Part 158: Consolation Prizes
67 minutes into the game, and Aubamyang had just fired in his second goal. Close by, Arteta and the Arsenal camp were hooting in delight and relishing this late treat in their mediocre season, while Frank Lampard gritted his teeth and stared coldly out onto the Wembley pitch. When plucky Pulisic got Chelsea going with an early goal, Lampard's emotions and hopes had soared. It was now 2-1 to Arsenal and the Chelsea lads, despite his several substitutions, seemed to be flagging. He stood there, feet planted firmly to the grass and thick arms folded against his chest, wondering if the slightly relaxed and gentle week of match prep had been entirely the wrong approach.
The Chelsea boss tried to hold in his scowl of disappointment, knowing there was still time for a comeback. But over the final 25 minutes of the FA Cup Final, Arsenal's win became clearer and clearer. The North London side were quicker and hungrier and nothing he'd prepared with his Stamford Bridge squad seemed to come off as hoped. He looked around angrily for someone to blame but it seemed to be a more collective lethargy holding them back, and for that, he could only hold himself to account.
Frank looked enviously at Arteta, the dark enigmatic Spaniard stalking up and down and yelling and clapping enthusiastically at his men even in the dying minutes of the game. Lampard would previously have dismissed the Arsenal boss as a low-budget Pep Guardiola, but now he could see there was a lot more going on there. He felt as riled as he always did these days, but he held it in; after all, his outbursts at the Liverpool match had hardly gone down well with anyone. He stood his ground, moody and silent, and let the clock tick on: full-time approached and arrived and the Cup was won, but not by his team.
Winning this prestigious domestic trophy would have eradicated any of the League stresses he'd endured. As one of the BBC team upstairs in the media suite had excitedly informed him, it would have been the third time an ex-player had led Chelsea to this special win, and really put him in some sacred company in the West London club's history of achievements. But no, now Lampard faced being an also-ran, a could-have-been. As the boys in blue filed off the pitch, he did his best to swallow these regrets and disappointments and just be the leader they needed; after all, they were not breaking up for summer in the way Arsenal now would be, they had a Champions League match in exactly one week, and the glimmering chance of another Cup to fight for, a much longer shot than this one had seemed before today.
Lampard bit back his rising anger and did the right thing. He grabbed at the thick muscular shoulders of several players, embracing then briefly in half hugs and matching their gloomy, wearied expressions. He begrudgingly allowed himself to be guided aside for the fleeting interview, tried to be kind and congratulatory about what Arteta had achieved this season, avoiding any awkward bitterness and extension of his Klopp spat; the journalists definitely tried to bring that up and provoke him, but the 42-year-old held back, stern and quiet and magnanimous.
Joining the ranks of the Chelsea squad in the Wembley changing rooms, he found himself reminiscing about sharing this space with them as an FA Cup winning player himself, and somehow the disappointment of the August evening seemed stronger and more unavoidable. He felt he wasn't just mourning this managerial loss, but his own youth and prime; he thought about the Arsenal players whose celebrations could be dimly heard several rooms away, and wanted to be one of them, a virile young sportsman who had just achieved something so great.
Still, he buried these emotions and delivered a short stirring speech to the sweaty, half-dressed footballers in front of him, doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone specific for too long, knowing his face would betray his strong feelings. He focused on thanking them for their hard work, all the while wondering which of his choices this week or today had put them in such a weak position and allowed the Gunners to triumph. He spoke about the upcoming Bayern Munich game as their priority, and heaped praise on their young American, Christian Pulisic, for his redeeming goal, making the shy 21-year-old blush and laugh as the squad joined in. Frank assured them that the Champions League could still be theirs and a genuine prize could end his first season with them, refusing to give up and start talking about next year instead. He surprised himself with his articulate debrief, and was touched by the round of applause that the lads gave him when he was done: but as soon as it was over and he was backing out of the musty, manly atmosphere of the locker-room, their sweaty stench was replaced by the smell of his own failure. He trudged away down the tunnel rubbing his face and acknowledging the horrible truth: he'd taken his eye off the ball, metaphorically and literally, because of one thing in particular. One man. As he rubbed his face, his nose twitched painfully at the memory of that stupid clash in the streets, and he felt angrily that there was one guy out there to blame, but not himself or any of his players. No, this was all John Terry's fault.
Mason Mount had clapped as loudly as any of his teammates just now, very willing to acknowledge the work their boss had put in this season. Even if Mason couldn't help but look at the ageing stud in his tshirt and tracksuit bottoms and picture his bare sweaty body climbing over him for more, he was trying his best to view him in purely professional terms; it wasn't a good idea to keep idly reflecting on the brief period of intense privacy they'd shared, Lampard using him brutally and he wearily enjoying it. Now was time to see Frank as boss, manager, leader, not excitingly dominant lover.
But for all his respectful and appreciative attention to the boss's speech, the 21-year-old attacking midfielder felt crushed. He sat mournfully on the bench with his arms tucked between his legs, unable to shrug off the loss and force out a few laughs like a lot of his older pals here seemed able to do.
It was not like Mason, a lad who played with such pure enjoyment of the sport, to take a loss so badly and be unable to weigh it up in the grand scheme of things; he was mature for his age in that respect and could take the highs and lows of top-level football quite philosophically, seeing each challenge as a brilliant new opportunity for someone of his age. Normally he would be able to ruefully dismiss the past couple of hours and join in with the low muttering jibes at Arsenal's expense, the playful competitive remarks about whose errors had been more costly, the jokey arrogance about their next proper match. As it was, Mount sat there in the midst of the stripping Chelsea players with his mind firmly on the moment Aubamyang's second goal flew in and the match swayed heavily in Arsenal's favour. He had a particular reason to be feel the sting of defeat today.
