Date: Mon, 17 Apr 2023 22:21:40 +0000 From: writer guy Subject: Premiership Lads, Part 358 Part 358: Unfinished Business `And the gaffer will see you in his office when you're changed,' the player liaison officer told him, finished signing him in on the morning of their Saturday home fixture; the thirty-something team assistant flashed him a warm smile, as susceptible to his boyish charms as any other member of staff at the training campus or their brash stadium in the city. And he smiled in return, the perky polite face of English football, giving the older bloke a respectful nod and chirping his assent to this instruction before muscling away, arms full of warm-up gear that he would be changing into for the journey up to Stamford Bridge. Still smiling to himself, the 24-year-old crossed through the bright foyer of the glass-coated building in the Surrey suburbs, using a little ID card to swipe himself through into the sprawling changing rooms where he could shed his own overpriced designer gear and climb into the muscle-hugging items of Chelsea home gear. A jaunty whistle even escaped from his pink lips as the fresh-faced young football player moved through the brightly-lit locker-rooms and found a comfortable spot to unbutton his shirt and drop his baggy jeans, smirking at the faint nostalgic de ja vu of the casual remark from the handler at the desk - what was it, 2020 again...? `He'll be straight after you,' he'd been told the other week, when the sports news on TV had been brimming with the ex-player's fresh appointment to steward the struggling behemoth in the dying weeks of a disappointing (and expensive) season. Mason Mount, cutting vegetables for a homemade Thai curry at the time, laughed immediately and shook his head, so distracted by the comment that he almost chopped off a finger and complicated the ingredients that would be tossed into the pot on the hob. `What?' the Portsmouth-born midfielder exclaimed loudly over the sounds of the kitchen, looking over the counters and across the open-plan space, to where the London flat's other occupant was sprawled in a leggy heap on one sofa in front of the giant TV. `That was a long time ago,' the Chelsea player added in a slightly less exclamatory tone, turning his attention back down to the chopping board and focusing on a finger-free set of ingredients to add to the hissing and sizzling chicken chunks in the wok. He'd heard rumours, of course, they'd been circulating through the training ground for the last couple of days, and yet he was still surprised: Frank Lampard, reappointed by Chelsea FC, only two years after his sacking, and now summoned out of the blue to try and rescue things under their new American ownership. Mason had laughed off the suggestions when he heard it from teammates on the pitch, and when his own friends and family had prodded the idea in group chats... he didn't really have a strong opinion on who should or shouldn't be the new Chelsea manager after Potter and Tuchel, but he'd been pretty sure that old Lamps wouldn't want to move backwards or take on the risk. And there it was on the screen, an out-of-date clip of the midfield legend prowling the dugout at a Stamford Bridge game back in one of his brief seasons - briefly celebrated and admired, rapidly ridiculed and dismissed. It was a fast-moving game for head coaches. But of course Mason had played under Frank as a Derby loan too - and even in the privacy of his head, the young man couldn't help but colour and snigger at the choice of preposition, recalling his one-time dynamic with the married DILF. Mason looked up: Declan Rice had swung up off the couch and crossed the room and stood facing him now, a knowing look on his long ruggedly handsome face, and arms drooping at his sides. A single eyebrow raised and a crooked grin met his own charming smile, and he shrugged his shoulders evasively. `It'll be ready soon,' the amateurish home chef promised to his beau, well aware that the Thai dish was not what the other footballer's loaded expression was getting at. `It's been a while, but not THAT long,' muttered the West Ham hunk in a low voice, one that sounded a little less playful and provocative than the yelps across the room as he lounged in front of Sky Sports News in his vest and pants. `Come on,' Mason muttered. `Chelsea needs a new manager and the old fella's been conned into it, for some reason - it's probably a good idea, short term, can't see it being a proper fix for him or for us, not really...' He mumbled out this patter, the same as he had to guys at the training ground, not quite able to meet Dec's eyes without sniggering or experiencing lurid little flashbacks to the 2019 and 2020 seasons - he'd been so young and curious in those days, so eager to please, so wide-eyed in his excitement. `It's a bit weird, Mase,' the other 24-year-old said quietly and a little grumpily. `I mean, sacked like he was, and now back with his tail between his legs, ready to be kicked about again? Fuck - the way things went for him with the Toffees, and...' `It's