Part fifty-six: Comfort Food
`Barkley, I'll see you in my office for a moment first, okay?'
The 26-year-old Scouser paused on the way down the corridor, turning to glance back at the Chelsea gaffer and letting their intense eyes briefly meet before a slight jerky nod and slowing his pace. He let his teammates pace by him on their way out of the team meeting, beginning to make their way down to the home changing rooms to get kitted out for the pre-game warm-up. Beyond these plush warm corridors of Stamford Bridge, the terraces were already filling up for tonight's Champions League clash with Bayern Munich.
Ahead of Ross, Frank Lampard turned away and crossed the meeting room at a firm pace, dressed in a close-fitting black suit for tonight's big game. Ross set to follow with a resigned, forcedly neutral expression on his face, no desire to draw attention to the sudden request from their manager in front of the other lads. Filing out of the meeting room with everybody else, he passed Mason Mount, and the shorter younger player shot him a more knowing look. Ross gave a half-smile to his mate but tried not to acknowledge the excited flash in those eyes, not trusting the eager young twink's discretion so much.
`See you downstairs, Barks,' the 21-year-old piped up on the way past, reaching out a hand for a quick shake; Ross took it gently and gave him a little squeeze, but looked away and moved on with no more response. He really didn't want to draw any more attention to disappearing away like this just before they needed to get changed.
And of course, he was worried about... well, he didn't want to lead Mason on.
Since Dubai, things had been a little different between them, and he didn't want it to become too complicated or weird. Ross was doing his best to convince himself that it was neither of these things already, although no amount of evasive half-smiles and carefully avoided one-to-one conversations could undo the drunk memory of what had happened on that dusky beach. Ross had made a lot of mistakes under the influence of too much booze, who hadn't, but he wasn't sure anything could compete with, well, quite how far he'd gone that night! And now the consequence was inevitable: Mount had been trailing after him like a lovesick puppy ever since.
He strolled away from the drifting footballers and the dull echoes of their laddish banter disappearing away down the corridor and to the lifts. The coaching team had dispersed too, some following the players down towards the changing rooms, others back to offices up here. Just ahead, through the other side of the conference room, he could see Lampard striding away on his own, towards the gaffer's office, the office in which so many peculiar moments had shaped Barkley's life in recent months. He gave a resigned little sigh to himself before pushing on through the doorway and following the older man down this corridor. Ross tucked his hands in the pockets of his Chelsea branded hoody, padding his new Nike trainers down the carpeted hallway and trailing Frank Lampard to the doors of his private office.
If Mason Mount was a lovesick puppy, Ross thought vaguely to himself, then what the fuck was old Frank? A hungry wolf?
He let himself in through the unlocked door and closed it gently behind him. He glanced thoughtfully to the big ornate clock up on one wall and realised just how little time was left before he was needed out on the pitch. This was risky and badly timed even by Lampard's standards, if he was expecting any, ahem, special one-to-one time. There had only been one or two incidents of it since Dubai, actually, perhaps because the 41-year-old seemed so busy and distracted right now, clearly feeling the pressure of the season's latter half arriving. For a little while recently, Barkley had actually dared to wonder if that messy fucking, when he'd sacrificed little Mason's virgin hole to Frank and Ruben, had actually been an end to it: it had briefly seemed as if Lampard's sordid curiosities had been satiated, and things could return to... normal. And of course, then there'd been Dubai, and that five-way tumble on the sand, and...
Ross fought back that shameful drunken episode and focused on the now. As he'd noted, there wasn't a lot of time, and if Frank was wanting anything from him now, then...
Come here,' Lamps grumbled in an impatient, manly voice, standing over by the desk. The desk on which young Mount had been perched doggy-style, and- Here,' Frank repeated, when he was slow to obey. The inexperienced manager and legendary midfielder gave him a frosty look, both of them bristling at the strange shifting power dynamic that flickered between them at each meeting.
Yes, gaffer,' Ross said, but taking care not to sound too subservient as he grunted it, crossing the room and joining Lampard by the desk. As if to remind Frank of his physicality, he turned to his side and sat sideways against the edge of the mahogany, lifting one bulky leg up onto it so his sweatpants stretched visibly over thigh and knee and bulge. What is it, chief?' he asked quietly.
