Part forty: Mounting Mason
The 21-year-old midfielder whipped across the training circuit in the light rain, arms bouncing at his sides as he dribbled the dayglo football through the intricate path of flags and barriers as fast as he could. He grinned eagerly to himself and focused entirely on the speed and skill challenge in front of him, glad of the intense work to focus his mind on: it had been a really dreary weak after all, since his best mate Declan had basically stopped responding to his messages at all.
What had happened to make good old Rice suddenly so disinterested in their regular messaging and banter? After the lads' little 21st birthday bed-in, the messages had taken on a slightly cheekier tone, their voicenotes and selfies seeming to sizzle with an unmentioned sexual tension... Mount woke up most mornings thinking about how it had felt to wake in that bed, body curled into Declan's lanky sweaty frame, and yet now...
The issue slipped into his mind just as he neared the end of the obstacle course, his booted feet almost dancing over the astro-turf as he neared the end, then he lost control of the rain-slicked ball, took a wrong footing, and tumbled over a barrier: not a bad fall, he turned it into a graceful roll and tumbled comfortably aside before shooting back up to his feet, hands held up apologetically for the coach leading this session. Sorry!' he called over, running his hands through his damp hair and jogging around to re-join the queue of other fast young players being tested here. I'll do better on my second go, promise!'
Striding by on his way through the various Friday training drills, Frank Lampard looked intensely over at the sight of speedy Mason Mount taking a tumble and quickly recovering. As a manager, he critically evaluated the clumsiness or distraction that had taken the youngster down; as a red-blooded man, he observed the lithe young body skipping along to join the filed up lads attempting the little dribbling challenge, and thought about the plan for later on.
Of course he'd deleted that fucking email from the Everton management, of course he had – sure, he'd spent the best part of a weekend sweating over the decision, trying to rationalise the easy way out of his pickle. Selling Ross Barkley had been so fucking tempting, and the money and managerial tactics of it had nothing to do with it...
On cue, the beefy Scouser came jogging across his path with a collection of other attacking players, led by one of the assistant coaches on a few laps of the field, back in the direction of the goal where they were practising booting it in. Frank paused, digging his hands into the pockets of his thick puffer coat, and watched that muscular physique curve around the pitch, legs working overtime, heavy arse muscles balancing his frame as he lunged for the ball and took his shot...
OF COURSE he hadn't sold the fucking beautiful bastard, how could he?
So here he was, desperately stuck with the big oaf in his team, in his life, in his every waking thought. Obsession. And with every day, his curious desires were getting more out of hand. He sighed, gritted his teeth, tried to switch back on the professional side of his messed up brain. He was at work right now, with all of these lads to take control of, and a big game tomorrow against 3rd place Leicester City, a crucial clash if they were to remain in the top 4 as the season wound on. He really couldn't afford to be padding about the training ground with his mind following Barkley's bottom!
And so that was why they'd hatched their plan...
And next up at the dribbling challenge, Ruben Loftus-Cheek jogged for a moment on the spot, flexing his long strong legs, cricking his neck to the left and to the right. He had only recently returned to the training programme after an irritating achilles injury, finally getting back in amongst the team and hoping to make his season debut soon enough.
The 6'3 midfielder pulled back and forth on his shoulders, tensed up his frame, and shot forward at speed as a coach volleyed the ball into his path to take control of. He sped forward and flicked skilfully from side to side, watched intently by his teammates. The Lewisham giant dribbled the ball all of the wall, his mind flicking quickly over the risks of a few swift corners, knowing he had to be careful of his ankle still, but handling it well. And then he was rounding the last couple of cones and flags, and flicking the football easily from his left foot into the hands of the waiting coach, and throwing his arms up in celebration as he skidded ahead.
He whirled around, grinning back at some of his assembled teammates with a whoop. `Loftus-Cheek is back in towwwwn,' he called cheerily.
The coach laughed and clapped his back admiringly, and let him jog his way around the course to re-join the others. High fives and whoops and laughter. 24-year-old Ruben was a popular bloke amongst the Chelsea squad, and there was a good buzz at having him back in action for so many months away from the ball. Amongst the eager congratulations, Mason Mount grabbed him in a half hug and looked up at him admiringly.