short-term, innit?' Mount said, swiping cubed veg into the wok and blinking at the plume of steam that emerged from its saucy heat. He smiled vaguely across this heat haze at his boyfriend and flatmate, and shrugged one shoulder again. `Honestly, I can't see him being excited to work with me, after all this time - I think a lifelong Chelsea obsessive like him will have some different priorities on his mind when he comes in to try and fix our fucked-up season, y'know...' He let this trail off and dismissed images of the older man's intense lusty eyes across team talks up and down the country. `Will you do something useful and set the table, Rice-cakes? And - are you actually not gonna put some pants on, or are you gonna eat dinner like that and give me a stiffy, for fuck's sake?' Giggling absently, Mason fussed about the kitchen, making a mess, not one of the world's natural cooks, but guiltily weary of their dependence on take-away and restaurants. He didn't notice Declan move into the kitchen until the taller stud was behind him and slipping arms about his waist, kissing the side of his warm neck and tickling their currently-scruffy facial hair together for a moment. `I'm trying not to be a dick about it,' the West Ham captain said quietly in his ear, and hugged at his body a bit more tightly - it was a close and comforting feeling, just like Declan's company and spirit, but not without his streak of possessive uncertainty. `I know, baby,' the young midfielder murmured back, half-turning away form the oven and kissing his boy on the cheek. `And I'm not being a coy bell-end - I just don't think Frank Lampard is going to be rushing to get me in his office like the old days, after all the water under the Stamford Bridge.' He grinned at his own crap pun and stroked a hand up and down Dec's bare arm. `And if you are saying he's off-limits for our open fun agreement, then the old bugger will have to enjoy this twink from afar, haha - I know what we agreed, baby, and you know I hardly touch anyone else now...! Unless you're there, like in Doha...' Dec chuckled and held onto him, their bodies saying a little, but shifting carefully away from the oven and hob. `No, no,' Rice mumbled, `I don't mean anything like that... I keep telling you, I trust you entirely, and I meant everything we agreed to... I just- I was just messing, that's all, just joking around. Do you reckon I'm threatened by old Fat Frank?!' Mason gave him an indulgent smile before turning back to attend to dinner. `Fat Frank, hardly,' he played along, `but why would I be gagging for that oldey when I've got you here in those pants, you sexy prick?' As he stirred and adjusted the heat, Declan continued to fondle and hug him from behind, kissing his neck and spine again, and then reaching down to squeeze his bottom through the loose cargo pants he wore. `As long as he isn't getting inside this,' chuckled the other young hunk's false confident voice, struggling to hide his shy jealousy, `or anyone else in Blue for that matter.' Mason let out a teasing groan at the feel of his boyfriend's hand on his arse and he pushed it back, filling Dec's hand with a mound of strong cheek, then grinning at him over one shoulder. `I promised, didn't I? Nobody's fucking me but you, Deco. Speaking of which - can we just get this meal out of the way so I can sit on your cock before Succession, for fuck's sake? Go set the table!' And in a flurry of giggles and murmured `Yes, sir!', the West Ham player was off to do his bidding, leaving Mount to tackle the an of coconut milk and adjust the semi in the front of his cargo pants. He couldn't help but smirk to himself at the silly little micro-conflict of their chat: how could that big adorable geek think Mason Tony Mount would want any other man in his life but him? Okay, okay - he didn't want or need another man IN HIS LIFE, but he was a horny bastard, a 24-year-old athlete with the ridiculous sex drive to match, it was hardly his own fault. He was fiercely and devotedly loyal to his Declan and he saw the pair of them as forever - but that didn't mean he didn't get his usual urges and, following the rules of their most recent private treaty, take the odd opportunity to indulge them, on the condition that Rice Rice Baby himself was warned and could veto any individual he wanted. And, Mason thought now, pulling the warm-up shirt over his compactly muscled torso, it was so great that Dec had started to relax into it, and been so faithful to their other promise: telling each other every juicy detail when they were next in bed together. The night that Rice had returned from England camp and narrated the Grealish-Foden-Maddison-Phillips-Chilwell shindig into his ear whilst balls-deep in his hole, WOW - Mason had cum so hard that he'd been speechless for half an hour after they were done, and he'd asked Declan to tell him the whole story again two nights later, relishing every image of his boyfriend playing away. Still, Mason had meant much of what he said to Declan, and he left the changing facilities with a smirk that was