Part thirty: Power Play
Frank Lampard stood by and counted the men onto the coach like a schoolteacher on a trip, hands stuck in the pockets of his big padded overcoat, a serious thoughtful expression on his handsome 41-year-old face. Today was hardly the side's biggest challenge of late, heading north to face down-on-their-luck Newcastle United, but the pressure was on all the same. And in all honesty, it was hardly just the professional responsibility that was weighing on Lampard these days, when he'd been mentally cheating on his beloved wife almost every day for a month now.
And here he was: Ross Barkley came striding up behind Alonso and Pulisic, suited up like a yob on their day in court. That was Frank's latent prejudice against Scousers maybe, or the frantic energy that exuded from the tall, muscular midfielder, the chaotic sense that he was capable of anything. As was his routine for maintaining the severe atmosphere of respect and control, he seized Alonso and then Pulisic's hands in a tight shake, giving them a serious little smile, and nodding them on to the away coach. Ross approached, shoulders bulging through the charcoal grey of his suit blazer, tie a tiny bit looser than it should be about the collar on that thick neck. Frank watched him lower his intense gaze, avoid eye contact, and reached out to seize his hand in a tight shake.
`You all good, Ross?' Frank said in a rush of breath.
Barkley's answer was an inaudible mumble, something like, `of course, gaffer', and his grip in the handshake was vicelike. It was as if for a moment, both men were trying to outdo the other here, show their power, but Frank was the one in charge. Ross bowed his head a little, let go, rubbed his bottom lip.
`On the bus with ya, then,' Frank said, a little less composedly. Ross strode by him and took the step up. The suit trousers clung and twisted about the thickness of his thighs and behind, and Frank was distracted for a second before turning to grab and shake hands with the next player.
This was getting out of hand, he thought to himself, as he got comfortable on the coach five minutes later. He had insisted on a double-seat to himself today for the journey, no tactical discussions with his assistants. Ostensibly he was doing important business admin, a bit of catch-up, and this was partly true: but also he hadn't slept much last night for worrying, and he was hoping he could catch some Zs at the quiet front of the coach, or at least sort things out in his head. He slid off his coat and his blazer, adjusted his tie and tried to get comfortable against the padded pleather of the seating. Behind him, the chatter of the Chelsea squad was loud and boisterous, a bunch of testosterone-fuelled men ready for another climactic on-pitch battle.
This had all come out of nowhere for Frank. It had started with those stupid photographs turning up on his desk... or had it? Had the fascination been there before, for Ross, for other players? It was hard to say. And in fact, did this magic even apply to other blokes, or was it just Barkley? This fixation was so overwhelming that he didn't know what to say. He'd tried popping some gay porn on his iPad one night when he was home alone but felt disgusted with himself and closed it down within a minute of snogging muscle-heads. Perhaps it would have fizzled out if not for that awkward late night encounter with his big cousin Jamie?
Realising sleep was not going to come his way, he took out his iPad and started doing what he'd claimed he would: sorting through his emails. The administrative side of this job continued to take him by surprise. It's not that he'd expected it to be 100% rousing speeches and mucking in with the lads, but sometimes he felt like he'd entered a whole new world hanging up his football boots and donning the mantle of coach and manager. And here, even amongst the duller end of his working life, he couldn't escape the haunting presence of that Scouser.
"Latest negotiations: RB" read the subject of the email, and he gritted his teeth at the familiarity of the initials, before clicking it open. Of course, West Ham were still interested. One of the many vague speculative chats going on in the background. When it had first been raised, Frank had resisted even engaging with it. Ross was a superb player, a hard worker, and... at the time, he'd been consumed by the image of those photographs of his arse, and even discussing the lad's contract had seemed more than he could cope. But now... Well, it would be one solution, wouldn't it? To sell him, to farm him off, even if just on loan, and to not have to LOOK AT him every bloody day...
