Date: Sun, 5 Jan 2020 22:25:54 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads part 23: Sidelined Part twenty-three: Sidelined The team-sheet on the wall stared out from beneath its laminated cover like a damning message from some higher power, and Ross Barkley stared at it in silent fury. The tall, muscular Scouser gritted his teeth and read over the printed sheet once more, in case he had somehow missed his name in the starting line-up. What the actual fuck? He had even come in a little earlier today, pretty sure this FA clash was going to be his return to the starting formation. He'd been absolutely killing it in training this week, fresher than half of his colleagues after a Christmas `rest' from the last handful of games. His boots hadn't grazed the actual pitch since his near `scandal' with those ridiculous photos. And this cup game against an easy target had seemed a sure moment for him, a sure chance for the gaffer to reintroduce his talents and force into the side, and yet... He stood in his tight Chelsea tracksuit, clenching and unclenching his hands into shaky fists for a few moments, then glancing up and down the corridor outside the team cafeteria where everyone would soon be meeting for a team `brunch', a new home game tradition Lampard was introducing to develop their team dynamic a bit more. A couple of Barkley's mates were already about the stadium, early arrivals like himself, but the corridors of Stamford Bridge were mostly quite deserted, the afternoon game seeming distant for now. The instinctive response to the problem rocked through his troubled mind. Of course he needed to speak to Lampard. But that had gone down... pretty badly to say the least, last time. He pictured the angry dismissal of the 41-year-old manager, though there had definitely been flashes of... what, guilt? Embarrassment? Barkley was slowly realising two things about his current problematic relationship with the gaffer. One, he had some embarrassing dirt on the married man's weird behaviour, even if nobody would fucking believe him about that incident... And two, if Mason fucking Mount was anything to go by, there might be some level of attraction from the older bloke about himself. An idea Ross was still trying to get his head around. As he turned sullenly away from the disappointing team-sheet on the wall, he flashed back to what had gone on that last day: his intense encounter with young Mount, the kid's apparent feelings for him, what he'd let happen. It had been totally wrong, he repeatedly concluded, but it had stopped him doing anything more stupid. He'd wanted to beat the shit out of anyone, including the gaffer, so shooting his load on a teammate seemed relatively innocent, all things considered. All the same, today it was putting an idea in his mind. Frank Lampard was already in his office: Ross could spy him through the narrow window in the door. The gaffer was already suited up, looking quite formal at his desk, eyes trained on a computer monitor, a slightly bored expression on his frowning face. Barkley hesitated at the door, again reflecting on how unhelpful his whining to the boss had been last time. On this very spot, outside the office, Frank had put him firmly in his place. But... Ideas were swirling vaguely about in Barkley's stressed mind. Could old Lamps really have a `thing' for him in the same way as silly little Mason? It seemed totally ridiculous, but there was no doubting how strange things had become been them, and the alien concept of his own attractiveness to blokes was playing on his thoughts now. Blackmailing Lamps was ridiculous, that could never work. Apart from anything, HE was the one with the really embarrassing the problem, the problem that the gaffer had discreetly got rid of for him, and for which he still needed to be grateful. No, blackmail or negotiation was out of the question! But... could he play a different card to push Lampard in the right direction? He rapped his knuckles on the door and smiled nervously through the narrow panel. Frank looked over after a moment, and there was a clear pause before he beckoned entry. Ross let himself in and closed the door firmly behind him, still unclear on his plan of action. `This had better not be the conversation I think it is,' came Lampard's dry, controlled voice from the managerial desk. He was looking back at emails, dismissive in his body language, as Ross paced across the office towards him. `Morning, gaffer...' `Good morning, Barkley.' Frank finally looked at him properly. `I'm quite busy.' `I'm sure you are, sir,' Ross said, trying to keep his voice soft and somewhere towards sycophantic. It didn't suit him, and his stirred emotions made such gentle speech a challenge today. Every time he thought about his blatant snubbing from the team time after time, there was a fire in his belly. `But have a seat,' Frank added, after a long moment. He settled back in his seat and seemed to adjust his tie and lapels, as if to look more imposing or in command. Was he as nervous as Ross at this confrontation, this extended awkwardness? He was looking at him quite sharply, but it was hard to read his expression. Maybe he was just really fucking busy. Ross went for it bluntly, what was the point in making small talk? `I really thought I might make the team today, chief,' he grumbled, but trying to sound just disappointed rather than angry or accusing. He folded into the seat and gripped its arms tightly to keep his emotions in check. When there was no clear response, he went on. `It's been a while, right? I know I messed up, but I'm working so hard, and...' Lampard still just looked so impassive, so unimpressed, or... so desperately composed against reacting? `Hmm.' Was that all he had to fucking say?? `But I see I'm just on the bench again,' the Scouser added in a slow drawl. He sighed, licked his lips a bit, sat forward in the seat. `I'm a bit gutted, gaffer.' `I'm sure you are,' Frank replied eventually. