Chapter 6: Neuer's fingers tangle painfully in Vanja's hair as he forces her mouth down onto his throbbing cock, her choked gasps muffled against his thick shaft. 'Suck it like you mean it, Doctor,' he growls, hips bucking upward to cram his length deeper down her throat until tears streak her flushed cheeks, her nails digging into his muscular thighs as she gags around him.
The silence in the aftermath of the beer hall was a physical presence, a third entity in the car with Vanja as she drove home. Her body felt like a foreign country, the memory of his possession mapped onto her skin in bruises and phantom sensations. The stickiness between her thighs had dried, but the feeling of his release, the brutal, claiming thrusts, were etched into her muscle memory. He had walked away as if she were a piece of training equipment he was done with. This changes nothing.
For three days, it didn’t. At Säbener Straße, he was a statue. A nod in team meetings, a clipped instruction on the pitch, his blue eyes scanning through her as if she were made of glass. The torn shirt and the scattered buttons, the raw sound of her scream—it was all a dream that only she remembered. The cognitive dissonance was a constant, low-grade hum in her veins. She was either going to explode or do something profoundly stupid.
After a particularly grueling double session with the U21s, her own muscles screaming in protest, she sought the one place she thought would be empty: the private massage room. The complex was quiet, the evening sun casting long, lazy shadows through the high windows. She pushed the door open, the familiar, soothing scent of eucalyptus washing over her.
He was there.
Shirtless, lying prone on the central treatment table, a white towel draped low over his hips. The powerful expanse of his back, a landscape of defined muscle and faded scars, was glistening with a thin sheen of sweat or oil. He didn’t turn his head.
The door clicked shut behind her, the sound final.
“Lock it.”
His voice was low, flat, the same tone he used to organize his defense during a set piece. It brooked no argument. It was the voice from the hallway, the one that had said get up and left her on the floor.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a wild, trapped bird. Every rational thought screamed at her to turn, to unlock the door, to walk away from the disaster he promised he was. But her feet were rooted to the spot, her gaze fixed on the corded strength of his shoulders, the dip of his spine. The memory of her nails scraping down that back was suddenly vivid and hot.
Her hand moved of its own volition, the soft snick of the lock engaging deafening in the quiet room.
“Come here.”
She moved slowly, each step a surrender. The soft, ambient music and the dim lighting that usually promised relaxation now felt charged with a predatory tension. She stopped beside the table, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean sweat and the sharp, clinical scent of the eucalyptus oil.
He shifted then, rolling onto his side with a fluid, powerful grace that made her breath catch. His eyes, those infuriatingly beautiful blue eyes, were dark, the pupils blown wide. They tracked from her face, down the sweat-damp neckline of her training top, to the tight fabric of her shorts, and back up. There was no warmth in that gaze, only a cold, assessing hunger.
“You’ve been thinking about it,” he stated, his voice a rough scrape. “Haven’t you, Doctor? In your meetings. On the pitch. Watching me. Thinking about how I felt inside you.”
She wanted to deny it, to spit a sarcastic retort that would shatter this unbearable intensity. But the truth was a live wire in her gut. She gave a single, jerky nod.
A slow, cruel smile touched his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Good.”
His hand shot out, faster than she could react, his fingers wrapping around the back of her neck. He didn’t pull her into a kiss. He applied pressure, guiding her down. His other hand went to the towel at his hips, flicking it aside.
“Then stop thinking,” he commanded, his voice dropping to a guttural whisper. “And get on your fucking knees.”
The air left her lungs in a rush. There he was, fully erect, thick and veined and ruddy with blood, jutting from the dark blond hair at his groin. It was a blatant, shocking demand. An order. The power dynamic they pretended to maintain in the daylight was not just blurred here; it was being systematically dismantled.
A tremor ran through her. This was different from the hallway’s frantic, mutual combustion. This was cold, deliberate submission. And the most terrifying part was the molten heat that pooled in her belly at the thought, the way her mouth actually watered.
She sank to her knees on the soft, padded mat beside the table. The cool air-conditioned breeze brushed against her heated skin. She looked up at him, her golden-green eyes wide, her lips parted.
“Go on,” he prompted, his hand still a firm weight on her neck. “You wanted my attention. You have it. Now show me what you do with it.”
She leaned forward, her hands coming to rest on his powerful thighs. The muscle was rock-hard under her palms. She hesitated for a second, the reality of the act crashing down on her. Then she closed the distance, her tongue darting out to trace a slow, wet line from the base of his shaft to the tip.
He let out a sharp hiss, his fingers tightening in her hair. “More.”
She took the head into her mouth, swirling her tongue around the flared ridge, tasting the clean, salty pre-come that had beaded there. She relaxed her jaw, taking him deeper, her lips stretching to accommodate his girth. She moved slowly at first, a tentative rhythm, her hands stroking the length of him that she couldn’t yet take.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his hips giving a slight, involuntary thrust. “Take it all. I know you can.”
The challenge in his voice ignited something in her. A defiance. She pushed down, taking him deeper into her throat, fighting her gag reflex, her eyes watering. She looked up at him through her lashes, her gaze defiant even as she serviced him.