`Got something for you,' the boss said in a similarly low voice, an unmistakable nervous tension in his East End accent as he did so. He was sliding open a creaking door and fishing something out, and Ross craned his head to see. When he did, he almost burst out laughing, but something about the grim seriousness on his manager's chiselled face told him that would be unwise.
Boss,' he murmured, what are you...?'
Frank held the garment up between two fingers, an absurdly serious look on his face clashing with the lacey scrap of material dangling from his grip right now. Ross looked sharply from it to that frowning expression, then back and forth again. And then he looked back towards the unlocked door, wishing he'd twisted the little latch. (`Leave it, lad,' Frank had insisted when he was in here a few days ago, about to fuck the 41-year-old's mouth for half an hour after a really sweaty training session, Lampard almost in tears of frustration and discomfort by the time he tasted Ross's thick spunk.) This was an unexpected new direction.
`Whose are they?' Barkley dared ask.
Christine's,' Frank muttered darkly. He swung them forward and tossed them so that Ross had to instinctively catch them in his hands. I want you to put them on,' the chief instructed firmly.
Ross held onto them, feeling their lacey fabric between his rough fingers, and he looked up at the intent stare of his superior and/or bitch, depending how things were going between them. Again, part of him wanted to laugh, but... Fuck's sake. Lamps,' he said brusquely, I dunno... I need to be downstairs soon, and...'
`You're on the starting line-up, you noticed.'
`I did, aye, but...'
`I could make a very early substitution,' Lampard snapped. Oh right, it was like that then, was it? Ross felt the power shift, and he frowned back a little bit. He needed tonight. He needed to show himself in a Champ League match like this, it was a golden opportunity, it would allow him a great attacking performance, maybe a goal or two against Bayern... He stared at the knickers in his hand, Mrs Lampard's knickers, and knew his doubt and nervousness must have shown on his rugged facial features.
`Go on,' Frank said, a touch of pleading in his commanding voice.
`But...'
You don't have a choice,' the manager quickly added. Put them on now, wear them in the game, or I drop you from the squad. It isn't too late.' A frosty silence. `What are you waiting for, Barkley?'
Ross glanced his way again, cleared his throat. What, here?' There was a severe nod. He sighed. Oh, okay. Right. Yes sir.' He backed away from the desk, wiggled first one foot then the other out of his trainers without stooping to do the laces, and then began untying the drawstrings at the front of his sweatpants with deliberate, teasing slowness, feeling Frank's hazel eyes on his every move. Once they were untied, Ross tugging them down, slowly, and let them fall to his socked ankles. He stepped out of them, looked up, and gave Frank a confrontational look: he knew how the sight of his bulging under-shorts would be striking into that obsessed old perv. Sure enough, Frank could barely keep his mouth shut, and his eyes were lit with desire. Maybe Mason was actually quite reserved, by comparison!
Go on, get your undies off,' whispered the Chelsea manager sharply. He too kept looking at the office door now, though with an air of taboo thrill rather than embarrassed caution. Ross, knowing he needed to put on a show, hoisted his hoodie and vest halfway up his six pack before peeling his tight under-armour shorts down over his hips, letting his cock and balls flop out loosely, dropping it all to his ankles. He then took the tiny pink panties in his hands, stared at them in disbelief, stretched them wide and stepped into them. He pulled the tight fabric up over his legs, pleased it stretched rather than snapped as it met his meaty thighs, then pulled it up over his package and ample backside – they were far too small, stretched ridiculously over his bulge and buttocks, but they were on, and Frank licked his lips once, slowly. That's it,' he breathed.
`And I'm meant to play like this?' Barkley asked in a slight groan of dismay.
`All 90 minutes.'
`The full game? That a promise, chief?'
A frantic nod. They look so... er, good on you... heh...' A self-conscious chuckle from the lecherous ex-footballer in front of him. Lampard was flexing his knuckels and twitching his elbows as if he wanted to lunge forward and grab what he saw. Get your pants back on then, lad. Get downstairs and get kitted up. You're gonna run out on that pitch tonight with those knickers on... you, er, slut.' The dirty talk stung Ross's ego but he forced a little smirking grin for his boss and nodded his head. He could see how excited the Chelsea boss actually was. Was that a semi in his suit trousers?
