Zlatan Ibrahimović stepped into his sprawling mansion in Malmö, the door clicking shut behind him with a satisfying thud. At 44, the legendary Swedish footballer still carried himself like a king on the pitch—tall, broad-shouldered, his muscular frame honed from decades of dominating games for clubs like Ajax, Juventus, Inter Milan, Barcelona, PSG, Manchester United, and now back in Sweden with AC Milan echoes in his mind. Sweat glistened on his tanned skin, soaking through his training jersey after an intense session at the local academy where he coached young talents. The air in the foyer carried the sharp, musky scent of his exertion, a mix of salt and raw masculinity that always lingered after a hard workout.
Maximilian, his 19-year-old son, lounged on the leather sofa in the living room, scrolling through highlights of his father's old goals on his phone. Tall like Zlatan, with the same sharp jawline and piercing eyes, Max had inherited his dad's athletic build but pursued modeling gigs between university classes. Vincent, 18 and even more lanky, sprawled nearby on the floor, fiddling with a soccer ball, his dark hair tousled. The younger son shared Zlatan's competitive fire, already trialing for a youth team in Stockholm.
'Hey, Dad,' Max called out, looking up with a grin as Zlatan kicked off his cleats at the door. The older son’s eyes flicked to his father's feet—large, size 13, calloused from years of pounding the turf. 'Tough practice? You look like you just ran a marathon.'
Zlatan chuckled, his deep voice rumbling as he peeled off his jersey, revealing a chiseled chest dusted with dark hair, abs rippling under a sheen of sweat. 'Nothing I can't handle, son. Those kids out there think they're hot shit, but I showed 'em how it's done. Sweating like a pig, though.' He tossed the jersey aside, the fabric landing with a damp slap on the marble floor. The smell intensified, that potent, earthy aroma filling the room, making Vincent sit up straighter.
'Yeah, I can smell it from here,' Vincent said, wrinkling his nose playfully but leaning in closer, his gaze lingering on Zlatan's bare torso. 'Kinda... intense. Like victory or something.' The youngest son's voice held a hint of something more, a curiosity that had been building over family trips and late-night talks about Zlatan's glory days.
Zlatan flopped onto the armchair opposite them, stretching his long legs out. His socks, white and soaked through, clung to his feet, toes flexing against the fabric. 'Victory smells like sweat, boys. That's the real perfume of a champion.' He wiggled his toes, unaware—or perhaps very aware—of the way his sons' eyes followed the motion. The mansion's air conditioning hummed softly, but it did little to dispel the heat radiating from his body.
Max set his phone down and slid off the sofa, kneeling by his father's feet. 'Your feet must be killing you after that. Want a massage? I owe you for the tickets to that Milan game last year.' His hands hovered, waiting for permission, heart pounding a little faster than usual.
Zlatan raised an eyebrow, smirking. 'You offering? Alright, go for it. These dogs have carried me through more wars than you can imagine.' He leaned back, closing his eyes as Max peeled off one sock slowly, revealing the broad, veined sole, damp with sweat. The scent hit stronger now—salty, tangy, mixed with the faint leather from his cleats. Max inhaled subtly, his cock twitching in his shorts at the raw, forbidden allure.
Vincent watched, shifting on the floor. 'Me too, Dad? I can do the other one.' His voice was eager, almost breathless.
'Sure, Vin. Team effort.' Zlatan opened one eye, watching his sons with a mix of paternal pride and something darker stirring in his gut. He'd always been the alpha, the lion of the family, but lately, the way they looked at him—with admiration turning to hunger—had ignited fantasies he'd buried under his playboy reputation.
Max's fingers dug into the arch of Zlatan's foot, kneading the tense muscles. The skin was warm, slick with perspiration, and Max pressed his thumb along the ball, feeling the give of flesh earned from brutal tackles and sprints. 'Feels good?' he murmured, bringing the foot closer to his face under the guise of better leverage.
Zlatan groaned low. 'Damn right. Harder, Max. You've got strong hands.' The sound sent a shiver through Vincent, who mirrored his brother, stripping off the other sock. Zlatan's toes splayed, big and powerful, nails trimmed short. Vincent massaged the heel, his nose inches from the source of that intoxicating smell—sweat-soaked skin, a hint of grit from the field. He breathed it in, his dick hardening as he imagined tasting it.
'You boys are spoiling me,' Zlatan said, his voice thicker now. He cracked his eyes open to see them both focused, faces flushed. 'What's got you so into this? Never seen you this attentive.'
Max glanced up, meeting his father's gaze. 'Just... love taking care of you, Dad. You've given us everything.' His hand slid up Zlatan's calf, testing boundaries, while his lips brushed the edge of the foot accidentally—or not.
