Date: Tue, 26 Jan 2021 22:33:41 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads Part 230 Part 230: Frank The door to the conference room shut behind him and he paused an inch in front of it for a long moment, trying to adjust the dazed gloom that had settled on his slightly lined 42-year-old face. He held his body tall and still and patted his palms weakly against the tops of his thighs in loose dark jeans. His breathing was slow but his heart felt like it was drumming out a mad beat inside his tight chest. In his ears, the blandly apologetic words of the powers that be echoed repeatedly until they were just a stream of meaningless noises. Frank Lampard remained where he was for a good minute more, then moved away from the door to the meeting chamber where the decision had been made and delivered -- the end of his short and exciting tenure in his dream coaching job. He had feared it for long enough, as the carnivorous media speculated, but he had always imagined himself fighting back against the news, arguing his corner like a feral dog; as it happened, he was pottering silently through the Chelsea building like a kicked puppy, tail between his legs. He loved the club too much, that was the problem -- here he was, turfed out of his rightful position after too little time to enact his vision, but his loyalty to the West London club was too strong and deep-set to allow any petulance or lashing out, not at the powers above him anyway. As he walked down the corridor and then down a flight of steps, he was entertaining perhaps delusional thoughts about how he would be back here in a decade, sharper and more experienced, ready to really become a lifetime legend for the Blues. Downstairs, the sacked manager moved silently to the windows of the main gym area, in which he could see so many of his players -- his former players -- busy at work with the multitudinous experts who had been under his command until a few minutes ago upstairs. He folded his arms against his front with a soft rustle of the tracksuit top he wore over his polo shirt, and just stared thoughtlessly through into the scenes of physical preparation. He was just turning away from this vague view when he heard a nearby door click and one panting occupant of the fitness suite come dashing through, scrabbling at a loose face mask about his chin. Frank turned his heavy head towards the spark young figure, only dimly roused from the fog of shock. `Boss,' the young footballer said brightly. `Good to see you there, just wanted to take a chance to-` `Mason,' he said flatly, `not now, mate, just...' `Sorry, sorry,' the 22-year-old midfielder said in a rush, `I know, let me get my mask on first, chief, don't wanna break protocol and-` `Fuck your mask,' Lampard found himself barking impatiently at his young favourite, not actually looking properly at him, and instantly regretting the briefly harsh tone of his voice. There was a stunned pause before Mason spoke again. `Just wanted to say a proper thank you for your trust,'; he insisted. `It meant so much stepping out there with the captain's armband, sir, it was just mad -- the years I've been here! To wear that at my age, here! Gaffer, it was just...' `Not now,' he said again, a little more forcefully, unable to turn and engage with the plaintive gratitude of the bright-eyed young player, who was dabbing glossy sweat from his face in the tight-fitting gym gear he'd been wearing for his workout; all of it clinging to his lean but defined frame. He softend his voice but kept his words firm. `Leave it for now, kid,' he said, digging his fists into the pockets of his tracky top and then muscling away from Mount's enthusiasm to stomp on down the passage -- he could feel Mason's worried eyes burn into the back of his head but he couldn't trust himself to keep his words clean and professional if he spoke to someone as warmly loyal as that young stud right now. The press could mock all they want, but Mount remained a firm favourite of Lampard's, his joking `son' according to the fan banter. There was no player he was more proud and interested in, as a football manager, even if it still haunted him that his more personal treatment of the vibrant youth was a little less... wholesome. This set him on a chain of regretful thoughts about the mistakes he'd made in this high-pressure role. Not the mistakes of strategy or squad formation, the personal mistakes: the way his middle-aged lust had simmered, boiled over, made a mess. So much of it had been concentrated on Barkley, of course, but not entirely...! How much of his time as Chelsea manager had been tainted and complicated by hounding after Ross, Mason, Ruben, Danny, or stressed out by his own cousin (for fuck's sake!) and, most recently and momentously... the London team's other great hero-turned-coach. The prospect of sharing this news with John Terry hit him like a cannonball and he stopped, realising how far he'd walked through the downstairs of the training building, now coming out at the far end and looking onto a snow-strewn pitch. He was staring out onto the dazzling patchwork of white and green when two blue-clad figures interrupted his stony look, bouncing energetically towards the doors, which swung slowly inwards on automatic sensors. `Boss!' cried the incongruously American accent of one player, snapping Frank again from his wallowing, and he stared crossly at the two grinning figures bursting indoors with flushed red cheeks against their darker stubble and bright sparkling eyes. The slightly taller of the two had an arm slung around the American's shoulders, beaming this way. `Lamps, you legend,' the left-back signing cried with his usual cheeky irreverence. Lampard paused and stared at the two of them, Chillwell and Pulisic, glowing with youthful energy and bouncing a football along with them from their unofficial snowy kickabout, and just like with Mount, fell unable to face them without bursting into painful honesty. He would have to tell them all, it was better coming from him than anyone else, surely...! But... not NOW, not RIGHT NOW, surely... `Warming up out there,' Ben Chilwell chirped. `You guys don't even know what winter is,' remarked Christian Pulisic with a little nostalgic whistle. Frank just stared at them, sullen-faced, and nodded slowly, not fully registering their comments. He moved past them, needing the colder blast of air to fight the rising heat of indignation in his body. He could hear a couple more comments coming from the boisterous pair, the indistinct