Date: Mon, 22 Jun 2020 16:02:50 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads part 129: Old Dogs, New Tricks Part 129: Old Dogs, New Tricks `Happy birthday old dog, how the fuck are you?!' `Haha, says you, spring chicken... Cheers buddy...' `Yeah yeah, neither of us getting' any younger, it's true. You havin' a good day...?' `Yeah not bad mate, not bad at all -- spoiled by the fam, you know...' `And then Father's Day tomorrow, you smug prick, haha -- shame we'll be ruining it for ya.' `Oh will you? Haha... we'll see about that... Villa lads feeling confident then, are they?' `Confident? Mate, we are MORE than ready for you lot.' `I'm quaking.' `Haha -- smug cunt. Chelsea boys gonna get smashed up the arse by Villa squad, that's for sure. The lads are so ready, mate. This is it. Operation...' `Stay in the Prem...?' `Yeah, that. Haha. Prick. But seriously -- be good to see ya. Even briefly. Been too long, Frank lad.' `So true mate, so true -- looking forward to it too, I am. You gonna be able to keep your two metres from me, Johnboy...? Haha...' `Oh fuck, dunno -- somehow I might resist you, you daft wanker... heh. Well, sounds like you're celebrating right now so I'll let you get back to it...' `Cheers, cheers... good of you to ring, JT, really is... not heard from you enough this year, my man. See you tomorrow...?' `Yeah, yeah... will be there to welcome you and your pussy-boy players to Villa Park, hehe... hope they grease up their arseholes before they arrive in Brum cos our lads are gonna-` `Maaaate, calm down...! Haha... you dirty fucker... I'm out here with the kids you know...' In the sun-warmed garden of his London home, Frank Lampard held the phone to his cheek and smirked at the predictably coarse dialogue with one of his oldest footballing pals, watching the rest of the family skirt about the barbecue at the other end of the smart lawn. John Terry was still cackling down the line at his own dirty metaphors, muttering some more about how nobody on the Chelsea squad would be walking right on the journey back to London -- fuck's sake, what was he like? A social liability...! Lamps grinned fondly at his old Chelsea ally's laddish craic and said his goodbyes again. `Right, best go -- but seriously, thanks for the call mate, always good to hear from you... speak proper tomorrow mate, yeh... bye, bye...' He clicked off the call and shook off the dirty tenor of his fellow retired athlete's banter, amused but also a little... sensitive. Recent events had left the birthday boy a little less amused by the casually offensive homophobia of laddish insults in the footballing world -- the kind of rough humour favoured by old-school blokes like Terry, that had been so normalised in their many years side-by-side at Chelsea. From the day Frank turned up at the West London team in 2001 to the year he reluctantly left in 2014, Terry had been there, preceding and outlasting him, his most solid ally and friend on and off the pitch. They tried their best to stay close now, but their different coaching roles kept them busy and in different cities, and... well, perhaps more than anyone else in his life, Lampard felt some of his own recent dabbling had estranged him from a guy as conventional and cunt-obsessed as JT, the dirtiest philanderer he'd ever known. How many times had Frank covered for John's extra-curricular behaviour over those years, he wondered. A call from Christine at the other end of the garden snapped Lampard a little from this worrying reverie, debating how his best friend would react to the idea that he'd allowed himself to engage in such slippery behaviour with... well, with his own players. With his own COUSIN. Frank shuddered guiltily as he pocketed his phone and made his way across the lawn, beer in the other hand, an optimistic grin fixed on his lips, ready to rejoin the few close family members who'd been invited over for his birthday celebrations, smirking Jamie included, watching him idly from a garden chair and joined today by some young new girlfriend nobody had even heard of. His eyes were screened by sunglasses but the grin on his bearded features was always loaded with shared knowledge of their escapades now, and it made Frank shiver with mixed pleasure and regret. He took his place by the barbecue, leaning over to listen to what his wife was on about, a shortage of coleslaw, of all serious matters, and still thinking distractedly about the birthday wishes of his best mate and former teammate. If only JT knew, he thought glumly, what an old perv I've turned into... how confused I've become... Just