Next to him, stripped down to his briefs, Ross Barkley loomed with a kind expression on his face. He laid one of his firm warm hands on Mason's shoulder, feeling at him through the cooling fabric of his Chelsea shirt. Chin up, Mase,' the tall Scouse player suggested hopefully. We gotta take this in our stride if we're gonna have a chance next weekend, mate.'
Mason glanced over at his older friend, getting an awkwardly intimate view of the drooping grey-white bulge and tight sweat-gleaming six-pack at his seated height, but forcing his eyes upwards to meet the concerned frown on Barkley's face. `We just got spanked in a game we really should have won,' he muttered vaguely back, depressed rather than defensive. Barkley nodded slowly and rubbed at his stubbled chin, unsure what to say back to that simple truth.
Mount,' broke in the voice of Lampard's assistant manager, bustling between the variously shirtless or covered bodies of their fellow players, leaning this way and clicking his fingers a little impatiently their way. Mason turned and stared at him, already knowing what he was about to say, but nervously watching the man's manner and attending to his tone, hyper-conscious of how people might be reacting to him today. Mount, your pal's outside,' grunted the man, dismissive and rushed rather than suspicious or judgmental. He was simply resentful of being reduced to messenger, nothing more.
Oh, right,' murmured Ross Barkley slowly beside him, fishing out his towel and giving Mason an odd, lingering look as he said it, I forgot you had your No.1 fan here to cheerlead today, heh.' It was teasing but morose, and Mason couldn't quite read the expression on Barkley's face; maybe he was more gutted about losing the Final than he had let on, actually, because there was a distinct misery in his eyes as he stared at Mason for a moment then.
Huh, yeah,' Mason returned bashfully, still deeply self-conscious about this arrangement, something like that, yeah...!'
He slipped away, tiptoeing through the sweaty rush of his fellow men, who were beginning to pour into the showers to wash away the sweat of defeat, and up the couple of steps out into the corridor beyond the changing rooms, able to see a few interviews still going on for the Arsenal winners further down the corridor, no sign of their own resilient manager, away to lick his wounds. But standing in front of all this, positioned brightly by the Chelsea changing room doors, was his `No.1 fan', as Ross had teasingly put it.
Sorry, man,' Declan Rice said soothingly, reaching for his arm immediately, both of them then flinching a little at the publicness and risk of this gesture, even between a pair of childhood best friends whose closeness was as well-documented as theirs. Declan's hand lingered there at his elbow, resisting the affectionate stroke upwards and settling for a gentle pat. How's everyone doin'?'
Mason forced a smile for his boyfriend, leaning on the thick archway and pulling his other arm up to scratch the back of his neck and his sweat-damp dark hair. But it lasted only a few seconds -- faced with this most intimate person in his life, he could just frown sulkily and let his true feelings show. Bit shit,' he muttered, I can't believe we blew it, I really thought I was gonna get a goal, y'know...'
`You did your best!' Declan said quietly, hands dug into his jeans pockets now to stop himself reaching for a touch, leaning forward a little bit, tall and muscular in his simple black tshirt.
I dunno if I did, that's the thing,' Mason continued vaguely, glancing past Rice to the sight of a couple of Arsenal lads horsing about as their BBC interview came to an end. We're better than them, we know we are, we should have had this...' He hated the petty and arrogant sound of his own voice there, so out of character.
Well, at least you had me here watching,' Dec joked, shuffling from foot to foot and giving him a sweet soft grin on his rugged features. At least I actually got to see you play for once,' he added sensitively, tilting his head.
Mason grinned faintly back, unable to point out that this was the problem. This was why he felt so uniquely shite about today's result. He wasn't just bitter about the Cup or about Arsenal's sudden improvement in form. He'd been so unspeakably excited when he managed to wangle an invite for Rice to be here in person and watch discreetly from the stands; it had helped that the Chelsea bosses were still courting the West Ham defensive hero as a potential signing, but he had seen the knowing glint in Frank's eyes when he agreed to it. Mason didn't want to acknowledge that Dec's presence might have affected his play, both with the excitement of his presence and the fear of anyone suspecting the depth of their `friendship', but he did feel the defeat with triple force: he'd wanted Declan to be here to see him at his best, score a couple of brilliantly surprising goals, lift the FA Cup with his teammates... not this. It was irrational and self-destructive, but standing here in the mouth of the changing rooms, dejected and sweaty, he couldn't help but believe that the other lad was thinking less of him, looking down on him as a loser, questioning whether he was worth it.
Rice pulled a hand out of his skinny jeans pocket and punched him lightly in the shoulder. Oi. Stop pouting, pretty boy,' he told him with dangerously audible flirtation, then winked. Get yourself showered and we can get you home for your consolation prize. Hurry up.' Declan grinned meaningfully and backed off, and Mason turned frowningly back inside, tugging his Chelsea shirt up and off, strangely unmoved by the dangling prospect of Rice's physical comforts.