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. `But the team-sheet is up. I've picked my 11 men, haven't I? Now, if there's nothing else, then...' `But it's early,' Ross butted in quietly. `Early in the day, right? Hardly anyone has read that sheet yet.' He leaned forward and put one hand on the wood of the desk, giving his wide-eyed look of pleading to the man in the suit. `You could easily change it.' Frank seemed surprised by the forwardness, or the desperate tone. But ultimately he looked unmoved. He let out a slightly frustrated sigh, pushed his computer keyboard aside, and steepled his fingers back on the dark wood of the managerial desk. `And why, Barkley, would I want to do that?' he asked, emphasising each word with formality and clarity. His brow was creased and he had his most severe gaffer face on. Ross stared at him, really doubting his inkling and his shred of a plan, but at a loss for how else to proceed. He'd never sat out of this many games in a row before, not since hitting the top-flight or getting his first few England call-ups. His career was STALLING. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and he recalled the hungry, devoted look in his young teammate's eyes when... when that stuff went on. Ross let out a ragged, snorting breath, and rose up to his feet. Frank looked a little surprised and confused, but just blinked. Ross reached under the hem of his zipped up tracksuit top, grabbed at the waist of his tracky bottoms, and pulled them down to just above the knees, so that his lightly haired pale tan thighs were bared, and the drooping bulge of his white briefs between them, sagging below the hem of his top. He then sat back down on the chair, so his muscular thighs spread and the bulge settled prominently between them. He watched Frank's eyes widen and hone in on the grey package, and then dart back up to meet his own intense gaze. The manager didn't move or say anything. An awkward minute stretched out between the two men. Ross, beginning to seriously doubt the wisdom of this bold action, shifted in his seat, and wondered how much worse his status here at Chelsea could get if this went wrong, and tried to look as intense and determined as he could, fighting back the nervous frown. Frank let out a few shallow breaths, but still said nothing. `It's early,' Barkley repeated in a slow and strained voice, `you could easily tweak that sheet, gaffer.' `You're a pushy bastard, aren't you?' Lampard grunted, breaking some of the tension and formality. Ross took his hand from where it drummed nervously on the arm of his chair, and lay his left hand softly over his package to give it a slow, obvious stroke, and brought his right hand to scratch anxiously at the stubble of his chin. Pushy bastard was... a start. `Why shouldn't I throw you out of this office right now?' Frank asked him. His voice sounded a little angry but it was barely a whisper. And an unmistakeable flush was rising in the Romford bloke's beard-speckled cheeks. `I don't think you want to,' Ross forced out, trying to match the manager's severe, controlled voice, but struggling not to slip into a heavier, rougher Merseyside accent as he did. `Put me on that team-sheet, chief. Please.' He gave himself a soft squeeze with the left hand and laid it tentatively against his thigh. He watched Frank's gaze dart down then back up. Was this what it was like being a woman with big tits, then? Then the manager got up off his seat, and for a moment Ross feared it was all backfiring. Lamps was about to call security, and he'd be chucked out on his arse, trackies about his ankles, to face humiliation all over again, and... But no. Ross twisted in his seat a bit, watching Frank twist a lock on the office door and tug down a couple of blinds over the two visible windows, with sharp, hurried movements. His plan, such as it was, seemed to be working... Now what? Ross spread his legs a bit more and tried to lean back in something approaching a seductive pose, as Frank returned, and sat on the edge of the desk beside him, staring down more openly into his crotch now, biting his lip. Ross gave himself another squeeze, and wondered what the fuck to do now. The gaffer knew what he was after, so there was no point repeating his demand. The question now was... what did Frank want? Ross found himself dwelling on the last time they'd been at this desk together, the slow shame of bending over to be spanked, and... well, jizzed on, to put it bluntly. His pants had been stuck to his cheeks when he got to the changing rooms to wash himself off. He'd felt so shit about it then, but now... Well. Desperate times, right? `Stand up,' Lampard barked, but it was a shaky, tremulous order. Ross gladly rose to his feet between the chair and desk, so very close to the expensive-suited legs of his sitting