yesterday, shortly after training, he'd been shoving his cock in Ruben's mouth in exchange for a guaranteed starting line-up on the tall Londoner's post-injury debut. Fuck's sake. Of course Loftus-Cheek was ready for that, but what was he playing at? Married father in his 40s, experimenting with guys now, and... He gave an awkward, sidelong glance at Redknapp, who had stopped looked his way and was leaning in close to speak quietly to his girlfriend, 25 at the oldest, legs for days. The older and more preened cousin chuckled at some private comment and stroked her leg and Frank was ashamed by the little tremor of envy he felt, stood here in his tshirt and shorts pretending to be the alpha male with the barbecue tongs. For the hundredth time, he thought about their night in the games room, the consequences of his poor pool playing; he thought about what he'd asked his beautiful cousin in the desperation of his lust, and he scolded himself for it. He didn't really want to be fucked by a bloke, for fuck's sake...! It was one thing dominating handsome little twinks like Mason Mount, and indulging in this `obsession' with a lad as rugged as Ross Barkley, but... `Frank,' snapped his wife's voice, waving in his face, `are you even listening to me...?' `Oh, uh -- yeah, darlin', what is it...? Hmm...?' Lounged on a long flat garden chair at the far end of his big square property, John Terry dangled the phone loosely in his left hand, squinting over his sunglasses, on the lookout for his wife returning from her mission to fix them fresh gin-and-tonics to enjoy in the golden early evening. Idly, the 29-year-old ex-defender tilted the cool metal of his phone handset against his chin and smirked at the brief chat with his best mate. He loved ribbing Lamps about his slight age gap, though he knew the joke would cease to be funny when he turned 40 himself at the end of this year -- that was why he needed to enjoy it for the next few months, hehe. Terry lay there and enjoyed the warm tickle of sunlight on his chunky bare legs and arms, his loose chino shorts rolled up a little to get a bit more tan on his tall firm body, he and his wife still mourning the cancelled weeks in their Spanish holiday home. He breathed in the sickly aroma of sun-cream, mown grass, distant cocktails. It would be good to see Fat Frank tomorrow, he thought playfully, it really had been fucking ages since he'd spoken much to the legendary Chelsea midfielder, the solid companion and trusted sidekick of so many triumphant years in Blue. A seed of self-doubt, or if not anxiety, at least irritation, crossed his sun-addled mind, as he waited for the clink of glass and ice and the return of his cheerily subservient wife. Imagine, he thought, if Lamps had any idea what he'd got up to lately, abusing his position here at Villa as assistant manager... Terry thought of the lurid details of that boardroom party that had erupted just a couple of weekends ago, how easily Danny Drinkwater had lured him out of his best behaviour and back into old ways... For a second, the grizzled ex-footballer sighed and felt twinges of nausea, rubbing his palm across his clammy face, trying not to think of the one man who had set all that in motion so many years back, towards the latter end of his Chelsea career. At least back then it HAD been one man, he thought grimly -- for all the agonies of self-doubt that homosexual affair had caused him, John had often counted up the dozens (hundreds?) of birds he'd shagged outside of his `happy' marriage, piling up against the strange affectionless frenzy of fucking that he'd enjoyed with Eden Hazard for those fraught years. Even when it become too much and he escaped it by securing a transfer to Birmingham, fuelled by the exposure of several other affairs, even then he'd reasoned with himself: what does one odd man matter against all those pussies? When you fucked about as much as he did, he reasoned, was it just inevitable that you'd fall into at least one arsehole on the way...? But the other week... he pictured himself, led into that training centre meeting room by desperate, shifty-eyed Drinkwater, that doomed stud of a man whose career seemed to go from bad to worse. At first, he'd just thought he was gonna score a little handy or blowie off that Manc wastrel, but no... he'd ended up ballsdeep in McGinn, surrounded by horny fuckers he'd never have expected to be so open-minded... none had shocked him more than Captain Jack himself...! JT had struggled to look him or Mings or Targett in the eye in the training sessions since, even with his bullish order to them that