Given Wembley's location, about half of the Chelsea squad chose to travel straight home from the grounds, making the coach that trundled south through the west of the city even more gloomily and wearily quiet. Frank Lampard wallowed in this losers' silence, watching the slow London traffic around them and refusing to mentally confront the planning that was needed for the week ahead. The training regime would need some serious tweaking and he would need to be on his best form all week to keep the lads motivated and ferocious in the build-up to the Bayern match. After all, it was hardly an exciting and realistic prospect: it was the second leg of a tie in which they were already 3 goals down. Their chances of besting Munich in the second leg were thin, and he had to spend the next week pretending otherwise and delaying the players' August holidays.
Holidays. Just the word conjured up memories of what he'd been distractedly looking at on his phone earlier today, when he was supposed to be going over the team notes and reviewing the plans for the match. Sat quietly alone near the front of the bus, he took out his phone and brought up Instagram to look at the same couple of photos again: snaps from his old Chelsea pal's sunny beach holiday. John Terry glowed with tan and grinned complacently at his long-suffering wife's side and, in the photo that Frank had most looked at earlier on, posed shirtless on some kind of boat trip. Terry's body was impossible ripped and toned for a retired player on the cusp of 40, made Lampard feel quite chunky and overweight by comparison!
The 42-year-old head coach sat there and stared morosely into his phone screen, performing the mental conjuring of a lovesick teenage girl: he envisioned the attractive figure of JT's wife disappeared from the image and himself there instead, caressed by Mediterranean heat and with Terry's wiry strong arm curled about his shoulders. At this turn of thought, Lampard shut his eyes and grimaced at his own fantasist behaviour, his own obsessive tendencies. At least, he supposed, the dull throb of arousal was a balm against the ego-crushing loss of the day.
Somehow, Lampard lost in his thoughts, the journey was already over. The coach was in the car park of the club's suburban training ground between London and Surrey, and quiet half-hearted goodbyes were separating the players, coaches and support staff climbing off the vehicle. Quietly, their manager slipped away from them to head inside; he couldn't face getting in his car and being back in slow-moving London traffic again on his way into Kensington and home. Perhaps he could make a head-start on reviewing the plans for the week and the strategy for their uphill battle against the German squad next Saturday...
Indoors, he let his mood out in stomping footsteps and weary sighs, prowling through the deserted passageways of the training complex and finding his way to his office. He was moody and downcast, but he was also horny. He'd been tempted to try and exercise those feelings with one of the players, if he was honest: seeing sulky young Mason Mount trip about the Wembley changing rooms all vulnerable and cross with himself had made him want to revisit that delicious treat, perhaps drag the talented twink up to his office and fuck him in both holes like he'd pounded that Scottish slut with his best mate a few weeks gone. Or perhaps he could have recruited big capable Ruben to his service instead, found out what that huge man had been up to lately and draw on his deeply talented mouth! There were others he was noticing too: he was sure there was something a little curious at least about Christian Pulisic or the new boy Hakim Ziyech; and as the days wore on, Lampard felt less and less able to keep his eyes off their other new signing, attractive German Timo Werner! But no, no... he knew he had to stop dipping his quill in that company ink. All it had caused was trouble and tension, he was lucky it had not got further out of hand!
Itching with these frustrations, he stalked up another flight of steps and into the quiet office area, looking thoughtfully at the empty desk of his PA and the gloomy doorways into the cluster of empty office suites. What was he doing up here, really? Was he in any mood or frame of mind to get work done, to be productive? The middle-aged ex-footballer slowed and halted in the middle of the foyer, grunting irritably into the air, letting his eyes settle unhappily on the trophy cabinet against one wall, displaying many of their achievements to visitors and investors and other business contacts. Even without the lights on, its metallic contents seem to gleam frustratingly at Lampard now, and he fantasised about picking up the phone system form his assistant's neatly arranged desk and tossing it through the glass cabinet in an act of petulant violence.
Calm the fuck down, fella, he told himself.
He didn't bother going forward towards the door of his own rather grandiose office, hovering in this waiting area instead, and taking the mobile phone from the loose pocket of his dark blue tracksuit bottoms. He clicked open the social media app yet again, hoping childishly that his old Chelsea wingman would have uploaded more fresh photos from his sunny island holiday; desperate and faintly tragic, Lampard checked the feed of Terry's wife too, wondering if she might have posted more pics of them on the boat or the beach or lounging about their hotel... no. Instead he settled again on that same picture. He looked at every detail, the contrast between John's gentle brown tan and the sparkling blue water behind him, the dense bulk of his abdomen and pectorals, the gentle smug grin on his thin lips, the reflections in his big aviator sunglasses, the teasing stroke of his wife's manicured fingers on his shoulder, the half-hidden blue bulge of his swim shorts...! As his mind raced, Frank's cock stiffened, and he felt it deliriously through the front of his trackies.
All these years, he thought. All these year's I've known that bloke and loved him as a mate. But suddenly... fuck, that ain't gonna be enough. I need him. I really need him.
Hey,' coughed a familiar warm rasp of a voice, and Frank almost jumped out of his skin. He half-turned, vaguely aware that his hand still rested on the crotch of his trousers, mounding around the swollen excitement of his dick; he looked through the unlit gloom of the foyer back to the double doors he'd entered through off the stairwell, taken aback by his quiet visitor. Hey boss,' the 26-year-old footballer grunted, taking a couple of steps forward into the space, `I thought you might need some cheering up.' Ross Barkley stood there in the tight grey fit of his sweatpants and hoody, hugging his strong lean 6ft2 body, dimly lit through distant windows. Frank remained on the spot as he approached him, smelling strongly of shower gel and hair product and some manly aftershave, all washing off him in an overpowering rush of cleanly masculinity.