I won't let you down, boss,' Barkley said in a seductive little voice, pulling up first the compression shorts and then the baggy black sweatpants, then kicking his feet into his trainers. He adjusted his hoody and backed off, feeling the odd sensation of the soft panties against his skin and private parts as he did so. Time to smash this, gaffer.' He saw the flush of excitement pass over Lampard's face, then turned away, knowing those eyes would be on the curve of his backside, and he strutted out of the office, blushing a bit himself at what he was doing to secure his place in the match.
Overt the 45 minutes of the first half, the panties became more and more distracting for Ross. They weren't quite a thong but the lacey back was sucked in between his rounded cheeks and irritated him; the front was most certainly NOT designed for such meaty contents to be squeezed into, chafing his bollocks and making his cock sit in an awkward position that he felt a constant need to adjust and fiddle with. (Not easily done watched by thousands of fans and millions more on live television, that's for sure.) And as if in empathy for Barkley's downstairs discomfort, the whole team was playing terribly.
At half-time, Lampard seemed incensed at the lads' work, and Ross sat uncomfortably through his rambling pep talk. Squashed in beside him on the dressing room bench, Mason Mount leaned over and brushed his knee a little. `You okay?' he mouthed silently, but Ross shrugged off the concern. Mount's persistent questions and interest were getting too much for him and he was just not in the mood right now, not with Christine Lampard's pantie's halfway up his sweaty arsehole.
`I'm fine, just wish I could fucking pull it together out there,' he grunted quietly to the youngster, once the team talk was over and they were all preparing to get back out there. Mount looked a lot fresher than he felt, and was playing a lot better out there than many of them. He glared enviously at the perky youngster and fought back some sarcy comment that hovered at the edge of his mind. There was something about this puppy that made him want to kick.
You're doing great,' Mount said sycophantically. We'll turn this round.'
`Sure,' Barkley said uncertainly. He stole away from the concerned face of his young hanger-on and slid away down the side of the dressing room to where their red-faced, frowning manager was lecturing Alonso about his behaviour on the pitch.
You're going to score a fucking red card,' Lampard was growling at the good-looking Spaniard, a hand firmly on his shoulder, practically shaking him. Now get back out there and play some smoother football, okay? We can NOT afford to lose you tonight.' There were mumbled assurances in broken English and the left-back turned away, a determined expression on his features, rejoining the fray. There was a tense atmosphere in here, only worsened by the clear anxiety of their usually stern and calm leader.
Ross brushed a couple of fingers to the elbow of Lampard's blazer and spoke in a hurried whisper. Lamps, boss,' he said, I'm so uncomfortable, I need to-`
`No.'
`Sir, I got to...'
`No.'
Chief, I really need to-
Lampard turned and glared dismissively at him. Barkley,' he snapped, who's in charge here?' He asked it loud enough for most of the footballers in here to clearly hear, and several looked sharply this way, wondering what the Liverpudlian was doing to piss off their fraught boss. Ross stared at him, a little taken aback by this. `Who's in charge here?' Lampard demanded again.
I could expose him, he thought. I could expose this pervy old prick. Who's in charge?! Well, not you, you old prick, when you're on your knees begging me, fuck you! He could whip his sweaty blue shorts down and show everyone that this old prick was forcing him to wear pink lace panties in a crucial league game, and – But of course he wasn't going to do that. No way. He was hardly going to shame himself right here, and expose what he'd been willing to do to keep his place in the first team this last couple of months... No. And Lampard clearly knew that.
`You are,' he said through gritted teeth.
Sorry,' Lampard said with a slightly nasty tone. I'm not sure all of your teammates heard that.'
Ross took a deep, almost calming breath. `You are, Lampard,' he said levelly. A slight intake of breath from some of the watching blokes. A slow nod from the manager, who instantly turned away from him and busied himself catching a few more lads for one-on-one criticism or praise or advice. Ross stood there, doubly uncomfortable, the moment of submission chafing as much as the tight panties around his heavy balls. Fucking hell.
