Part ninety-seven: Frank
Ayia Napa, 2000.
A scorching hotel room with broken-down air-con that the staff had just scowled at and puffed on their cigarettes when expected to do anything about it. A room that had been sold as high-end but felt trashy on arrival and, ten days into their occupancy, was a decadent pigsty. The air was hazy with smoke, strong aftershave, drunken cackles.
Frank Lampard swayed a little on his feet, giggled into the beer bottle in his hand, and scratched at his smooth bare chest as he was led over to the bed. He looked about the room with an ear-to-ear grin of hedonistic satisfaction, allowed the belt of his cargo shorts to be tugged and loosened by a couple of grasping female hands.
Through the haze of cigarette smoke he could see Rio Ferdinand leering, the bigger and older football star tottering between the three double beds and waving a camcorder in both hands, sticking out his big tongue as he chuckled and cooed. Kieron Dyer laughed even more loudly in one of the other bed, another busty British last curled up against him.
The next thing Frank knew, his shorts were fully down and so were his under-crackers and, still, big Rio was filming. He laughed at this mad realisation but was too numbed by booze and the earlier white lines to really give a fuck. He stood with one leg lunged onto the bedframe, crotch spread open, chugging beer from a green bottle and looking down as the mid-30s slut sucked at a dick that was both rock hard and strangely numbed.
The room span and blurred. The 22-year-old Premiership footballer tossed the bottle aside, finished with it, ignoring some lewd joke from Ferdinand that he ought to shove it up her before he fucked her. He laughed but grimaced and rubbed at both eyes with his knuckles. The chunky bird was pulling him down into the bed now, dragging his hands to her fleshy tits, kissing his tummy and giggling into his trimmed pubes. He rolled across the bed and giggled, letting her take his hand to the folds of her cunt.
The room kept spinning. One minute Frank was on top of her, fucking her hard and enjoying the classless squeals of her voice, then he was on his back in a gap between the beds, drunkenly listening to the two black men fucking their shared slags for the night. Frank groaned, feeling a bit sickly, but playing with his still hard prick and slowly climbing up onto his knees to watch; to one side of him, Kieron Dyer's round bubble butt bouncing up and down as the flashy Newcastle player slammed the giggling woman into the mattress, brimming with youthful energy; to the other, Ferdy was bent forward with his face between two chubby pale legs, licking out the one Frank had fucked, his pale chocolate arse up in the air. Frank staggered out from between the beds and the room seemed to spin again.
Dyer was still shagging one of them, up and against the wall now, but the camcorder was in HIS hand, and he was pointing it shakily in that direction. He laughed and threw it aside, onto another bed, and lounged forward through the swimming blur of the room until he felt himself on soft pillows and curled against a female body. All of the day's madness swam in his mind, the beach party and the lined up shots and the handjob on the beach from some tart barmaid who he'd slipped £100 kid to shut up after. God, this was the best holiday of his young life. Fuckkk.
He looked up and Rio was looming over him, tall and ridiculous with his almost cartoonish grin of sleaze and adventure. He was playing with his stupidly big cock right in front of Frank and saying something -- `play with it, go on, play with it' -- and Frank was grabbing it, feeling its size in his hand, laughing at it while his other hand reached into the woman's crotch and tickled her clit. Then it all seemed to melt and fuzz and he was squatting on the other bed, pushing his own cock into a hungry slutty mouth, but it wasn't one of these Blackpool slappers abroad, it was Kieron's thick lips, boyish eyes, bushy brows... and he was fucking his mouth like a pussy, holding the headboard and cackling with laddish glee as Rio bounced by them with the camcorder, then-
Lampard woke with a sweaty start in 2020, his face pressed awkwardly between two pillows, his whole naked body tangled in a coil of expensive bedsheets. The 41-year-old Chelsea manager spread out his arms, feeling the emptiness of the king-size, his wife's absence, and groaned into the bedding for a minute before pushing himself up on his elbows. He dragged the sheets off his toned middle-aged body and rolled aside a little, looking down his faintly sweat-sheened body at the pyjama shorts about his knees. Tugged down in the night, he remembered, in a furtive and ill-fated attempt to fuck his gorgeous missus; she'd refused with polite chagrin and compromised with a quick hand-job, letting him cum on her hand and watch her lick it up -- before she immediately turned over and went to sleep, refusing to play anymore, even for her own pleasure.