`Great work, big man,' the young midfielder called eagerly.
Oh yeah, you know it,' Ruben chuckled, squeezing a strong arm about Mason's shoulders. No falling down like you, butter-feet...'
`Ah shut it, injury boy,' Mount grumbled playfully, pulling away from his embrace and stepping up, eager to have a second go at the little dribbling slalom once more, competitive and chirpy.
Behind him, Ruben backed off and stretched at his legs again, pulling one up behind his arse to fully stretch the thigh and hamstring, balancing on one foot and watching Mount skip forward eagerly, thinking about his private suspicions about the Portsmouth-born twink. Well, not quite suspicions, as such, they were much firmer than that... Loftus-Cheek was pretty convinced on what he'd almost walked in all those weeks ago on his penultimate medical assessment before coming back.
He'd seen the feet behind that thin shower curtain, the vague outlines in the translucent plastic. He'd seen Mason on his knees, heard his hungry whines. And... Ruben let out a long thoughtful sigh, and looked back over the pitch – the attacking players were swinging by again on another jogging lap, and foremost among them, he saw the man himself.
Had that really been Ross Barkley having his wicked way with young Mason that day...?
Barkley pounded foot after foot against the astro-turf beneath him, speeding a head a little to catch the pass from Batshuayi as it came his way, and booting it ahead of him as he led the pack forward across the ground towards the other empty goal, ready to take his turn at a long-distance shot. He slowed his run, tensed his powerful thighs, and drove one leg forward commandingly, sending the ball arcing expertly into the corner of the net.
The other attacking players herded about him with yelps of approval and camaraderie, and some cheers and clapping came from elsewhere on the field, making Ross realise others had stopped to watch his mighty kick. He laughed with some modesty, bracing himself against the hugs and claps and banter of the strikers, and looked his way back over the field, spotting the manager himself stood giving a slow, appreciative clap. From here, Lampard's expression was unreadable, but as always, it hit Ross somewhere private and internal: he knew that look meant so much more than a managerial congratulation at his sharpening skills.
It had been interesting, the dynamic between them now, since he had empowered himself against Frank that dirty day at St James. He knew he held plenty of the cards, knew how desperately the 41-year-old seemed to want (need?) him... but he was also shit scared of how far it was already going, and felt the tenuous control it was giving him. He was getting his game, and that was what really mattered, and yet... at what cost?
Twenty minutes later or so, Frank himself was sitting at his desk, his coat and jumper off, just in a pale blue Chelsea polo shirt, his bare forearms crossed on the wooden surface in front of him, staring idly into the middle-distance and thinking it all over.
It had been last Saturday after the FA cup win over Hull... it had been in a narrow toilet cubicle in the away section of the lower league club's grounds that he had got overexcited, tongue between Barkley's buttocks, and let himself go too far... he'd known even as he tried the finger and reached for his dick, that it was too much, too mad, too greedy... A bloody nose and Ross's hand to his throat later, he'd known this for definite.
His excitement had made him want to try fucking a lad, and he'd let his thoughts wander too far – and aggressive, powerful Ross had made it fucking clear that this was NOT happening. And so the manager-player tryst had hit a sweaty impasse. Frank's curiosity was building by the week, but so was Barkley's assured sense of his own status as the manager's little obsession...
And so the plan had been hatched.
Mount heaved the last armful of flags in through the doors, always one to volunteer to help organise kit, dragging the lightweight props alongside him into the glassy corridors of the training complex. `Just prop them up there and I'll deal with them,' called the groundsman organising the training kit today, and Mount gave him a polite nod before making his way on down the corridor. The doors to the dressing rooms were wide open and a lot of lads were milling about, taking their time.
Just then, a taller figure stepped casually into his path and he faltered halfway down the passage.
`Alright, kiddo,' Ruben said in his strong South London accent, giving him a friendly nod.