But Ross was fishing in the front pockets of his grey hoody, giving him an odd, hopeful expression. He pulled something out of that front pocket, bunched in his strong fist, and passed it forward; instinctively, Lampard reached forward to take this gift, feeling warm damp fabric slipped into his shaky surprised fingers. All sweaty from the game,' Barkley murmured, for you to have a good sniff on.' Lampard clutched the sports briefs in one hand, a tremble running through him. Keeping his eyes firmly on the visiting Scouser, he drew the hand up to his face, held the footballer's underpants there, and breathed in deeply of his musty athletic scent.
Declan groped at him as soon as they were in the flat: his gorgeous, adorable, irresistible stud of a lad. With one hand he thrust the door shut behind them and with the other he tugged on the drawstrings at the collar of Mason's hoody, yanking his face to and wrapping their lips in a sensual kiss. He flipped shut the lock and then brought both strong defender's hands to the other lad's side, holding him and grasping at his clothes, stooping to enjoy the lingering snog.
To Declan Rice, it didn't really matter two fucks that Chelsea had lost today, even if he had a soft spot for the West London club he'd supported in his youth, and began his career in their academy alongside Mason when they were just 14. He'd enjoyed watching the momentous London derby and he'd enjoyed seeing his boy playing so competitively, goal or no goals. After all, as a West Ham player, his season was over and football was fading temporarily into the background; now was not the time for tense sportsmanship and professional anguish, it was the time for FUN.
Suppressing giggles of desire, he grappled with the shorter, more slender frame of the other 21-year-old, pushing and pulling at his clothes as they staggered properly into the apartment and then collapsed into the leather sofa. Muscular and 6ft1, Rice loomed over the midfielder, prising away his hooded top and then running his hands under his tshirt, feeling the hard muscles of his slim torso with relish. He loved how slim Mason looked, but the surprising compact strength of his body that revealed itself only to his wandering hands.
Dec was rock-hard in his jeans already and he pressed one of Mase's hands to the bulge of his erection as he kissed his neck aggressively and ground on him from above, writhing their strong young bodies into the sofa. Then Rice lifted himself a little, preparing to grin lustily into his boyfriend's eyes, but paused when he saw instead that Mount was just pouting and frowning; he realised that his lover's touch was slow and distant, that he was doing almost all the moving and sighing and guiding here. He stopped uncomfortably, feeling like he'd been a bit forceful and ignorant for the past few minutes, and looked Mason in the eyes.
`You're still thinking about the game?'
`Uh... yeah... kinda... sorry...'
They got up from the sofa in slow confused movements, Dec almost tripping up over the disentangling figure of the Chelsea player; he couldn't quite keep his hands off him, stroking at an arm and his pert buttocks as they parted, following him up to his feet and onto the rug. He touched his arms again and leaned over him, kissing his cheek and forehead. `It's okay, it was a big game, you need to wind down slowly,' he purred.
`Yeah, just... it just sucks so much,' Mason grumbled. Dec was worried by his mood but so sure he could solve it, he kept on at him, running his fingers under the tee again to tickle his six-pack, stroking up his neck and cupping his sharp jaw. Mouth to mouth, another slow-burning kiss that made the hard-on on his jeans absolutely ache and throb. He just wanted to get it out and smash Mason around the flat with it like they did most nights.
Relax,' Rice said as gently as his impatience allowed, you know I'll make you feel better about it if you let me...'
`I just feel such a loser,' Mount grunted with uncharacteristic force, wriggling against his cuddling touch, his hopeful advances. Dec stroked the bulge in his dark grey Chelsea sweatpants, feeling some life there despite his mood. He kissed him on the cheek again.
`You're never a loser to me, buddy... never...!'
`I know, I know, I just feel so crap about it... I feel like, I dunno, powerless, or...'
Declan crept his hands around the back, squeezing Mason's buttocks through his pants possessively, grinning down into his face as he rubbed the fronts of their bodies together in a standing embrace, massaging those tense glutes that he loved so much to get between. `Mmm, don't worry, you've got ME to look after you,' he mumbled thoughtlessly, losing focus on Mason's mood and imagining how much of the evening was still theirs to enjoy each other alone.
Don't,' the other young player whispered in an unusual tone. Dec wasn't sure why he was freaked out by it, but he realised it was probably the only time his best friend had ever refused him or his advances at all, and the novelty chilled him. He pulled his hands back guiltily, afraid of upsetting or domineering the lad too much, but desperate for the pleasure he'd craved all day! Watching Mason play had actually turned him on so much, he was a bit embarrassed to admit to himself -- something about seeing him in his full kit, so ferocious and energetic on the pitch in a way the quietly cheerful youngster never was in his private life. Don't,' Mason grumbled back, `I just feel... I dunno, it was a shitty game, babe, and...'
I don't have to fuck you,' Dec whispered to him, needy and besotted, not really thinking properly as the idea formed in his mouth, we could try it the other way, if you wanted...?' He kissed him quickly, swallowing up his own rash suggestion, feeling its silliness and desperation against the other lad's low mood -- but when their mouths parted and he was leaning down to look Mason in the eye, holding him about the shoulders, he saw the hint of a smile on his lips and a curiosity in his handsome brown eyes. Dec paused, hearing his own suggestion back to himself, and he grinned sheepishly at the prospect of this role reversal, this deserved consolation prize for the hardworking Chelsea midfielder.