Lampard had just really wanted a shag; really wanted to please and excite HER, too.
He lay there, a little embarrassed to think of the nocturnal rejection and the stagnation of their sex life, but also just a little bit relieved that at his age he was still so keen for it, a randy teenager in a 41-year-old body. Was it okay to be a bit proud of that?
He tugged up his shorts and left the bed, pacing the room and dragging open the curtains with some reluctance; morning sunshine swept in and began washing away the night memories, both of the compromise wank and the dreams it had slipped him into. Fucking hell, he thought, that summer in Aiya Napa! That whole year; the mad, hungry early days of his professional career. He stood at the window and closed his eyes and he was back in a bar or on the beach or in THAT hotel room; was that even the wildest night, or just the most notorious? Then he was picturing how his dream had ended, Rio's big dick in his hand and Kieron's lips on his own prick, but... that was bullshit, that wasn't how it had happened... was it? No! Of course not... it hadn't been like that, for fuck's sake, the whole internet had SEEN it wasn't like that, the tape still floated and resurfaced.
That tape! God, the trouble it had caused. He cringed to think of it and ran his hands back up his stubbled cheeks and leant his elbows on the windowsill, staring down into the lengthy back garden where his wife was already up with the kids, eating breakfast on the patio. He groaned to think of his riskier youth, the madness he'd been pulled into by older players and insane new wage packets. Wild Rio and flamboyant young Kieron, but so many others too. He thought about big Titus Bramble, a man who would buy everyone in the bar a pint if it meant there was no talk of calling it a night, of wasted Robbie Keane stripping off midway through his karaoke; he thought of Jonny Woodgate sourcing everyone's cocaine and lording it over them like a minor gangster. Ashley Cole and Andy Myers spit-roasting the hotel manager's wife over the reception desk at 4 in the morning while he was dragged upstairs by his own conquest. A montage of debauchery ran through his memory, but of course, the tape stood out.
It had taken years of hard work once he signed for Chelsea the following year, years of keeping his head down and building a more professional reputation; all he'd cared about for a decade was undoing the stain of his early decadence, becoming a respectable family guy, a footballer worth investing in. And he'd been lucky, or at least successful; he thought of a bloke like Dyer, whose reputation had seen him out of the limelight and the League, and guys like Cole, branded womaniser' and homewrecker' and nowt else. Some, he supposed, were finding their second wind in management like him, Jonny Woodgate up at Boro for example, but he knew how fortunate he was himself: who even thought back to that shameful holiday footage at the mention of his name now, except for a few pervs on the internet maybe? He was an icon of English football, a hero for the club he now ran.
He took a shower in the roomy en suite and pushed away the final scenes of his dream. Just a dream -- those bits were NOT real. It had been a lurid night of shared pussy but it had NOT been anything more. He'd never once touched Rio's dick. He'd never once seen Kieron hint at bi-curiosity. Those scenes were a crazed imagination, not a memory.
But you wanted it, came the sinister voice at the back of his mind. You dreamt about it even then.
Out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, he stared himself down in the steamy mirror, considering this prospect. Was even that true? It was hard to believe. All he remembered chasing that summer, and in the years that followed, were beautiful young women, big tits and tight cunts. He'd never dipped a toe in anything more... ambiguous. He looked himself in the eye and asked the big question: what, you never even thought about it? He couldn't answer himself, he just didn't know. He certainly didn't remember being drunk in that hotel room and giving any thought to the two naked men that were with him, driving the seedy action; it was only NOW that he found himself imagining a different dynamic.
He examined himself critically, already convinced that the stresses of top-flight management were ageing his handsome face, smearing moisturiser onto his cheeks and plucking a few stray nostril hairs with a vanity he never would have predicted for himself. In the bedroom, he dressed slowly and delayed joining the family below, troubled by the dream and the trail of thoughts it left him with. The vividness of the imagined play left him worried but horny.