5'10 Mason looked up with a grin at the tall comeback midfielder, pushing a fist forward to bump against the strapping older bloke's hand. Hey man, so fucking good having you back,' he trilled with pleasure. We all missed you.'
`Sure,' agreed Ruben with a slightly faraway look on his face.
Your speed out there today!' Mason exclaimed. Man, how you get so agile, when you're like 10 foot tall, haha...' He clapped a hand to the bigger guy's arm in admiration. `Nice work, Lofty, nice work.' He made to pass him on his way to the dressing rooms, as the other players started moving on in, eager to get their showers and escape for a free Friday evening. Ruben seemed to have other ideas though, stepping over a little to gently bar his path, so that young Mason grinned up at him with an awkward laugh and a questioning expression.
`You got a minute, Mase?' the big RLC asked him in a quieter voice.
`What? Oh, er, I guess?' Mason said with another uncertain giggle, a bit thrown by the older bloke's tone and their sudden aloneness in the corridor. He was feeling a tiny bit on edge at the moment anyway, since he kept getting odd intense looks from big Ross on the field, and he kept thinking about the double ticks on his Whatsapp where Dec was reading and ignoring his messages.
`Don't worry, nothin' serious,' Ruben said with a languid chuckle.
`Phew,' Mason joked uncomfortably.
`It's just something I thought I overheard a while back,' Lofty murmured even more secretively.
Mason eyed him anxiously, watching the handsome black footballer's face twist into a funny grin as he seemed to struggle for the best words, building up to asking a question that Mount couldn't really anticipate. But just then, there were dull footsteps behind the tall guy, and a third player joined them in the corridor, standing firmly between them and looking from one to the other of them with an oddly serious expression on his face.
`Hey pals,' Scouse Ross barked in a strangely formal way. Ruben looked irritated at the interruption, though Mason felt a pang of relief, and he glanced at his more familiar teammate expectantly.
`Er, yeah?' demanded Ruben, quietly but in a voice that revealed his annoyance.
`What's up, Barks?'
Well,' Ross muttered, a touch hesitantly, the gaffer wants to see ya, Mase...'
Oh, it can't be urgent,' Lofty said, reaching a hand for Mason's shoulder now; but Ross reached over and brushed it aside to squeeze the same shoulder, turning his intense eyes on him. Mason almost let out a laugh at the idea of the two muscular blokes fighting' over him here, a bit confused but immediately distracted by the prospect of a meeting with a Frank Lampard: was he in for praise or criticism?!
`Lamps wants you upstairs,' Ross said firmly, then shot a shady look at Ruben, and let go of Mason's shoulder.
Okay, okay,' Mount said, laughing internally at the prospect of more conflict here. Ruben, we can catch up in a bit, okay...?' He gave the big guy a funny look, still unsure what he was about to be asked, but knowing how impatient Lampard could be if kept waiting. Ross turned away to march up the corridor and Mason followed, shooting a thoughtful look back at Ruben as he did, seeing the glowering frown on Lofty's face: what the hell...?
In the elevator up to the senior offices, Ross looked at a dozen dim distorted reflections of his own broad figure and his slimmer companion, both clad in the same shade of Chelsea blue, their training kits steaming a little with body heat after the damp conditions out there. He turned to look at Mason rather than their dim outlines reflected in the silvery metal, noting the nervous grin on the young guy's boyish face, beneath his big hooked nose, his innocent eyes, his damp hair slicked to the side. He saw the smile fade a little beneath his brooding stare.
Everything's okay, right?' Mount asked, and his vulnerable little voice made Ross doubt this scheme. He looked at the little dimples beside the young guy's trusting smile, and pictured himself fucking that mouth in aggressive relief: it had been harsh, but the young guy had... loved it, hadn't he? He'd said so... Ross?' Mount asked with unmistakable apprehension.
Barkley gave a firm nod. Aye, aye,' he said, slipping into rougher Scouse, it'll be good...' He looked away, and the lift clicked into place at the top floor where the bigshot offices overlooked the main grounds. Just as the doors began to slide open, he reached his left hand out, and grabbed young Mason by the wrist. You don't have to do anything you don't feel up to,' he said in a rushed whisper, knowing the comment wouldn't make much sense. Okay? Promise me you'll tell me if you don't feel cool?'