A gentle hand against the small of his back. Mate,' came Mason's reedy voice, that was well out of order... are you okay? What was he...?'
Oh fuck off,' Ross snapped suddenly at the weaselly young Portsmouth lad, elbowing him aside as he turned. He glared at the persistent puppy dog. Can you not leave me alone for a fucking second, Mount? Jesus Christ.' He felt his stomach lurch guiltily as soon as the words were out of his mouth, the obvious hurt on Mason's innocent face, the drop of his whole posture at this harsh little outburst. The tension in the home dressing room seemed to ramp up several notches, and a few nearby guys were staring at Ross, AGAIN.
Nearby, their captain lunged forward with a click of boot studs on tiles, and put a warning hand to Ross's broad chest, looking from him to Mason. Leave it,' Cesar Azpilicueta snapped at them both in his strong Spanish accent, turning his square-jawed face between each of the Englishmen. We do not need this. We need to win. Lads!' Ross bristled and twitched with building up aggression but he nodded and lowered his eyes, hearing Mount's uncomfortable assertion that there was nothing wrong, he'd just misunderstood something. The 21-year-old hurried away, clearly hurt, and Azpilicueta gave Ross a warning glare. `No more,' he said simply. A shout came from the tunnel outside, and it was time for the second half to get underway. Ross felt the rush of kitted men pass him by, his hands curling and uncurling in fists.
The first Bayern Munich goal came at 51 minutes, the second at 54 minutes, and by the 61st minute, Barkley was shuffling off the pitch, humiliated and uncomfortable. He trudged over the line with Olivier Giroud, their replacements jogging eagerly past them to join the battle. Barkley, stinging with annoyance at how poorly he had played and that he would now be unable to redeem himself, turned his head to catch the indistinct roars of the home fans: were there actually some fucking boos for he and Giroud right now?!
Frank was on the touchline, a heavy puffer coat over his suit, a look of intense concentration and very real panic on his handsome lined face. He barely looked at them as they walked by, no handshake or congratulations for their efforts. Shit. Ross hesitated to join Giroud on the way to the bench, needing some validation or apology from the manager. 90 minutes, he'd been promised, for this... this... fetish! He glared angrily Lampard's way, but was entirely ignored. An assistant hurried to him, urging him to get off the touchline and onto the bench, offering him a warm jacket over his sweat-clammy Chelsea shirt. Ross shrugged him away irritably, and accepted his seat on the bench.
In front of them, the game ground on. 2-0 became 3-0 in the 76th minute, and the London team's night of defeat was made final. No last-minute comeback erupted in the dying moments of the game, and the final whistle was med with much more distinct boos, disappointment sounding from every reach of the home stands. Barkley could not bear remaining outside to watch the Munich players celebrating, or engage in any pointless niceties. Like several of his frustrated colleagues, he marched indoors, echoing down the tunnel and towards the dressing rooms, desperately avoiding being picked for any interviewing. It had been a shit performance by the team as a whole, but Barkley knew he had let the side down on a number of occasions back there. If only he wasn't wearing these ridiculous fucking panties under his shorts! He wasn't vain enough to solely blame things on them, but... it was hard to blame much else when your left bollock felt this constricted.
In the dressing room, he found a quiet corner, sat down, and glowered into the middle-distance. An outlet for his mood was occurring to him. He knew his one-on-one time with the boss was not over for tonight, not in these. If Frank had schemed to get him in these stupid panties, then he was sure to want Barkley in his office afterwards. Well, the manager would be getting his comeuppance, that was for sure. As the dressing room filled with loud swearing and disappointed rants from teammate after teammate, Ross just sat there, reflecting bitterly on his mistreatment. Lampard was a dirty old bastard, and he deserved this terrible defeat on his fucking record.
Ross was so incensed and single-minded that he barely noticed the way Mount avoided him, downcast and shifty, forgetting how he had spoken to the 21-year-old at halftime. He held back from taking his shower, fixated on getting his vengeance against the lecher who had ruined his night. He watched Lampard pace about firing off recriminations and lectures, his tie loosened and his expensive suit crumpled-looking. Ross got up and followed when he saw Lampard leave the dressing room, removing his boots and carrying them in one hand as he hopped after him into the corridor, catching up with a few bounds.