calling of his name, but he left them behind in the low electric buzz of the doorway. No, he needed a little time before confronting them -- like Mason, young guys he'd put a lot of trust in and really pushed to step up this season, one of whom his hard-won signing in last year's summer window. One of the big signings that had been supposed to transform Chelsea and take things to the next level...! It would be someone else's job to move that transition on, he reflected bitterly, and he would be sulking at home instead. He walked a slow lap of the pitch on his own, kicking his trainers against the patchy snow and ice until the damp seeped into his socks. He only noticed his own reactionary shivering once he returned to the heated foyer, glad Chilly and Pulisic were nowhere to seen, and he thought about the need to get back upstairs. The numb shock was switching to a melee of emotions and Lampard became sure he must be alone to process them for a little while. And, he thought grimly, he would need to pack up his desk. Fuck. Head bowed, the sacked man wove back through the building and avoided the near-distant voices of different players moving between the components of their afternoon wind-down, wanting to avoid more interested half-conversations like with Mason and the others. Impossibly, he almost managed to swerve through the passages and stairwells without coming close to a single footballer or staff member, and then crashed into one at the top of the steps, bumping chests with a tall slim figure and steadying himself at the bannister. `For fuck's sake,' he exploded instantly, having almost lost his balance and staggered dangerously backwards on the steps. The other guy looked as annoyed and surprised as he did, before his reactive snarl was tempered with a deferential frown and the realisation of his own clumsiness. `Mr Lampard,' barked the tracksuited player in front of him, `I was looking for you to speak about my numbers, I went to your office and...' `Not now!' Lampard shouted openly at him, leaving beyond the quiet dignity of his low mood, riled by the way they had clashed, and now fixing his broiling emotion more certainly on the lad who'd blocked his path. `God, what is WRONG with you?' The angry thoughts slipped into one another. `Never in the right place at the right time, Werner, least of all when there's a goal to be fucking scored. Honestly. You were supposed to be my secret weapon, mate, what the hell went wrong...?' Now the slick German athlete in front of him just stared in dumb disbelief, his face as blanched and alert as if he'd been slapped there. `Boss?' he enquired with strained patience in his accented voice. `Waste of money,' Frank barked in his face, less loudly but more aggressively, jabbing a single finger in the side of Timo Werner's chest, then barging past him and moving on across the landing in a hurry -- he was not hurrying away from the consequences of his harsh words to the German forward, but from the risk of anyone hearing their scuffle of words, or from other Chelsea staff members emerging and joining the blunt conversation. Again, eyes like daggers pricked at his rear but he didn't stop and look back at the dazed striker on the landing, just marched on, rounding a corner and moving on until he was nearing the stately corner office where he based himself. Nobody was on the little reception desk around the corner from his office and none of his neighbouring underlings seemed to be present in their adjoining rooms, there was just a solitary gloom across this managerial suite. Only once he was inside the office and the door was slammed behind him did he stop and lean against it, shocked and voiceless in a different way than when he'd emerged from the meeting room before -- how long ago was that? It felt like a month. He'd perhaps wandered the training centre and pitch for a maximum of twenty minutes, but the Frank who had sat down at that conference table and engaged with his bosses seemed like some distant younger self he couldn't quite remember. Frank rested against the shut office door and then slammed a fist against its hard surface once before slumping his brow against the unforgiving wood, absorbing his defeat. `That must be it,' Ben said under his breath, leaning back against the locker doors and staring thoughtfully down at the floor for a few moments before lifting his chiselled handsome features to address the others. He looked inquisitively at the bearer of this heavy news, stood primly in the centre of the quiet changing room with his fists against his hips and a conflicted expression on his sharp foxy features. `No,' said Mason slowly, a few lockers down the bench from Ben, in the middle of peeling his tight gym top up and off his narrowly sculpted torso. `It can't be that. He can't be. No way. I mean, he seemed off when I saw him, but-` `Trust what I say,' insisted Timo in his barbed German, staying where he was in the layered Chelsea tracksuit he still wore, his dark blond hair ruffled where he had been scratching and pawing at his head in frustration. `The way he spoke at me,' the striker exclaimed, mainly to himself. `No respect!' He continued quietly in German to himself, and Ben lost focus on it; he turned and glanced at Mount, watching the worried disbelief on his thin face, and then beyond him to Pulisic, who actually hadn't said a word since Werner joined them and delivered his assessment. Chilwell had little doubt that Werner was correct. It added up. The atmosphere here was horrible today, and the boss had looked totally out of it when they passed him. Of course. Really, had it been obvious for days now? The pressure was there, it just hadn't reached any of them until today... Lampard had protected them from it, he supposed, would never dare say that his job was on the line because of their performances. He wasn't that sort. A good guy, really, Ben thought, conscious of the long meetings he had held with the Chelsea legend in the run-up to putting his signature on the dotted line and jumping ship from the Foxes. He'd been made to feel incredibly important in the months around his transfer and arrival, a sense that had not stopped in the course of this strange turbulent season. `Do you think that's why he made me skipper?' Mason asked, suddenly but in a whisper. `Huh?' He looked at the younger lad, seeing how hard this news was hitting him. `What's that?' `At the weekend,' Mason murmured. `I think that's why he made me captain. Knew he might not get a chance to another time. Fuck. He's