Part 147: Cheek to Cheek
It was mid-morning and already a hot day, and the Chelsea manager could not help sweating beneath the sultry crowds even in a thin training shirt and loose shorts, patrolling the club's training ground and trying to assess each of the lads' readiness for Sunday's FA Cup Semi Final against Manchester United. But it was not just the humid summer weather or the big tournament clash looming ahead that had the 42-year-old head coach feeling clammy beneath his light clothes as he walked about; the main coaching duties of the morning assigned to several of his assistants so that he could tap notes in on his touchscreen tablet and begin formulating a team-sheet for beating a resurgent Man Utd.
No, it was also several of the views on offer making him sweat.
Nearby, the club's giant 24-year-old midfielder was dancing from foot to foot in a series of quick cardio exercises, the bright blue of his Chelsea tracksuit clinging to the long tower of his legs and torso, that confidently relaxed grin lighting his handsome face as he did so. Loftus-Cheek's energy was attractively positive, and it was more than true that Lampard had dipped his ink in that pool of company ink over the past couple of months. Bursting with enthusiastic laughter, big tall Ruben completed the circuit and high-fived Frank's assistant manager who was leading the exercise; it was the same boisterous joy with which the tall handsome Londoner would go down on his knees in sporadic encounters that worried Lampard with their casualness and risk. As helpful as Loftus-Cheek had been in pushing him to accept and enjoy his new appetite, he needed to knock these incidents on the head; like his earlier experiments, they were dangerously `close to home' and, really, how could he trust the 24-year-old to protect his secrecy...?
As happened more and more, Lampard's lusty middle-aged eye was cast instead over some of Ruben's blue-clad teammates -- it was difficult now not to look players up and down and assess them in this way, his 42-year-old eyes awoken to what man-on-man fun could offer.
Working out with RLC was one of Chelsea's new signings, already here and training albeit unavailable for match-play just yet: Lampard found himself sizing up the 27-year-old Dutch Moroccan winger who was laughing and enjoying himself with Ruben and the others. Hakim Ziyech was a slender figure with a cheeky expression on his face, his fast physique full of pent-up energy like a loaded spring. Frank could not help but look at his wiry tall physique bouncing around next to the more established Chelsea midfielders and imagining holding that thin strong body in his own hands, pressing him down onto his desk or any other surface, having his way...
The Chelsea ex-player tutted loudly at his own restless thoughts, unconsciously making a couple of nearby players stiffen up awkwardly as if his scoffing noise was directed at their slouching posture as they waited to compete in the same little race of exercises for the coach. Frank stared moodily at them, unwilling to apologise for the accident. He ached with internal guilt at the worried look on Christian Pulisic's face, the promising young American seeming to cower at the prospect of his disapproval, looking very sternly at the grass and fidgeting from foot to foot; next to him, the Dane Christensen blushed apologetically as if caught up to no good. Frank paused and looked at the two young players for a moment, imagining them going at it in the office for his enjoyment, then gave them a bristling nod of acknowledgement and moved on.
Callum Hudson-Odoi jogged past him as he turned away, and the young forward's crotch bounced ostentatiously in his blue shorts; after him came the club's French ace, Olivier Giroud, bouncing with similar showy looseness as he jogged after the other striker, away towards one of the goal set-ups to participate in some striking practice. Keep your eyes up, Frank told himself angrily, don't be so distracted, how many fuckin' footballers' packages have you seen in the last 25 years, fella...?!
It had been since the Villa incident that Lampard had begun to hold himself back more carefully. The audacity and revelation of that post-match sinfulness had rocked him. He'd returned to Chelsea life moody and hot-tempered, not helped by a couple of woeful under-performances from his squad; he was fixating on the FA Cup as the solution to everything, inevitably. If the season was to end in mediocre anti-climax for his London club, he needed to exit it with some tangible `win' in his hands, some testament to his young career in football management: holding that prestigious Cup with these lads would be the perfect thing, never mind the distant notion of the Champions League. Keep your mind on the job, he told himself daily, don't let any little distractions let you get carried away...!
Speaking of which, there they were...
Ahead of him, a cluster of other Chelsea players were bobbing up and down in controlled squats, resistance bands stretched between strong calves, testing their leg and glute muscles at the direction of his youngest assistant coach. The nearest two of them dipped in almost unison, exposing the big blue canvases of their buttocks to him in one syncopated flourish: Ross Barkley and Mason Mount. The older midfielder spreading wide and easy, his core strength and powerful thighs carrying him in easy dips that made the other squad members look weak and wobbly on their limbs; next to him, Mason ducked impressively low, shorts stretching as his rear pushed back, the hints of a wedgie and the visible lines of his briefs showing in the fabric -- it was apparent that young Mount had been taking some squat day tips from his older chum, too, given the plump vision in blue that Frank was momentarily enjoying, before the men rose up to their feet again at the coach's direction.