Mason stared dumbly at him.
`Promise me,' Ross hissed.
I promise you!' Mount exclaimed. But... what the hell are you on about?'
Ross let go of his wrist, puffed up his chest, and led the way out of the lift without saying anything.
Frank stood up at the knock on the door, clearing his throat and calling out a gruff `Come on in', then stepping around the mahogany desk to greet the two players. He folded his arms and stepped forward as in traipsed a bashful looking Mason and, just behind him, a shifty-eyed Ross. Frank eyed the two young blokes with a mix of curious hunger and shameful indecision: he knew he could call this all off now, send the lads on their way, get in the car and hurry back to his wife. Who would probably be too tired or busy to pay him any attention at all. Fuck.
`You wanted to see me, boss?' chirped Mount expectantly.
Frank stared at him with a twisted smile, then looked past him to big brooding Ross. Yeah,' he said, in the same husky voice, nodding his head, and unfolding his toned older arms. Yeah, I did.' He took a step closer to them both, took a deep breath, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his stone chinos, then looked from one player to the other again before carrying on. We both did,' he corrected himself, and saw Mason's slight confusion, Ross and I, that is...'
`Er, right...'
Frank knew he just wasn't articulate enough for any slow charismatic seduction here. If what Ross had told him was true, Mason would be up for this, but he was clumsy in his thoughts on how to initiate anything. After all, was he really the one in control here any more...? He looked past confused young Mount to Barkley instead, and grunted out his orders. Well Ross, get it out,' he said, impatiently and just a bit ashamedly. Mason gawped uncomprehendingly then turned to follow Frank's eyes, just as Ross lifted the front of his sweaty Chelsea top and lowered the front of his trackies a few inches, exposing the bulge in the front of his white briefs. Out properly,' Frank commanded in a voice with more certainty.
Barkley hoisted his top a little more over the lower rungs of his six pack, pushed his trackies down onto his thighs, and reached a hand inside the fabric of his white Armani briefs, his knuckles stretching the white cotton as he took hold of himself, then ceremoniously, pulled his big flaccid nob out into view, a familiar sight to both onlookers now. Mason glanced sharply from this to Lampard, who smirked his confirmation: he could see in Mason's eyes that this was going to work after all.
Well,' he said, firmly, I hear you like to suck on that monster. Go on.' The 21-year-old turned and looked questioningly at Barkley, and the shift in authority riled Lampard. `Get on your knees and suck him, kid,' he snapped impatiently.
And so Mason did. He took a stumbling step closer to Ross and lowered himself to his knees on the carpeted floor, and Frank moved a little to improve his view as Mount leant in and kissed that fat dangling tool, rubbing his mouth and nose over it, then turning to cast a sidelong look at their manager. Frank felt a thrill at that vulnerable young face looking his way whilst tonguing at Ross's tight foreskin. Barkley just grunted in faint approval. Frank felt the twitch of arousal in his chinos as he watched, and rubbed at the crease in his pants, seeing Mason run his tongue up the shaft, and nuzzle at Barkley's short wiry pubes.
That's it,' he breathed. Go for it.'
But Barkley seemed restless, unsatisfied. He stroked Mason's hair a little then moved away, and crossed the office again. Mount followed him on his puppy, on his knees for a moment then in a stooped hurry. Frank moved after them, and felt a stab of imposition as Ross took to his grand seat behind the desk like a usurping king, tugging his undies and trackies down to his knees before squatting his big bare butt on the cushion of Frank's little throne.
`On the desk,' Frank said urgently to Mason, licking his lips. He pulled on Mason's arm a little then cupped a hand to the lad's backside in his training shorts, and helped him up onto his knees on the desk, ignoring the scattering of his own paperwork there and urging the young lad forward over it so he could hang his head over the far side to lick the tip of Barkley's swelling boner.