Buttoning up the blue oxford shirt he'd left out ready for this busy day, his eyes found his mobile phone on the side-table and he thought guiltily of the messages he'd been sending, the thwarted attempts to engage with his two `special' players. Fucking ignorant pricks. They'd regret ignoring him when training started up; he hoped their plump backsides would enjoy the feeling of a bench for a good few fucking months, because he certainly wasn't gonna rush to play the traitors who ignored and dismissed him. Even as he thought this, he judged himself. What are you doing? What do you want from them? What do you EXPECT?
But really, when his own wife wouldn't take a shag in the middle of the night, who could blame him for these fantasies and distractions? He thought about the feeling of Mason's tight hole and the repeated sessions inside it and his self-loathing receded. If only Mount had stayed in the city. Or Barkley, he added, then drove himself mad with the long-imagined treat of fucking that lad. He thought about his aggressive latest suggestion to Ross, the porno he'd screenshotted; part of him knew that the Scouser would never relent, but that didn't stop him wanting it.
Frank did the top button of his shirt then stuffed its tails into the belt of his dark khaki chinos then selected a pair of smart-ish trainers from the closet and prepared to go downstairs wearing the affable smile of the loving husband and father, the calmly confident Premiership ace and junior manager. He had a busy day of such smiles and goodwill today, he didn't have time for sitting around dwelling on salacious memories of what had been or what hadn't been or indulging his newfound fetishes for a couple of his brightest players. He HAD to knock that on the head; it was driving him insane.
Down he went, to breakfast and to face the day of charity work his team had arranged.
It was easy work for a good cause, so the tall young footballer found himself whistling cheerily as he got on with it. He was a naturally positive and easy-going guy and he wasn't going to let the oddities of the scenario chip that: the safety gloves on his big hands, the face mask he'd been issued on arrival, the safe distances between him and the other Chelsea volunteers at his station, packing up the food boxes to be delivered to key workers and needy families.
Ruben Loftus-Cheek laughed idly at some banter from the others around the big table in the Stamford Bridge hospitality kitchens and carried on stacking fruit into packages as instructed; opposite him were two other youngish players who had signed up for this goodwill project, mingled with a member of the physio team and two ladies who worked in ticket sales. He was enjoying the mix of players and different staff who made up the carefully distanced volunteering team working at the stadium today; he felt as interested in the kind chatter of the club's ordinary staff than the jokes and patter of his fellow players.
Ruben was having a fairly content time of it in lockdown, very aware of his privileges as a well-paid footballer, and incredibly grateful for his close family who shared his big South London mansion, including his young siblings. The 24-year-old was actively avoiding the obvious bitterness: to reach match fitness after a frustrating injury absence just as the entire footballing world ground to a halt, that was shit, but he knew he had a lot of blessings in his life and he let them take up his thoughts, instead of the potential gloom.
A radio was playing somewhere in the big industrial kitchen and one by one volunteers began singing along; he laughed at it but joined in, and the work went on faster. Soon their `shift' of prepping food packages was over for the morning. Some of the helpers had been assigned to do delivery driving, but not Ruben; he slightly regretted this now, having enjoyed the past few hours of helping out and doing something good, but he didn't have the right driving license for the big vans.
The 6ft3 pillar of a footballer peeled his gloves off like everybody off, tossing them away as instructed, and left the vaguely clinical atmosphere of the kitchen behind, strolling out through the broad hallway and watching the gathering slowly dissolve; the two other players he'd been stationed with were both driving, so headed off with trolleys. Ruben flashed one of his good-boy smiles at the two middle-aged ladies he'd been near to and they grinned and thanked him for his help and time; he knew he had one of those smiles and attitudes that really pleased the mums. He took a slow troll out through the building, in no real rush to get to his car -- whilst he was having a decent time at home with his family, it still felt good to be back here, to be somewhere different, to see other people.
Ahead of him, amongst the separated volunteer force, he spotted the gaffer. Frank Lampard looked almost presidential in his smart oxford shirt, sleeves rolled up and serious, helpful expression on his gently lined face, nodding along officiously as he spoke to two senior club officials who were coordinating this charity effort for the local area.