Lampard dropped his eyes and immediately busied himself unseeingly on the screen of his tablet, determined not to stare as Barkley, Mount and others dipped and rose, dipped and rose, spread and clenched, dipped and rose...
He turned moodily away from this view, quietly resentful of his still-simmering obsession with Ross Barkley, a man he had carefully held his hands away from for month after month now. He knew that his behaviour with Barkley was so deeply toxic; the big-arsed Scouser was playing twice as good since he'd stopped trying to get the best of him, though every now and then the former Everton lad seemed to look needily his way, craving that old attention as he tugged at his shorts. Lampard was aware that he'd had a bit of love-life complication lately, was probably very vulnerable to any outside interest, but... ugh, he couldn't be that man any more! And as for cute, adorable Mason, well... Lampard stole a look over his shoulder at both of them, deep in squat, and bit his lip. Would he give it all up to slip his tongue in one and his cock in the other?
No, the FA Cup! Focus!
Lampard stomped away, over the hazy training pitch, then was cut from his irritable thoughts by the buzzing of the little headset tucked in his ear; if only his wife would put out more, he thought resentfully, then maybe he wouldn't get so distracted and fixated by the men in kit when he was supposed to be leading a complex and important day's training...! The robotic-tinged voice of his PA cut through the earpiece, crackling into focus and demanding his attention. Mr Lampard... your 11am is here...' He squinted at the striking practice at the other end of the pitch and rubbed his light stubble thoughtfully, a little confused. What 11am meeting? The voice cut in and out, unreliable Bluetooth technology. A couple more players jogged by, shorts tight about their thighs, and Lampard growled under his breath, needing some release or excitement, needing SOMETHING. Your 11am sir,' continued her politely patient voice over the faint fug of interference, `it's er, Daniel Drinkwater, Mr Lampard, I've just put him in your office to wait for you...'
Drinkwater lowered himself into the seat and adjusted the collar of his short-sleeved shirt, pale and delicately patterned against the deep summery tan of his strong arms and neck. The 30-year-old footballer inspected the familiar surrounds of the managerial office, reminded of a day three and a bit years ago when he'd sat here and signed his contract to Chelsea, abandoning the champions at Leicester in what had seemed an important move. In three seasons he'd only racked up 12 appearances and a single goal for the London blues, though, enduring the fringe life of the loan player, just as in his earlier spell at Manchester United, his boyhood club who'd sent him to four or five different sides before selling him to Leicester. What a patchy record, he thought irritably. But never more so than in his recent spell at Aston Villa.
Almost fifteen minutes late, the Chelsea manager burst in for their long-agreed meeting to discuss his contract, clearly fresh from the training ground. Danny lifted respectfully from his seat to greet the flustered, sun-reddened older man, who ignored his offer of a handshake and just tapped him once on the shoulder, bustling around to the other side of the desk in his casual dark blue training shirt and shorts, everything in his manner shouting `I FORGOT ALL ABOUT YOU, MATE' even as he made polite greetings and settled into his throne-like chair to turn a sternly authoritative expression at his visitor, reaching for a diary to flick through. Danny smiled vaguely back, watching him flick through its pages and confirm that, yes, he'd agreed to this meeting some time ago.
Now Danny, pal,' Lampard began, full of the geezer London charm that made him seem such a young and relatable manager compared to many, you know that the board and myself are still weighing up an umber of important signings, so...'
Drinkwater nodded along, sucking up the anticipated vagueness and bland dismissal. He felt the earnestness of his position here, the pestering desperation of forcing this meeting to happen. But with each slow-moving final week of the Premier League, he knew that Villa were far from interested in extending his contract. He'd barely made a stab at the first team there even before a pointless fight with a teammate and couldn't even get his muscled arse cheeks onto the subs bench since the post-lockdown restart.
He listened to the corporate bullshit of the Chelsea manager with a tense smile, a series of polite clichés punctuated by Lampard's matey style and slips of slang. It was quite something sitting here opposite the man, to be fair; were there many midfielders out there who Drinkwater looked up to and admired more? It did not make the bullshit taste any sweeter, and he could tell big Frank knew it; the older guy looked slightly uncomfortable as he made his non-committal monologue. The bottom line: Chelsea had a lot of big figures potentially come in and out, and did not yet know if there was any place in their line-up for a 30-year-old almost-was. Drinkwater grimaced and nodded along, shifting in the seat and trying to appear relaxed and hopeful.
I appreciate all that,' he said, when Frank came to a meaningful pause, I really do, boss. I just wanted to try and speak to you properly, you know, man to man.'
I am sorry it hasn't worked out more excitingly at Villa,' Lampard told him, sounding somewhere near sincere. But you know, there is a solid chance they won't pull through; they could well be down with Norwich in the Championship next season. If that happens, they will lose a few big names, and...'