Really?' Mason asked in a nervous murmur. You'd really be up for...?'
It had never really occurred to Declan that the other boy might want to do it that way, but now Pandora's box was open, he could see the fresh interest and desire written on his face. He was frightened by he prospect of what he knew Mason resiliently took and relished from him, but who was he to refuse, today? He hugged him close and lifted an optimistic chuckle into Mason's ear. `For you, my fucking champion, I'll try ANYTHING...'
There was a pleasing but jarring de ja vu to it, probably for them both. For Barkley, it was a dizzying but ego-massaging dip into the recent past. The feel of Frank's tentative hands stroking about his body, feeling up his uniquely plump rear in his sweatpants and undoing the zip of his hoody to run knuckles against the ridges of his abdomen through the white tshirt there. The 6ft2 Scouse midfielder stood still, sturdy but passive, allowing his boss to explore his clothed body slowly and hungrily and then, inevitably, grab at the full heavy bulge in the front of his pants. Ross held the bunched up sweaty match briefs in one of his own hands, pressing them gently into Lampard's face to allow him that sniff, rubbing them very tenderly against his mouth and nostrils and over his thin grey-brown stubble. Both of their breaths were heavy and loud in the half-light of the empty office foyer.
`I knew you'd missed this, chief,' Ross teased in a gentle growl. After all, emphasising how much Lampard had probably missed it did something to hide the other truth: so had he.
Shut up,' grumbled Lampard a little sourly, inhaling the smell of his bollocks and crack, and pulling in against him a little closer, his hands getting a bit more assertive and demanding, squeezing and pulling at his jewels and wrenching at the fabric of his tshirt a bit, wanting him bared. But fuck... you drive me mad, Ross fuckin' Barkley, you do...'
`I know I do,' he chuckled back with growing confidence.
Pity and lust. Both feelings had driven him to follow the Chelsea manager up here as they piled out of the coach one by one. But at what proportions? How much of his action was driven by a kind of knowing empathy for the boss who had once tried to exploit him, and how much of it was a desperate need to be coveted and pleasured? After all, he could just drive straight to young Christian's and get another edgy amateurish blowjob in his bed, but no, he'd lingered here instead...
`You saved these for me,' Frank was murmuring, buring his nose against Ross's fistful of underpants, then snatching them off him, squeezing them to his mouth, and staring with wide guilty eyes at him. Perhaps he too was remembering the incident when he'd forced Ross to wear his wife's panties for another disastrous game; another time when a mixture of anger, lust and pity had worked conflictingly through Ross's physical world. Tonight felt just like then, to Ross, the way his anger had melted and been replaced by tender respect for the older bloke. So, he thought a little vainly, Lamps hasn't quite got over his obsession with me YET...
He pulled away from his manager, feeling and seeing his shivering disappointment -- perhaps he thought Ross was about to leave it at that, fleeting and prick-teasing and just depositing the gift of his sweaty sports briefs for him to enjoy alone. But nah. Ross was horny and in need of the almost worshipful attention Frank had once given him. He shrugged off his hoody in one movement and rippled his white tshirt off his torso in another. Then he pulled down on his sweatpants and boxers in a series of gentle tugs until he was standing there in the centre of the office suite in nothing but white socks and Nike trainers, his semi and ballbag swinging loose between his mighty thighs. Frank had watched unblinking at each stage of the striptease. Ross could see his erection very clearly in the dark blue of his tracksuit bottoms.
Ross stepped past his discarded clothes to the receptionist desk or whatever it was that Frank stood against. Beside him, he leaned forward, planting his elbows on the neatly organised surface, bending his tall body down, and jutting his big bare cheeks into the cool air. He leaned his head to the side and grinned with menacing invitation. `Get that tongue to work, boss. It's been too long.'
Mason licked heavily at his index finger and spat onto its tip, then tried pressing it in between Dec's cheeks. The bigger lad was lying back on the sofa, stripped naked like him, his hard muscles all exposed and smooth. Mason was kneeling on the rug in front of him, one arm wrapped gently about a jutting thigh, and the other gently trying out new stuff.
Dec made a nervous, tender little groan as he slid his slicked wet finger down his surprisingly hairy crack, and he giggled himself, enjoying the reversal of their positions, of all positions he'd experienced with other men. But maybe there was more skill to this than he'd expected; for a few moments, he had no idea where the bigger bloke's hole even was, just running his finger aimlessly in the warm tight space between his buttocks, finding no magical entrance. The uncertain noises his lover made excited but embarrassed him, as if he wasn't doing it right, or if Rice wasn't really ready to try this! But then, pushing a bit more firmly, he found `it'; a response tight knot of skin. He circled about it, looking up past Dec's flaccid cock and balls, up his tight six pack and gently swelling pecs, to his nervously obedient grinning face. Silently, the West Ham player nodded at him, and he pushed a bit, then a bit more.
`How's that?'
`Fuck knows, how's it meant to feel, haha?'
`Do you want me to stop?'
`Do you wanna stop?'
`Erm, no, hehe...'
`Then don't stop.'