they must never mention what had happened to a living soul. Sitting there, watching his bikini-clad wife emerge form the back of their mansion, Terry thought about his rough jokey banter to Lampard down the phone, and gritted his teeth against the chance that his best pal might ever find out about this other side to his behaviour, such a tiny but alarming part of his sexual pursuits. Fuck, he'd never understand, not squeaky-clean Frankie! As he so often did, JT brushed this worry aside: he was a man brimming with violent confidence, a self-assertion that had carried him through his entire career and all of his sexual escapades. Why should he let a naughty afternoon with a few Villa dickheads disrupt any of that...? He grinned possessively at Mrs Terry and took the ice cold glass from her hand with a nod, letting the cut glass clink pleasantly before pulling it back to cool his lips and taking a long, gratifying slurp of the strong mix. To tomorrow, he thought, and a stirring comeback form Aston Villa... They managed their fleeting catch-up before the game: strolling the side-lines of the eerily empty Villa Park, keeping their voices low as they reminisced about the good old days. There was something timeless about their connection, Lampard thought to himself, some odd way that whenever he was with the other Chelsea legend, the years stripped away and he was straight back there in a blue kit in the early noughties, his career ahead of him and all of that misbehaviour at his fingertips. It was only the aimless reminiscing of two middle-aged men now mired with grown-up responsibility, but it was very gratifying. And as always, the conversation was cut short by duty -- John shifting away to join the main Villa boss and his team, earpiece in, looking stern and professional in his close-fitting Kappa tracksuit on the side-lines, Frank strolling on to the Chelsea encampment, ready to look out on his well-prepared lads. Kitted out in the black of their away kit, stiff with the intensity of the week's training, supremely ready for this Premiership outing. Terry's gentle jibes about the Villa side's readiness for battle had done little to dull Lampard's own confidence in his boys and the match ahead. After all, Villa were fighting to avoid demotion to the Championship; his team were fighting to cling onto the top 4 and guarantee European football next season. In the first half, however, Frank found his confidence tested. The football was very 50/50, and he found himself glancing up the side of the pitch to where John lurked behind some upper barriers, hands in pockets and a fixed grin on his features, positioned beside the Villa manager. Lampard was sure Terry saw him looking once or twice, but didn't meet his eyes, just grinning fixedly and willing the inevitable first goal: just before the end of the first half, it came, Villa's Hause surprising everyone with his 43rd minute strike. They passed each other again in half-time, following the slow flow of men separately to speak to their lads. Terry, still kitted out in the taut dark blue fabric of his tracksuit, punched him lightly in the arm and grinned his way. `1 fucking nil,' he cooed quietly, `what did I tell you...? Better go get some lube out for your boys in the changing room, Franco...' Lampard rolled his eyes patiently at this rising joke, giving Terry's shoulder a squeeze. `Don't count us out just yet, JT -- wouldn't want your boys to be caught out with a dick up their arse haha... Just you wait and see. Second half is ours.' John scoffed and winked. `Nah, my guys have got you on the ropes already...' He pushed Frank's hand away from him and leaned in a little close, poised here at the tunnel mouth with both sides' players streaming past them, `So you best be careful Lampy, otherwise it'll be you getting bummed to hell as well as your bitchy overpaid boys in Blue, haha...' He grinned, all friendly humour despite his aggressive words, giving Frank's biceps a little squeeze and shake then pulling away. `Watch out, Lamps, Villa are back...' And he took a couple of backwards steps before marching off after the trail of Aston Villa men, leaving Frank with an awkward half-smile on his features. He glanced worriedly about him, Terry's playful threats on his mind, then shook himself. To his left, the last of the Chelsea guys passed him on their way in, and the subs. Ross Barkley trailed at the back, stern and silent today in the close-fitting tracksuit over his kit, curving about his impressive body. He glanced up at Lampard on the way past. `All okay, gaffer?' he asked, a hint of genuine