`And maybe they'll be desperate enough to give me a shot.'
`That isn't what I meant, geezer.' Frank looked at him seriously over the desk; it was definitely what he meant. Danny smiled awkwardly at him, knowing he was in no position to let off steam here or be honest in his irritated self-pity. There was a good dynamic between them but they'd never played together and in fact Lampard had never really been his manager, he'd already been out on loan when the young ex-player took the reins; the most connection they shared was a couple of Chelsea training sessions before he took up his place at Villa.
I'm not saying I'm too proud to play in the Championship again,' Danny said gruffly (he was), and I quite like it at Aston Villa, really, when I get anywhere near playing...' He saw Lampard losing interest already, glancing away toward the windows, folding his hands in front of him over his closed diary, his mind clearly on the training sessions Danny's arrival had interrupted. `There's some good lads there,' he continued vaguely, his mind racing, needing to spark some interest or connection with his would-be manager. He knew a place in the Chelsea squad next season was unlikely, even without some of their big-name arrivals, but still... if he could get Frank on side a bit more, connect with him man-to-man, then maybe he could broker a better loan or sale deal, somewhere a bit more promising than downward Villa...
It's been great working under your old pal,' he remarked suddenly, his mind fixing on one credible link between the stressed-looking manager and his own patchy spell at the near-relegated Birmingham club. Old JT sure brings a next-level class to the training there, y'know, he's such a strong figure, I think the lads respect him more than the real manager, actually, and...' He paused, rethinking his words. `Not that he's old, you know, I just mean -- well, like you, a proper legend in his own lifetime, haha, kinda guy players my age really look up to...'
Lampard turned and fixed him with a curious look, clearly sparked by mention of his long-time teammate and captain. A hesitant smile was on his face; a little lined and aged by adult responsibility now, but still very bright and handsome. Of course,' he said quietly, you must see a lot of old Terry about the place, of course...' Something distant and thoughtful in his tone; probably reminiscing about the good old days of being an active player himself, fighting tooth-and-claw with JT against every team in the League.
`He's a real solid bloke, ain't he?' the 30-year-old Mancunian mused, seeing the spark of interest.
I know what he's like as a captain,' Frank said a little distantly, dunno about as a coach.'
He's tough,' Danny said. Goes hard on us.'
`Oh?'
Yeah, proper disciplined, y'know?' In saying this, Danny was trying to convey his own discipline and reserve, knowing his reputation for hothead incidents and previously slacking work ethic, something his current physique attested against. He leant forward, shoulder muscles bulging at the pale shirt, making the front buttons tense against his pecs. He really pushes us, he's the tough muscle behind anything good you see at Villa Park, trust me!'
Frank, for some reason, looked quite distracted by this claim, fixing him with a curious look and shifting about on the other side of the desk, fiddling with the covers of the diary beneath his hands. He almost looked flustered, but Danny supposed he was hot from the climate outside and from getting to work with his men, the team that he felt strongly he ought to be training with, rather than this weird between-clubs exile.
`Discipline,' Lampard echoed vaguely.
`Yeah, you don't wanna get on the wrong side of him.'
`No, course not... and if you do?'
`Well, if you do,' Danny laughed, then paused. The Chelsea manager was looking sharply at him over the desk, leaning forward on his elbows slightly, an excited expression frozen over his slightly grizzled features. Drinkwater hesitated, considering the parallel in his position now; after all, what lengths had he been ready to go to in getting legendary John Terry on-side? How many times had he sat in front of or next to Villa's second-in-command and tried to needle at a laddish friendship to save his own bacon, to guarantee some chances of play, even as a sub...
`If you do?' repeated Lampard a little breathlessly.
`Then you see a different side of him,' Danny replied, experimentally. Testing the water.
`Right.'
`I mean, you probably know all about that.'
`I dunno...'
He was always a tough nasty fucker, right?' The swear word slipped out, but it felt right. There was a shift in Frank's behaviour and tone, after all, a drop of the stiff manager-player dynamic that hung about their conversation, even as Lampard id his best to be the cool, approachable young boss, the bright future of Premiership, all hard work and honest authenticity. He seemed younger and less assertive now as he leaned over the desk a little, staring hard at Danny, a twitching frown on his face. Danny stared back at him, registering the impact of his own blunt words. The toughest,' he added slowly, `and the nastiest.'
Frank nodded a little and looked away, shuffled at a few things on the desk. There was certainly a faintly glossy sheen to his cheeks and brow and he then pulled at the loose neck of his training top, rippling its blue fabric and Chelsea logo. Danny, half-consciously, pulled at the collar of his own shirt, loosening the top button, feeling the heat of the office.