The sight seemed to undo him. A raw, guttural sound ripped from his chest. “Fuck. Just like that.”
His control began to fracture. He started to fuck her mouth in earnest, his hands gripping her head, setting a brutal, pounding rhythm. She gave herself over to it, to the sensation of being used, the slap of his skin against her lips, the muffled, wet sounds that filled the quiet room. Her own need was a throbbing ache between her legs, and she pressed her thighs together, seeking friction.
He was muttering filthy, broken phrases. “Such a smart mouth… put to better use… gonna come down your throat…”
She felt him swell, the rhythm becoming frantic, jagged. With a final, deep thrust that made her choke, he held her there, his entire body rigid. A hot, pulsing flood filled her mouth, bitter and thick. She swallowed convulsively, again and again, until he was spent.
He released her head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. She pulled back, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, her own breathing uneven. She expected to feel shame, degradation. Instead, she felt a dizzying, powerful sense of victory. She had brought the legendary, unflappable Manuel Neuer to this.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, in a movement of startling speed, he slid off the table and onto his knees before her. He gripped the waistband of her training shorts and underwear, yanking them down to her ankles in one violent motion.
“My turn,” he growled, his voice rough with spent passion and a new, rising hunger.
He pushed her back onto the floor, the plush mat soft against her bare skin. He didn’t kiss her. He shoved her legs apart, his head dipping between her thighs. His tongue, broad and relentless, found her core and licked a stripe through her wetness that made her back arch off the floor.
“Oh, god…”
He ate her out with the same cold, focused intensity with which he commanded his penalty area. It was not an act of tenderness, but of consumption. His tongue circled her clit, flicked against it, then plunged inside her, again and again, mapping her terrain, learning what made her gasp and writhe. He held her hips pinned to the floor, his strength absolute.
“Please…” she begged, the word torn from her, her fingers tangling in his dark blond hair.
He lifted his head, his mouth glistening. “Please, what?”
“Fuck me. Manuel, please, just fuck me.”
A dark satisfaction flashed in his eyes. He rose over her, his body caging hers. He guided himself to her entrance, the head of his cock, still wet from her mouth, pressing against her swollen flesh.
“Look at me,” he commanded, echoing his words from the hallway.
He drove into her with a single, deep thrust that stole her breath. He was still half-hard, but he filled her completely, the stretch a blinding, perfect ache. He began to move, a slow, grinding, possessive rhythm that was somehow more intimate than their frantic coupling against the wall. This was not about release; it was about ownership.
He watched her the entire time, his blue eyes capturing every flinch, every gasp, every flicker of surrender in her gaze. He leaned down, his mouth close to her ear. “This is what you wanted,” he breathed, each word a thrust. “This is what you asked for when you pulled my tie.”
He was right. This was the inevitable conclusion of that first, defiant act. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting his slow, deep strokes with a rising desperation of her own. The coil tightened, faster this time, fed by the raw vulnerability of his gaze and the relentless, penetrating rhythm.
Her climax built, a screaming pressure behind her eyes. She was babbling, broken phrases. “Yes… there… don’t stop…”
He fucked her through it, his pace never faltering, his eyes locked on hers as she came apart beneath him, her internal muscles clenching around him in violent, pulsing waves. Only when her cries had subsided into whimpers did his own control break. His rhythm became frantic, his thrusts losing their precision. With a final, deep groan that was her name—a ragged, honest “Vanja”—he spilled into her, his body shuddering, his full weight collapsing onto her for a single, breathtaking moment before he caught himself.
For a long time, there was only the sound of their breathing and the soft music. He shifted off her, sitting back on his heels, running a hand through his hair. The cold mask was gone, replaced by a look of stark, unnerved contemplation. He looked at her, lying spent and exposed on the floor of the club’s massage room, and then at the locked door.
The reality of their situation, the profound, professional abyss they were leaping into, was finally reflected in his eyes. It was no longer just a secret. It was a conspiracy.
He stood, turning away from her to find his clothes. “We can’t keep doing this,” he said, his voice quiet, almost to himself.
Vanja pushed herself up on her elbows, her body feeling heavy and used and utterly alive. She looked at the powerful line of his back, the same back she had just clawed at in passion. A slow, dangerous smile touched her lips.
“Why not?”
“Why not?” The words hung in the eucalyptus-scented air, a direct challenge to the wall he was trying to rebuild between them.
He turned back to face her, his expression a raw conflict of desire and frustration. The cool detachment he wielded like a shield was gone, replaced by something darker, more hungry. “Because it’s not enough,” he said, his voice low and rough, each word measured. “I want more. I want all of you.”
She moved before he could retreat, closing the distance between them in two swift steps. Her mouth found his in a fierce, claiming kiss that tasted of salt and surrender. It wasn’t gentle; it was a collision, her tongue sweeping into his mouth with a desperate urgency that mirrored the pounding of her heart. His hands came up to grip her hips, his fingers digging into her skin as he kissed her back with a matching ferocity, swallowing her gasp as he backed her against the treatment table.