friendly concern in his eyes and voice. Lampard glanced at him and rolled his shoulders into a shrug, moving to follow them in. `All good,' he confirmed simply, `all good... we just really need to beat these fuckers, heh...' And they did. A couple of tactical substitutions and a chunk of the second half later, and Lampard was striding up and down the chalked boundary clapping along to a 2-1 victory, yelling enthusiastically behind his loyal squad as they dominated Villa. Across to the left, up beyond the side-lines at a safe distance, he could see both Terry and his boss, Dean Smith, slowly accept their defeat: he particularly watched the little flickers of distress in John's facial expression, the sneering curl of his lips, the tightening of his white knuckles, the hunch of his shoulders. Lampard grinned ambitiously to himself to see it, shedding his jacket and marching up and down the line in just tight blue tshirt and fitted black tracksuit bottoms, one of the lads in his sports gear, barking approval to his boys in the final ten minutes. He was doing his best not to fixate too much of any of the lads, of course: even if young Mount did seem to look more adorably handsome than ever with his fluffy little goatee and longer, sideswept hair, dashing rapidly up and down the pitch showing off his talents. Even if now-substituted Loftus-Cheek, a mountainous young man, was folded up against a nearby seat, sweating profusely down his sculpted features, exuding the pheromones that had driven Frank wild on any number of encounters. Even if, more than anything, his treasured Barkley was out there now, sturdy and defiant against Villa's final efforts, making silky passes away from their every attacking manoeuvre and bouncing his voluminous backside past the dugout so frequently that it sometimes felt a deliberate tease. Fortunately, the win itself was enough to distance Frank from his usual at-work temptations. He felt himself take such satisfaction in overcoming his friend and rival's dwindling club that he wasn't even giving those hot young lads a second thought as the whistle blew. He stared up across the pitch just in time to see the deep scowl on Terry's face, the little air-punch of frustration as he disappeared from view, following his gaffer indoors, probably ready to berate and lambast the players for letting their early lead slip away. Which left Lampard here in the limelight, enjoying his side's triumphant first match back in the Premiership after such long weeks of hiatus. As the socially distanced rigmarole of post-match rituals ticked along, he felt a strong desire to boast this victory to JT's face -- to invert those sexually aggressive jokes, to point out how deeply his Chelsea lads had FUCKED Villa in the end. He grinned smugly at every thought of this, not totally aware of the tingle in his underpants when he did. He beamed through the team talk in the dressing rooms, only half-aware of Ross in his briefs a couple of metres from him, or Mason's six pack as he sweated on a bench; he smirked through his Sky interview in the tunnel, and even made a sly dig at his cousin Jamie on the pundit panel. When the circus of it all seemed to die down, he decided that he would find his close pal and, even for a minute, rub a bit of salt in the wound. It wasn't viciousness, it was just how they were. As it happened, though, John Terry was not easily found. No sign of him around the entrance to the Home dressing rooms, or in the interview area, or back out in the empty stands of the park. Lampard, leaving his own players to their muted, distanced celebrations, wandered back through the quiet corridors of Villa Park, listening out for the gruff East London tones of his favourite centre-back. Eventually, wandering up onto the first floor, he heard it, just to the right, down a quiet corridor of empty-looking side rooms: small meeting rooms, or empty physio suites, perhaps even just storage, it was hard to tell this afternoon... Lampard marched down it, heated with his own heightened sense of victory and achievement, the buzz of his 42nd birthday running over into today's sporting win... he could hardly wait to see the frowning defeat on his cocky mate's face again, to have him apologise for his digs and threats, to turn the banter back on him, to... Terry's voice got louder as he got halfway down the corridor: `You useless Scottish prick... fuck's sake... thought you were fully fit...!' The anger reverberating in that voice took Frank aback, but he was excited and eager. He pushed ahead, and reached the door where the voice was coming