Like I say,' he murmured, you probably know that best, playing with him all those years, like you did...! I mean, JT, his rep goes before him, hah... But a good guy. I like him. We get on well. Really well, y'know.' He watched Frank's twitching face muscles and agitated arms and his gaze swinging slowly back to him, his interest captured. Danny was making some quick mental connections, some risqué estimates about what he knew and what he didn't. After a long pause, he leant in on one elbow, closing the gap between them a little. `He certainly knows how to show a player who's boss, if you know what I mean.'
Frank let out a tiny puff of breath and looked at him without blinking. I bet he does,' he said in a strained voice, then loudly cleared his throat and sat back in his chair. I mean, he's got a lot of experience, same as me, really, we've both done our time, and...'
Yeah, so he knows what footballers are really like,' Danny said, introducing a playful chuckle to their dialogue. He knows we're just big bundles of muscle and hormone, haha. Knows better than anyone, I guess. We all know what he does half his thinking with, haha. No disrespect, of course.' He watched the excited tremor of Frank's smile at this unguarded joke. `No respect for him at all,' he added more quietly, his tone wheedling.
Frank shifted on his seat again, pulling at his shirt to adjust it, a hand disappearing down to perhaps adjust his shorts, too. He looked decidedly flustered now, though the office itself was air-conditioning cool, so much so that Danny could feel his nipples harden and graze the soft fabric of his shirt. He smiled at his proxy manager, aware of a thaw in the polite dismissal of the conversation they had begun here today. So, he thought, perhaps...
`Has he ever had to discipline you?' Frank Lampard asked then, through gritted teeth.
Danny smiled sweetly. `Maybe once or twice... boss.'
Lampard held a hand, unseen, against the upper inside of his leg, feeling the rise and swell of his erection through the blue Chelsea shorts, his other arm resting firmly on the desk. He stared uncertainly at the handsome young footballer on the other side of the desk, bulging in his undersize shirt, glowing with the tan of someone who'd spent months working out in his garden. His shirt had come undone a little at the top, showing the faint crease of his muscle chest below the firm girth of his neck. And now he was leaning forward more, so that the buttons strained more in the centre of his chest, a real cheeky smile on his smooth face.
`What did he do?' Frank asked. He could hear the excited tremble in his voice as he asked it, not quite stern with his calm macho authority, or matching the playful gossip of his visitor's voice. He knew his dirty, private excitement was somehow audible in the question.
`He just showed me who's boss,' Danny told him warmly.
Frank nodded, lifted and dragged his free hand across his strong chin, brushing close to his pursed lips. The other hand stayed where it was, loosely over the awkward stiffness of his cock, resisting the urge to stroke more firmly there, to really take hold of himself as his mind played over Drinkwater's ambiguous words, tapping into the latent fascination that had sat behind his recent determination and abstinence.
Danny, still looking at him, let out a long sigh. `It's really hot in here, ain't it?' the Manc lad asked.
Frank nodded again. `It can be.' In fact he could feel the gentle stir of the air-con cooling the sweat on the back of his neck, but he still felt a rising heat. His mind was elsewhere; another backstage scene of the football world, a different room in the stadium of a different club. He thought about what he'd walked in on, what Terry had been doing... How many hotel rooms had they shared? In fact, how many WOMEN had they shared, long before sharing... John McGinn...?
Drinkwater was loosening another shirt button, spilling a tantalising view of his flat smooth pecs where they rested, and running his knuckles about his neck a little as he adjusted the collar of his close-fitting shirt, then leaning back a bit in his seat. The same seat so many players had occupied in one-to-one meetings with Chelsea managers over the years.
How did he show you who's boss?' Lampard asked, quite quiet and hoarse. Drinkwater said nothing, just a little twist of smile, sitting contemplatively across from him. Frank couldn't help but squeeze his dick properly, and he knew it might be obvious, the twitch of his arm, the shift of his posture, but he couldn't help it. One: had he ever really noticed before what a stud Danny Drinkwater, this problematic unreliable professional', actually was? Two: how many virile young athletes at Villa Park had received some er, special attention from his good mate John Terry?
`Maybe I should show you.' He saw Danny's smile widen and curl as he spoke.
Maybe you should,' Frank said. The other guy begin to get up from his seat first but Frank followed, tentative, holding his palms down against the dark old wood of the desk but not rising fully upright and allowing the crotch of his shorts to be dangerously visible and exposing. Danny was standing provocatively in front of him, shirt curving open over his chest, tugging down on it at the front a little, relaxed in his posture, then leaning forward suddenly, planting his hands down on the desk too, jutting his strong 5ft10 body behind him as he did. His posturing was an invite that Lampard could not resist; he sidled around the desk and looked at Drinkwater's pose more carefully. The strong straight line of his broad back, the way the bottom of his shirt rode up a little at the bottom, exposing a stirp of tanned flesh and the American Eagle' waistband of his underpants where his slim-fit jeans pulled down over the broad mass of his backside. Leaning his frame on just one arm, the Chelsea loanee was reaching under and unhooking a button or two; the denim slackened and pulled, exposing a little more of the dark red cotton of his undies.