He looked around his shoulder and the edge of the seat for a moment, glancing down the aisle of the long coach as it ground its way out of the London roads. The lads were still in high spirits, and right amongst them, he spied his obsession, chuckling away and bantering with the guys. Fuck. What was it about him that was so... captivating? Lampard swung round, stared at the screen of his tablet, and re-read the email. They were offering bloody good money. It was a deal that could make a lot of sense. He shivered indecisively, and locked the screen, and leaned back to close his eyes and search desperately for a nap. He needed his mind clear for this game, not messed up like this!
By half-time, it was a tense, goalless battle of attrition. Lampard did his best to stir up some more momentum behind the scenes, though he was hardly on his best form today. He was regretting his formation plans and some of his starting line-up. He had relented and put Barkley on for a very tired looking Mount, but things were still not going well. He stood in the chilly Tyneside evening and gazed out across the iconic pitch of St James Park.
His distracted eyes scanned the Newcastle side as they dashed about in black and white. No Andy Carroll playing, he thought idly, briefly imagining the big tall Geordie striker. But they had a surprisingly strong squad today, and there was a couple of names he was considering passing on to his scout team, though it was late in the transfer window already. He found himself settling his gaze for a moment on the Toon skipper Jamaal Lascelles, bruising past with the build more of a rugby prop than a footballer. He was a really well built and handsome bloke... For fuck's sake. Trying to watch some gay porn on the internet had turned his stomach, but here he was meant to be doing his job, and he was starting to check out the opposition?
He shook himself, strutted down the line a bit, shouted out a few orders and snatches of encouragement, though his players looked weak and tired. The more he watched, the more his thoughts slid from winning strategies to memories of having Barkley to himself in his office. He watched as the powerful midfielder skidded past nearby and got stuck into a strong challenge against Newcastle's little goalscorer Almiron... the play skipped away further down the pitch, and Frank watched Ross jogging slowly back past him. For a second, their eyes met, and the lad looked sharply away and moved further into the pitch, as if to avoid his piercing gaze. Frank swore to himself and tried to concentrate more on what was happening down near the Newcastle box.
As the goalless second half wore on, Lampard paced the touchline with more energy than could be easily explained, watching the action develop. Again, the pace and direction of the game frequently brought the action here to the dugout, and with it, closer glimpses of Ross Barkley at work, animalistic in his play and rippling muscle through glossy blue kit. He was getting more aggressive, it seemed, and Frank feared (or hoped?) it was something to do with him. The yellow card hung there on the edge of consciousness though. If Barkley went too far, it would be red.
One more sliding tackle later, and he called it, muttering instructions to his assistant manager and waving his arm up as signal. Substitution time. He scanned the bench and selected his replacement, and waved authoritatively at a confused-faced Barkley about ten yards away. The meaty midfielder came jogging aside, looking ready to protest.
Any more of this and you'll be red carded,' Frank shouted above the echoing crowd noises above, stamping his feet at the sprayed white boundary of the pitch and clapping his cold hands together impatiently. Get off, come on.' He ignored the wide look of disappointment on Ross's face and turned to bark instructions at his selected substitution, Jorginho, then backed away from the touchline and turned to look properly at his favourite player.
Ross's eyes looked dilated with adrenaline, his nostrils flaring as he caught his breath. Sweat trickled down his roughly hewn face and thick-veined neck, catching the sparkle of the floodlights in the background. His close-fitting Chelsea kit looked soaked through, clinging to the architecture of his developed muscles in his chest, arms, legs... a momentous bulge hung pendulously in the front of the baggier shorts, more prominent than it logically should. And as he turned to gratefully accept water and a slice of orange form a senior coach, Frank caught sight of the way said shorts hugged the mound of his arse, the little wedgie between those globed cheeks. His focus on the game, on Chelsea's precious victory, was destroyed.
`Barkley, what the fuck was that?' he yelled viciously.
Ross twisted his head with an expression of forced innocence and even the senior coach next to him looked a bit taken aback by Frank's tone. `What d'you mean, chief?' the Scouser mumbled through a mouthful of orange, its juices spilling down his lip and chin to mingle with the rivulets of his sweat.