Mason had fingered girls, obviously, but the tight heat of an arsehole was something else altogether. He couldn't believe how much pressure it took to work his one finger inside Declan's ring, or quite how violently this simple insertion rocked the lanky defender's bigger body. He supposed this required skill to do well and he felt clumsy and amateur, but he wanted to try it. He leaned in a bit more between the open legs, reaching to stroke Dec's cock and balls now, feeling his finger slide deeper and try a few wiggling motions.
`Does it feel good? I want it to feel good for you...'
`It feels... new...! That might have to be enough for now...'
`How about this...?'
`Ohhh... Mase, go easy....'
`And THIS...?'
`Oh mate! Babe...! Ohh...'
Mount experimented eagerly, twisting and nudging his single finger in the unexplored tightness of his boyfriend's backside. His own dick was rock hard down between his bent legs and he wanted so much to grab at it, but he needed to tease and neglect himself to ready Rice. He knew one finger wasn't enough preparation, so he began trying a second, but he felt the muscles tighten and saw his lover's uncertain frown. To comfort him and mitigate it, he dipped his face downwards and lapped at his balls, then his stiffening cock, and sucked Dec just as he liked it, while easing two digits inside him and eagerly anticipating the main event.
Lampard lapped greedily at the back door of his prized player. He held the cheeks apart, squeezing their impossible strength in his hands and thinking that whatever magical squat routine maintained the Barkley buttocks had been refined even further in the last few months. Greedy and comforted, the manager stayed on his knees and rimmed at the beefy man's hole, licking and playing with it and wishing for the all the world he would be allowed to do more. He had tried to slid a single finger towards it, but been told in no uncertain terms that it wasn't happening; the thought of trying to slot his pick in there made him shiver and shudder and he was sure his own dick was leaking pre-cum against the blue nylon of his trousers.
Tingling with the frustrations of what he really wanted to do with it, he revelled in the availability of the arse to lick and kiss and sniff all he wanted. He drooled and spat at Barkley's downy grey-brown hair in the crack and tongued the puckered pink of his hole. He rubbed his mouth at the mighty glutes and kissed and squeezed them. He moved upwards, kissing up the crack to the base of his spine; he moved downwards, stooping to teabag the heavy loaded balls and feel the fuzzy trim of pubes on his lips and tongue. All of this Barkley took with pleasure, softly moaning and feeding him the falsely subservient phrases that turned him on. Yes boss', Oh, SIR', Please chief', Oh boss, don't'. They both knew who had the upper hand here, and while once it had driven Lampard wild with impotent rage, now it was what made him sweat with desire. He knew how much more he'd loved being spanked by Drinkwater than the other way round.
Eventually, Ross the Boss was pushing back, not to feed him more, but to brush his face away with his strong rear, and turn over. The sight of his naked legs but for the white Adidas socks and the decorated chunkiness of his Nike trainers, wow, it was somehow more exciting and arousing to frank than if he was fully naked. He remained on his knees, drooling and licking his lips, and stared hungrily as the Scouser's meaty erection was revealed to him once more. Ross lay back on the desk on his elbows, dislodging the phone so it beeped ineptly and scattering some precious stationery. He kept his strong legs apart and rested them over Frank's sweaty hot shoulders, pulling him in with his leg muscles, as if Frank needed pulling in -- he was magnetically drawn forward, mouth open and tongue out, to consume that brilliant Merseyside tool, the first cock he'd really touched.
As he went down on it, hearing Ross gasp and whine, he felt like he wasn't just sucking off the big midfielder. It was as if he was simultaneously noshing on his beautiful lothario cousin Jamie, going down on mighty affable Ruben, even sucking at adorable Mason (which in reality, he never had, he'd been utterly selfish with him!) -- and then, in the same strain of vivid imagination, he was sucking on John Terry. He'd seen how awesomely thick the other ex-player was when they'd shared a lad, though he'd long known how well-equipped that utter fanny-hound was. He sucked on Ross but in his head he was on a beach somewhere, pulling down JT's blue swim shorts, and taking his salty erection into his lips instead. He indulged the mental image shamelessly, stroking at Ross/John's sturdy legs, tasting all of him, working him quickly and hungrily, needing his cum in his mouth, NEEDING it...
Talent, experience or sheer burning lust made it an unusually quick job. Barkley, who had withstood so much teasing attention from him in the past, was soon exploding on his lips and tongue, gushing spunk into his eager mouth, raining Terry's seed on his secret fantasy...
Now, Declan was on his knees, bending forward onto the sofa. From behind, he seemed less mountainously tall and strong. Mason could see his strong legs wobble in anticipation. He stroked a hand tenderly up and down his lower back and rubbed the other at one of his cheeks, greasy with the lube that he'd clumsily and hastily applied to his crack. He edged forward, angling his rigid erection there, and pulling awkwardly on the left buttock to expose the teased hole a bit more. He wanted to mutter out a load of filthy dirty talk like Rice sometimes did to him (and Lampard certainly always had), but he found all his concentration was required to just get going.
Slow, nervous, overthinking, he pressed his dick between the West Ham defender's strong buttocks, felt the resistance, kept going. It was Dec who did the talking, his tone a little strained and pained, but warm and lusty. `That's it, baby, feel how tight it is, do ya... go on, push, don't worry...' He must know how nervous I am, Mason thought, but he sounds just as scared!