Terry told me it was a thing when he was a young player,' Danny said in a thoughtful little sigh. Told me nothing wrong with a bit of a smack on the backside when you've been a cunt and started a fight with a teammate. What do you think, boss?'
Frank stood there, bulging madly in his shorts, looking down at the half-revealed red curve of the Manc lad's plump rear. After the unintended tease of the firm meaty backsides on the training pitch, this slow reveal was rattling every inch of his 6ft body, testing his scraps of self-control and resistance. He took in and let out a big, pained breath, and stepped up behind Drinkwater.
Well,' Lampard grumbled, you had been a bad lad, Danny.'
I know,' Drinkwater said softly. Keep fuckin' up my chances, don't I?'
Yeah,' Frank said. Yeah, you do.' He reached in and stroked his hand irresistibly onto the soft American fabric, tracing the shape of Danny's buttock and guiding his loosened jeans down a bit further so he could hold it properly. This was no Barkley (nothing was) but it was meaty and firm and just the slightest trace of sweat in the space between the cheeks. He left his hand there, hovering on the edge of temptation. Okay, fuck the edge, he was already flying off that cliff. He retracted his hand and brought it down in a hard dull slap.
`Oh, boss,' panted Drinkwater, a 30-year-old musclebound stud of an athlete, bent over his desk for him, repentant and submissive.
Frank slapped his other cheek this time. But the soft cotton dulled the blow, silenced the excitement of the spank. He hooked a thumb about the waistband and pulled the Eagles down. Danny's cheeks were almost as suntanned as the rest of him; someone enjoyed a bit of naked sunbathing on his many days off during lockdown, then. Yeah, that's how Terry did it, gaffer,' murmured Danny's voice, his head hung over the desk and his broad firm shoulders hunched. Frank ignored his comment but brought his hand down twice, one on each bare cheek, making the firm muscle jiggle beneath the force of his slap. Sir,' whispered Danny, `JT did it harder than that...'
`Did he?' Lampard gasped.
`Yeah, much harder, gaffer...'
`Harder than this?'
`Harder, aye, he was like...'
`Harder than THIS?'
The crashing spank of Frank's palm left red marks on the firm glute and a sting in his own skin and muscle, but the stocky midfielder held strong in position, arched forward against the desk, making only murmurs of apology as his each blow landed on his chunky cheeks. Lampard stood to his side and rear, shaking a little with the force of his own spanks and the excitement building up in him, his shorts taut around the tenting outline of his bone. He realised his own breathing was heavier and more stressed than the calm patience of the bowed footballer, and he felt oddly impotent in this realisation. He slid his hand over Danny's cheeks, feeling the red heat of his own blows there, the warm glow on those smooth globes.
Terry is such a dirty fucker,' Drinkwater muttered. He's so terrifying and powerful, sir.'
Is he?' Frank whispered limply. Yeah... I bet...'
`Everyone respects him so much. Honestly. He's proper top dog, gaffer, up there. Like mad. You should see the way players treat him.'
`Especially McGinn,' Lampard couldn't help but murmur back.
`Oh aye, ESPECIALLY him...' It was obvious in Danny's voice that he shared what Lampard knew, though perhaps not with the details of one time in particular. Frank stroked the cheeks more, unable to stop picturing the power play of John Terry dominating little John McGinn, the Scottish speedster. He brought his hand back to spank Danny again on the other cheek, harder, but he wasn't sure he had it in him; he was gripped with a ferocious appetite and frustration today, clammy beneath his kit, utterly distracted from the battle campaign for Sunday's game, but... he felt cowed rather than empowered by the outsider's dirty talk, by the knowledge of just how dominant and oppressive his old friend truly was.
`And what about when he wants to reward players?' Frank asked quietly.
`JT doesn't reward anyone,' Danny mumbled back; he sounded a bit confused now.
All stick, no carrot,' the Chelsea boss grunted, and he slid around behind his visitor properly, and lowered his bare knees to the office carpet. He hadn't done this in a while. He pushed apart Danny's reddened cheeks and slid his tongue into the downy fur of his crack, feeling the lad's immediate surprise and tensing at this touch. Oh, boss,' he groaned instantly, and Frank squeezed his meaty cheeks more and licked there, just as he had done in Barkley's unbeatable mounds over and over; but as he rimmed Drinkwater, he wasn't thinking of his own dear Barkley. He was thinking about a sweaty post-match John Terry, needing servicing.