Ruben was struggling to adjust to seeing the 41-year-old in a new light. When Loftus-Cheek had joined Chelsea as a hopefully 18-year-old Lewisham lad, Lampard had been just on the way out, passing each other like proverbial ships in the night. Lampard was a straight-laced figure, something of a legend in the Chelsea world, a serious professional who had been welcomed back with open arms to take on their management despite relatively little experience. Loftus liked and admired him: he liked his discipline, his rigour, his ambition. He'd enjoyed the mentality Lamps brought to the squad, even if injury had limited his experience actually playing under his leadership.
And now... All of those things were still true. But they were intermingled with strange new knowledge and a confusing new perception. Not just of Frank, admittedly, but somehow it was him who felt like the enigmatic centre of the puzzle... Ross and Mason, he thought he understood, in a distant analytical sort of way. Big old Frank, married dad and respected manager, not so much. He watched the polite, hardworking Chelsea gaffer instinctively go for respectful handshakes at the end of the conversation then remember himself, pull back, clap his hands gently together and say his earnest goodbyes to the two older gentlemen. As soon as they were gone, following the men and women with food trolleys out into the car park, a visible change overcame Lampard. His posture drooped and his face shifted from a look of sincere helpfulness to a weary scowl. He turned, clearly expecting to be alone, and stared down this passageway to where his recently recovered player stood watching.
Ruben smiled cautiously and lifted a single hand in greeting. `Good to see you here, gaffer,' he said in as bright and casual a voice as the situation demanded.
Ruben,' Frank murmured, collecting himself and switching back to the public-facing leader he'd been all morning. He paced down the hall and paused 6ft away. Thanks so much for coming and helping out -- fucking fantastic to have you here pitching in. Good man.'
Ruben nodded gently. `Any time, boss. Any time. You well?'
I'm good,' Frank declared with a firmness that hinted at the conflict he'd observed. As good as possible in the circumstances, you know. Keeping well. Family all good. I hope you're the same?' Ruben nodded silent agreement. `I'm just glad we can do our small bit,' Lampard said, and it sounded like a quote from a press release. Already, the middle-aged England hero was restless and scratching at his stubble, his shoulders drooping a little.
Small bit?' Ruben asked. It's fantastic what you and the bosses have got going on. I'm sure people will really appreciate it.' He gave a broader, cheering grin. Excellent work, boss.' Big cheesy thumbs up. You really are a very giving man.'
`What does that mean?' Frank said abruptly, taking a long stride closer.
Ruben lifted his brows and gently rubbed the fuzzy beard at his chin. `Huh?'
What do you mean by that? Giver?' the manager demanded, another step closer. He looked agitated, fussing with the roll of his pale sleeves. He moved, glancing about the big junction of passages and scratching at the back of his head, then glaring back at Ruben. What are you trying to suggest?'
The 24-year-old just cocked his head casually and raised both hands. Innocent comment, chief,' he said, though he was beginning to guess what Frank was reading into it. I wasn't trying to suggest anything. Just saying, you're doing good. Big respect.' He shrugged his broad shoulders and took a step back, pulling the protective mask down from his mouth. `If you think I'd ever bring up what happened that day, you're pretty wrong,' he added, a notch quieter. Frank stared intensely at him, and he regretted the provocative addition.
Frank looked like he wanted to say or ask something, but he backed off, shaking his head. Ruben followed at a 2m distance and they passed from the car park exits into the closed-off hospitality bars and VIP areas that dominated this side of the stadium. Like other parts of the building, they were eerie in this empty state. Frank strode on ahead past the row of unmanned bars and Ruben slowed his walk, not too keen on engaging in tense conversation with this mysterious man who was so important here now.
But ahead, Frank had slowed and stopped, in the middle of the sweep of bars and well-furnished seating areas. He half-turned, and a thoughtful scowl was evident on his face. Ruben took a few slow steps after him, hands dug into the pocket of his retro tracksuit, feeling much more casual than the businessman's-day-off look of his manager. Ruben couldn't help but admire the older man, still athletic in profile, filling his chinos and shirt nicely and looking like he could put in a 90-minute shift if asked. Now he really was thinking back to that day, that session in the manager's office. What's more, he could see that Frank was too.
He allowed himself a curious grin of possibility. `You sure all's good, chief?' he asked innocently.