half in amusement at his own whimsical fantasies: a lot of time and football had passed since Lamps was sacked the first time from this post, and it was mad to think that fun and games from 2020 might mean anything in the new short-term tenure that the ex-Blue had thrown his dignity aside to take up. As intense as things had been between player and manager for a little while back then... Frank had moved on and so had Declan himself, and surely neither was quite the same guy they'd been then! It was whimsical and self-conscious for Mason to indulge the memories and the fantasies, pausing to lace up his trainers, and making his way through the centre of the building and up a short spiral staircase towards the office suites that he knew too well. And so far, anyway, he'd been right: contact between the recovering midfielder and the acting gaffer had been fairly limited, just as he awkwardly predicted to his frowning lover over green Thai curry. For old time's sake, Mase might have allowed himself to be just a little bit offended, but he did understand - here was a struggling football manager throwing himself back into a struggling club, one hounded by embarrassing over-spends and players who just couldn't live up to their potential. And Mason was hardly blind to the fact that he himself was one of those many problems, slowly working his way back from an injury, and stalling his contract renewal on the advice of his worried agent, who was currently courting offers from at least three major rivals in the Premier League. As much as Mount was against leaving London, he was pretty sure his Chelsea days were numbered - in another passing conversation at the flat, Rice had claimed that Lamps would be trying his best to get his signature on a new contract and keep him there, and Mase had laughed it off, but then been somewhat bewildered when the anticipated one-to-one with the new boss never actually materialised. Until, he supposed, today. One idea was as vain and egotistical as the other, he told himself on the way down the managerial corridor that brought back a lot of memories; the idea that a married dad like Lampard would be rushing to strike up a little fuck buddy arrangement from a couple of years ago, and the idea that this Stamford Bridge legend would be specifically desperate to keep Mason Mount in place at his beloved club, over the many high-profile teammates who were starting week after week without him. Still, Mason had always been something of an attention-seeker and a show-off, and he could indulge the fantasy that the returning DILF would fixate on him in EITHER sense. Rice, he thought with a smile, was just paranoid and jealous, as if Mount's former relationship with the famous coach was anything more than curiosity and lust, any more than a spill-over of the manager's excitement at his potential, and earnestness to champion and develop him back in those Derby days, even before they were sitting down for meetings in this office ahead of him. And Rice had nothing to worry about - he liked to get a bit of variety in his fun, but there was only one daddy he wanted to go home to, that big gormless hunk of his at West Ham. `God, stop overthinking this,' the 24-year-old told himself, rapping his knuckles against the office door and pausing politely to wait for the boss to call him in; you're getting as bad as Declan, thinking like this! Just chill out and enjoy the moment, Mase, like you always do. Contrary to Mason's hesitant humility, Frank Lampard was staring at the screen of his laptop and the email of meeting notes that explained the recent unsuccessful contract negotiations surrounding his favourite Chelsea wonder-kid; stroking the slight growth of stubble along his jawline, the 44-year-old acting manager glanced between the dimmed screen of text and the shifty smile on the face of the lad himself, seated across the table from him and swinging back and forth slightly in his chair. Perhaps this morning wasn't the best time to be addressing this, but Frank was not choosing it by accident: he would be placing Mason on the bench for this afternoon's Brighton game, but with a clear intention to bring him on in the second half, in front of a strained home crowd who he hoped would show him a good welcome. This, Lampard's own first home game since accepting the poisoned chalice of a temporary return, could be a reminder to Mount of what Chelsea had been to him in the first chapter of his senior career - a home win today in front of that loyal crowd could be instrumental in shaping the kid's career aspirations over the next couple of months. And... if it did a little something to help with Lampard's own managerial trajectory, then... well, all the better. `They're offering you a lot,' the middle-aged bloke said after a long pause in their stilted conversation, `but you've been right to hold out.' He saw Mason's bright eyes bulge at this, and his brows raise. `You can get a lot more from Boelhy, you're right - you just need to hold strong and let the rival offers come in. But,' he continued, his