For a moment he almost gave up. Even though he'd been slipping two fingers in there for almost half an hour, Dec's bottom just felt so impossibly tight and resistant, his own cock feeling feeble and silly against it. He almost just leapt back, sprawled out, lifted his legs and whined for his usual treatment -- after all, he fucking loved it, why had he really turned it down tonight? There was no resentment or bitterness in the simple one-way dynamic of their lovemaking. Yet when Rice had suggested it, he'd fired up immediately, amazed that the big macho hunk would even consider it...! Returning to that moment of excitement, he pushed more forcibly forward, tightening the lean muscle of his torso, edging into Rice's body and cutting off his encouraging muttered filth: `Ohhhhh Mase...!'
Mount gasped, feeling the muscles grip his exploring cock tightly but pushing firmly on until he was balls-deep inside the man he loved, electrified by the notion that this sensation was what Rice experienced every time he fucked him -- no wonder he was so insatiable! He gripped his firm sides, heaved forwards, and began to fuck at him with the same restless youthful energy of his playing style, fucking all of his FA Cup frustrations into the prize of this muscular backside, gripping his erection in its depths, making him close to orgasm in minutes.
Ross, sleepy and sheepish with the buzz of his own climax, went through the motions; staring down his bare body at the glassy expression on Frank's face, his mouth oozing with his own load, he'd felt unable to just abandon him. Now he stood behind him, holding him quite firmly with both arms; one wrapped easily about his chest and shoulder, the other reached down to wank him off, his trackies halfway down his thighs and his meaty old prick responding happily to the Barkley tug.
Ross was mechanical in his attention, still not comfortable with really touching another dick after all this time. He felt he owed it to the big chief though, wanted to see him finish and relax. He knew that feeding him his hole and his cock was far from altruism, was loaded with his own ego and need for attention and affection, but THIS, this was... selfless, maybe.
He knew how grateful Lampard was. The older man leaned heavily back into him and sighed decadently, murmuring wordlessly in his arms as he approached his finish. Ross pressed his naked form into him, let the thick dangle of his sticky cock rub at his bare buttocks a bit. He even dared to nuzzle his neck a little with his chin and nose, never his lips. He tightened his grip impatiently on the head coach's hard-on and jerked it with wild force as he had once before, in the nearby office, desperate to up his position on the squad. That seemed incredibly distant and petty now.
They'd lost the Cup and Lampard must be bereft. Ross acted out of pure instinct to comfort and help, to console and relieve. After all, he'd just had the most intense rimming and blowjob, his body ached with quiet gratitude for the lusty obsession of his coach. He heard the upturn in Frank's noises now, the louder groans and almost vocalised muttering, signalling his rising orgasm. The words took form but were hard to pick out or distinguish, but they became clearer and clearer, and Ross made his hand motions quicker and quicker...
`Mmm... oh yes... oh John... that's it... mmm baby yes... John, John... JT... mmmm yes, yes, YES... oh I love you, I love you JT...'
Barkley listened to it all, each confusing repetitive jabber of excited speech, the words and names taking clearer form in his mind, even as his boss's prick bucked and throbbed and spilled its gooey load in his hand. JT. John. John Terry? He squeezed and slipped his hand around the pulsating organ, cum smearing between his fingers, Frank's whole body shaking and writhing between his tense biceps. JOHN TERRY?
Rice was on his back now, legs high in the air, his superior height lost in the animalistic positioning of anal sex. His whole stung and burned but the wild and happy look on Mount's face was everything to him, completely enough to balance out the discomfort of his first (maybe last?!) time as bottom. It was a terrifying new feeling, to be so exposed and vulnerable with a guy, and he could sorta see the pleasure in it, the push at his gland... but what he fixated on, what he knew he would remember, was the dazed magic of Mason snarling eagerly down on him, face dripping with sweat, rogering him into oblivion and shedding all of his tension and defeat.
When he was obviously coming close, the wild animal thrusts that had taken over the gentle 21-year-old seemed to slow and stutter, gradually replaced by a natural goofy politeness. Where do you want me to cum?' he asked in a fluttering murmur. Where shall I cum, Dec? What do you want?' Even as he pounded between his meaty buttocks with the energy of a Duracell bunny, he looked lovingly and questioningly down and Rice had to pull up off the ground and kiss him immediately.
`Baby, wherever you want,' he insisted, clinging to the lithe muscular form on top of him, feeling the burn of the carpet on his back and arse cheeks, taking every fragment of discomfort that was needed to pleasure and comfort his young hero.
`Okay, okay,' Mason babbled with those little jerking nods. And like that, he was pulling out (it seemed to hurt as much pulling out as going in!) and wanking them BOTH, hunched over him with both hands going mad, their bodies pulled so close. With the impossible poetry of a porno, they came simultaneously, interchangeable streaks of their white juice spilling up the sweaty muscles of their tummies and chests. Dec pulled him down to hug and kiss again and smeared their cum together between abs and pecs, dicks squashed awkwardly together, one of their bumholes burning.
`Oh baby,' Dec moaned softly.
`Oh Dec... oh... oh was it good? Was it any good? Did I...?'
You were amazing.' It wasn't a sweet lie, it was a truth; Mason Mount had turned out to be a ferociously energetic top, far more than the submissive lover Rice had experienced thus far. Whether taking it up there was quite Dec's bag was another matter, he wasn't sure amazing' was the right word for the pain and weirdness of it, but seeing his beautiful lad in the throes of that... well, that had been truly amazing.