Frank turned more fully, glowering at him. I'm sure,' he said in a low, ponderous voice. There was a silent but' hanging after the answer, and Ruben walked towards it. Hmm, he thought, social distance, but... well, if we've both been isolating for weeks since we tested negative, and we've been really careful... He reached where Frank stood and lifted a hand to one arm.
Cos if you wanted to chat, boss, I'm free now,' he said, keeping his voice breezy and letting his eyes do the talking. He saw a sort of indecisive twitch in his boss's expression, a defensive edge to Lampard's body language. The tall handsome footballer grinned to himself casually; if the married bloke shot back at this gentle initiation, then so be it. Nothing to lose. He just grinned at Frank from his superior height, then grinned. We can do more than chat,' he prompted quietly.
He could see Lampard didn't quite know how to deal with this dialogue. `You think you know stuff about me,' he remarked gruffly.
I only know what we did,' Ruben said in a low, warm voice, and all's cool. No judgment here.'
He watched the Chelsea boss digest that, and glance away, furtively. They both looked about them at the gleaming emptiness of the hospitality suites. Ruben pulled his other hand from its pocket and rested it on the other arm, gently stroking the vague curve of bicep beneath the sleeve. He saw Frank flinch just a little and smiled conspiratorially. No judgment,' he repeated in a laddish chuckle, and leaned in a bit closer. You must be missing Mount, I guess.'
Lampard let out an immediate huff then backed off. I miss the whole team,' he muttered. I miss us scoring goals and winning games, Loftus. That's what I miss.' He dragged one hand across the side and back of his lightly sweating neck and cracked the knuckles of the other. His eyes didn't leave Ruben's. The tall Lewisham midfielder took a step towards his senior and leaned in towards him again, dropping his voice to a purr.
`If you were missing him, I could step in,' he said, and he let his big gentle tongue roll along his bottom lip before closing his mouth. He saw his manager shiver.
It was an executive box where the wealthiest of Chelsea sponsors, clients or guests might enjoy a game: comfortable leather armchairs and sofa spaced out around low serving tables and a minibar all of its own set up in the corner. Its door slammed shut behind them and Frank dumped the bunch of master keys down heavily on a side cabinet, then pushed forward. Ruben smiled and chuckled and remained powerfully still as the older man grabbed his tracksuit top and reached around his waist. Then Frank's hands were reaching up to the height of his shoulders and pushing down. There was an almost snarling look of lust on the boss's face, but Ruben firmly resisted the push of his hands and the curl of his lip.
Slow down chief,' he murmured. What's the rush?'
Thought you were gonna suck my dick,' snapped Lampard bluntly. Ain't you?'
Ruben nodded his head slow. Can do,' he offered, if that's what you want.' Frank pushed on his shoulders again, a dominant set to his face -- but Ruben grabbed his forearms and pulled them down, exerting his superior height and weight and noting the flicker of alarm in his manager's eyes. `We don't need to rush to anything,' he said, then leant in. He didn't dare kiss this volatile bloke on the lips, but he grabbed one shoulder and pushed his mouth in against the sweaty side of his neck, planting rough kisses on the stubbled throat and jawline. Frank gasped and trembled a little, began to push back, but he held him, and kissed his neck passionately and teasingly. He knew he was taking the chief by surprise, knew that gave him an upper hand here.
He pulled his mouth away and licked his lip, ran his hand up the damp neck until he was stroking long fingers through Frank's thin dark hair. `We can do whatever you want, chief,' he offered in a voice of gentle submission, whilst his strong hands did the opposite, grabbing and holding the slighter physique of the older bloke.
Get on your knees,' Lampard spat. None of this funny business.'
Ruben grinned gently at him. Straight guys are all the same,' he said in an almost mocking sigh. But then you all taste so fuckin' good.' Down he went, resting his knees to the carpeted floor and sinking his arse a bit lower, bringing himself to the right height. Above, he could see Frank still looking agitated and hesitant, so he acted roughly and quickly. He grabbed and undid the thin belt and the button fly, and didn't just open the chinos, but tugged them right down to the ankles, exposing the pleasingly toned hairy legs of the retired player. Then he scooped his hand beneath the bulge of Frank's briefs, lifted the front of his shirt, and kissed him just below the naval. As expected, a long gasp of tenderness from the married man.