Danny Drinkwater leant into the desk and took the wet attention at his behind, pressing his face into his folded arms and holding his sturdy body still, allowing Lampard to grapple at his cheeks and hairy upper thighs and roll his tongue about his sweat-damp crack and tiny virginal hole. He gasped loudly, both genuine and for show, and let his cock stiffen automatically at this dirty service. Oh, yes boss,' he murmured loudly, needing to please and impress his potential manager, ohhh, fuck sir, that is a reward, ohhhh...'
He'd never had this before. He'd done it, utterly wild and reckless in his attempts to befriend and influence the spunky young Villa captain; that day by the recovery pool, he'd crossed major lines for himself, determined to satisfy Jack Grealish. Licking and sucking at the simple Brummie lad had seemed a fair exchange for the captain's influence and the advantages it could bring in his loan career there. Fuck that -- Grealish had barely bothered to put a good word in for him! He'd quickly discovered that it was a waste of his time degrading himself for that dopey local lad: either Grealish had zero influence at the club that claimed to treasure him, or he'd put no fucking effort into recommending or bigging up Drinkwater after all. Danny looked back on his seedy experiments in that pool as a complete waste of his dignity and innocence, though the lockerroom fun that had led up to it just made him smile reminiscently.
Yet here he was again, he supposed. Trying to use his body to secure favour like some medieval courtesan. It hadn't worked on Jack the Lad, fuck him, and it hadn't really gotten him very far with that dirty weirdo John Terry, either -- but here, finally, it seemed to be giving him some edge. Frank Lampard was out of control, snorting deliriously as he licked his hole, kissing at his cheeks and rubbing his hands up and down his bare upper legs, depraved and intoxicated!
He'd known he was taking a risk when he played into Frank's excitement and talked a little dirty about what JT got up to as assistant manager, knew the spanking was a bit weird and kinky; he'd improvised, and he had let Terry smack him a bit, recently. He hadn't expected THIS, though. His main fear had been Lampard potentially wanting to fuck him, as he knew JT did, and the awkwardness of refusal. Danny had crossed any number of red lines, not least when he joined Terry in tupping McGinn, but he could hardly imagine himself taking a dick in his beefy backside!
He hunched there, feeling the sleazy manager's mouth between his cheeks, knowing that this might just be preamble to THAT, determined to avoid it but also win the boss's favour. He had his suspicions about how that might work. He continued his effusive and noisy enjoyment, which was easy to exaggerate it when it genuinely did feel so novel and good... mental note: try and find a girlfriend slutty and shameless enough to do THIS for him...! But he brought it to an end by pulling forward on his elbows, removing the buffet of his arse from Frank, hearing his desperate gasps and tight squeezing fingers. Oh boss,' he moaned, that's too much, it's too good... more than I deserve, sir...'
He pulled forward and upright but left his undies tucked beneath the bulge of his cheeks and his jeans drooping just above his knees, looking over his shoulder. Frank was back upright, his lips and stubble glossy, a shameful glow in his eyes. Danny reached down and patted one of his own red cheeks with a performative gasp, as if they stung agonisingly from that hurried and hesitant spanking. Frank was staring wildly at him, a little taller and broader than him, even if somewhat gone-to-seed in his retirement.
Shall I show you, boss?' he asked. Frank stared at him, maybe confused or maybe reluctant. Shall I show you how hard Mr Terry does it?' The Mr' felt like a nicely innocent touch, he thought, trying to sound younger and more innocent than his 30 years of mischief. He teased Frank forward with a hand on his elbow, then reached daringly around to cup his backside through his shorts, ignoring the ominous sight of the manager's hard-on at the front. I can show you,' he offered quietly, `how JT does it...?'
He could see the painful moment of indecision for Frank Lampard. But he felt he'd guessed right. He'd seen how excited the Chelsea boss was at everything he had to say about his old teammate. Felt his discomfort at trying to be so aggressive and in control. He thought he knew what the 42-year-old REALLY wanted right now. He steered Lampard gently forward and saw him look sharply away, too ashamed for eye contact. Danny, his own cock loose and semi-hard, moved behind his would-be boss, and pushed in the middle of his back, encouraging him forward. It's okay boss,' he whispered, I know you're in charge, I just want to show you...'
`Show me,' Frank mumbled in a conflicted gasp.
Danny couldn't held but stroke his loose dick with one hand while he pulled down on Frank's shorts, bringing the inner mesh with them, exposing the less defined and fleshier mounds of the older man's buttocks, edged with downy hair. He gripped his own cock and smacked his right hand hard into one and then the other cheek, gratified by the gasps of enjoyment the manager immediately made, folding forward onto the desk; Danny's muscles were primed by a long summer without football, nothing but endless training to pump up his physique. His arm could deliver a deliciously loud smack to the fleshy rear of the ex-footballer, and that he did, grinning ambitiously with each swing of his palm.