You were going mad out there,' Lampard snapped. Too far, Barkley, too far.' He stamped his feet, rubbed at his stubbled chin, and waved a furious hand. We need to talk – into the tunnel. This is your final warning.' He prodded Barkley in the side urgently, and turned to the coach. I won't be long. Keep an eye on things for me: you have their respect. Good man.' He clapped a hand to the other guy's back, gave a meaningful look to two other senior assistants nearby, and marched away across the dugout and towards the tunnel, following Ross.
He mouthed off a bit more as they strode past various members of Chelsea and Newcastle staff, and lingering media representatives, into the echoing tunnel, until they were a good distance down it and its shadows, and then out into the harsh electric lighting of the corridor beyond. Ross turned and glared at him, but the big lad looked worried. `Into the changing rooms,' Lampard barked commandingly, then shot a look back down the tunnel to the silhouetted figures at the end of it, and the lights and roar of the climaxing football game. But no, his attention was far from it: what did another result matter, really? Frank shook off the weight of his position and handed himself over to a simpler obsession, following Ross in through the swinging door of St James Park's away changing room.
`Lamps, I was playing WELL,' Ross moaned loudly, stamping the studs of his boots across the floor and throwing his arms up in protest.
You were losing control. You were riled,' Frank snapped at him, squaring up to him and wagging a finger. You were seeing red, and you would literally be getting red, if I hadn't... Stop looking at me like that. You know I'm right. You need to control that temper, Barkley. You do.'
`But...'
And besides,' Frank added in a low growl, I needed to... see you.'
Ross stared back at him in slow understanding. But boss,' he mumbled, his angry tone shifting to one more vulnerable, erm... here? Now...?'
Here,' Frank echoed a little bit more forcefully. Now.'
Barkley shifted from boot to boot, still heaving and panting from his exertions on the field, sweat still beading and glinting on every exposed inch of skin. `I need to shower then,' he said in a slow, reluctant voice, but one of resigned agreement to the growing understanding between them. As before, Frank felt the flash of hot shame, the awareness of his own power misused, but...
No,' he said quickly, no, you don't...' He wasn't aware until he was saying it quite how turned on he was by the sweaty, powerful state of the man in front of him, but he meant what he said. He needed to taste it. `Just... stand there...' He pulled his arms out of his heavy coat and discarded it to the floor beside him. The room was cluttered with discarded clothes, the training gear and kit bags of all the others hanging or piled or strewn all about them in this manly inner sanctum. That added somehow to the deep thrill of it, as he took lunging steps forward and planted his hands to Barkley's chest. He grabbed greedily at the lad's body, feeling the dampness of the Chelsea shirt sticking to the firm pecs and bulging arm muscles. Had Frank ever been quite so physically fit in his own career?
Ross tugged on the front bottom of his shirt and pulled it up to wipe his face with, and Frank stared greedily at the exposed abs, stroking fingers across their sweaty heat. He grabbed more gently at the visible package in the front of those shorts, and Ross made the slightest moan of enjoyment there, a reminder that this was not 100% one-way: he knew he had made him cum, tugging him off in his office, and there was some hint of enjoyment in this secrecy to the restless younger man. Driven by memory, he fondled the bulge more, then slid his hand inside the shorts for more: those briefs in there were soaked with sweat, in fact, and he clung greedily to the tight-packed shape of cock and balls.
Go on,' Ross said, in a voice that trembled with the effort of sounding in control, do what you want with it...'
Frank smiled. He knew there was a shifting power dynamic here, or the illusion of one. He knew, in his excitement, that Ross was trying to exploit HIM: that shameless appearance in his office for a second time, that seductive meeting they had shared. And the two further visits, where Ross had only needed to expose himself a little, and let Frank watch and wank... But Lampard knew he was in charge, he felt it instinctively and certainly. And today he wanted more.
`Turn around,' he said. He registered the flicker of fear or uncertainty on Barkley's face, but the big lad knew what was good for him, and he turned around. Frank looked from the thick neck down over the pronounced curve. With a finger, he traced the letters of the surname on that sweaty, trembling back, and the swooping infinity of the number 8. Frank realised he had been holding his breath for some time, and let it out in a slow gasp, then pushed forward, guiding Ross a few metres towards the wall. Barkley pushed both arms forward and rested his hands on the white tiles. Frank patted and then grabbed that glorious behind.