`Just get on with it,' Frank hissed through gritted teeth.
But I'm enjoying myself,' Ruben gasped quietly. Aren't you...?' Then he dipped his face and rubbed his mouth against that fabric bulge, pushing his thick lips around the outline, letting his beard tickle through the cotton. His hands pushed upwards, almost tearing the shirt open; he thought he heard a single button ping off a panelled wall. He rubbed and tickled at the smooth toned white of Frank's abdomen and chest, then pulled back on his haunches and made another exaggerated lick of his lips. He knew his height and power were intimidating the horny manager; he compared himself to a handsome dweeb like Mason Mount. But then, what was there between Frank and Barkley, too...?
You've done this before,' Lampard said, and it surprised Ruben that he sounded so surprised. Had the Chelsea manager thought he'd just casually wandered into his office and helped him fuck a 20-year-old footballer on a whim, with no previous...? He couldn't help but chuckle out loud at this. What?' Frank demanded crossly. `What are you laughing at?'
Nowt,' Ruben sighed, and he went to work. He snatched the waist of the dark blue briefs and tugged them down then immediately took his manager's semi into his mouth, enjoying its size and shape on his tongue. Straight guys really were the best to suck off, he thought hungrily. How many had he noshed over the years of locker rooms, nightclub toilets, late night afterparties...? He lost count. He gave the stiffening dick a good long suck then patted his superior' on the hips. `Get on the couch,' he said. He didn't say it as a command, but he knew it would be followed.
Frank moved quickly to the bigger of the leather couches, shirt hanging open and pants all about his shins. He slid back onto it, arse to leather, and Ruben crawled seductively after him. He came at the dick from the side, bowing to kiss it; his left hand roved up Frank's torso and scratched at his loose pecs, his right hand rubbed up and down one hairy thigh. The married football manager writhed on the couch and groaned with an ecstasy that Ruben normally took much longer to drag out of a straight' bloke. The moans were loud and passionate and sometimes sounded like words, then not words at all, then maybe... He said something that sounded a bit like Kieron', maybe it was just Ruben, wait, nope... Oh Dyer,' gasped Frank distantly, oh yes buddy...' Ruben paused, his lips about his manager's shaft, but he decided to roll with it. He could be whoever Lampard wanted to be, he was horny as hell today.
He hadn't sucked dick in ages. He hadn't had a drop of action since lockdown began, nothing but self-pleasure and a whole lot of internet porn. This was a beautiful surprise. He lapped appreciatively at the cock fate had put in front of him and reached into the front of his own tracksuit bottoms, feeling himself in his boxer shorts, incredibly turned on. He'd never have supposed Frank to be his type, in all honesty, but having seen the man pounding a lad's arse, well... there was a fierceness there that excited him deeply.
He realised Frank's eyes had opened and he was staring at him as he blew him. The expression on the manager's face was odd. Excited and enjoying it, but also a bit shocked and worried. Again, it made Ruben muse on the strange dynamics he'd observed: so Frank was dominant, right, and it was freaking him out how relaxed and confident this new lover was... that made sense for Mason, he reflected, but could a lad like Ross really be made to submit...? He met his boss's eyes and winked again, then just took the dick in hand and slapped its wet length against his own cheek. `Feel good?' he asked in a growl.
Frank nodded but said nothing, narrowing his eyes a little. Ruben went back to sloppy work and now Frank's head rolled back and his eyes closed and his groans filled the cosy executive box they occupied. Ruben clambered onto the couch with him and stroked both thighs as he continued to suck and lick and kiss. Then he returned his hand to the spit-lubed meat and sat up, looking down as he comfortably tossed the Chelsea legend off. `You're new to this?' he asked quietly.
Frank looked reluctant to answer, but he spoke between his groans and pants. I'm on my second wife, Ruben,' he grunted. This isn't my...'
`But here you are.'
`But here I am.'
He slowed his strokes, really teasing his palm and up and down the managerial cock, watching every frown and twitch and gasp of the man spread in front of him. He licked his lips yet again with arch slowness, then dipped his head as if about to lick the boner, but didn't and rose up again. He enjoyed the vivid frustration that flared on his master's face.