Frank, trembling with eagerness, position himself in front of the guest seat at his own desk, planted his hands on the toned back muscle of Mason, then pulled on the waist of those shorts, the outer layer and the inner compression ones, and dragged both back to reveal the smooth pale cheeks of the youngster's bottom. It wasn't Ross's majestic spread, but it was still exciting. He looked over the lad's back and spiky hair, at Ross's rising chest muscles and veiny neck, and the uncertain smile on his serious young face as he enjoyed the attention to his prick. Frank licked his lips again, and leant down to kiss the base of Mason's spine, and then run his tongue backwards...
Loftus-Cheek leaned in against the window and squinted between the hanging sheets of the blinds, trying to focus on the scene within. He could see his manager from behind, his broad shoulders in that blue polo shirt, the rear of his well-fitted pale chinos, then him seeming to bend forward... what the fuck...? As Lampard stooped, he could make out the hunched form on the desk, a slighter younger figure, Mason? And beyond him, the silhouetted of a cropped head that could only be... Ross? No way... Ruben pulled his eye back from the glass and breathed out, his moist breath condensing against the screen and obscuring his view once more.
He gasped, bit his lip, and reached one hand irresistibly down the front of his tracksuit bottoms, enraptured by the surreal scene in the manager's office, so near and yet so far. Dear god, this was way more intense than he had dared to imagine since his possible discovery, and so dangerously public... His eyes slide to the right, to the dark brown square of the office door, with its tempting handle. But surely it would be locked: who the fuck would be stupid enough to start a dirty little threesome up here without taking such a precaution...?
Ross pulled the managerial chair in a bit closer to the desk to give Mase a better reach with his mouth, stroking one hand about the back of the younger lad's neck whilst his other gripped the arm of Lampard's chair tightly, feeling the waves of pleasure from Mount's eager tongue lapping at his erection... the sight of Frank's eyes just above the curve of Mason's perky pale backside was an insanely filthy view, and it reminded Ross of how good it had felt pulling his boss's face into his own rear those last three snatched occasions, feeling Lampard lick deeper and more desperately every time, until he'd gotten carried away and Ross had needed to reassert his control properly.
Barkley lifted his arse off the cushion a bit, tensing his thighs, pressing his dick up more firmly into Mason's waiting mouth, and he remembered the aggression with which he had fucked those lips the first time, the first time he'd let a lad anywhere near his dick.
Then, both hands gripped the arms of his chair, he heard the clicking of the opening door, and he opened his eyes fully, and stared over the room, the only one with a proper view as a lanky dark figure slipped in through it and pushed it shut behind him. The noise of that alerted the other two, and instantly, Mason's head was lifting in a panic from his suck-job, and Frank was turning round with slick wet lips and chin, gasping and shaking with shock.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek stood in the doorway, an imposing broad-shouldered figure in matching training gear, his mouth gawping a little within the tight frame of his dark goatee. The big 24-year-old stared over at them all, and Ross's brain made turgid leaps towards any hint of a reasonable explanation for why he was sat in the manager's chair with two hungry sluts in front of him. He saw Frank opening and closing his mouth in the same desperate rush for a... what, excuse?!
You lads ought to lock a door, ya know?' the South Londoner said in a loud mutter. And with that, he turned round, and flicked a latch on the door. That, Barkley suddenly remembered, had been his job, in the plan. As soon as he's in the office, you lock it,' Frank had snapped at him two days ago, after sucking him off, but Barkley had forgotten... or subconsciously, he had felt bad doing that to Mount, locking him in here as their treat...
`Lofty,' gasped Mason, still on his hands and knees on the firm structure of the desk, paperwork strewn beneath his crouching body.
`Ruben,' Frank exclaimed in an incongruously formal, commanding voice.
RLC strode over the long room towards them, and cracked his knuckles idly as he reached them in a few steps. The big guy grinned at manager and fellow midfielders, and then grabbed the front of his trackies with a belly laugh. `You guys are mad,' he announced, but his excitement was palpable, and Ross felt much of him relax in spite of the situation.