voice fairly grave, `don't run this into the ground, kid. If you want to be here, you'll need to compromise eventually, and play your hand. You know the kind of hero you can become if you stay put and really commit to this project. Yeah?' Across the desk from him, the 24-year-old was as evasive and unreadable as he had seemed from the moment he walked in the office door, spinning side to side a little on the wheeled seat, seeming distracted by the most minor detail of the refurbished room. At Frank's mixed encouragement and warning, he whistled under his breath and stroked his thin strap of a beard, then tilted his head and shrugged one shoulder. `I see what you mean,' the young midfielder told him ambiguously, and left it at that. Frank let out a slow breath and stared at the laptop screen for a few moments rather than eyeing the handsome youngster in front of him, acting as if he was noticing fresh details in the notes of his colleagues - and not simply averting his attention from just how good-looking and mature the South Coast kid had become in the years since they last occupied this desk. It was a difficult state of affairs not to notice, and had become more difficult with every experience they shared on the training ground; it was the reason that Lampard had dedicated so little personal attention to one of his favoured players in this patchwork squad of egos and anxieties, and the reason it had taken him this long to sit Mason down and address the elephant in the boardroom, his dubious future at the club. If anyone could stop Mason's wandering eyes and lock him in at Chelsea, the club bigwigs openly said to him, then it was him, Frank Lampard - if only they fucking knew how `special' his connection with the lithe young footballer was, jesus christ. The prospect of such close quarters with this sexy twink had hardly escaped the Romford man's imagination as he gave his shocking `yes' to the short-term job offer, though he hoped it wasn't a major factor in his decision, compared to loyalty and ambition and the burning certainty that he'd been on the verge of big success before his previous ousting. He was here because he believed in Chelsea and he believed in what he could do for the team; he'd hate to think he was here just because a young lad looked particularly good in shorts and bounced about the training ground like a cross between Tigger and a particularly enthusiastic OnlyFans model. He was NOT here this morning to seduce the handsome bugger - nudging him along on his contract situation was pretty much part of Frank's new job here before the season closed, the board had as good as said so! And yet, to be this close to him, after all this time, and to see for himself how much the boy had become a man, well... Unfinished business. All of this talk about his own future was very ego-boosting for Mason, as it turned out, but also a little... disappointing. Did he really just want the Chelsea legend in front of him to be interested him on a purely professional level, and to offer him this encouragement and mentoring...? Hmm. The stop-start conversation between player and coach, tinged with all of the awkwardness of what had once gone on between them, and the gulf of time since, had fallen quiet again, and he checked the digital watch on one wrist. More of his teammates would be getting here now, and he ought to be hanging out with them before they assembled for the coach ride across the suburbs and into West London - and surely the boss-man here had other business to attend to before the team travel. So it was probably time to wrap this chat up, as politely as possible - he hated to be aloof or unclear with Lamps, but he knew that anything he said now would be rapidly passed back to the board who had hired the bloke, and Mount was under strict instructions from his representatives. He was to keep his lips zipped in the Chelsea bubble until the rival offers were firmer, and to leave all the talk to the agent - a positive or negative hint to Frank today before the Brighton game could be disastrous, according to his advisors, who didn't even know he was perched here in the gaffer's office, reminiscing about very different meetings. Neither of them were going to bring it up, he realised, and he was oddly surprised - he'd half-expected some gruff awkward overture from the manager that would skirt around the truth of their past, maybe pleading for his silence on it, or just testing his feelings about it, or even trying to smudge it away and deny it even happened, or... Frank was talking again, but no longer about Mason's future: the football boss was murmuring on about the game today, sharing some tactical insights that would presumably be the centre of his team talk downstairs. Mason only half-listened, looking up from his watch and smiling vaguely at the serious face and determined posture of the older guy, and thinking about how enthralled he'd once been by the midfield hero... not that he didn't feel any awe or respect for him now, but the guy was terribly human and real to him, not