through. `Get on your fucking knees,' he heard his best mate growl, and then, `fucking broken ankle... that was ages ago, you should be better...' He put his fist to the door handle and stopped, looking through a latticed square of glass, into the small square room and its raised physio bed on the far wall: directly opposite him, in the centre of the small room, stood John himself, lifting up the front of his dark blue Kappa top; in front of him, a dark-haired head bobbed at waist height, a man on his knees. The image was a little blurred through the glass, but was John really...? Unable to stop himself, Lampard twisted the handle and pushed forward. In front of him, the lad on his knees turned sharply and stared his way, awkward puffy face still red and blotchy from the match: John McGinn gawped stupidly upwards, trembling on his knees, still in his sweaty Villa kit, though benched before the last quarter. And just in front of his nervous face, dangling out of the front of John's tight tracksuit, was his thick flopping appendage, held in three fingers and pointed lazily towards McGinn's face. Frank gasped and clung to the door and stared at them. `Lamps,' breathed Terry sharply, freezing. `Fuck,' exclaimed the 25-year-old Scotsman on the floor, `oh fuck...' `Guys,' wheezed Lampard in overwhelming surprise, letting the door clatter noisily shut behind him and just standing there, staring intensely at them both, his heart blasting the inside of his chest and his shoulders hunching up in excited shock. No fucking way... `I can explain,' blurted JT, his dick swinging a bit as he took a step away form his crouched subordinate, staring worriedly at Frank as if he was going to be in deep trouble; his face was already red in a violent rage but now he looked mortified. He was reaching for his clothes and making a clumsy attempt to push his cock and ridiculously heavy bollocks back into his kit... he failed, because he was too jittery and caught unawares... `Shit, shit,' went on McGinn, lifting awkwardly off one knee and pulling an arm across his sweaty red face, staring past Frank to the door, seemingly calculating his escape. `Guys,' repeated Frank in a heavy sigh, and took a step forward before there could be any more protest or explanation or panic, `guys...!' He reached down and stroked the fluffy dark hair of the Scottish midfielder on his knees, and grinned wickedly over at his rival, his best mate, his fellow coach. `I think match winners get their dicks sucked first, before losers, eh...?' He let out a cool, assertive laugh, and with his other hand, grabbed the loaded front of his dark tracksuit bottoms, then loosely pulled John's face into his crotch. He kept his eyes intensely on Terry, whose dawning understanding was obvious in every muscular twitch. `Mate...?' groaned the Villa assistant manager in amazement. `You don't mind sharing him, do you?' Lampard grunted simply at him, then looked down at where McGinn's face hung loosely at his thigh, eyes fixed on his swelling package. `He's a good cocksucker then, is he...?' Terry recovered with a cough and a gasp and a mumbling start. `Er -- yeah... actually, he is fucking good at that, just nowt else...' Then, barking, `Give Frankie's bulge a kiss, you stupid Scottish slut...' And instantly, eyes closing, John leaned in to nuzzle against the bulging front of the fitted black trackies, making Frank moan and chuckle and wink at his old teammate. `That's it,' JT encouraged his player, `give it a good kiss, you dirty bitch...' Lampard reached down and stroked McGinn's hair and neck with both hands while his cock was nuzzled through two layers, feeling his dick stiffen and swell. Opposite him, Terry's cock still hung loose above the waist of his trackies, balls sagging behind it. But it too was twitching into full life, and now stroked gently by the man himself, closing in on the submissive young man between them. Frank couldn't wipe the smug grin from his own face: no longer just smugness at 2-1, smugness of a discovery he could never have imagined. Now Terry was yanking McGinn away form him a little, holding him by the shoulders, chuckling whilst Lampard pushed down at his own bottoms, loosing his semi-hard dick in one thrust; immediately, JT let go and McGinn was on it, running his pointed tongue against the tip then closing his thin lips around the shaft. Frank stood there, hips pushed forward, enjoying the surprise blow-job all the more for it being watched by his gruffly furious opponent and best pal. John was reaching over the slut below them to squeeze his shoulder and lean in, wheezing