boss, whose knuckles blanches as he gripped the desk beneath his thighs. Ross was emboldened by the hints of nervous fear in his supposed superior. He reached for one of Frank's hands, his fingers brushing the super-expensive Rolex at the wrist, and pulled the hairy lined fingers to his bulge, and gulped with his own nervousness as he pressed Frank's hand over his warm package. Frank was just staring down the length of his arm, his breathing harsh and wheezy. Ross let his arms dangle at his sides and stood there, feeling the soft squeeze, then a firmer grasp, from the gaffer's hand. It took a lot of will to keep his voice steady and respectful: `You reckon there might be space on the starting 11 for me after all...?' Frank let his fingers graze the outline of Barkley's meat, and chewed on his lip some more, then, `Yeah... maybe there is... after all.' Another firm rub up the bulge, making it bounce a little between the thighs. Ross watched the older man's eyes light up with... desire? He thought about how things had gone last time, and what had really excited the chief. With a deep breath, he turned around 180 degrees, and clenched his big, mighty glutes. He heard the sharp intake of breath, and the pawing hand was back, this time against his arse, tracing the diagonal borders his briefs cut across each rounded cheek, tugging softly at the fabric, then tracing the thin wedgie down the middle. Ross realised how long he'd been holding his breath, and let it out, trying to relax his toned body, but tensing again as he felt Frank really grab one of his big butt cheeks through the soft fabric, and then feeling Lampard rise up off his sitting position behind him, and press close. He could feel the man's breath on the back of his neck, one hand caressing the curve of his arse, the other stroking the side of his thigh. This had better be fucking worth it – he needed on that pitch, he needed to prove himself to the fans, he needed to help Chelsea power forward in the cup. He pulled away and turned to face Frank, whose face was pretty red now, with a mix of lust and self-loathing. Ross immediately noted the creased outline in the front of those tight charcoal suit trousers, and fought back his alarm – that was the reaction he'd hoped for surely, or this intimacy was worth nothing, right? He took Frank's hand and closed it onto his own package once more, and tried to hold Lampard's gaze as he massaged before their fingers against his prick. `Get me on that pitch, chief,' he whispered. `Please. I need this. I can make shit happen.' Frank looked conflicted, his aged face contorting in a frown. He seemed about to pull away but Ross pulled on his wrist, and pushed his hand now inside his briefs, stretching the elastic to thrust that greedy paw in against his privates. He had to pull close to the suited older man to do so, resting his forehead down against Frank's, only a tiny bit taller than him, closing his eyes. He stood there, and rested both hands against the shoulders of Frank's blazer, whilst feeling clammy, trembling fingers explore the shape of his prick and the weight of his balls. The touch was as exciting as it was strange, just as it had been from Mason... `I can put you on that pitch,' muttered Lampard gently, `but...' `But what?' Ross said, a pleading note in his growl of a voice. `But you can... convince me.' And with his free hand, Frank was reaching up for Ross's own sweaty palm, and pulling it down against his crotch. Ross tensed with alarm: being felt up by his teammate or his manager was one thing, but... his fingers clenched as they were dragged against the stiff outline in those trousers, and he questioned what the hell he was doing in here. But this was the only way. This was working. He listened to the hum of a zip tugging down, and then it wasn't just an outline being pressed against his hand: Frank had tugged out his cock, just as he'd done out of sight last time. Ross let his hand close about it, feeling the strange thickness, though not so thick as his own, the heat of it in his palm, the gentle groan of desire from Frank's mouth... Holy shit. `That's it,' Frank's ragged sigh came, their heads still bowed together, `convince me.' Well, this was it: this was what it took. Ross felt his own cock responding to Lampard's touch as it was dragged out of the restraint of his briefs, and he looked down between them at the mutual cock-holding. He gently tightened his hold on the manager's cock and pulled back and forth a few times, watching with a mixture of alarm and pride as his own dick swelled in Frank's fingers: ashamed of his easy erection, but smugly proud of its length and girth dwarfing the cock of the man in power. Looking up, he could see the hungry desire on Lampard's face. God, what about his wife? Barkley realised the hypocrisy of this, his girlfriend's image drifting into mind... but this wasn't cheating, was it? Ross pulled with firmer and firmer tugs on the dick, resolving that the quicker this was over the better, and trying to pick up some speed. But Frank's grunts weren't building up to the feared and anticipated climax, not yet. Frank's hand had left his big tool and was reaching around to paw his bum again, this man was obsessed with it! Ross shut out his doubts about this and just let it happen, wanking on Frank's cock whilst feeling the man's fingers slide beneath his briefs to grasp more