a good bloke, really, I always thought so.' There was a flicker of doubt or complication on Mount's expression as he said that, as if perhaps he had a lot more he wanted to say, but wouldn't. `Well, I always liked him,' Ben said with a gentle nod, resting his elbows on his thighs and steepling his hands beneath his fuzzy chin. He gave Christian a curious look. `What you thinking, Pennsylvania?' `It just seems so harsh,' the American player answered, leaning with one hand on the door of his locker and stroking the chest of his football jersey with the other, playing with the hang of a thick silver chain about his neck. He frowned seriously. `Why now? Why not at the end of the season? Crazy. Poor Lampard. He always pushed me, always gave me my big chances. All of us,' he added solemnly, `we all have a lot to thank that man for, y'know...?' Werner made a hesitant little snort. `The things he said upstairs!' he sighed irritably. `If he's just lost his job,' chipped in Mount defensively. `Well, cut him some slack.' Timo just made a noie but said nothing to back down or to further his outrage. He just fiddled with the zip neck of his top and shuffled from foot to foot where he was, then came stomping to the lockers close by Ben and began rifling through his personal belongings. Ben watched him, watched Mason, watched Christian -- then back to Mason, studying the almost nostalgic expression on his face as he stood there shirtless in his tight gym shorts, his tight-packed muscles all a little shiny with the sweat of workout. `He's always looked out for me,' Mount said, that same uncertainty lacing his voice. `Always?' Chilwell asked with slowly unfolding curiosity. `Well,' the 22-year-old began, then fell quiet. `We all know you are his... favourite,' grunted Timo over Ben's other shoulder. `Deservedly,' Pulisic pointed out loyally, patting Mount on the shoulder. Ben just stared thoughtfully at his younger friend, reading his expression, and nodding slowly in understanding, thinking about the very tactile interest their allegedly former boss had always shown in the Portsmouth-born midfield whizz-kid. Always a hand on his arm or shoulder or lower back, a frustrated look to his stony face. Ben was beginning to think he had something of a radar for this, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap while he chewed over the thought. `They can't really have sacked him, can they?' Mason asked him. `It's just, he... Well. He's like club royalty. It can't be right. No way. And if so, then...' A glum note of selfish panic. `What about all of us, who he's pushed forward this last year...?' Ben rested his head back against the cool metal behind him, chewing his lip and turning over what Christian had said. `Captain America is right,' he thought aloud, rolling his strong shoulders under his hooded top and slapping his hands down on the thick muscles of his legs. `All of us have quite a bit to thank him for, huh? All of us. Hmm.' Lampard was just dropping the last of his things into the box, staring about the desk and shelves in quiet alarm at how little the personal effects of his manager's office actually were, when he heard the soft rap of knuckles on the door. A little disturbed, he looked to his watch to check the time, aware that he'd malingered in here a lot longer than he ought to, completely missing his chances to gather the troops and hold a final team talk where he could announce his departure in person, like a real man. Now they would just have to be informed by email and there would be no proper goodbye, not between he and them -- with the lockdown rules in place, he probably wouldn't even be allowed back on-site in the coming weeks to do it belatedly. When he walked down to the car this evening to drive back around the city to the family home, that would be it. Fuck. The knock sounded again, a bit more insistent. He rested his hands on the side of the large stiff box he had found to pack his files, photographs and trinkets into, and then turned impatiently to look down the length of the rectangular office. `Yes?' he said, trying to keep his voice very calm and detached, but hearing the little emotional catch in it even so. A twist of handle, a creak of wood, and the door opened inwards, bringing with it a slow procession of blue-kitted lads, filing into the office one after another. At their front, his prized left-back, the 24-year-old giving him a respectful half-smile and scratching at his chin as he built up to speaking -- after him came an extremely downcast-looking Mount, an intensely staring Pulisic, and pushing the door shut after them and exuding a lingering hostility in his body language, Werner. Lampard struggled to meet his eyes, thinking about the stupid rash comments he'd made when they crashed into one another earlier on. `So it's true then, boss,' Ben said, aiming for cheery but falling awkwardly flat. `It is. I'm sorry, lads.' `It's not on,' Mason said weakly. `It's a load of crap,' Christian added more firmly. `It is what it is,' Frank told them, standing back from the desk and feeling incredibly awkward. He was briefly confused about how they could know but then his eyes fell properly on his German purchase and he supposed it must have been as obvious as anything. He grunted dismally at his unprofessionalism then just took in the sight of the four of them lined up in front of him, making his spacious office feel tighter, more restricted. He searched for something more to say to them, the little goodbye speech he'd just been mourning his failure to arrange, but nothing in particular came to him, just platitudes. `It was a good ride while it lasted,' he said. `It's a shame not to see out the season, but...' His voice did that little awkward crumble again. `Look, lads, I've not quite digested it yet, I'm not in a good place to talk now, can we just...' Ben, in front of him, gave the others a searching look then brought his handsome features back this way, took a step closer. `We ain't here to talk, boss,' he said. There was always something charmingly naïve in the Milton Keynes stud's expression and voice, honest and friendly to a fault. Frank still took a moment to catch any hint of meaning there, until Ben was right in front of him, and grabbing quite meaningfully at the crotch of his close-fitting blue pants. `We came to send you off,' Chilwell said now, his voice a little gravelly and intense. Lampard froze in surprise. He dragged his eyes from the defender's good looks to examine the other three, and then