with a dirty chuckle. `You're right,' he said, `winner should get sucked first... but you got lucky, you daft cunt, you and your poncey lads...' `Mm, maybe, but fuck it feels good to win,' Frank moaned back through the pleasure of the Scottish suck-job at his crotch. He glanced back at the exposing panel of glass in the door, and the resident coach understood; John brushed past him to tug down the little paper blind over the glass and twist a lock into place. And then he was back in an instant, grabbing and squeezing Frank's shoulders from behind, cuddling playfully at him and looking down over his shoulder to watch as the 5'10 midfielder on the floor lapped and kissed at his now fully erect prick. `Yeah, suck on that, you little twat,' Terry growled viciously down at him; Frank felt a stab of empathy for the young player, only just returned from long-term injury and actually putting in a decent shift for the struggling club; but McGinn seemed to lap up the abuse, whimpering excitedly and sniffing at Frank's pubes, drooling down his shaft. `Suck on that champion cock you stupid little Scottish bitch... taste what a winner feels like in your dirty queer mouth...' As he berated McGinn, Terry's hand tightened excitingly over Lampard's shoulder muscle. `Fuck,' Frank groaned, `is it your turn now...?' `Yeah, good idea bruv...' And now Terry was practically elbowing himself as he stepped in and pushed his cock in against the quivering moistness of McGinn's mouth. Lampard stared irresistibly at his mate's big tool, which he must have seen flopping about time after time, but never quite this hard, even when they'd fucked supermodel twins in the same bedroom... it wasn't actually very long but it was incredibly, alarmingly thick, and JT's bollocks were impossibly big and low hanging, always so visible bouncing about in blue shorts! Now they thwacked the Scottish player's chin as his girthy meat was pressed between his lips. Lampard licked his salty lips and glanced nervously at the locked door; funny, how often he'd performed dirty deeds in the relatively risky spaces of Stamford Bridge and their training centre, yet this was enemy territory, and the risk felt new and exciting all over again... this was a far cry from the empowered privacy of his own big office. He played with his cock in his left hand and rubbed at John's broad sturdy shoulders with the right, feeling his physical power through the warm fabric, firm and commanding even as he neared 40. He was thrusting lazily, pushing his cock so hard and fast into McGinn's mouth that the sluttish lad could only gasp and whimper and try to accommodate his assistant manager. And then, suddenly, the pair of them, the old Chelsea bad boys, were side by side, arms slung about each other's shoulders, and the young footballer was grabbing at both their tools, one in each hand, darting his mouth from one to the other in bursts of greedy attention; he seemed to wish he had two mouths so he could satisfy them both equally, staring up in amazement. As he looked up adoringly at the older generation of British footballing beef, he got a face full of JT's dirty spit. `Lick my balls you daft prick,' the aggressive Londoner snarled, then gobbed another mouthful of spit down on their shared bitch. Frank shook with excitement but found his mouth dry and empty of the dirty talk he wanted to launch, the kind of sleazy chat he'd exercised on young Mason or in his early exploitation of big Ross... `Fuck,' was all he slurred, still overwhelmed at what he'd walked in on. `Yeahhhh,' howled Terry, as his fat heavy balls were lapped at by the greedy sub. `God, this bitch needs a fuckin' -- are you up to it...?' Frank stared at him in wonder; oh god, he was SO up for it...! Together, they hoisted McGinn from the floor and pushed him towards the black leather of the physio bench by the wall, pushing him up onto it. Frank was grabbing at his shorts and pulling them down over his thick sweaty legs, exposing his off-white dirty undies; John was pinning him to the wall with his chest and manhandling his chin. `Beg for it,' he barked at him, `beg Frank Lampard to pump your slutty hole you little queen...!' `God, yes,' whimpered the Scotsman, `I just want your English cock...' `Beg him more,' bellowed JT. `Please fuck me, both of you!' squealed McGinn excitedly. Terry slapped him lightly on the cheek and began pulling up his Villa shirt to strip him, then shoved him onto his side and grabbed his hips, pulling him into a doggy position on knees and elbows. He slapped and stroked his bare back like he was a new car he was