They lay like that for a number of long minutes, bodies heaving. They rolled over a little and settled into a more typical spooning cuddle on the rug, Dec taking hold of Mason in his arms and licking his earlobe cheekily. He knew one of them would have to get up first and think about dinner and disturb this magic. One of them had put in 90 minutes in an FA Cup Final, he thought fairly, but then one of them had just been butt-fucked for the first time... so maybe a takeaway? Just as he was about to voice the word `Deliveroo', Mount wriggled about in his arms to face him.
`I love you so much,' the Chelsea boy whispered tenderly.
`You know I love you more,' Rice teased back.
Hmm. Not possible.' They both laughed. So I want you to go on that holiday this week.'
`Huh?'
With your old mates. Dec, I loved having you come to Wembley today, but... I have another week of training, and another tough game. I can't have you sitting about waiting for me like this, it isn't fair on you. I heard you make your excuses on the phone yesterday. Your mates are all off on a holiday and you are sitting around playing house husband...' His emotive rush of speech tailed off. Ring them tonight and get a flight booked tomorrow. Please. Go have a fucking amazing holiday and we'll catch up when I'm free of the tournaments. Okay?'
Well, Declan thought, this was a new side of Mason -- not just the assertive strength of his fucking, but the assertive confidence of his orders. Rice had nothing to do but nod vaguely back at him, so impressed by his confidence and his selflessness. He wondered what he could say back that would confirm just how in love he was with this man, but only a kiss would do it.
They stood apart as they wiped down and cleaned up. Barkley remained casually near-naked for a while, seeming to feel no rush to cover up or dress in front of this man in particular. Lampard stole glances at him as if they could be specially stored in some corner of his memory for enjoyment at lonely or desperate moments. Equally, he savoured the musty manly taste on his lips for the same reason, and then looked at the loose stained fabric of the briefs lying on the desktop. He picked them up, gave them a last sniff, then turned towards his powerful younger visitor.
`Here,' he murmured.
Ross, in the middle of dragging his black boxers shorts up his thick thighs and forcing his heavy privates inside them, just grinned mildly back at him. Keep em, boss. Not like you can't provide me with enough new kit to replace them, huh.'
Frank squeezed his hand gently about them, laughed soundlessly, and pushed them into one pocket of his tracksuit bottoms, then tied up the drawstrings at the front. He pulled at the chest of his training tshirt loosely, wafting air against his lightly hairy chest, knowing he would still stink of sweat when he got home. There was aftershave or deodorant somewhere in the glovebox though. He could cover up the smells of sex that might betray something to his wife. He leaned his backside against the desk and sighed with weird contentment, watching the footballer dress, feeling now able to face the drive home and the condescending comforts of his missus.
Suddenly, Ross spoke. `Does he know how you feel?'
Lampard blinked at him. `Sorry?'
The big strong figure of the Scouse midfielder yanked down the rest of his tshirt and stood there watching him, half-dressed and oddly supportive. `You know who. Your, er, your lips got a bit loose as you... well, you know.' For all his gentle comforting loyalty, the brutish straight lad still couldn't seem to name the things they did out loud. Frank stared guiltily at him, realising what he must have been yelping and shouting as he came. For a moment he was about to get angry and defensive... but what was the point?
`It's complicated,' was all he muttered.
You should tell him,' Barkley said quietly, pulling up his sweatpants now, half turned away so Frank could watch the way they hugged his butt as he adjusted and tightened them about his waist. I dunno, I don't wanna be a dick or interfere, but... I know all this is mad, and I know you've got a missus, but...' Frank stared awkwardly at him, totally taken aback by the lad's gentle voice and thoughtful words. `If there's a bloke and you feel something for him, maybe you should tell him. I dunno.'
Lampard gripped the desk edge as he sat there, Barkley's quiet advice cutting through his sex-relieved contentment and making his heart flutter madly. You make it sound straightforward,' he said with honest conflict in his voice. I'm married. He's married. We've been mates a long long time, Ross, and...'
Yeah, all of that,' Barkley grunted back. But... I dunno. If you want things, and you feel things... like... we only get one life, right? So we gotta just enjoy it. And try shit. And if it doesn't work out, it doesn't work, y'know? Carpe diem, or whatever.' For a moment, in the private dark of the office, it sounded a bit like the big football hunk was speaking from experience or his own feelings, and it stirred Frank with vague enigmatic curiosity at what was going on in that big rugged head of his. All I know,' Ross mumbled finally, pulling his arms into the sleeves of his hoody, is that if you want something and you don't go for it... you can miss your chance.' There was a look on his face somewhere between sadness and helpfulness.
`Right,' the Chelsea boss murmured dazedly back at his player.
`I'll be going, then.'
`Right. Yeah. Okay. See you Monday, I guess.'
`Yeh, sound. See you then, chief.' Barkley exited the offices with slow stretching steps, buggering off to whatever teammate's' sofa he was crashing on these days. Frank, still a little overwhelmed by his words of wisdom, almost shouted after him; he had more than one spare bedroom in his luxury London townhouse, after all. But he couldn't face the thought of big sexy Ross in his home, sitting across from he and his wife while he tried to keep all his feelings inside. He let him go, and just turned his words over in his head instead, picturing that holiday photo of JT and his wife. Tell him you feel, eh? Carpe diem, or whatever.
**OKAY, SO THAT'S THE LOSING SIDE OF THE STORY... NOW TO CATCH UP WITH THE CELEBRATIONS OF THE FA CUP WINNERS AT THE OTHER SIDE OF LONDON .... WHAT WILL THAT SEXY SCOTISH BUGGER GET UP TO NOW...? **