more primal instincts begin to rally against the depression of the day. There was no mistaking the glint in Chilly's eyes, nor the purposeful fist rubbing down the crotch of his trackies; Frank found himself looking in particular at Mason, catching his eye, wanting more than anything else to just give him a cheering hug, since his favourite Chelsea boy looked so bereft at what was happening. He'd promised he wouldn't ever touch him like that again, after that intense phase between them, but now... `Let me suck your cock again, gaffer,' the talented lad burst out, stepping closer. `I'm going to miss it so bad when you go, boss.' This cute twink, the first bloke he'd ever fucked, was looking almost hungrily at him; he was utterly irresistible. He looked from him to Timo and Christian, then back at Ben, registering just how much he had suppressed his attraction to all three of them this season, first in a desperate bid to get over his bi phase, and then... for John. But now here they all were, bundled up in blue nylon and giving him strange intense eyes. Frank took a couple of deep breaths and puffed out his chest, pushed back the gloom, forced a grin onto his lips. `Hey Ben,' he purred, resolving to treasure these moments, `why don't you lock that door for a little while, huh?' Mason fell back into a position he'd been in before but had never particularly expected to return to; he'd have to apologetically explain it all to Declan in bed tonight, but for the moment he was just committing to the same goodwill as the others, and a bit of nostalgic lust for those early experiences with this sexy DILF. On his knees, easing Frank's jeans down his thighs and past his knees, and then reaching for the shape of his semi-hard cock in the front of his grey boxer shorts, that prick which he'd been encouraged into tasting and taking at Barkley's guidance, all that time ago. He kissed and felt it through the pants for as long as he could resist, then took it out in hand and ran his lips over the head, licking and kissing it and hearing the familiar deep gravelly gasp of the Cockney geezer above. He could feel the shifting bodies of the others around him as he got to work, feel one of the lads stroke at the soft tufty brown of his hair, a little curled and slicked with sweat, and someone squeezed then patted his shoulders. The guys were closing in, a little physical tangle of their still-clothed bodies, but Mason closed his eyes and just focused on the heat and taste of the manager's cock. He didn't even know how many times he'd sucked Lampard off or bent over for him, though he knew it had become too much -- he knew he'd tired of the thrill and taboo and begun to feel like a used ragdoll to the older man, especially as he'd begun to realise the strength of his affection for his childhood bestie. Odd for him to now think about anything pre-Declan. He opened wider, pushed in further, feeling the tickle and curl of Lamps' pubes on his steep nose. He took it as deep as he could, then slid back and forth, tightening his lips on the shaft and pleasuring the legend's ample meat as best he could. He rubbed at his hairy thighs, still thick and strong even if the muscles were less firm and ready than any of theirs. Frank was sitting back against the desk on which he'd once fucked Mason senseless in front of those other two former teammates, and Mason now opened his eyes to see it. One of the others, or two of them together, had pulled up his tight white polo shirt and exposed the still firm stretch of his smooth torso, giving Mason a view of his hard red nipples and furry underarms, and then of his intense ageing face, staring lustily down to appreciate the wet blowjob now being delivered. Mason met his eyes eagerly, so glad to pleasure this man who'd been so instrumental to his career -- once upon a time at Derby, and now here at Chelsea, a season and a half of trust and support. Christian felt his cock become rock solid in the front of his tracksuit bottoms. He'd enjoyed more than a couple of cheeky wanks thinking about the married man who bossed him about yet offered him constant avuncular support as an American far from home -- he'd never once suspected that this Chelsea stud might stray from his attractive wife, so to now lean in and kiss him on the chest while stroking his arm, just wow... He licked his tongue over his nipple and was gratified with the way it made him groan and sigh. He flicked his tongue back and forth on the fleshy bullet, bringing his hands in against the warm soft skin of the older man's waist, really sucking on his pec and then slipping back a little with a giggle. He lifted his eyes and met the boss's, embarrassed to be so quick and sluttish here, but so excited by Ben's idea of a send-off for the head coach. Breathless, Pulisic pulled back and dragged his own top off, wanting to join Lampard in the exposure of smooth skin and patchy body hair. He also wanted to push down his bottoms and let his aching cock spring free, but he hesitated, not wanting to overstep his place in this muscular little hierarchy of men. But before he could move any more, he could feel Lampard reaching for his crotch, squeezing and testing his erection through the material, properly grabbing him so much that he felt like he could cum already if it went on much longer...! He shoved Frank's pushy hand away and leaned in against to kiss him more on the chest, and then lower, letting his mouth shift downwards... with almost petty rivalry, he pushed a little on Mason's shoulder, sniggering, and brought his face in close to his, determined to steal his place there... he saw the other young footy stud lift his mouth off the manager's cock and he slipped in to replace him quickly, opening wide and running his tongue under the shaft. Christian went down on it too quickly and made himself gag; recovered, licked his lips, tried again, mouthing hungrily at the cock already wet with Mount's saliva, hearing Lamps groan and swear and push down on his short-clipped dark hair. Timo rubbed aggressively inside the tight confines of his briefs and tracksuit bottoms, his other hand gripping quite tightly at one of Frank's now bare shoulders. He fixed his hazel eyes on the Englishman's excited but wary gaze, rubbing up and down his shoulder muscle in a gesture that was half-massage and half-shove. He smirked knowingly at him, sensing some discomfort and shame -- good! It was hard to forgive and forget what this ignorant bastard had said to him in the throes of his disappointment, and