`What are you gonna do?' Barkley asked him through gritted teeth.
He didn't answer, because he didn't honestly know. He just wanted to take all of this in. His own dick was rock hard now in his suit trousers, and he gently rubbed it. Then he began to stoop, and rested his knees to the floor, and gently pulled up the bottom of the shirt to expose Ross's lower back, the waistband of briefs peeking out from beneath the shorts. Frank could have screamed with lust right then, but instead he just kissed his boy on the spine. Ross let out a little shuddering groan of surprise at this tenderness.
Frank hooked fingers into the waistband of those shorts, and pulled them off, letting them stretch over buttock and thigh then fall to ankles. The briefs looked too small, clinging to the rise of Barkley's cheeks, and tucked in a little in the crack. Frank leant in and pressed his face to them, sniffing them, inhaling Ross, and flicking his tongue against the sweat-damp fabric for a few moments. More shuddering, confused murmurs from above. Excitement and certainty gripped the Chelsea manager, of all a sudden. He pulled on the briefs, and wrestled them down, exposing the perfect curve of the cheeks, and let them fall down to Ross's feet, over the stretch of his long socks and over the muddy crust of the boots. He guided Ross's feet, making him step out of his undies and shorts, and then snatched up the dirty, sweaty briefs. He stood again, cock absolutely straining his suit pants, and pulled a hand around to press them against Ross's mouth: the big man struggled a bit for a moment but knew who was in control. `Just taste your own sweat, you animal,' Frank said in a wildly excited whisper.
He dropped back to his knees, driven by lust, and took one cheek in head hand, and parted them, and pressed his face to the arse again, without the barrier of damp cloth. Ross smelt so strong and amazing, it was electrifying: how would it taste? Pushing the cheeks apart as much as he could, he stuck his tongue in, and licked. Ross made a muffled noise through a mouthful of his own underpants, and Frank pulled back to take in a deep breath, before going to work. He'd always enjoyed going down on women, but this was something else. He pushed his face close and ran his tongue over the sweaty flesh and curled hair.
Oh god, boss,' Frank moaned, clearly having spat out the briefs now. Oh fuckin' hell, you bastard...'
Lampard didn't care if these yelps were of anger or enjoyment, he just knew he had to keep going. He kissed eagerly at both cheeks and licked wildly, finding what felt like the tight little hole with his tongue, tickling and probing and lapping. The cheeks pressed against his, warm and damp and so full of Ross's muscular presence. He couldn't help but reach down, undo his fly, and tug his cock out, needing to pleasure himself as he enjoyed the big arse that had taken over his imagination this past month or so. Dear god!
There was a shift then, but Frank didn't notice it at first. He wasn't aware that Ross was relaxing his big meaty behind and then squatting a bit to make it easier, or pressing it backwards so Frank's tongue was really now testing that unexplored hole. He didn't immediately register that Ross, after three more minutes of this, was reaching back behind him and planting a strong hot hand on Frank's head, pushing him into the crack more. Oh you cunt,' Barkley groaned, eat it... eat it...'
And then, suddenly, Ross was pulling forward, the buffet was gone, and Frank's head lolled dizzily. Barkley whipped round and looked down at him with a face of disgust and superiority. Frank's cheeks and lips and chin felt damp with the other guy's sweat, and he supposed Ross must see it: sweat was trickling off Ross's face too though, dripping onto him. Frank's eyes moved down the rising and falling muscles of Barkley's chest, and to the big muscle prominently hovering in front of his face, that big strong cock... oh...
`Eat it,' Ross grunted commandingly, and he thrust it forward whilst reaching down to hold Lampard by the head. Frank found his lips parting and his tongue reaching as the seemingly gargantuan thing was pressed into his mouth. Oh it tasted good, so good. He stared up in, he realised, defeat: power had shifted, and now Barkley was in control, he'd lost it all. Had the power ever really been his? He just needed as much of this gorgeous man as possible, that was all that mattered now. He opened wide and tried not to choke. He tugged on his own dick fast and hard, and felt Ross pushing deep in his throat. The taste and smell of Ross the Boss just filled his world for agonising moments of utter enjoyment.
