Date: Sat, 18 Jan 2020 21:04:33 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 30: Power Play

Part thirty: Power Play


Frank Lampard stood by and counted the men onto the coach like a
schoolteacher on a trip, hands stuck in the pockets of his big padded
overcoat, a serious thoughtful expression on his handsome 41-year-old
face. Today was hardly the side's biggest challenge of late, heading north
to face down-on-their-luck Newcastle United, but the pressure was on all
the same. And in all honesty, it was hardly just the professional
responsibility that was weighing on Lampard these days, when he'd been
mentally cheating on his beloved wife almost every day for a month now.

And here he was: Ross Barkley came striding up behind Alonso and Pulisic,
suited up like a yob on their day in court. That was Frank's latent
prejudice against Scousers maybe, or the frantic energy that exuded from
the tall, muscular midfielder, the chaotic sense that he was capable of
anything. As was his routine for maintaining the severe atmosphere of
respect and control, he seized Alonso and then Pulisic's hands in a tight
shake, giving them a serious little smile, and nodding them on to the away
coach. Ross approached, shoulders bulging through the charcoal grey of his
suit blazer, tie a tiny bit looser than it should be about the collar on
that thick neck. Frank watched him lower his intense gaze, avoid eye
contact, and reached out to seize his hand in a tight shake.

`You all good, Ross?' Frank said in a rush of breath.

Barkley's answer was an inaudible mumble, something like, `of course,
gaffer', and his grip in the handshake was vicelike. It was as if for a
moment, both men were trying to outdo the other here, show their power, but
Frank was the one in charge. Ross bowed his head a little, let go, rubbed
his bottom lip.

`On the bus with ya, then,' Frank said, a little less composedly. Ross
strode by him and took the step up. The suit trousers clung and twisted
about the thickness of his thighs and behind, and Frank was distracted for
a second before turning to grab and shake hands with the next player.

This was getting out of hand, he thought to himself, as he got comfortable
on the coach five minutes later. He had insisted on a double-seat to
himself today for the journey, no tactical discussions with his
assistants. Ostensibly he was doing important business admin, a bit of
catch-up, and this was partly true: but also he hadn't slept much last
night for worrying, and he was hoping he could catch some Zs at the quiet
front of the coach, or at least sort things out in his head. He slid off
his coat and his blazer, adjusted his tie and tried to get comfortable
against the padded pleather of the seating. Behind him, the chatter of the
Chelsea squad was loud and boisterous, a bunch of testosterone-fuelled men
ready for another climactic on-pitch battle.

This had all come out of nowhere for Frank. It had started with those
stupid photographs turning up on his desk... or had it? Had the fascination
been there before, for Ross, for other players? It was hard to say. And in
fact, did this magic even apply to other blokes, or was it just Barkley?
This fixation was so overwhelming that he didn't know what to say. He'd
tried popping some gay porn on his iPad one night when he was home alone
but felt disgusted with himself and closed it down within a minute of
snogging muscle-heads. Perhaps it would have fizzled out if not for that
awkward late night encounter with his big cousin Jamie?

Realising sleep was not going to come his way, he took out his iPad and
started doing what he'd claimed he would: sorting through his emails. The
administrative side of this job continued to take him by surprise. It's not
that he'd expected it to be 100% rousing speeches and mucking in with the
lads, but sometimes he felt like he'd entered a whole new world hanging up
his football boots and donning the mantle of coach and manager. And here,
even amongst the duller end of his working life, he couldn't escape the
haunting presence of that Scouser.

"Latest negotiations: RB" read the subject of the email, and he gritted his
teeth at the familiarity of the initials, before clicking it open. Of
course, West Ham were still interested. One of the many vague speculative
chats going on in the background. When it had first been raised, Frank had
resisted even engaging with it. Ross was a superb player, a hard worker,
and... at the time, he'd been consumed by the image of those photographs of
his arse, and even discussing the lad's contract had seemed more than he
could cope. But now... Well, it would be one solution, wouldn't it? To sell
him, to farm him off, even if just on loan, and to not have to LOOK AT him
every bloody day...