The gaffer just needed a shag,' he called out in a rasping mutter. You know how it is, lad, when the need takes ya...'
Sure do,' Ruben chuckled, and he shoved a hand in the front of his trackies for a fondle, and slapped the other hand to Frank's shoulder, where the 41-year-old was still half-crouching behind Mount's bottom. Ross saw the anxiety on his boss's face, then felt Lampard look questioningly his way, and he gave him a confident smile that read clearly: this is going to be okay, chief. Damn,' continued the Lewisham lad, `don't let me interrupt you, gaffer...' Barkley nodded his approval, and Frank turned his head back between Mount's firm cheeks.
Ross looked at young Mason's wide-eyed expression, seeing just how astounded the 21-year-old was by this next development, and he got up from the seat and pushed his prick against first Mount's cheek, then his lips, forcing his bell end back in there. `You okay, Mase?' he groaned quite affectionately, and he felt as much as saw the nod of assent. He could just about make out Mason's little groans of delight at getting a wet rimming from the boss, muted by the thick meat being pushed into his greedy mouth.
Watching on, Ruben was playing himself in the tight front of his trackies, and letting out breathy laughs of enjoyment. He then tugged his long-sleeved training shirt and under-vest up and off to bare his tightly defined torso of muscles, and Ross, almost competitively, did the same to his, both shirtless hunks gleaming with the sweat of training and now this.
Barkley felt a surge of power, as if he was really the man in control of all these powerful young men at Chelsea, the real boss in the office. Hey Franko,' he called, dismissive, why don't you put that tongue to use on Lofty's big black dick, eh?' He watched Lampard pull his glossy wet mouth away from Mount, saw the hesitation in the gaffer's eyes. He knew that Frank had been reluctant to try sucking, that it was a few steps further than ever anticipated, yet his eager blowjobs over the last couple of weeks had been... well, Ross barely liked to admit to himself how quickly he had blown his loads on the chief's shirts and blazers, often struggling to find the sexual energy leftover for his missus back home after.
Ruben was tugging his semi out, and it was an impressive thing. Ross eyed it competitively, trying to figure out how it matched up to his own ample weapon. But no sooner was the chocolate length out of the sweaty pants, than Frank was taking it in his mouth, eyes still flicking to Ross for approval, and beginning to suck off the 6'3 gent at his side. In turn, Ruben reached one hand to stroke Frank's hair, and pulled his other to fondle Mason's backside. Ross felt the young lad tense and tremble at the new touch, conveyed in his clumsier sucks on Barkley's meat. As Ruben reached down and began to slide a finger into the slick crack, Barkley realised Lofty was a lot more experienced and confident in this game than any of them.
The Scouse lad reached down and fingered Mason's damp hair gently, pulling his dick away to tug himself for a few moments, hearing the little pained moans from the virgin on the table, and remembering the focus of the plan. Leaving his nob alone, Barklet knelt down to the floor between chair and desk, bringing himself face to face with Mount. He took the lad's chin between his fingers, and leaned in close to whisper.
The gaffer wants to top you, mate,' he muttered. You up for that?'
Mason looked at him with wide eyes. `I've never...'
I know, I know.' Ross rubbed a thumb over the younger player's bottom lip, and patted his cheek gently. You don't have to.' But if you don't, Ross thought grimly, I know whose hole he's gonna be demanding in its place. Perhaps this thought was vivid in his expression, because Mason's eyes seemed to narrow a little and his smile settle.
I want to try,' Mount whispered. I really want to try.'
Ross pinched his dimpled cheek, smiled gratefully at him, and got back to his feet, letting his bell end graze Mason's lips as he did. Lofty, pal,' he grunted, come over here... feel how tender little Mason is on your cock, eh...' And turning his eyes to the boss. `It's time for you to try what you wanted, chief, it's time...'