some poster-on-the-wall heart-throb or footballing demigod. He found he was sat here with him like an old friend, a couple of guys who'd shared a lot of memories on and off the pitch. It was weird - was it just that he'd grown up a lot in the past few years? Maybe it was being with Dec, he even wondered, always sure that his boyfriend was the more mature and grounded one. `You'll be on the bench, of course,' the 40-something coach was telling him now. `Don't be pissy about it - you're just not in full fitness and consistent form yet. But you'll subbed on, you can be sure of that, so be mentally ready from the kick-off, okay?' Mason tuned in properly, aware that something more than a vague nod was expected from him. `Thanks,' he said, aiming for a bit more brightness and enthusiasm, now that he wasn't trying to be guarded and cautious on the topic of his career. `I won't let you down, chief.' He returned Frank's serious level gaze, puffing out his chest and sitting alert in the chair, no longer swinging on it like a bored teen. And then, without wanting to sound too rude, he added, `Should I leave you to it, then?' `Hmm?' `Er - I mean, are we done here, or...?' `Oh-' Lamps was a bit annoyed by this turn in the conversation, he could tell, and he felt a bit awkward. Fuck, the guy's being as kind as he can, and maybe all this chat here is his way of alluding back to how things were, and here I am trying to rush away... Erm. He smiled awkwardly at his coach and shrugged both shoulders. `Sorry, I thought you sounded finished,' he said through a laugh. `I got it wrong?' Lampard was hesitating, and staring very thoughtfully at him. Then he too looked at his watch, and sighed, and then seemed to stare back very intently at his laptop, whatever was on it. Again, there was something dismissive in the older guy's manner, and so Mase pushed his chair back slightly and stood up, still hesitant to just wander out of the unproductive meeting, but unsure what more the manager needed from him when there was a big game for them both to turn their attention to - their parallel careers were both hanging on this home fixture in very different ways. `It's good to have you back here,' Mason said, stood in front of the desk with his hands bumping idly together in front of his tummy. And it was, he reflected, it wasn't just an empty compliment to a guy who had always placed a lot of trust in him - he'd enjoyed a return to Lampard's style in the training work, even if there had been mutinous grumbles from other corners of the bloated squad ranks. Frank looked up at him from the laptop, and Mason smiled warmly at the attractive older man, wondering for the first time just how stressed and worried the football boss must be, shifting from his Everton disasters to THIS. Not for the first time in the seasons of his fledgling senior career, Mason felt a particular desire to succeed for the sake of his mentor, hoping that his own efforts on the pitch could justify Lampard's faith and bring him much-needed success. It was, for a moment, like he was an up-and-coming teen on loan to Derby, awe-struck to be taken aside for pep talks and one-to-one coaching by the midfield icon. Frank held his gaze, and Mase felt a familiar tingle of... let's call it admiration. There had been a time, he knew now, where he'd genuinely thought that was all it was. Admiration, hero worship. Nothing lusty and physical about it... Hah. Lampard got up, and he tensed, unsure if he was about to get a stiff formal handshake from the acting manager, or... and there he was, the 6ft Chelsea legend, right in front of him, breathing a heavy sigh, and pulling him in for a hug, the kind of full-on masculine embrace that normally came after a 3-0 win, or... it took him back not to his Derby loan spell, but to this office, to 2020, and to the discoveries that had stemmed from his gaffer's close attention, orchestrated in part by the estranged Ross Barkley. The hug lasted for several long moments and when Lamps pulled away, he looked a little red in the face, and flustered, as if he didn't quite know what he'd done - and Mason himself was vaguely shaken, his cool broken by the dredged-up warmth and intensity that lived in their past. Here was a man who, like big Ross, had brought him out of himself, and helped him to see what he really wanted - guys who had, ultimately, led him to Dec. `Fuck,' grunted the slightly taller man. `You're not getting any uglier, kid.' Excited and relieved by the compliment, Mason gave a choked laugh, and licked his bottom lip, shifting foot to foot. `Is that still part of the contract negotiation, boss?' he joked quietly, trying to measure the frustrated feelings on Frank's face. A hollow chuckle at that from Lamps, who continued to stare at him, playing with the top of the zip of his coach's training jersey, just below his neck. `Something like that.' `You're not getting any less sexy, daddy,' Mason told his favourite coach bluntly, throwing himself off the cliff-edge of his list - after all, Dec hadn't pulled a veto, despite his obvious