He looked around his shoulder and the edge of the seat for a moment,
glancing down the aisle of the long coach as it ground its way out of the
London roads. The lads were still in high spirits, and right amongst them,
he spied his obsession, chuckling away and bantering with the
guys. Fuck. What was it about him that was so... captivating? Lampard swung
round, stared at the screen of his tablet, and re-read the email. They were
offering bloody good money. It was a deal that could make a lot of
sense. He shivered indecisively, and locked the screen, and leaned back to
close his eyes and search desperately for a nap. He needed his mind clear
for this game, not messed up like this!



By half-time, it was a tense, goalless battle of attrition. Lampard did his
best to stir up some more momentum behind the scenes, though he was hardly
on his best form today. He was regretting his formation plans and some of
his starting line-up. He had relented and put Barkley on for a very tired
looking Mount, but things were still not going well. He stood in the chilly
Tyneside evening and gazed out across the iconic pitch of St James Park.

His distracted eyes scanned the Newcastle side as they dashed about in
black and white. No Andy Carroll playing, he thought idly, briefly
imagining the big tall Geordie striker. But they had a surprisingly strong
squad today, and there was a couple of names he was considering passing on
to his scout team, though it was late in the transfer window already. He
found himself settling his gaze for a moment on the Toon skipper Jamaal
Lascelles, bruising past with the build more of a rugby prop than a
footballer. He was a really well built and handsome bloke... For fuck's
sake. Trying to watch some gay porn on the internet had turned his stomach,
but here he was meant to be doing his job, and he was starting to check out
the opposition?

He shook himself, strutted down the line a bit, shouted out a few orders
and snatches of encouragement, though his players looked weak and
tired. The more he watched, the more his thoughts slid from winning
strategies to memories of having Barkley to himself in his office. He
watched as the powerful midfielder skidded past nearby and got stuck into a
strong challenge against Newcastle's little goalscorer Almiron... the play
skipped away further down the pitch, and Frank watched Ross jogging slowly
back past him. For a second, their eyes met, and the lad looked sharply
away and moved further into the pitch, as if to avoid his piercing
gaze. Frank swore to himself and tried to concentrate more on what was
happening down near the Newcastle box.

As the goalless second half wore on, Lampard paced the touchline with more
energy than could be easily explained, watching the action develop. Again,
the pace and direction of the game frequently brought the action here to
the dugout, and with it, closer glimpses of Ross Barkley at work,
animalistic in his play and rippling muscle through glossy blue kit. He was
getting more aggressive, it seemed, and Frank feared (or hoped?) it was
something to do with him. The yellow card hung there on the edge of
consciousness though. If Barkley went too far, it would be red.

One more sliding tackle later, and he called it, muttering instructions to
his assistant manager and waving his arm up as signal. Substitution
time. He scanned the bench and selected his replacement, and waved
authoritatively at a confused-faced Barkley about ten yards away. The meaty
midfielder came jogging aside, looking ready to protest.

`Any more of this and you'll be red carded,' Frank shouted above the
echoing crowd noises above, stamping his feet at the sprayed white boundary
of the pitch and clapping his cold hands together impatiently. `Get off,
come on.' He ignored the wide look of disappointment on Ross's face and
turned to bark instructions at his selected substitution, Jorginho, then
backed away from the touchline and turned to look properly at his favourite
player.

Ross's eyes looked dilated with adrenaline, his nostrils flaring as he
caught his breath. Sweat trickled down his roughly hewn face and
thick-veined neck, catching the sparkle of the floodlights in the
background. His close-fitting Chelsea kit looked soaked through, clinging
to the architecture of his developed muscles in his chest, arms, legs... a
momentous bulge hung pendulously in the front of the baggier shorts, more
prominent than it logically should. And as he turned to gratefully accept
water and a slice of orange form a senior coach, Frank caught sight of the
way said shorts hugged the mound of his arse, the little wedgie between
those globed cheeks. His focus on the game, on Chelsea's precious victory,
was destroyed.

`Barkley, what the fuck was that?' he yelled viciously.

Ross twisted his head with an expression of forced innocence and even the
senior coach next to him looked a bit taken aback by Frank's tone. `What
d'you mean, chief?' the Scouser mumbled through a mouthful of orange, its
juices spilling down his lip and chin to mingle with the rivulets of his
sweat.