it would take more than a throbbing erection to make the conceited striker forgive being verbally blamed for this sacking. Yes, Werner was pissed off and resentful, not quite so overwhelmed with gratitude or empathy as the other boys, but the 24-year-old hunk was also very aroused. Chilwell's determination and the other two's needy admiration was infectious, and even his anger fueled the tightening of his balls and the urgent rise of his hard-on. In the front of his pants, he squeezed and tugged at his prick, running thumb and forefinger closer in against the hot side of Lampard's neck with each stroke upwards, massaging and strangling at him and grinning wickedly into his reddening face... then glancing down at the way Pulisic now slobbered over the managerial cock. Very close by, another cock was out, obnoxiously huge as it was, where Mount had started to suck on Chilwell instead. Well, surely it was Timo's turn? He let go of Frank's shoulder and pushed both hands into the front of his pants instead, stretching out the waistband of his briefs and tight trackies, and then fisting downwards until his big German sausage sprung free and stood mightily to attention. He hated that it could not match Ben for length or girth, but it was easily as big and veiny as Frank's own equipment, and he knew from many male and female reactions that it was an exceptionally neat and attractive dong. He stroked it once then twice, then leered demandingly at his imminently departing boss. `Take that dirty accusing mouth and put it here,' he snapped frostily, and grabbed urgently at Frank's shoulder, tugging him forward -- it didn't take much encouragement. The former midfield ace leaned over, shifting his body sideways on the desk, and bringing his face rapidly down to the base of Timo's torso; he lifted his shirt a little to make it easier, rose on his tiptoes and prodded his hard-on roughly into Frank's face. The lips and tongue were surprisingly soft and talented against his equipment, taking it quickly in and sucking greedily on it, oh yes. Timo pressed up and forward, shoving himself right into that hungry hole, and grabbing the back of Frank's neck to control him, pushing it right into the hilt until his balls slapped at his chin, mmm jah! Ben stripped item after item from his body, giving cautious glances to the locked doors and the lowered blinds of the internal windows, then pulling away the last item: tight black sports briefs that were already cupped below his ball-sack where Mason had pulled them, but had still clung sweetly to the dense package of his perfectly rounded rump. He let them slip down his shins and over his bared feet, leaving him fully naked but for the charming smirk on his face. He enjoyed all of their eyes on him now, devouring his ripped defender's body, and inevitably fixating on the oversized proportions of his equipment, shiny and wet with Mount and then Lampard's saliva. He grabbed and played with himself, then teased his other hand across his chest and six-pack. He moved closer back to the others, loving their shared attention, and he pushed himself in against Frank from the side; instantly, the manager's hand was reaching around for his arse, patting then squeezing the bulbous cheeks one at a time. Mason, who had been sucking on his hero again, had moved his hand onto Ben's cock already, and now his lips were alternating between the two pricks; behind him, Timo was up against a wall with Christian on his knees in front of him. The dark silhouette of Christian's head bobbed back and forth and the proud German was almost yowling in delight. Ben looked back at Frank, who was giving him the most devious grin of desire. `That arse,' he growled, squeezing it more tightly, `fuck...' `You think it feels good?' Chilwell teased him. `You should taste it.' `Okay, then,' the older man responded instantly. Ben smirked. `Lie down on the rug then.' Gently removing Mount from his cock, Lampard quickly did as he was told. He shucked his trainers from his feet and the bunched fall of his jeans from about his ankles, leaving his white tube socks on, lounging down on the fluffy square rug that dominated the centre of the office. Mount shifted and rearranged with him, finding his place between his open legs to carry on licking and jerking his cock, naked himself but for bright orange boxer briefs that hugged his stiff member and perfect bubble butt. Chilwell lifted one leg over Lampard's torso and took careful steps along each side of him until he was stood with his ankles just ahead of those bunched-up shoulders. He stared down past his own pecs, his own abdomen, his own long upright erection, and down into the lusty flushed face of his Chelsea boss. Then he bent his knees, tightened his leg muscles, and squatted down until his cheeks were delivered gratifyingly to the face of his manager. In one smooth dip, he planted his arse down over Lampard's face, which rose to meet it; the gaffer's hands grabbed at his tensed thigh muscles and he felt hot breath then wet spittle against his fuzzy crack. `Oh yes,' he groaned deviously. Frank's blood and thoughts raced, overwhelmed by the fierce orgy that was exploding on the floor of his office. He licked and spat at Ben's arse over his face for a while until he could barely breathe, and then shifted position to do it more comfortably, guiding the hot young defender onto hands and knees and crouching behind him to press his face once more between those glorious glutes and lapping at his crack and hole. To his surprise, the chain was extended. He wasn't even sure who it was breathing against his own chubby arse until process of elimination identified Christian as an adventurous ass-eater in his own right. The American's sharp dark beard hair tickled and grazed at his arse cheeks and his tongue slid up and down his passage with tingling satisfaction, making him rim Chilly with even more enthusiasm. His back muscles and neck were being rubbed by a strong hand that he knew was Timo's before he shifted his head to see him, the tall German stud kneeling beside him and stroking him like a pet while Mason cuddled at him from the side, licking his pecs and stroking on his wet cock. With one hand, anyway; Mason's other hand was now reaching under Frank's doggy-positioned body to milk his cock in long eager strokes. No position seemed to satisfy any one of them for long though, with the buffet of athletic bodies and very fluid appetites; Frank was far too caught up in the hot-blooded madness of it to feel any