Frank pictured that it was not young Danny Drinkwater behind him, but John Terry -- especially John Terry after a tough game, maybe half-time in a cup final, grizzled with fatigue and pumped with aggression. He thought of Terry now, ageing like himself, and the power he still held as they took control of gasping McGinn in the back rooms of Villa Park. With these fantasies and realities in mind, Lampard braced himself for another blow, felt Danny's palm crash against his buttock, whimpered excitedly, and reached one hand down for his hard prick.
He leaned his left arm heavily into the desk and pleasured himself with the right, jerking back and forth on his boner and swaying a little at each hard-muscled spank landing on his cheeks, his mouth still damp and greasy from going down on the footballer's behind. He was in a state of heightened emotion and excitement, caught between fantasy and reality, desire and shame. He heard the Manc player's grunt of exertion as another spank struck him, tried to fantasise that it was Terry's commanding London rasp, but failed; through the furnace of his lust, he jus felt stabs of knowing shame. What the fuck was he doing, bent over like this for another young man, shaming himself in his own office, dreaming of one of his best friends...?!
He pulled hard on his cock, seeking comfort in that immediate and physical satisfaction, jerking hard on himself and squeezing his eyes shut. He pictured John McGinn bouncing about in front of Terry's powerful thrusts, the determined look set on the Villa boss's face. He thought also of a much older scene. His future first wife and her best friend, young babes in a hotel suite, both of them licking and kissing at Terry's incredibly fat tool while he wanked and watched and waited his turn. He'd always hung onto the edge of JT's sexual appetite, also enjoyed his sloppy seconds and been his wingman. Had he always craved a taste of that powerful man himself?
Without realising it, Lampard blew his load. He spilled cum over his fingers and knuckles and forward onto the carpet and the wooden leg of the desk. He groaned, shuffling forward, unready for the latest stinging strike of Danny's efficient hand. Cum spilling down his hand and wrist, Frank staggered forward, rattling the desk, then pulled himself upright, gasping for air.
Sir,' breathed Drinkwater, a note of panic in his voice, was that too much, gaffer...?'
Lampard whirled on him, his throbbing cock still in one hand, seeing the tentative eagerness on the 30-year-old's face, stood there with his shirt squeezing open over his defined torso, his cock hard in one hand, the other raised as if for an extra strike. Get out,' Lampard snapped at him immediately. GET OUT.' He looked furiously at this impudent, manipulative young fucker, trying to rile him up and get the best of him, extort some new big deal at Stamford Bridge out of him, or... Get out!' he railed for a third time, dragging up his shorts and pressing his sticky cock into them, then shoving Danny once in the centre of his firm chest. Get the fuck out of my office, Drinkwater!'
`But...'
Lampard grabbed him by the shoulder and collar, and with the other hand, by the dick. He pulled them close, looming a little over the shorter muscular man, squeezing his fat erection in his right hand, breathing in his face. You are nothing compared to the likes of me and Terry,' he snarled at him. You'll never be a Chelsea legend like we were.' He pulled on his cock now, and with his left hand, grabbed his chiseled jaw and pulled their faces so their eyes met properly. You had your chances, Drinkwater, and now you're a washed-up loser doing ANYTHING to win favour...' He wanked him aggressively towards climax, holding him in place and staring deep into his eyes, wondering how far Terry had really gone with him, but suspecting not very. Quickly, Drinkwater was gulping down air and twisting his handsome features in the mask of orgasm. Now... get... out... of my... office...!' He felt the lad's creamy delivery in his hand. Stood face to face with him, he lifted it, and licked it from his palm, a mixture of both their cum, smearing it around his lips and smirking dangerously at the ambitious wannabe.
`But boss,' gasped Drinkwater weakly, staring at him in confusion.
Lampard smeared the hair back of his arm over his mouth, rubbing away the traces of cum and arse sweat. He frowned severely at the impudent visitor, re-evaluating their discussion. No wonder your missus left you, behaving like that,' he commented nastily. Do you always cum so easily when a fella touches ya? Get out. You'll hear from the board when they decide what to do with your contract. Enjoy the rest of your time at Villa, whatever that involves.' He kept his expression icily powerful, and released his grip on the man's jaw and the collar of his shirt, and let him stagger backwards, his mission thwarted.
As soon as he was gone, Frank's body went limp and shaky, and he sat his stinging cheeks against the edge of the desk, feeling every one of the younger man's violent blows aching in his glutes, knowing the thrill it had given him, but horrified by every bit of it. He couldn't help himself though. He reached across the desk, almost knocking several things aside, and snatched up his mobile phone. He found his quietened chat thread with his best mate, radio silence between them since the Chelsea-Villa match.