`Lampard,' he began.
`Not now, lad,' snapped Frank impatiently.
`Your office?' Barkley asked insistently.
What?' The manager spun round and gave him a hard stare. What? Fucking hell, how have you even got the nerve to speak to me right now, after THAT performance? Get in there and shower, Barkley, you were a disgrace.'
But-
`I mean it. I do not have time for your whinging. Get in there. I am getting out of here and putting this disastrous night behind us. I suggest you all do the same. For god's sake!' And with that the Chelsea boss was marching off, not a second look at the Scouse midfielder limping down the corridor, trickling sweat from every muscle. Ross stared after him, furious at this dismissal. He dangled his boots from the aching fingers of one hand, and with the other, reached down to try and rearrange the scrunched up, uncomfortable front of his panties beneath his shorts, his dick throbbing restlessly. Every limb ached, his head was throbbing, and his ego stung. He was not going to fucking stand for this.
Barkley had never actually been to Lampard's house before, but he knew just where he lived. A teammate had pointed it out to him when they were in this expensive neighbourhood before, on their way to a posh bar on the next corner to meet some other Kensington socialites. Not exactly Barkley's scene, but he was doing his best to fit in down here. Not that it was necessarily working; he'd felt judgmental and disappointed glares from almost every teammate at some point in the hour or so spent at Stamford Bridge after the defeat. Getting away from them all in his sports car had been a complete fucking relief, and he was pretty sure his pulse and blood pressure had barely cooled at any point in the short drive here. He was as fired up and bitter now as he had been the second he was pulled out of the game and substituted to the bench.
He should have gone straight home, he knew that. His girlfriend was waiting for him, had waited up, kept him some dinner. A much simpler comfort was waiting for him at their shared flat right now, and he should have driven straight back there the second he could.
But no, here he was. Creeping along a grand street of white townhouses at the other end of Chelsea, trying to recognise a particularly large and ornate block somewhere down this avenue, where he knew the Lampard family still lived. The night was chilly, but he wasn't feeling the drop in temperature very much; his sweatpants and hoody pulled straight over his kit from the game, having completely sat out the opportunities to shower. The hood was pulled up for some discretion, and his bunched fists were shoved into the front pockets of this top. He strode purposefully on, one goal on his mind.
This was the one: he could recognise the distinctive aubergine paint of the front door, something about the curtains or framing of that grand bay window at the front. It was late now – the windows of the towering townhouse all seemed quite dark. Was anyone even in, never mind awake? Fuck knew. Ross didn't care. It didn't matter who was there, he could still do some damage. Brick a window. Set a fire. Whatever it took to make that fucking prick pay.
Consumed by his foul mood, the Scouser sized up the front of the townhouse, spying the little alley down its side. He hopped the gates with ease, a little throwback to some misspent teen years before a few stern coaches had convinced him football was his priority. Landing lightly on the stone patio beyond, he crept along the side of the house, past the row of bins and gardening kit, sneaking back into the hemmed in rectangle of the house's rear garden. A modest, tree-lined space bathed in a very faint glow from the house's rear windows, but a luxurious space by inner London standards. He crouched a little as he crept onto this lawn, looking up to the house, every muscle tensed, the desire to smash and vandalise burning through him.
And then he saw him.
There were French windows at the back of the ground floor, meeting this manicured lawn. Beyond was some sort of big lounge room, and a single lamp was glowing in there. In its halo, he could make out a hunched figure, sitting alone on the sofa. Ross took a few slow strides towards the glass, still half-crouching for stealth, but entering the faint light emanating from these glassy doors. He pressed his bare hands to the glass and peered in. Frank was sat with his white shirt hanging open and his forearms resting on his knees. Even out here, in this poor light, the dejected body language was obvious, the weary look of defeat on his face crystal clear. Ross stood there, and his slow exhale clouded up the glass in front of his face and spoiled his view for a long chilly moment. His anger subsided, and the cold night began to prickle at his skin beneath the polyester layers.