`You were going mad out there,' Lampard snapped. `Too far, Barkley, too
far.' He stamped his feet, rubbed at his stubbled chin, and waved a furious
hand. `We need to talk – into the tunnel. This is your final warning.'
He prodded Barkley in the side urgently, and turned to the coach. `I won't
be long. Keep an eye on things for me: you have their respect. Good man.'
He clapped a hand to the other guy's back, gave a meaningful look to two
other senior assistants nearby, and marched away across the dugout and
towards the tunnel, following Ross.

He mouthed off a bit more as they strode past various members of Chelsea
and Newcastle staff, and lingering media representatives, into the echoing
tunnel, until they were a good distance down it and its shadows, and then
out into the harsh electric lighting of the corridor beyond. Ross turned
and glared at him, but the big lad looked worried. `Into the changing
rooms,' Lampard barked commandingly, then shot a look back down the tunnel
to the silhouetted figures at the end of it, and the lights and roar of the
climaxing football game. But no, his attention was far from it: what did
another result matter, really? Frank shook off the weight of his position
and handed himself over to a simpler obsession, following Ross in through
the swinging door of St James Park's away changing room.

`Lamps, I was playing WELL,' Ross moaned loudly, stamping the studs of his
boots across the floor and throwing his arms up in protest.

`You were losing control. You were riled,' Frank snapped at him, squaring
up to him and wagging a finger. `You were seeing red, and you would
literally be getting red, if I hadn't... Stop looking at me like that. You
know I'm right. You need to control that temper, Barkley. You do.'

`But...'

`And besides,' Frank added in a low growl, `I needed to... see you.'

Ross stared back at him in slow understanding. `But boss,' he mumbled, his
angry tone shifting to one more vulnerable, `erm... here? Now...?'

`Here,' Frank echoed a little bit more forcefully. `Now.'

Barkley shifted from boot to boot, still heaving and panting from his
exertions on the field, sweat still beading and glinting on every exposed
inch of skin. `I need to shower then,' he said in a slow, reluctant voice,
but one of resigned agreement to the growing understanding between them. As
before, Frank felt the flash of hot shame, the awareness of his own power
misused, but...

`No,' he said quickly, `no, you don't...' He wasn't aware until he was
saying it quite how turned on he was by the sweaty, powerful state of the
man in front of him, but he meant what he said. He needed to taste
it. `Just... stand there...' He pulled his arms out of his heavy coat and
discarded it to the floor beside him. The room was cluttered with discarded
clothes, the training gear and kit bags of all the others hanging or piled
or strewn all about them in this manly inner sanctum. That added somehow to
the deep thrill of it, as he took lunging steps forward and planted his
hands to Barkley's chest. He grabbed greedily at the lad's body, feeling
the dampness of the Chelsea shirt sticking to the firm pecs and bulging arm
muscles. Had Frank ever been quite so physically fit in his own career?

Ross tugged on the front bottom of his shirt and pulled it up to wipe his
face with, and Frank stared greedily at the exposed abs, stroking fingers
across their sweaty heat. He grabbed more gently at the visible package in
the front of those shorts, and Ross made the slightest moan of enjoyment
there, a reminder that this was not 100% one-way: he knew he had made him
cum, tugging him off in his office, and there was some hint of enjoyment in
this secrecy to the restless younger man. Driven by memory, he fondled the
bulge more, then slid his hand inside the shorts for more: those briefs in
there were soaked with sweat, in fact, and he clung greedily to the
tight-packed shape of cock and balls.

`Go on,' Ross said, in a voice that trembled with the effort of sounding in
control, `do what you want with it...'

Frank smiled. He knew there was a shifting power dynamic here, or the
illusion of one. He knew, in his excitement, that Ross was trying to
exploit HIM: that shameless appearance in his office for a second time,
that seductive meeting they had shared. And the two further visits, where
Ross had only needed to expose himself a little, and let Frank watch and
wank... But Lampard knew he was in charge, he felt it instinctively and
certainly. And today he wanted more.

`Turn around,' he said. He registered the flicker of fear or uncertainty on
Barkley's face, but the big lad knew what was good for him, and he turned
around. Frank looked from the thick neck down over the pronounced
curve. With a finger, he traced the letters of the surname on that sweaty,
trembling back, and the swooping infinity of the number 8. Frank realised
he had been holding his breath for some time, and let it out in a slow
gasp, then pushed forward, guiding Ross a few metres towards the
wall. Barkley pushed both arms forward and rested his hands on the white
tiles. Frank patted and then grabbed that glorious behind.