selling, not a skilled Premiership footballer he was enjoying with his fellow `straight' married mate; he leered at Lampard, who spanked the lad's arse and pushed a desperate gurgle from him, `Oh yess... Lampard pleeeease...' Frank grinned wickedly and tugged on those stained white boxer briefs, pulling John's pale chubby cheeks into view, looking from them to his mate John's wild, almost drooling features. `Yeah, he needs a good fucking,' John was panting, wanking himself as he spoke, `he fuckin' squeals like a piggy once you're in him... takes it like a pro though...' The 39-year-old beast bit his lip as he tugged on his thick tool, his other hand slapping and cupping at John's cheeks and chin. Frank watched this intently as he slapped and stroked at the smooth buttocks then pushed a single finger between them to find a trembling hole. He and JT met eyes again, both clearly as wondering and stunned by the other's kinks. But Frank felt like he could push this even further. He circled round to the tip of the bench and slapped both hands to McGinn's rounded buttocks, keeping his eyes locked on JT's lusty face, then lowered his mouth between those mounds and did what he'd learnt to do so well, worshipping at the altar of Barkley's behind. He saw the fresh shock on big Terry's face, a 6ft 2 brute playing with his cock and balls, but went for it anyway -- sliding his tongue inside a sweaty lad's hole for the first time in ages, reliving those post-match moments with beautiful Ross... While he gently rimmed gasping, whining McGinn, Terry brought a knee up onto the physio bench and began feeding his dick into the lad's mouth, so that they were both at him now from either end, making his body writhe and twist on the black leather, naked but for his pants around his knees and the long footy socks down to his dirty boots. Behind him, Frank licked at his crack and teased his hole and fixed his eyes excitedly on John's conflicted groans and gurns. Then he stopped, pulling back his greasy mouth, straightening up his body and ready to mount this bitch. `Yeah, fuck him,' snapped JT, `fuck this stupid Scottish bitch of ours...' `Gonna smash his hole,' Lamps growled back, `gonna make him mine...' `Yes please,' McGinn whimpered and groaned between their banter. `Fuck him like you fucked our whole team,' chuckled Terry darkly. `Gonna pound his Villa ring,' brooded Lampard eagerly, `gonna feed your team my cock...' The skittish metal frame of the message table creaked and bent beneath the energetic action, but withstood it; Frank gripped the lad's lower back and pushed his cock inside, then fucked him with rapid little bursts of energy, never once letting his eyes pull away from his friend and rival, who was wanking himself while drooping his fat balls as teabags onto McGinn's tongue and lips. Two Johns, Frank thought, two fucking beauties... but really, he was hardly giving a thought to their Scottish toy. It could have been anyone. Could have been a bird. It didn't matter. His world seemed filled by the exciting, thuggish presence of the original Chelsea fuckboy. `Fuck him harder -- more, go on -- he can take it, the little cunt -- yeah make him SQUEAL...' `Ugh, yess... ugh, fuck fuck, ohhhh...' `HARDER, Frank, go on mate, he's not some prissy bird who can't...' `Fuck, fuck...!' `Smash his hole in...' `Dear god,' whined McGinn, pressing his face into Terry's tummy, drooling into his wiry pubes at the base of his tracksuit top, `please... never... stop... fucking... me...' And as if to insult this pleading, Frank pulled back, feeling how sweaty his pits and chest were beneath the dark blue of his tshirt, seeing his dick slicked with sweat and spit and grease. McGinn's hole gaped and clenched at his exit, and he slapped his arse cheek violently. `Your turn, buddy?' he panted at the other middle-aged stud. McGinn made a noise of vague anticipation, a sort of dreamy gruff sigh. In one motion, JT was yanking him from the bench and back onto his feet, taking full control of his body. One hand reached up to clench at the short dark tufts of his hair, pressing his forward back into a bent position, other folding about his waist to pull him in, and then... Frank gawped, hand on his cock. John McGinn bounced like a ragdoll in the grip of his coach. Behind him, still fully clad in tracksuit, Terry thrust at his backside with insane force, bouncing and shaking his body in a standing position, hardly needing to move his own limbs but pressing his thick tool into him -- clearly not for the first time - with pneumatic force. The Scotsman howled and whimpered so