The men swapped around. Ruben pulled his thick wet nob away from the kneeling manager and helped him to his feet, slapping him enthusiastically on the arm and grinning at him before shuffling around the shape of the desk. Ross gave Mase another stroke down the cheek and tousled his hair before circling in the opposite direction, whilst Frank stood up behind the boy on the table and started undoing his belt. Ross helped Frank to pull his polo shirt up and off, baring his decently firm older body alongside the three chiselled twentysomethings. They were interrupted, for a moment, by tall muscular Ruben's luxuriant groans – Lofty was already stood on the far side of the desk feeding his cock to a gently groaning Mason.
Ross spat in his palm as Lampard tugged open his belt and flies and pulled his erection out of his silky boxer shorts. You ready, chief?' he grunted, pulling his wet palm over the Chelsea manager's cock and giving it a squeeze. He leaned in as he whispered to his boss and bitch: You ready to fuck him for me, eh?' He licked his lips right in front of Frank, so the older guy leaned in as if for a kiss, and Ross pulled away, and tugged on his nob.
Ohh,' groaned Loftus-Cheek, this lad is GOOD...'
`Let's see how good he is at taking it in both ends,' Frank grunted assertively, pressing both hands to bare hips and positioning himself behind the doggy position of their youngest companion, thrusting his cock into the spit-lubed, gently fingered virginal arse.
Ross watched this with a mixture of fascination and unease, and realised he was worrying for his pal's arsehole (he'd let out a yelp of total dismay when Frank tried to finger him properly), and so he moved around the side of the desk, and patted his young mate gently on the back, then decided to help him relax. Whilst one big lanky streak of muscle softly fucked Mason's face, and the anxious but wildly horny football manager began pressing his cock between his cheeks, Ross reached beneath and began to give him a clumsy handjob. He couldn't get used to the feel of another dick in his hand, but he hoped this would help Mason enjoy what was to come, the act that was freaking him out just as a bystander. As Frank pressed in, and Ruben let out encouraging laughs of pleasure, Ross pulled up and down on Mason's slender prick, patting and stroking his lower back too.
`So... fuckin'... tight,' Frank breathed.
`Go on, get it in him,' murmured Lofty.
`Oh shit,' moaned Mason, in a break between tonguing black cock.
Ross could see, in both Mount's arched back and Frank's amazed facial expression, the moment the dick really entered the ring, and he pulled even more firmly on his pal's cock to relax him. Once entering the youngster, older married DILF Lampard began to thrust with clumsy eagerness. Again, Loftus let out relaxed laughter and his own moans of enjoyment, and repeatedly, `Go on, chief, go on...'
Here, mate,' Ross barked, let me back at him...' He muscled his way around the desk and Ruben merrily deferred to him, pulling his dick away from Mason's lips so that Ross could press his nob there instead. He rolled his hips playfully to slide in and out, cock on the lad's tongue, whilst watching Ruben go round to join Frank, hugging his shoulders and murmuring in his ear as the fit older man picked up rhythm and excitement in his first male fuck.
Again, Ross hunkered down against the desk, and hugged a bulging arm about Mason's neck and shoulder to lean in and nuzzle his cheek with his nose. How you doing, buddy?' he whispered. You okay?'
It feels insane,' Mason gasped into Ross's sweaty shoulder muscle. But it's... it's good...'
You're a trooper, Mase,' Ross said into his ear, lips brushing them momentarily, I fuckin' owe you one after this, okay...? I really owe you one...' And then, daringly, he kissed him once on the side of the neck before getting back up. As he got up, he saw a changeover again: Frank was pulling back, panting, cock lifting up at a jarring angle he was so aroused, and Ruben was slipping two fingers into Mason's backside again, preparing to take over the fucking. Barkley might not have expected the gaffer to be up for sharing, but Lampard actually looked pretty thrilled. But, he registered, Ruben really was well-hung (longer than mine, but less thick, he noted irritably) and so he took his dick in his right hand, and with his left, patted and stroked Mason's neck and shoulders and cheek, and then slipped two fingers in for the lad to suck on whilst big Ruben began to press his cock into him. Mount let out clear groans of pain.
`It's okay, he can take it,' Lofty grunted.
`He fucking can,' echoed Frank excitedly.