Hey,' he texted rapidly, thinkin of u, buddy. Was fun the other weekend, wasn't it? lol.' He hit send, and then pulled the phone to his chest regretfully, staring at the door through which Drinkwater had stormed, knowing that if he'd let the spanking continue for one minute more, the same submissive begging would have escaped his mouth as it did when he was in his own basement with his slick cousin. If he'd let Danny carry on, and not been stalled by his own conflicted eruption of jizz, he would have begged it: fuck me, please.
Danny hurried through the passages of the Chelsea training ground, ignoring the odd look from a passing admin staff member; he was still doing up the top button of his tight shirt, his cock straining awkwardly at the front of his jeans where he'd uncomfortably tucked it. He marched as quickly away from Lampard's office as he could, regretting coming here at all. What had he hoped it would achieve? Had he really thought the young, understanding manager would greet him with open arms, that he could be a true blue in the new season, integral to Chelsea's line-up of stars...?
He stomped down the stairs in self-loathing, heading for the quietest exit and route to the car park, tossing his visitor badge in a bin and making no plan to go via reception. He was gripped with self-loathing: that was the third time in a row he'd tried to use sex to experiment and get what he wanted, and the third time he'd failed. Youthful experience had taught Danny that he was a pretty good-looking lad, and he knew his ripped body was in tiptop shape; so what was he failing to get about his own sexual energy and how people responded to it? He'd sucked off Captain Jack, he'd pretty much offered himself up to JT, and neither time had it done him any good whatsoever. Fucking hell, never again!
Midway down the stairs, he paused. Below, the Chelsea lads were heading in for a lunch break, spilling along the broad corridor at the foot of this staircase, noisy and boisterous from their morning's work. Drinkwater stood there, reaching his shaky right hand (still stinging from slapping Frank's backside) against the bannister and looked down on them, more or less hidden here. He saw pals of his go by, lads he'd trained with here before being farmed out on loan: Ross Barkley, that solid dependable northerner, amongst others. And looming along behind, tall and majestic, he saw Ruben Loftus-Cheek.
As he'd once quietly confessed to Grealish in a corridor at Villa, that was where things began for him. It had been a quiet afternoon in this very training centre when a bored and horny Danny had played up to Ruben's fleeting, cheeky comments about how fit his six-pack was looking; how had it moved, minutes later, to the big Lewisham lad on his knees in a shower cubicle, noshing him off and opening his eyes to the sexual fluidity of hormonal footy hunks?
Danny thought sourly about what was, otherwise, a blissful memory, the best oral he'd ever received from anyone. He clutched the bannister tightly. Loftus-Cheek, like the other boys in blue, had disappeared from sight, down the corridor and away from his vantage spot on the landing. Danny relaxed somewhat and let go of the bannister, his sweaty palm sliding away from the blue metal. Why had he let Ruben suck him off that day, after idle days of friendly banter between the two junior players...? And why had he let the thought of it go with him when he left Stamford Bridge and picked up his short-term career at Aston Villa? Why had he still been reminiscing about it when he tried to ingratiate himself with the Villa blokes, and caught up in some `initiation ritual' with Grealish and pals in the showers...? Why had he let it drive him to make these desperate, sluttish attempts to further his waning career by offering himself up to men in positions of dubious authority? Grealish. Terry. Lampard.
Drinkwater sagged at the railings and walked slowly down the steps, then out of a fire exit and onto the car park, ready to escape the training centre and begin the long drive back to his rented home in the Midlands. The truth was hitting him like a brick: he'd fucking enjoyed every second of it.
In his office, Frank listened silently to the voice message on the phone system, reminding him that the players were filing in for their healthy lunch and he was addressing them all in a meeting straight afterwards. He let the message cut out and stayed where he was, standing beside his desk, letting his body cool and recover, waiting for the stinging in his backside to subside. He swallowed hard and stared over at the wall and shelves that bore some of his own Chelsea highlights: a photo of he and Terry hoisting a trophy at the centre of it.
He'd wasted so much time, hadn't he? Fucking around with players, obsessing over young men, trying to prove his youth and virility by getting the best of handsome younger athletes. He'd been so fixated on the potency of someone like Ross Barkley, just because he was so eager to believe in his own. He could see now what he'd wanted all along, and had been too scared to allow himself. Picking up his phone, he walked over to the photo and looked at it, the two of them barely 30 and beaming with strength and pride.
Then, in his hand, the phone buzzed gently, and he turned it over, not daring to believe it would be the reply he wanted. The name on the screen confirmed it as JT. He opened it hesitantly, regretting the blunt deliberateness of his own olive branch, the first attempt at contact since the men had looked at each other in realisation of their... adventurousness. He re-read his own message first, and then JT's reply.
`Hey... thinkin of u, buddy. Was fun the other weekend, wasn't it? lol'
`Frank, m8... sorry for no messages since ur bday. we need 2 talk about it. it can never happen again, was fukked up. When r u free to meet??? Love u, m8'