You'll do well next season for this,' Lampard muttered. Good lad. Good cocksucker.'
Ruben spat on his dick and rubbed the saliva along its average-sized shaft. You don't need to bribe me for this, boss,' he said quite dismissively, I'm having my own fun here.' With his other hand, he squeezed the ample diagonal of flesh in the front of his dark maroon trackies. `And you're gonna return the favour, right?'
Lampard glared at him. `Sorry?'
Fair's fair, boss,' Ruben laughed. Come on. You sucked it good last time. Don't you remember?' The anxiety on the straight man's face told him he did. He slid around, pushing his limbs beneath Frank's bare legs, still wanking him off whilst with his other hand unzipping his top and lifting his tshirt a bit. He reached inside his trackies and took out his own lengthy black meat, saw Frank's eyes flash to it. Ruben loved sucking a bit of straight meat, but he adored straight lips on his. He reached for one of Frank's hands and brought it to his thick brown rod. Immediately, the married guy began to stroke and fumble at his manhood.
Oh, that's it,' Loftus-Cheek groaned, god what soft hands you got, boss...'
`Shut up... I ain't into this shit, you prick... just want my dick sucked...'
`Oh, don't we all? Relax, boss man, relax... mmm, that feels good...'
`Does it...?'
`Oh, yeah...'
I'll play you in every game you want for this,' offered Lampard again, a wildness to his tone, I'll make sure you get a great pay-rise in the summer negotiations, and-`
Shut up,' Ruben told him flatly, you're killing my buzz, mate. Just tug me off like the horny fucking bastard you are. God you're hot, you know? Proper DILF. Mmm, Lamps.'
`Fuck,' swore the Chelsea boss in a mixture of excitement and shame. He gripped Ruben's thick boner tighter and really tugged on it now. He was starting to lean over, pulling his body closer, his bare legs interlocking with Ruben's clothed ones. Wanking himself with his other hand.
Suck it,' Ruben said. Again, not a forceful command, just a breezy comment. He grinned darkly at the man next to him and felt him begin to lean closer; he reached out a powerful hand and urged him on his way, pressing Frank's shoulders forward and his head into his lap. Tongue and lips met the fat head of his dick and he purred. Good god, boss, that's nice... Mmm... so... you sucked Mase off...? Nah... didn't think so... Barkley, was it? Hmm... yeh, bet you did, lucky you... Mmm... Whose tasted best, haha? Nah, don't answer that...'
He lounged back, relaxed and comfortable, and stroked at Frank's hair, his neck, his shirt collar. He watched the wild hunger of the man's face, a real intensity in his eyes and jaw and his roving lips. He managed to look horrified and delighted all at once by the thick black meat offered to him; Ruben didn't remember him being half this good the first time, that brief wet suck before they both shagged the hell out of Mount's backside. Had he been totally new to it then? How experienced was he now? Such questions drifted happily through Ruben's thoughts as he pushed Frank's face down and watched him gag on his rod.
Enough, he thought.
There was something much more exciting about pleasuring this England and Chelsea icon, as good as this sloppy BJ was. Ruben was really enjoying the frenzy of it. But he wanted to taste dick in between his lips. He slid off the couch, leaving Frank dazed for a moment, then he pulled his legs apart and knelt into his crotch and sucked him off with more energy and aggression. He pushed Frank right back against the leather and pumped his mouth up and down his member. As he ran his hands over the torso and hips and thighs, he didn't just stroke or caress, but grabbed and massaged and slapped, and he could till this confused man loved it.
Oh Rio,' he was gasping. Rio? Ruben? Some name beginning with R, certainly. Oh mate... oh yes... baby... oh Dyer mate... oh lads...' He was lost in some long-lost fantasy! God, just how horny and kinky was old Lamps, at the end of the day? Ruben thrilled at even this confusion, tasting this hero who he'd grown up watching on TV sports, seventeen years his senior.