loudly that anyone in that corridor would surely hear! Lampard skittered to the side, tugging his dick towards the dazzling moment of completion, and pulled to the side of his mate, for a proper side-on view of the powerful fucking that was slamming its way to a climax. `Mmm, MATE,' he growled, `you show him...' `He knows,' Terry grunted, `he knows who's boss...' McGinn couldn't speak, he just panted and made animalistic noises, his bottom bouncing back and forth at the crotch of the ex-Chelsea study and womaniser, this absolute beast of a man who had been so important in Frank's life for as long as he could remember. He laid one hand on the quivering muscle of McGinn's back and the other halfway down Terry's back, feeling his hot wet sweat through the tracksuit material, loving both men's jolting physicality, his own cock aching and almost dripping... He stared into Terry's face, seeing the wild desire in his eyes, the snarling motion of his lips. `Go on,' he purred, `go on... breed his arse, mate...' Terry's orgasm was forceful but quiet, all suppressed scream and deep rage. He burst his body forwards and held his thick dick deep inside McGinn, then pulled back after several agonising moments; when he staggered backwards, cum dangled disgustingly from his member. `Sloppy seconds,' he gasped, nodding jerkily at the prize, `blow yours in him now...!' And so Frank grabbed the lad's hips and swung him round, feeling like the slightest touch would release his own dick like a gun now: he pushed it with alarming ease into the loosened entrance of this cock-hungry young athlete, and made only a couple of fucking thrusts before it happened. The Scottish midfielder took his second English load in a row, making low muffled moans into the air, while JT leaned in and slapped his buttock and squeezed Frank's bicep. `Good man, good man... haha! Yesss...' In a moment, McGinn was staggering dizzily forward to grip the massage bench for support, spunk smeared on both cheeks and dribbling a little onto the furry tops of his thighs; both Frank and John's cum, mingled in his dirty hole. The player gasped and panted and didn't even turn to look at them, just propping himself up against the physio bed, naked but for the pants that now drooped at the bottom of his calves, around the top of those distinctive Villa socks. His boots were clattering clumps of dirt and grass across the floor as he moved. Frank stood very still, trying to calm his breathing. He looked at Terry, who had his eyes closed, his head thrown back a little, sucking in the air. Then he reached over to give Lampard a congratulatory pat on the upper back. Then he began stuffing his privates away into his tight trackies, so Frank did the same; and then they were exiting the room with a dismissive clatter of the door, leaving JT's prized Scottish sub to pant and recover and, presumably, finish himself off by wanking. Together, the two old friends walked silently down the corridor, intensely sweaty and overheated in their respective managerial kits. At the top of the stairs, they stopped and looked intensely at one another. Frank didn't know what to say, and it seemed John was in the exact same position. The Villa man seemed less wild and amused now, more troubled and sincere. Frank wanted to tell him it was okay: that he understood, that he new how easily an old dog could discover these new tricks, but... well, what the hell could either of them say now?! Then, with jolting steps and a weird under-the-breath chuckle to himself, Terry was just hurrying ahead on his own, down the stairs, as if he urgently needed to be back with the Villa guys. He paused once halfway down the steps and looked back up at Lampard, a twisted and confused look on his face. `Mate,' Frank began in a hollow, uncertain voice, and his old mate dashed on, disappearing beneath and away, leaving the victorious Chelsea manager stood in a complete daze on the top step, cock throbbing in his undies and mouth still greasy with the sweaty arse of another man. `Holy fuck,' he thought aloud. `All those years, and... whoa...' He wiped his clammy hands on his tshirt and pulled both palms over his face, then tried to shake off the languorous thrill of orgasm before he headed downstairs -- back to his team, back to the lads, back to the alpha male duties of football management, far away from the dirty thrills of that upstairs room, lost in his best friend and their mutual lust. **IT WAS INEVITABLE THAT THESE TWO CHELSEA LEGENDS WOULD EVENTUALLY INTERACT... BUT CAN'T WAIT TO HEAR WHAT YOU THINK! WHAT NEXT FOR DIRTY FRANK LAMPARD...?**