insecurity about his own older body and less prime physique. He knew he still had it, knew he could command attention with his looks and body, even in his early-40s and well beyond the early-20s prime of these athletic lads. Ben was, with an almost regretful groan, crawling out of reach of his attentive licks now, twisting and dropping his beautiful rear to the rug, gesturing to his cock instead. Frank gladly obliged. He'd seen it bounce around in shorts too many times to be surprised by the low-hanging neatly shaven balls and the gently curved edifice of Ben's manhood. He held it in both hands and sucked only on the top few inches, rabidly pleasuring the beauty he had filched from Leicester. As he lay down and forward, finding a comfortably position between the left-back's spread legs, he felt his own cock get some new attention -- he couldn't tell if it was Mason or Christian, but it felt good, and it was a solid few more minutes of lapping at Ben before he looked to the side and down his sweating trunk to see... no! It was neither the English twink prince or the darkly attractive Pennsylvanian lad, but Timo himself. Werner had his hands planted firmly on either side of Frank's hips and his face angled carefully downwards to fellate him with sharp, business-like jerks of his head -- ohhhh, wow. And beside him, he could see Mason and Christian wanking each other frantically, but turned away a little, so that the main thing occupying Frank's eyes was the supple line of that lean back and perfect round bottom that he'd pounded in here over and over, god yes...! Mason felt the rub of lips on his neck as the boss cuddled him from behind, whispering into his ear how spectacular and special he was. He groaned appreciatively, leaning in back against him, enjoying the physical support of his arms and chest... and even more so, the way that Christian still yanked energetically at his slim erection. As Mason's hand relaxed on his circumcised American meat, Christian took over, wanking them both gladly and panting heatedly as he did. Lampard's hands were tracing his arms and sides and the boss was snogging noisily at the sides of his neck -- it was a very different man to the one who had manhandled him so gruffly in here in the past. In those days, Mount thought, there had been no such tenderness or foreplay to the manager-player interaction, just pure animal antics: not that he'd complained, it had been just what he craved! He knew his own tastes were contrary and cyclical, because whenever he was locked in the most intimate and loving clinches with the love of his life, he was urging Rice to be more aggressive and dominant; but when he had been thrown against that desk and pounded by the Chelsea ace, he'd longed for something softer and sweeter! He always wanted both, he thought wryly, he always wanted the filth and the romance all at once. Quickly, Lampard's attention became more familiar, more typical: one arm wrapped about Mount's chest, his other was reaching lower, his hand slipping from the lower back to the curve of his bottom, grabbing a fistful of cheek. A finger was sliding between them into the tight canyon entrance, tickling its way in, mmm... `No,' he murmured with some willpower, `no...' He wriggled his body to the side, interrupting the handjob from Pulisic, and turning his lean face to meet Lampard's, so close for a moment that the men were almost kissing across the 20-year age gap that gulfed between them. `No?' growled his manager dominantly. `No,' Mason insisted, but shyly, pulling his bottom free of a grasping hand, and shuffling his knees against the texture of the rug. `It belongs to someone,' he whispered boldly. `It's not for anyone else now. Sorry.' He looked awkwardly at the crestfallen expression on the dirty dog's face, sad for him but unwilling to budge, secure in the rules of his own private arrangements. He knew very well what he could get away with here. His gaze was drawn away from that lined frown to the remaining two members of their active five-piece: Ben was back up on his feet, up against the side of the desk, and Timo was hunkering down in front of him, sucking him off in the same controlled but rapid manner he'd briefly attended to the coach. It was a glorious sight, Mason judged, the full view of Ben's perfected body and the rumpled disturbance of his cute hair; the arched muscular line of Timo bending in to blow him, his back muscles disappearing into long bulging glutes, downy with blond fluff. Mason stared greedily at the beauty of it all, then realised two things: firstly, that Frank was enjoying this vision just as much as he, almost drooling as he stared across the short gap to them; and secondly, that Ben was grinning invitingly back, scratching his fingers through Timo's dark golden hair, and winking. `Does Lamps want to fuck a nice tight arse, does he?' barked the left-back, and Mount felt the older man beside him tense up with urgent response. Christian watched it happen, agog with lust and jealousy and gladness. The way Chilwell dragged himself up onto the desk, sending a lamp and an in-tray scattering noisily from it and onto the hard floor, nobody giving a fuck about noise any longer. The way Chilly's bare sexy legs were jutted up into the air and he just lay there on his back, confidently presenting his arse to the room. The way Lamps moved rapidly up to it, holding onto these upright legs as if they were supportive bollards, positioning himself desperately between them and beginning to push at him with his cock. `He fucks hard,' he heard the other youngster in the room whisper beside him, as if they were watching from afar rather than a couple of paces away, part of the same seedy unravelling of bodies. `Can Ben take it?' Christian hissed back. `Oh, I think Ben can take a lot of things,' sniggered Mason knowingly. As he spoke and giggled, he hugged and stroked at him, making Pulisic shudder a little with enjoyment and neediness. He listened to Ben's first grunts and sighs and thought about how much he had struggled with his first time receiving -- it had been electric and incredible, but it had also been painful and distressing and so very far from romantic. He had not shared the nature of that cherry-popping with his confidante Mason, knowing the past connection there. `Just some guy,' he'd responded evasively, remembering the drink-mad spectre of Ross Barkley at his door. And now, in this tight office orgy, he longed to try it again, but more gently; he looked at the way Lampard mounted and