reservations. He could see the wincing uncertainty in Frank's face at his overt flirtation, and the great tension in his stance. Without moving from the spot, Mason nodded across the office. `Does that window by the door still cover up if you drop those blinds...?' `You should go,' breathed the acting Chelsea boss. `I should,' Mase agreed in a whisper, `but I seem to be staying where I am.' He grinned. The moment of de ja vu was over, though the excitement was left behind: this was, he thought now, quite different at all. The upper hand was his. Frank rushed to the panel window by the office door, twisting the little cord at the side to close the slats. He fingered roughly at the lock on the door and then turned around: the lad had already whipped off his jumper and shirt, baring the solid pale muscle of his chest and abdomen, and looking so damned sexy that Lampard could only abandon the simmering doubts in his chest. He'd sworn to himself that this meeting wouldn't end like this, even as he left the instructions at reception and splashed extra aftershave on his cheeks and neck like a nervous youngster on a first date; he'd sworn that he'd stay professional here on his second innings, and really just do the job. There had been so many moments in training this last couple of weeks that had tested him, and not only around this lad in particular - but he'd sworn he would hold back and behave himself. He was on him in seconds, grabbing him about that slim waist and feeling up his bare muscular sides, then leaning in and kissing him on the neck, tasting his soft skin, snogging up and across his jaw and on one cheek. He went in for a real kiss, mouth to mouth, unsure if they'd ever really done that so intimately, but Mason swerved it, and he just chewed on his earlobe and his neck instead, and groped his hands up and down his back, feeling very bulge of muscle in the thicker stronger body than he remembered from before. Frank was gagging for it, and it wasn't just Mason's effervescent attractiveness. He was a man recently dumped. Not by his wife, but by his dom. Things had been strained and distant in his relationship of sexual submission with John Terry for a good while, the initial novelty thrill soon burning out - their FRIENDSHIP was fine, and they still saw plenty of each other with their wives and mutual friends, but their lust for each other had not been quite so powerful and permanent as either assumed. Sex between them had gone from wild to awkward, and neither man had admitted it aloud, simply letting the dom-sub arrangement between them fizzle into nothing. And then Frank had taken a job at Chelsea again, and JT had apparently been so alarmed by this that he'd leapt into a new role at Leicester City rather than remain here in his support role - Terry presumably thought that Lamps was here to try and win him back, which was far from the truth. So Frank was a man starved of this homoerotic intimacy, and he was exploding with lust for it. He grabbed the outline of Mason's always-bigger-than-expected cock through the front of his tracksuit pants, and groaned loudly at the heat and stiffness of it, realising just how desperate he'd been for some dick. He held and squeezed it and kissed Mason on the chest, licking and sucking at his nipples, where it turned out the young hunk was incredibly sensitive and responsive. It didn't really occur to Lamps how different this was - he was less reflective and self-aware than Mase, and he couldn't accurately remember how dominant and bullyish he had been in their old arrangement, now that he had spent so much time submitting entirely to a thug like John Terry. It was only Mason's little gasps of surprise and enjoyment that invited such half-formed realisations for Frank, kissing his way about the lad's body, and pausing only to whisper at him that he had to be careful about making too much noise. The ideas churned at the back of his heated brain, pushing a hand inside the front of Mason's tracksuit and feeling his dick up close and personal, and snogging his way down his six-pack - this WAS all very different from how things had been, apart perhaps from the final time when the lads were giving him a little send-off... Down to his knees he went, ready to take a taste. Despite the gaffer's orders, Mason couldn't help but groan and gasp. He was sprawled back on the desk, the manager's laptop and paperwork almost pushed away at one side, and a lamp and executive toy facing similar fate on the other. His pants were all about his calf muscles and his legs spread, the red face of Frank Lampard bobbing up and down as the older man noshed him off with gusto, surprising him with his taste for cock - wow, this wasn't quite the hypermasculine daddy that younger Mason Mount had idolised and exhausted himself for...! In his dirty private fantasies of the past fortnight, the young stud had imagined a cheeky revisit to past scenes: down on his knees for the boss, face-fucked and choking on his thick manly meat; pushed and pulled about and the gaffer barking the