When the condensation began to fade, he saw that Frank had got up, to his feet, and was taking a step to the windows. Fuck. Barkley had been seen. The two men stared at each other then: the confused, dejected football manager in the violated privacy of his dark living room, and the trembling would-be vandal hunched in the garden, slowly coming to his senses. For a second, Barkley expected some advanced security system to kick in, lights and alarms to blare. No such interruption came, just a few slow steps and then a gentle click as Lampard unlocked and slid open the French window for him to enter.
Barkley let out another condensing sigh before walking forward and entering the house to join his manager. Lampard silently slid the window back into place, looking every inch the broken man. Something about him when cowed by defeat looked much older, or at least, suddenly his age, not the lingering athlete that he usually presented to the world. He looked at Ross with sad eyes and let out a long humph of a sigh.
Ross didn't know what to say. The rants and monologues he had composed in the dressing room and in his car and stomping down that street outside... they all seemed a bit pathetic and unfair. His body sagged just like the older bloke's. He thought about how passionate and aggressive he had felt looking at this same guy not a couple of hours ago, or at the touchline, or half-time, or even in the office, at the start of this long humiliating night... When Barkley reached out and grabbed his young manager by the shirt collar, it wasn't with the angry rush of vengeance, but with an air of pity and loyalty: he didn't want to punish this pervy old prick, he wanted to comfort him.
Neither of made a sound other than light grunts.
Barkley took the open collar of the white shirt and pretty much threw Lampard back. The older man collapsed back into the soft sofa he had been slumped in, a look of vague concern on his face. Ross lunged forward and hopped up with both feet so he was straddling him on the sofa. He was vaguely aware of the sleeping wife and kids upstairs, as the furniture creaked a little, but he stood there all the same, and pulled his hoody and footy shirt and under-vest up off his torso in one firm drag. It fell to the wooden floors with a rustle, and his strong chest rose and fall with his ragged breathing. He grabbed Frank's limp hands and pulled them up against the clammy smooth skin of his abs and sides, and felt some life return to the manager's grip. Ross squatted over him and guided Frank's hands up and down his sides and then over his pecs. Frank coughed nervously, licked his lips. Still, with this rugged striptease in his lap, he looked dejected, defeated.
With as little noise as he could, Ross slid back, taking his trainered feet to the wooden floorboards, and standing over the slumped man. He kicked them off and peeled down his sweatpants, the shorts beneath, and exposed the pink lace. Soon he was standing there in only Mrs L's panties and his blue footy socks, stretched up over his chunky calves. He saw the little glow of desire in Frank's eyes and cheeks and pouting lips. And then, not daring to think about how slutty or effeminate he might have briefly looked, Ross peeled the stretched panties down and off, bunching the damp fabric up in one hand. He stepped forward, bollock naked, and pushed them into Frank's face just as he had once done with his wet briefs. The lace muffled the manager's shocked and excited gasp. Ross stood over him, semi swinging and thighs bulging, and pressed the soiled lingerie into nostrils and mouth, his other hand tousling Frank's dark hair and rubbing at his temples until he sighed and groaned and whimpered.
Then, he dragged him off the sofa, one limb at a time, again careful not to make any loud thumps or bangs in the process. Frank seemed limp and passive, as dominated now by Ross Barkley as his squad had been by the Bundesliga side a couple of hours back. Frank lay sprawled, halfway over wooden floorboards, halfway over an expensive Persian-looking rug. His shirt was half open, showing a little of his lightly haired chest, and the belt was loose at the waist of his suit trousers. He stared wonderingly up with beady eyes. Ross stood carefully over him, planting his feet just by the manager's shoulders, and then he went into a squat.
He felt Lampard immediately respond as he lowered his big cheeks over the guy's face. He could feel and hear the dirty older man sniffing deeply, and then came the wet sensation of a tongue sliding into his crack. Barkley squatted there, planting his arse cheeks right over the gaffer's face, spreading his hole as perfect comfort food for the defeated legend. He felt Frank's reinvigorated hands reach up to grab at the thick meat of his thighs, and he rested there, muscles aching, hole tingling. Ohhh,' he breathed into the half-light, ohh yess...'
This went on for... how long? It felt like forever, especially with the vague threat of discovery hanging in the air, the knowledge that the townhouse was far from empty. Not that it stopped either of them. Frank rimmed with gusto, clinging to the body above, making wet snuffling noises of excitement on the floor. Ross stretched his strong legs to sink his arse lower, smothering his dirty lover and trying to keep his appreciative moans low and quiet.