began to thrust into Chilwell, hearing both the giver's animal growls and the taker's responsive moans, and felt thoroughly intimidated. He looked at Werner, who was jerking himself off beside them as he watched it happen, and he thought of all the weeks he'd spent craving the German newcomer! The crush was fading now, not because he thought Timo was any less carved from gold or crafted by the gods, but because he was just intensely sick of trying to catch his attention whatsoever. He was sick of chasing these aloof alphas altogether, and he knew his deep attraction to Frank today was just more of that. Instead, he turned and looked thoughtfully at Mason beside him, and his beautiful cock still rising to attention. He reached down and rubbed it speculatively, feeling a little twitch in his own backside, whilst in front of them Ben was fucked with severe force. `Mase,' he murmured against that soundscape, leaning in against his fellow speedy midfielder, `do you ever...?' And then the other lad's hand was on his rear, and Mount was giving him one of the cheekiest grins he'd ever seen this close up. `You sure you're ready to try it again, mister?' Timo pulled furiously on himself and looked between the two pairings, suddenly excluded. He had been fixated on the manager going for it, holding Chilwell by the ankles and juddering his hips in against his muscular bottom, making the desk creak and rock. Ben took it noisily but comfortably, body stretched magnificently over the desktop and hands reaching out to stroke his boss's knuckles and fingers where they gripped him below the shin. Lampard fucked at his prized defender with an expression of absolute mania on his face, the look of a man who just couldn't believe his luck. But now it wasn't even just that pair of fiery men going for it. Wanking at his drying cock, Timo looked the other way, against the wall, where the lithe bodies of the two short slim midfielders were gyrating and rippling. It was a much more gentle exchange of lust, Pulisic stretched upright with his legs apart and his elbows to the wall, Mount rolling his hips and gorgeous bum in slow circles, entering and testing his American friend with whispered encouragement as he did so. Werner's sexual pique was wound up in so much else right now: the truth of Lampard's harsh words, his long goalless dry spell at this club that was supposed to be such a glorious move for him; the boredom of living in this country at a time of such restriction and isolation; the uncharacteristic little snubs he kept experiencing here, from Barkley's distance to Chilwell's alleged monogamy (hah, fuck that!), with only puppy-dog Pulisic sniffing around after him when what Werner always craved was equally powerful assertive alphas. He squeezed his cock in his hand and stared sideways at the interlocking movement of manager and left-back on the desk, the rapid thrusts and shimmering muscles. He shifted away from the desk and around behind them, looking at the breadth of his manager's shoulders and chubbier bottom, and licked his lips. Ben relaxed himself as best he could, fairly experienced now in taking it in the rear, first from that controlling pervert Vardy and then from his gorgeous beloved; and now from a proper footy legend who he had admired in his ambitious youth. THIS was the goodbye Lampard deserved, he told himself, pre-empting the guilt that he might feel later when he had to admit this escapade to his betrothed Brummie boy. For now he just enjoyed the violent smack inside him as Frank fucked like a trooper, dripping already with sweat and bright red in the face. It was far more like Jamie Vardy's rabbit action than the long athletic performances he and his Jack engaged in -- quick, urgent, desperate, a little shameful. But it felt GREAT, he hadn't been fucked in quite some time, with such difficulty meeting his man. He lay back and took it, resisting the urge to play with his own dick, which swayed and twitched with every juddering hump; he had noted that Mount was now bumming Pulisic against the wall and he felt a little thrill for it, loving the notion of adorable Mason taking that role, and insecure Christian finally getting a bit of what he needed -- but where was Timo Werner? Well, here he was... he saw him loom over Lampard's shoulder, that little sneering smirk playing on his bearded lips, and then holding the sides of the gaffer's arms. It took Chilwell a few moments to really see what was happening, but there was a tightening of the strong German jaw and steely eyes, and his knuckels were they gripped Frank just above the elbows -- but it was a change in the Chelsea coach's fucking motion that signalled the chain they now formed. His thrusts became even more forceful, but much slower, dragged into sync with the man now lined up behind him! Frank let Timo's pushing motions guide and domineer him, dragging him back by the hips and then slamming him forward. As his own cock buried in the gorgeous tightness of Chilly, he felt his own cheeks and hole spread by the jabbing motions of Werner's big piece, and by god did it feel good. He could barely believe he was allowing it, his own shaking form sandwiched between his left-back and his striker, his two biggest purchases as manager, with the other two having moved their fucking antics closer to the desk and both of their heads twisted around to watch. All four of them, Frank thought, seeing him debased like this, his arse opened up for Werner and his clockwork thrusts. He had tried for so long to maintain his status, his dominance... he'd been so desperate for it. The power struggle with Barkley in the middle of last season had kickstarted all of his worst behaviour and almost driven him insane. It had only been with the relative outside of his long-time comrade that he'd been able to accept what he REALLY wanted, but now... now they could all see it, the most intimate of his footballers here at Stamford Bridge... but what did it matter now? His time as the boss here was over, and this was the big goodbye. So fuck it. They could see how much he loved being bent over and shagged like this, even if Timo wasn't half so powerful and violent with it as his own JT, the real master he answered to now, wanking off at his desk for him when he ought to be working. No wonder he was being sacked. He'd spent more time this month taking selfies in the toilets for Terry than he had looking at his strategies and plans for the squad. It barely felt like he was the one fucking Ben now, even if it was his