orders; pinned to this desk beneath the weight of Frank's relaxed muscle, submissive to the appetites of his old mentor. But he was enjoying this reality more than he could have expected, reaching down and wrapping his hands about the back of Frank's head, fingering the thinning brown hair, and pushing up and down to feed his own aching cock between those greedy lips. The tongue up and down his shaft and swirling about the almost pointed head; then down low to lap at his fat balls, kissing him between them and taking them into his mouth one at a time, seemingly desperate to pleasure him, and earning groan after groan of delight. When his muscular legs were pushed further apart and lifted, Mason hung between fantasy and reality, between the submissive twink of 2020 who had begged and panted at the crotches of Lampard and Barkley, and the growing stud he was in 2023, his toned body worshipped by this middle-aged admirer. He felt Frank's tongue on first his gooch and then in between his cheeks, darting in there and smearing his hole; the rimming that he always longed for, with Dec a little clumsy and nervous when he tried to please him that way, always just a touch prudish about it... not like Lamps, snuffling and spitting and gasping down there, and giving his arse-hole a good polish with his questing tongue. Fuck! Mase lay back against the desk, hearing a slight bang and unsure what he'd even knocked asunder, just parting and lifting his thighs as best he could to allow the gaffer full access to his pert cheeks and the dark-haired little canyon between them, eating his arse like he'd done on a couple of occasions in the past. Fuckkkkk. This ecstatic pleasure did leave Mase to a wobbly dilemma as he writhed on the desk, cheeks prised apart and Lampard's tongue going wild on his ring: he assumed that this rim-job was a prelude to proper use of his tight strong bottom, and he was re-thinking his sincere promises to his Rice-cakes, that he would reserve his perfect arse for nobody but his Declan. But here... now... with Lamps? He groaned and tensed up and wondered how reckless he was feeling, versus his loyalty and devotion. It was with great difficulty that he pushed back on Frank's head and forced that face away from his crotch, wriggling aside slightly and panting out his dissent, `You can't have my arse.' He didn't feel any need to explain this further, but he was ready for a slight argument, remembering how demanding and imperious his old coach could be - but Frank was just kissing desperately at his inner thighs and licking the tip of his cock, and staring needily up at him. Here it comes, he thought, he's gonna go all sexy and persuasive, and my good behaviour is gonna be REALLY tested, and- Mason started, hearing what the older man was growling at him, and he was still reacting to it as Frank pulled away and stripped off in a hurry. `Fuck me, please.' Soon he had him over the desk, perfectly recreating but inverting the way it had often been, summoned up here at the end of a long day's training, or after a big win or heavy loss, or even on a day off when the site was otherwise locked up - he'd been at this man's beck and call for many months at that time, to a point where he'd felt a bit misused and fatigued, though absence had crushed those antipathies. Well, things were very different now, and he was about to show his gaffer just how different. Mason rubbed spit between the chubby cheeks, enjoying the slight thickening of the older man's body since he'd last been pinned beneath him, enjoying the feel of his bare skin and patches of body hair, getting a bit rough with his hands and indulging a different part of his horny persona. He edged his cock in and was surprised by how readily the married man took it, just grunting encouragement, shifting to greedy demands, and pushing back with his meaty rear until Mount was right up there and thrusting into him. `You're like an Energizer bunny on speed!' Dec had once yelped at him on the sporadic occasions where they swapped positions, Mase pumping chaotically into his lean backside and only slowing down once he released how uncomfortable his less-experienced boyfriend was at taking this rhythm and force. Frank, this morning, had no such complaints, just groaning for more, and telling him this was `just what he needed'. Mason humped him like crazy, pushing his body down against the neck to hold him in place, and bouncing in and out of his cushioned cheeks, loving the feel of him about his aching prick. He even, really gripped by the role reversal of this bodily reunion, landed a couple of heavy spanks on one of Frank's big cheeks, leaving red finger-marks where he slapped the hairy cheek, giddy with dominance and responding to each groaning beg of `Harder!' from the failed Everton manager. It was all too much for Mason and he came quicker than he expected, pulling out so that he could watch his load fire and pool against the muscles of the older man's back, and then slapping the tip of his heavy erection against those jiggling cheeks before backing