That taste good, does it?' came Ross's taunting Scouse drawl. Frank tried to nod, but it was hard, his head anchored on the big thick meat. Yeh, bet it does, you dirty old fuck... Enjoy it... You stupid cunt... You thought you could boss me about, did ya?'
Frank felt tears of discomfort or shame sting his eyes, in spite of his lust and enjoyment, and he just sucked more hungrily. He wanked himself desperately. He'd lost, and he felt the horror of it begin to creep up past the raw filthy enjoyment of the moment. Then he felt himself cumming, spilling his load over his hand, his expensive suit trousers, the floor. Oh dear god, what was he doing down here on his knees? Ross pulled his cock from his mouth, noticing he'd finished, and just let out a nasty, mocking laugh. `You stupid prick,' he grumbled. He took Frank's lapels and pulled the suited man upright, and then was snatching at something – the briefs – and Frank felt them forced into his own trembling mouth, that strong musty taste filling his mouth. He nodded weak acquiescence and grabbed Ross by the cock to finish him off whilst the brooding meathead stood before him, swollen with victory.
Imagine yer bird could see ya now,' Barkley whispered. Imagine that.'
Frank bit into the fabric of the dirty undies, swayed a little on his feet, and pulled desperately on Ross's cock, which seemed to fill his hand so excessively with its girth. Ross rocked a little on the heels of his football boots, them and his socks looking so odd against his naked legs and exposed crotch. The lad sighed and moaned and then, as he peaked, leant in to press both hands to the shoulders of Lampard's blazer. He let out an exaggerated cry of pleasure, and Frank stared down as the messy load spilled against his sleeve, his blazer, one leg of his suit pants. He clutched the dick and kept pulling on it for almost a minute after Barkley's sticky explosion.
Ross slowly reached a hand up from his shoulder, and yanked the briefs from his mouth, leaving it hanging dumbly open. A 41-year-old married father, Frank just stared blankly at the younger, fitter man, and felt the tears of shame pricking his eyes. Oh shit. What did this mean?
Here,' Barkley grunted, in a softer but still authoritative voice. He pulled Frank's blazer open a little, and stuffed his damp, dirty underpants into the inside pocket, where they bulged stupidly. Then he patted Frank's shoulder and backed off, beginning to tug his skintight Chelsea top up and off. I need to shower, I guess...' And away Ross went, his buttocks rising and falling with each step as he swaggered off to the shower. Frank stood there in a daze, and then slowly came to. He checked his watch, and felt a stab of panic. It was the 89th minute.
When he made it back to the dugout, dabbing aimlessly at the wet patches he had scrubbed into his suit, he was just in time to hear the final whistle, and his eyes darted up to the scoreboard. What the fuck? How had Newcastle secured such a late goal???
The team talk after the game was dour. The interview was painful. He felt in a hot flush for about 90 minutes of his own after the loss had ceased, and it was only once alone in his Newcastle hotel room, scrolling through some sympathetic messages from his wife, that he begin to feel any calm returning. He sat down on his bed, and tapped away at his phone. His head was spinning. The team had played poorly tonight, but he... He had been awful today. He had barely given a scrap of his attention to this Premiership clash at all. He had been totally occupied by... HIM.
Frank narrowed his eyes, chewed his lip, and swiped through the open apps on his smartphone, back into his busy professional inbox. He pulled up that email again. "Latest negotiations: RB". He stared at the message, its quoted figures, its suggested negotiations, the thread of exchanges leading up to it. Selling Ross Barkley... it would solve some problems for him, surely? It might make life... simpler again. But it would also rob of him of seeing that man daily, and take away any chance of... of...
`Of what?' he asked himself aloud, bitterly.
He stared once more at the email, and held his phone over the touchscreen, wavering between two tabs: REPLY or DELETE?
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