`What are you gonna do?' Barkley asked him through gritted teeth.

He didn't answer, because he didn't honestly know. He just wanted to take
all of this in. His own dick was rock hard now in his suit trousers, and he
gently rubbed it. Then he began to stoop, and rested his knees to the
floor, and gently pulled up the bottom of the shirt to expose Ross's lower
back, the waistband of briefs peeking out from beneath the shorts. Frank
could have screamed with lust right then, but instead he just kissed his
boy on the spine. Ross let out a little shuddering groan of surprise at
this tenderness.

Frank hooked fingers into the waistband of those shorts, and pulled them
off, letting them stretch over buttock and thigh then fall to ankles. The
briefs looked too small, clinging to the rise of Barkley's cheeks, and
tucked in a little in the crack. Frank leant in and pressed his face to
them, sniffing them, inhaling Ross, and flicking his tongue against the
sweat-damp fabric for a few moments. More shuddering, confused murmurs from
above. Excitement and certainty gripped the Chelsea manager, of all a
sudden. He pulled on the briefs, and wrestled them down, exposing the
perfect curve of the cheeks, and let them fall down to Ross's feet, over
the stretch of his long socks and over the muddy crust of the boots. He
guided Ross's feet, making him step out of his undies and shorts, and then
snatched up the dirty, sweaty briefs. He stood again, cock absolutely
straining his suit pants, and pulled a hand around to press them against
Ross's mouth: the big man struggled a bit for a moment but knew who was in
control. `Just taste your own sweat, you animal,' Frank said in a wildly
excited whisper.

He dropped back to his knees, driven by lust, and took one cheek in head
hand, and parted them, and pressed his face to the arse again, without the
barrier of damp cloth. Ross smelt so strong and amazing, it was
electrifying: how would it taste? Pushing the cheeks apart as much as he
could, he stuck his tongue in, and licked. Ross made a muffled noise
through a mouthful of his own underpants, and Frank pulled back to take in
a deep breath, before going to work. He'd always enjoyed going down on
women, but this was something else. He pushed his face close and ran his
tongue over the sweaty flesh and curled hair.

`Oh god, boss,' Frank moaned, clearly having spat out the briefs now. `Oh
fuckin' hell, you bastard...'

Lampard didn't care if these yelps were of anger or enjoyment, he just knew
he had to keep going. He kissed eagerly at both cheeks and licked wildly,
finding what felt like the tight little hole with his tongue, tickling and
probing and lapping. The cheeks pressed against his, warm and damp and so
full of Ross's muscular presence. He couldn't help but reach down, undo his
fly, and tug his cock out, needing to pleasure himself as he enjoyed the
big arse that had taken over his imagination this past month or so. Dear
god!

There was a shift then, but Frank didn't notice it at first. He wasn't
aware that Ross was relaxing his big meaty behind and then squatting a bit
to make it easier, or pressing it backwards so Frank's tongue was really
now testing that unexplored hole. He didn't immediately register that Ross,
after three more minutes of this, was reaching back behind him and planting
a strong hot hand on Frank's head, pushing him into the crack more. `Oh you
cunt,' Barkley groaned, `eat it... eat it...'

And then, suddenly, Ross was pulling forward, the buffet was gone, and
Frank's head lolled dizzily. Barkley whipped round and looked down at him
with a face of disgust and superiority. Frank's cheeks and lips and chin
felt damp with the other guy's sweat, and he supposed Ross must see it:
sweat was trickling off Ross's face too though, dripping onto him. Frank's
eyes moved down the rising and falling muscles of Barkley's chest, and to
the big muscle prominently hovering in front of his face, that big strong
cock... oh...

`Eat it,' Ross grunted commandingly, and he thrust it forward whilst
reaching down to hold Lampard by the head. Frank found his lips parting and
his tongue reaching as the seemingly gargantuan thing was pressed into his
mouth. Oh it tasted good, so good. He stared up in, he realised, defeat:
power had shifted, and now Barkley was in control, he'd lost it all. Had
the power ever really been his? He just needed as much of this gorgeous man
as possible, that was all that mattered now. He opened wide and tried not
to choke. He tugged on his own dick fast and hard, and felt Ross pushing
deep in his throat. The taste and smell of Ross the Boss just filled his
world for agonising moments of utter enjoyment.