at his cheek. `D...d...do you wanna... Again...' He thought about last time, and the cum hitting his cheeks. It had freaked him out, but if it was what did it for the gaffer, then... He began to turn, but Frank stopped him, though the manager looked conflicted again, not even sure of what he wanted from Barkley. `On your knees,' Frank hissed. Maybe he WAS getting close to cumming, Ross thought, with a hint of surprising pride in his apparent skill, but then the implications of the order gripped him. Oh fuck. No way. But... could he back out now? He was all but on the team. He NEEDED this. Handling a cock was hardly as traumatic as he might have expected, so... Before his doubts and fears could push him to do something silly, he flexed his powerful legs and sank slowly to his bare knees, his hand never leaving its steady rhythm on Frank's dick. Without really realising he was doing it, he lowered his other hand to his own swaying cock, so he was tugging both in the same hurried rhythm. He feared Frank thrusting forward and trying for more, but it didn't happen. The shocking thought of having to use his mouth did not seem to be demanded of him, thank fuck. No... this wasn't about to go towards a blowie, like the fantastic one from Mason the other day, this was just... Oh shit. This was about a different target for Lamps' orgasm. Not his bare cheeks, this time. Well, not THOSE cheeks... Ross steaded his weight on his knees, closed his eyes, and accepted his position. He tightened his biceps and jerked both erections as fast and as roughly as he could, until he heard Frank's breathing above get more hoarse and needy, and then he felt it. Hot and immediately cooling liquid splashing against his cheeks, his nose, his chin, streaking over his pursed lips. He heard groaning cries from the man in front of him, suppressed yelps of elation. He slowed his strokes on his own cock and just gripped it, and felt a glob of cum dribble down and off the bottom of his chin, splashing onto the back of his hand. Shit. `Oh yes,' Frank groaned quietly, `oh fuck yes... Get up, get up...' Ross opened his eyes, glad none of the seed had gotten on them, and dared to open his mouth, feeling his upper lick stick with it, and he looked a bit pathetically at his gaffer for a few seconds before pulling himself up, using the fabric of that expensive suit to help. Frank was staring wildly at him, presumably at the wet streaks running down his face, and grabbing his dick tightly to take over control. Ross couldn't hold in the groan as his aching dick was played with now, more firmly and thoroughly than before. He thought with delight at the sure outcome of this: he had to make the team now, after that, it had to happen, and fucking hell... he was gonna make it worthwhile. And as daydreams of sporting glory filled his head, he relaxed into a frustrated orgasm, and groaned deeply, loudly, and shot his load. Frank, careful, had stepped aside a bit as he wanked, so the spunk firing from Barkley's bell-end didn't hit expensive silk, but spurted over the glossy surface of the mahogany desk, forming several small puddles of semen on the wood. `You... are... on the... team...' Frank panted. Ross nodded his head slowly, catching his breath, feeling his dick quiver as it was released, his whole body relaxing now it was over, his arse cheeks finally releasing their nervous clench. He nodded more firmly, and tried to convey all his gratitude with one look at the gaffer, who was still red-faced and... what, triumphant? A bit ashamed? Angry that he'd been seduced? It was impossible to read the complex emotions there. `One more condition,' breathed Lampard. Ross tried to suppress his annoyed disappointment, just giving his boss a pleading look, wide eyed. `Don't wash your face,' Frank said, his voice coming out as a satisfied hiss. `Just let that dry. My lad.' Ross made to speak, to protest, to question this ridiculous demand, but... fuck. How visible would it be? A crusty stain? It was already drying against his shivering skin. He shut his mouth and just nodded, and forced his big nob back into the grey fabric of his briefs, and pulled his trackies back up over his bared thighs, and let out a ragged, satisfied breath. `Thanks, chief,' was all he dared say, in a shaky voice, high-pitched with his full accent. `Thanks... I will smash it out there. I promise.' `I know you will,' Frank gasped, a note of affection slipping into his voice. `Now... get out.' Ross had been exhausted by the intense office encounter, but adrenaline soon made up for this, as the revised team-sheet was printed – the few players who'd seen the original had some murmured confusion over the switch, but generally Ross just felt the gladness of his teammates as they discovered him back in the starting 11. It felt fucking brilliant. For half an hour of the game, he sprinted about the pitch with more energy and determination than ever before. And 33 minutes in, he even smashed in a rare goal, and his elation was explosive. As he grasped his teammates in celebration, including skinny, puppy-eyed Mason, he couldn't help but look over to the sidelines, to the bench where his big arse had spent so much time lately: to the suited man pacing down the sidelines, waving a triumphant fist in the air. Frank looked so fucking proud. Ross grinned, and felt a strange queasiness in his tummy. It had all been worth it.