Then it came back to him. Rio. Kieron. Frank. A memory of a fusty teenage bedroom in his mum's council flat in Lewisham, poor-quality internet loading on his desktop. A video on an internet forum. At that stage, young Ruben had been making his way into a major London youth team, increasingly sure he was at least bisexual, and a bit frightened about how it would fit with his sporting career. He'd been obsessive about internet rumours about players' sexualities and any sex scandal had snatched his interest. That's how he'd ended up finding and watching it: that crazy shitty video of the three of them in Aiya Napa, proper slaggy and low resolution, but... He pictured his teenage self, wanking off furiously in his bedroom to the buffering, interrupted footage of Frank Lampard swigging beer and being noshed off. And now here he was, on his knees, tasting it himself...
When he stopped sucking, Lampard groaned and whimpered in dismay at the interruption; a vocal and thrilling reminder of just how talented Ruben had become over the years of fun. But the fun needed to peak. He rose up to his feet, still largely clothed, and jerked energetically on his bigger erection, stood over the sprawled figure of his manager. Frank looked up at him, wide-eyed, and began to jerk off too. Ruben stared at the 41-year-old man, still so handsome and fresh, but so grown and developed from the youth in that ancient tape, what was it, year 2000?
He blew his load thinking of them both: the 21-year-old Frank in the sex tape and the 41-year-old bugger laid up in front of him. He thought of the fantasy and the reality and couldn't decide which he liked better. He shot his seed over Frank's chest and face and watched globs of it settle around his nose and mouth as he gasped and whined to his own climax. Flecks of Frank's seed hit Ruben's tracky bottoms and his white tshirt, and a single streak landed on his own cheek. Both men continued to tease and pull their spent cocks for a few long moments.
Ruben dropped into the armchair to the side and lounged back. His dick hung out of the waist of his tracksuit bottoms, smearing a bit more cum on them, and he let his pecs rise and fall as his body cooled down. He looked over at Frank, who was slowly and clumsily buttoning his shirt over the sticky patches of Loftus-Cheek juice while his privates lolled between bare thighs. He could see the mingled shame and satisfaction on the boss's face.
That was fucking fun,' he announced quietly. Just a grunt from the chief. You ought to relax a bit, boss. Let yourself enjoy things.' Frank looked up and glared at him more directly. `Sorry -- I know you got a wife, and an ex-wife, and kids, and... well, a fuck-ton of responsibility. I'm just saying. This don't have to be anything dark or dodgy. This was beautiful and fun.' He reached down and pushed his soft prick away and stared with mild annoyance at the tiny cum-stains on his clothes. This had cost 100s of quid online.
`You don't know what you're talking about,' Lampard muttered crossly. He was dragging his briefs and chinos back up his strong ex-footballer's legs. Ruben watched and smiled and wanted to pull and grab at those thighs again. Soon.
No, perhaps not,' he mused aloud. I'm gay. And pretty cool with it. Even if I know the fucking League around me won't be.' He noted the surprise on his boss's face, as Frank shot up from the sofa to do his belt. He rose too, folding his arms. But you... well. I think I do get it, boss. You're a guy who's had a lot of women. Maybe you always noticed guys, maybe it's new. But it's happened, and your dick loves it. Your head? Not so much. But it's happening.' He stepped up to his manager, grinning down at him from a few inches of greater height. You're one hot daddy, Frank Lampard. This was hot. I'm gonna wank one out thinking about it tonight in bed.'
Lampard's nostrils flared. He looked equally appalled and gratified. He did up his top button and then wiped hands over his mouth and chin, trying to smear away the last traces of Ruben's seed. The tall young midfielder chuckled, leaned in, and kissed a smear of his own spunk off the side of his boss's neck, then pulled back, licking his lips. Frank scoffed and blinked and backed off a step or two.
Whatever you think,' Ruben went on in a quiet voice, it's obvious you need to unload. A lot. Wife got a bit boring after the latest baby? Just tell me when I speak too much truth, boss. But all I'm saying is... whenever you need that sweet cock of yours sucked, give me a buzz. It's been a long lockdown, and I'm fucking hungry.' He grinned, zipped up his tracksuit top, and strolled past the older man and his frowning fury, tugging open the door and exiting the box. On the way out of the door, he looked back once, saw Lampard's awkward stiff posture, and his faint reflection in the huge glass wall overlooking the stadium: his face was contorted into a snarl of regret and agitation. But Ruben knew, with the confidence of experience, that the message or call would come: this would not be the last time they sucked each other off.