`That taste good, does it?' came Ross's taunting Scouse drawl. Frank tried
to nod, but it was hard, his head anchored on the big thick meat. `Yeh, bet
it does, you dirty old fuck... Enjoy it... You stupid cunt... You thought
you could boss me about, did ya?'

Frank felt tears of discomfort or shame sting his eyes, in spite of his
lust and enjoyment, and he just sucked more hungrily. He wanked himself
desperately. He'd lost, and he felt the horror of it begin to creep up past
the raw filthy enjoyment of the moment. Then he felt himself cumming,
spilling his load over his hand, his expensive suit trousers, the floor. Oh
dear god, what was he doing down here on his knees? Ross pulled his cock
from his mouth, noticing he'd finished, and just let out a nasty, mocking
laugh. `You stupid prick,' he grumbled. He took Frank's lapels and pulled
the suited man upright, and then was snatching at something – the briefs
– and Frank felt them forced into his own trembling mouth, that strong
musty taste filling his mouth. He nodded weak acquiescence and grabbed Ross
by the cock to finish him off whilst the brooding meathead stood before
him, swollen with victory.

`Imagine yer bird could see ya now,' Barkley whispered. `Imagine that.'

Frank bit into the fabric of the dirty undies, swayed a little on his feet,
and pulled desperately on Ross's cock, which seemed to fill his hand so
excessively with its girth. Ross rocked a little on the heels of his
football boots, them and his socks looking so odd against his naked legs
and exposed crotch. The lad sighed and moaned and then, as he peaked, leant
in to press both hands to the shoulders of Lampard's blazer. He let out an
exaggerated cry of pleasure, and Frank stared down as the messy load
spilled against his sleeve, his blazer, one leg of his suit pants. He
clutched the dick and kept pulling on it for almost a minute after
Barkley's sticky explosion.

Ross slowly reached a hand up from his shoulder, and yanked the briefs from
his mouth, leaving it hanging dumbly open. A 41-year-old married father,
Frank just stared blankly at the younger, fitter man, and felt the tears of
shame pricking his eyes. Oh shit. What did this mean?

`Here,' Barkley grunted, in a softer but still authoritative voice. He
pulled Frank's blazer open a little, and stuffed his damp, dirty underpants
into the inside pocket, where they bulged stupidly. Then he patted Frank's
shoulder and backed off, beginning to tug his skintight Chelsea top up and
off. `I need to shower, I guess...' And away Ross went, his buttocks rising
and falling with each step as he swaggered off to the shower. Frank stood
there in a daze, and then slowly came to. He checked his watch, and felt a
stab of panic. It was the 89th minute.

When he made it back to the dugout, dabbing aimlessly at the wet patches he
had scrubbed into his suit, he was just in time to hear the final whistle,
and his eyes darted up to the scoreboard. What the fuck? How had Newcastle
secured such a late goal???



The team talk after the game was dour. The interview was painful. He felt
in a hot flush for about 90 minutes of his own after the loss had ceased,
and it was only once alone in his Newcastle hotel room, scrolling through
some sympathetic messages from his wife, that he begin to feel any calm
returning. He sat down on his bed, and tapped away at his phone. His head
was spinning. The team had played poorly tonight, but he... He had been
awful today. He had barely given a scrap of his attention to this
Premiership clash at all. He had been totally occupied by... HIM.

Frank narrowed his eyes, chewed his lip, and swiped through the open apps
on his smartphone, back into his busy professional inbox. He pulled up that
email again. "Latest negotiations: RB". He stared at the message, its
quoted figures, its suggested negotiations, the thread of exchanges leading
up to it. Selling Ross Barkley... it would solve some problems for him,
surely? It might make life... simpler again. But it would also rob of him
of seeing that man daily, and take away any chance of... of...

`Of what?' he asked himself aloud, bitterly.

He stared once more at the email, and held his phone over the touchscreen,
wavering between two tabs: REPLY or DELETE?



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