He could see Frank's boner straining at his suit trousers, and he leaned forward to release it, undoing the top button and yanking the zip, then pulling it out. With the same awkward determination as he had done so that first time, he gripped Frank's prick, and yanked on it with one hand, and began to jerk his own thicker, longer meat with the other. He heard the man whimper beneath him, but he pushed his arse down more firmly to demand more tongue attention, and got what he wanted. Both men gasped and grumbled their pleasure as it ground on.
Only when he felt almost ready to cum did Ross get up from his squatting pose, and turn around the other way. This time he sat carefully, lowering his meaty backside onto the bloke's chest, but folding his strong legs at either side so as not to crush. He hunkered there, staring down at Frank's face held between his thighs, and pushed his aching cock into those trembling lips. Ross leant his whole body forward until his hands met the rug and he was thrusting into his manager's throat. He heard Frank gurgle and gasp as his dick slid into that wide open mouth, and he thrust his hips only a couple of times before cumming. `OH,' he growled, his voice raising dangerously, and he had to bite his lip fiercely to hold in further screams of pleasure as he dumped his seed in the Chelsea boss's mouth. He remained in this position, listening to the fap fap of Frank's furied wanking behind him. And then, letting his softening cock rest in Frank's gob, he felt the spray of cum fleck his bare back muscles, and he knew it was over.
He stood up, his body throbbing, and he took both of Frank's hands to help him up.
The men stood there, gasping and spent. Ross could see a range of emotions flickering over the gaffer's face, and he wasn't sure what would happen next. He still half-expected an alarm to sound, lights to flash, some hired security to muscle him out onto that lawn, stark bollock naked. But no, just... a hug. Lampard threw his arms about him, pressing the white fabric of his shirt to the bare sweaty muscle of Ross's body, and pulling him close. Ross relaxed into it and sighed into the crook of his boss's neck. The hug probably lasted as long as the rim-job: a few minutes that felt like an eternity.
Ross shifted on his socked feet, feeling the tight needy squeeze of this married man in front of him, reluctantly breaking away as the reality of the scenario became clearer to him. His own nudity, amongst other things. He heaved a sigh and pulled Frank's face up by the chin.
`You're a great manager,' he said with incongruous shyness.
`We were utterly ruined out there,' Frank grumbled. His upper lip and his chin were slick with a mix of sweat and cum. His hair was ruffled and his eyes looked sunken. Ross stroked his cheek and then patted both of his shoulders.
`We fight on,' he said simply.
A long pause, and then, We do.' Lampard reached around and pulled him into a second, even tighter hug, though brief. Thank you, Ross. Thank you. I... I needed that.' He looked guiltily away as their bodies parted. He sat down on the sofa and Ross began to dress again, picking item by item from the rug. He left the scrunched up knickers tossed on the sofa, and watched as Lampard picked them up and sniffed slowly on them. He smiled at the mixture of filth and cuteness.
`They were fucking horrible to wear,' he remarked lightly.
`I'm sorry.
Ross shrugged. It drove you wild. It was worth it.' He pulled his Chelsea shirt on and then reached for his hoody. I need to go. Shall I, er, go out the back...?' When Frank didn't really respond, looking dazed and tired, he just let out a weak laugh, and yanked up his hood for warmth and, once more, discretion. He kicked on his trainers, took a last look at his slumped boss on the couch, and let himself out of the French window onto the inky darkness of the lawn. The cold night hit him like a wall, and he hurried as quickly as he could round the corner and down the alley, away from the Lampard household as quickly as his feet could carry him.
It was only when he was locked inside his sports car, the heaters blasting ineffectively, that he paused to catch his breath and rub at his clammy face, wondering at what he'd just done. He'd come here to smash a window, vandalise something, take out his anger. But he'd... what, soothed and comforted Frank Lampard... He closed his eyes, let out a long sigh, and started the engine. Home. He needed to be home. He needed to be in his bed, curled up warm against his girlfriend. Not here on the streets of Chelsea & Kensington. He twisted the key, the engine growled, and he sped away through the night.