority.

Pedri González placed himself in a position of inferiority, allowing violent injustices towards his body and spirit. Because that's how he was, in need of pleasing.

For that same reason Ferran pulled him by the back of his neck to stamp him down, keeping his hips up, and then arranging his foot on his head touching his cheek, applying pressure, crushing him. He used that impulse to support himself right in his hole, the fat tip of his cock would deliciously stretch the tight walls.

It didn't matter that it was painful for Pedri, or that it was uncomfortable, or that it was too much forcing him to faint, it wasn't the point of everything they were doing. Pedri didn't have to feel good.

His cock disappeared inside that warm interior, expanding and ruining the hole that his member ate. Ferran was sure that it would be completely ruined after sex, completely molded to the size of his own dick.

He waited several minutes when he entered completely, once Pedri’s body got used to it, he could assume an incessant rhythm to hunt his pleasure.

Pedri whimpered below him, babbling prayers that made no sense, destroyed and corrupted in his entirety.

He began to move, his patience returned the best prize, his cock slid deliciously, impaling the entrance in each thrust. His balls collided with Pedri's fleshy buttocks, the characteristic sound of a good wet sex came out of the isolated tent.

Pedri moaned sweetly because he was getting fucked so hard and he couldn't do anything to avoid it, just receive everything inside, cross his eyes sometimes and open his mouth to release dirty sounds.

He stood still introducing himself to be impaled whole while he was crushed, satisfied and painful expression mixed up.

—Does it hurt?— Ferran asked him between hoarse growls.

—Yes, yes, yes, ahnf, so much, it hurts so much—Pedri could hardly answer, feeling an incredible abuse towards his prostate.

Torres suddenly left his entrance, taking a look at the disaster that caused, Pedri's entrance could not be closed, from his sight he could see all the pre-seminal fluid that was inside.

—Come on, squeeze a little— Ferran spoke to humiliate Pedri.

—I can't, I can't, I can't, I need, I need— repetitions of thoughts and cries was the only thing you could hear coming out of the mouth of the Barça star.

I need your cock. And how can one blame Ferran Torres for his mentality when he has a boy so beautiful below him that needs his dick to be able to breathe, even if he doesn't say it out loud, because even his aroma was needy. Ferran gave Pedri the best wish, he put it to the bottom and did not stop at any time, even when the canary's legs began to tremble.

The tingling began to resemble intense cramps, so much that when the climax came, Pedri needed to cry; he only had the option of enduring an orgasm where he is unable to stop or establish a rhythm. The stretch of nerves intensified, the powerful electricity was due to the overflow, the midfielder stopped emitting sounds, only drowned air came out of his mouth.

—Are you going to cum while I fuck you in the ass? Good boy, cum just because of my cock— he murmured dragged, also losing control completely.

He felt below his foot Pedri nodding his head, unable to emit any coherent word, his brain fried in white when he reaches the peak of pleasure. The orgasm hits him like a whip for several seconds, he screamed low while jets of semen came out shot down several times.

Ferran came out of his entrance when he felt his climax coming, quickly settling down on his knees in front of Pedri's face, masturbating his cock abruptly until he stained the minor's entire face, sperm liquid on his lips, forehead, nose, up to a little in his hair.

Both men collapsed on the ground, covered with blows, fluids, a little dirt and new experiences.

Pedri lost consciousness and Ferran was too tired to clean them both, but he still reached for baby wipes for sensitive skin to clean his boyfriend, worrying about not hurting sensitive areas.

He kissed him on the forehead after cleaning the whole scene as much as possible, wearing him in comfortable pajamas.

—Pedri sweetheart, we have to stop roleplaying like this, you almost killed me this time— he murmured to his partner who slept peacefully next to him.

I love you, it was the last thing he thought before falling asleep next to Pedri.

(...)

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