`You can do it buddy,' Ross muttered, running his fingers through the lad's hair then pulling his dick over so Mason could lap at it with his nervous tongue.
And then Loftus-Cheek was fucking hard, a physique that intimidated even Barkley taut with exertion as he pushed forward and pulled back, both hands pressed down around the base of Mason's spine. Frank was tossing himself off and practically drooling. Mount was panting and whimpering into Ross's naval, and he rubbed the young un's shoulders soothingly to help him out. For all his might, excited Ruben did not last long. He was quickly throwing his bearded face back and bulging the muscles on both arms, his whole six pack looking so ripped as he thrust in one last time, and emptied his load inside the shared 21-year-old. No sooner had he climaxed than he was retreating and dragging Frank in, and Lampard was going for it, sliding his cock into the loosened hole, eyes wild with lust... `Sloppy seconds,' cackled Lofty in the throes of orgasm.
Take it you bitch,' Frank grunted harshly, take it Mason, you little fag...'
Ross had no idea if such dirty talk was good for inexperienced Mason or not, but perhaps it did the job, because he realised the bottom was convulsing in orgasm, and spunking all over Lampard's paperwork. He almost boomed with laughter at that. He looked up in time to see his manager's cum-face, mouth a wide `O' of delight, eyes squeezed shut. The second load in a row was released in Mason's presumably aching hole. Ross could see that Frank and Ruben were both looking at him expectantly as they pulled on their wilting erections and backed off from the desk, but Barkley knew his limits. He was not gay, he was not gonna fuck a lad, and moreso, he was not gonna put Mase through any more...
He scooped the muscular but slimmer young lad up in both arms and helped him off the desk, scattering some messed up admin work as he did, his own dick bouncing up and down as he strolled around into the centre of the room. He glanced at Lampard and could see a panic edging into those wild, lusty eyes.
Mase,' Ross barked, and you, Lofty... lads... you breathe a fuckin' word of this around the place and you'll be sold to Shitfield United before you can say fuck-nugget, okay? You hear me?' He repeated the question again, more harshly, and squared his strong shoulders as he did so. Ruben nodded and smiled and Mason murmured his eager agreement, propping himself up against the desk and clearly trying to recover from the pounding he'd had.
Get dressed and go,' Frank said, in a surprisingly detached voice, given the wild beast he'd been moments ago. One by one, the Chelsea players began to reach for their discarded shirts or tug up on their trackies and underpants, or wipe sweat from their brows and chins, and... Ross looked about for where his own top had landed, dick still hard and bouncing, then caught the boss's eyes. Not you,' Frank said quietly but solidly.
Mason limped past Ross, and he reached out to squeeze the young guy on the shoulder. Ruben strolled by with a relaxed gait and a satisfied look on his face. Both lads headed for the door without another word, unlocking it and letting themselves out. Frank went to it and locked it behind them, and Ross stood there, bare-chested and erect. He watched the shifty-eyed manager move back towards him, wiping at his face and pushing his prick into his expensive boxer shorts, his chest heaving.
`Was that... okay?' Ross dared ask. He supposed what he was really asking was: am I starting against Leicester tomorrow, boss?
Frank looked at him silently, and sighed. And then, without a word, the chief dropped to his knees in front of Barkley, and attended to the last cock unspent by the wild scene that had unfolded. Ross stood there, arms at his sides, gently purring in pleasure, feeling Frank descend on his shaft, gratefully lapping at his cock and then his balls. He reached down to tug the base of his own thick cock and rubbed the other hand through Frank's sweat-slicked hair. Oh yes, chief,' he groaned, you eat that, you eat it... eat it like your wife's pussy... mmm.'
And soon he was spurting his seed over Lampard's chin and bare smooth chest, and watching the gaffer's little shudder of mixed shame and ecstasy. On his knees before the Scouse beast, Frank Lampard murmured his thoughts. `That was incredible,' he said quietly, and rested his head against one bulging thigh. Ross just chuckled, and threw his head back with a last moan. Yes, actually, it had been just that: incredible.
40 STORIES IN... HOPE YOU ENJOYED!