Vincent bolder, lifted the foot to his mouth and planted a soft kiss on the instep. 'Yeah, and you smell... amazing. Like a real man after the fight.' The words tumbled out, hanging in the air.
Zlatan's breath hitched. He sat up slightly, his semi-hard cock bulging against his shorts. 'What the hell are you saying, Vin?' But there was no anger, only intrigue. The taboos of his life—affairs, rivalries—paled against this intimate pull.
Max didn't stop. He licked a stripe along the sole, tasting the salt, the bitterness of sweat. 'We want you, Dad. Both of us. Have for a while.' His tongue swirled around the big toe, sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop.
Zlatan’s cock throbbed fully now, straining. 'Fuck... you serious?' He grabbed Max's hair, guiding him deeper, while with his free hand, he pulled Vincent closer. 'Show me then. Suck it like you mean it.'
Vincent obeyed, engulfing two toes, his mouth hot and eager, slurping the sweat from the crevices. The room filled with obscene sounds—sucking, licking, Zlatan's heavy breathing. 'That's it, boys. Clean your old man's feet. Taste what winning feels like.'
Emboldened, Max released the foot and crawled up, pressing his lips to Zlatan's thigh, inhaling the sweat from his skin. 'I want more, Dad. All of you.' He nuzzled the bulge, mouthing the outline through the fabric.
Zlatan stood, towering over them, and shoved his shorts down. His thick cock sprang free—uncut, veined, nine inches of Swedish power, tip already leaking precum. The musk from his balls hit them, mingling with the foot sweat. 'On your knees. Both of you.'
The sons knelt side by side, eyes wide. Vincent reached out first, wrapping his hand around the base, stroking slowly. 'So big... like you on the field.' He leaned in, tongue flicking the slit, savoring the salty bead.
Max joined, licking the shaft from balls to head, their tongues meeting in sloppy kisses around the girth. Zlatan gripped their heads, thrusting shallowly. 'Suck your father's cock, you little sluts. Make me proud.'
They took turns, Vincent deepthroating as much as he could, gagging wetly, while Max sucked the balls, inhaling the sweaty sack. 'Tastes so good,' Vincent gasped between bobs. 'Sweaty and hard.'
Zlatan pulled them up, stripping their clothes off roughly. Max's lean body, Vincent's slimmer one—both cocks erect, leaking. 'Bedroom. Now.' He led them upstairs to his master suite, the king-sized bed dominating the room with views of the garden.
Pushing Max onto the bed, Zlatan climbed over him, capturing his mouth in a fierce kiss—tongues battling like a midfield duel. Vincent watched, stroking himself, until Zlatan beckoned. 'Get over here. Lick my ass while I fuck your brother's mouth.'
Vincent dove in, spreading Zlatan's cheeks, tongue probing the sweaty hole. The taste was pungent, earthy, driving him wild as he rimmed deep. Zlatan moaned into Max's mouth, then pulled back. 'Open wide.' He fed his cock down Max's throat, face-fucking him steadily.
'Take it, son. Choke on Daddy's dick.' Max gurgled, tears streaming, but his hips bucked, loving the dominance.
Vincent's tongue worked faster, lapping sweat from the crack. 'Your ass is sweaty too, Dad. So fucking hot.'
Zlatan flipped positions, lying back. 'Ride me, Max. Sit on your father's cock.' Max straddled him, guiding the thick head to his tight hole—no lube needed with the sweat slicking everything. He sank down slowly, gasping as it stretched him. 'Oh god... so full.'
Vincent straddled Zlatan's face, lowering his ass onto that expert tongue. Zlatan ate him out ravenously, sucking the rim, probing deep. 'Grind on me, Vin. Feed Daddy your hole.'
The room echoed with moans, skin slapping. Max bounced, his cock slapping Zlatan's abs. 'Fuck me harder... deeper.' Zlatan thrust up, pounding his son's ass, balls smacking wetly.
Vincent came first, spurting cum across Zlatan's chest without touching himself, the orgasm ripping through him from the rimming. 'Shit... Dad!' Zlatan lapped it up, then flipped Vincent onto all fours.
'Your turn, baby boy.' He slammed into Vincent's virgin-tight ass, no mercy, the sweat easing the way. Max knelt in front, feeding his cock to his brother's mouth. 'Suck me while Dad breeds you.'
Vincent slurped messily, ass clenching around Zlatan's pistoning cock. 'Yes... fuck us both. We're yours.'
Zlatan roared, pulling out to stroke himself, spraying thick ropes of cum across their backs and asses. 'Take my load, boys. All of it.' They collapsed together, panting, bodies slick with sweat and seed.
As they caught their breath, Zlatan pulled them close, kissing foreheads. 'That was just the start. Champions don't quit after one goal.' The smell of their shared sweat hung heavy, promising more forbidden games in the mansion's shadows.
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