cock coming closer and closer to orgasming inside him. He clung to his sweaty calf muscles and turned to kiss his ankles, right then left, and just let Timo's strokes and controlling hands guide it all, the pace and force of their fucking. And then, jabbing deep into him, Werner seemed to hit the magic spot, and Lampard could feel himself emptying his balls inside the squirming giggling form of Ben Chilwell. Lampard stared down at him in wonder, seeing him finally reach both hands for his own cock to finish himself off, while Timo humped madly at Frank's arse in his own climactic moments. Only fifteen minutes later, he was alone again, just him and the box. He was stood at the desk. Stood because it might hurt to sit down. He could still feel the damp stickiness of Timo Werner's seed in the seat of his underpants, and he just hoped the dampness would not show through the dark grey of his jeans at the back. Silently, he stared down at the cleared surface of the desk where Ben had so recently lain, spilling semen up his six-pack and cackling with glee; then he looked to the left at the spot where Christian had spilled his goo onto the mahogany surface too, fucked to satisfaction by Mason. Who knew the kid had it in him? It had been Frank himself who brought on Mount's orgasm, the last of the five, jerking him off and kissing his neck and then begging him in the ear to tell him who owned his arse, who was his special guy, who got to enjoy him now that he no longer did. He'd leant in there and whispered the truth of his long-held suspicions, and watched the stunned impact on his former boy's face as he did: `It's Declan, isn't it? I knew it. You know I only wanted to buy him for you, Mason? You know he was only ever going to be my gift to you...?' It was at least half-true. There were many reasons he had fixated on stealing Rice from East London for Chelsea, but the prospect of reuniting those buddies and making some amends for his misuse of Mount in the past had been a very personal factor in the failed bids. Mason, he thought, had seemed quite shaken by the knowledge, or the missed chance. And then they had gone, one by one, with their muted manly goodbyes and thankyous. Werner had been less hesitant to move on, barely finished pulling on his clothes before he was sharing his terse appreciation and exiting the office. Perhaps he had gone further than he liked, with that dazzling performance in fucking him, or perhaps he just had places to go. Lampard had held back from any meaningful apology for his words, keen to just severe the awkward tension with the man who had been balls-deep inside him; he hoped dearly that Werner would settle in at Chelsea under a new leader, and at least partly vindicate him after he was gone. Chilwell had given him quite a laddish manly hug before he went, thanking him for everything and telling him his wife was a lucky bitch to get that treatment night after night. His sincere thanks were pleasing and humbling, but he somehow remained cheeky and winking as they parted, an amusing little limp in his step as he followed Werner out into the corridors of the training centre, trying to sort out his neatly combed hair as he did. Pulisic and Mount had been full of their boyish praise and seemed reluctant to go. He'd just hugged them both in one go and scruffed up their short hair before pushing them to leave, afraid he might get emotional if they stayed. He reassured them that their talents -- rather than their gorgeous pert arses -- had earned them their places in the Chelsea starting line-ups, and that they would be safe and fine under new management. And he would be fine, applauding from afar, seeking his next challenge. It started out as empty words to reassure the two lads, but he found himself surprisingly convincing as he said it, and his mood was a little lighter as he picked up the box of personal items and switched off the lamp on the desk, only mildly scuffed and dented by the way it had tumbled off in the middle of the orgy. Exhausted and satisfied, he held the box between his arms and moved for the door, stopping to turn and survey the little HQ he would need to leave behind. He'd become quite comfortable and settled in here, the nerve centre of his management experience, and also the scene of his most sinful mistakes. But those mistakes had happened up and down the country, he reminded himself with a knowing smirk, thinking about quiet corners of several stadiums where he had eaten Barkley's arse, fucking McGinn with Terry, jazzed down Mount's hungry throat. So much madness. So much fun. But the Chelsea journey ended here. He shouldered open the door and left the office behind, gripping the box of his possessions and storming defiantly down the corridor, ready to walk out of here for the last time and move on with his life. `And how do you feel?' asked Terry's severe London accent through the speaker system of his car, somewhere on the M25 half an hour later. The other ex-Chelsea player sounded worried and protective, though he had not seemed especially surprised by the big news; perhaps he had noticed Lampard's tension and dread more than anyone else. Lampard drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and stared at the bright snowy landscape on the side of the motorway. How did he feel? Tired, sweaty, delightfully filthy. Pissed off and underestimated. Thwarted and cut short. Still a little bit horny, so that he might go down on Christine when he eventually made it home through the traffic. He felt a lot of things, basically. `It's a lot,' his dominant lover grunted, when he didn't immediately answer. `Just let it sink in, and think about all the fuckin' ace stuff you did there while you could, mate. Don't be gloomy. It's the nature of the game, innit. We live by the sword, we die by the sword.' A long pause that Frank felt he was expected to fill, but did not. `Are you okay, Lamps? How do you feel, really?' He started the car back up as the traffic began, slowly, to move. He rested his hands on the leather wheel covering, ceasing the restless drumming and just gripping it confidently as he rolled into gear behind the other vehicles. He stared down at the control panel where John Terry's name rolled across a display bar synced up to his phone. `I feel...' There was an impatient little crackle of the speakers, JT listening intently to him from a very different coaching office in a very different stadium. `I feel free,' he answered eventually. 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