away in a stupefied daze of pleasure. On his knees, Frank licked him clean and kissed at his shaven pubes and his inner thighs, lapping at his balls and his gooch, while Mase just groaned happily and wondered how noisy the pair of them had been in this indiscreet corner office. Below him, his boss came too, wanking himself off furiously whilst sucking on Mason's softening dick, red-faced and frenzied, as frenzied in submission as he'd once been in his dominance. And Mason just gazed happily down at his temporary gaffer, very glad that they'd both thrown caution to the wind and reunited like this - and already imagining how fun it would be to tell Declan in bed tomorrow night once both of their weekend fixtures were over. Lamps tried his best not to be too awkward or off with Mount as he helped him to dress and then hugged him goodbye. He didn't want to regret this surrender to lust, and any awkwardness or conflict with this star was the last thing he wanted to mar his next few weeks of Chelsea life; he was brimming with shaky regrets about just how submissive he'd been, and how desperate and demanding he'd been with the eager young stud, but then his body felt so good and satisfied, what was there really to regret? He sat for a while at the desk, sweating profusely under his club gear, savouring the very sensations that part of his brain was trying to regret. Heading downstairs to join the assembly of his players, and speaking to them there and on the coach, he felt a strange mix of awkward tension, having given in so easily to temptation, but also renewed confidence and ambition, daring to fantasise that this short spell could turn into a fresh contract and a full new season to prove himself as the steward of this glorious London football club... rather than just an undignified caretaker at a time of challenge and embarrassment. The eventual 2-1 outcome of the home game to Brighton didn't exactly bolster his cautious ambitions, but the physical memory of enjoying Mason's body and cock did boost his spirits and allow him to keep his head high during the later stages of the defeat, and when delivering grim condolences to the players in the home changing rooms. He delivered what he hoped was a rousing and reassuring speech about their remaining fixtures and what could still be achieved; there was no point going in too harsh on the mistakes and fumbles, he was here to drag something out of the existing shambles and give the lads something positive to aspire to. Lingering in the locker-rooms of his beloved stadium, Lampard couldn't help but watch Mason Mount, admiring the new manliness of his favourite protegee - he'd filled out in the last couple of years, seeming almost taller as well as broader and stronger, and a little less playful and silly in the way he carried himself. Lamps dared to hope that he'd had a good influence on the young hunk at some point, and that he could take some credit for what Mase might go on to achieve... here or elsewhere. But he had eyes for others too - after all, the eager fumble with his favourite had been his first action in some time, and as Terry's loyal sub, he'd been so VERY well-behaved in his Everton tenure - excluding that one time where he'd wanked in on the circle-jerk and joined a few of his lads in jizzing on Tom Davies' face. Other than that... saintly. And regularly dominated by his big John, the Chelsea bully who remained his closest friend, even if for some reason the sexual spark had been extinguished. Forever? He couldn't be sure. Before he left the sombre mood of the Chelsea locker-room, Lampard allowed himself a few appreciative glances at the sole hero of the defeat, goal-scoring Conor Gallagher, recognising another spunky youngster in the blond youth; he briefly eyed up some of the new acquisitions, noting the huge bulge in the underpants of Argentinian Enzo Fernandez, and the beautiful backside of Man City import Raheem Sterling; he stared at the broad beefy back muscles of defender Reece James and lingered most on the curves and definition of Ben Chilwell, more or less his last acquisition before he had been sacked - god, what a handsome bastard he was! But he left them to it, unsure he should be enjoying the view so much, having already shamed himself in the desperate reunion with his Mason. That, he swore to himself, had to be a delightful one-off, something for him to fantasise over and return to in his mind. He didn't have long here to make an impact, and he couldn't allow himself to be scatter-brained and distracted by all of these hot sexy young men who were flailing about in the under-performing squad of his predecessor, the mega-money playground of the club's rash new owner. Weakly consoled by a few of his colleagues, Frank Lampard swerved the media attention that was waiting for him at the tunnel mouth by heading to the mens' toilets instead, another location where he could remember having his wicked way with a younger Mason. He pissed at a urinal and took out his phone to check whilst holding his limp cock with the other hand, scrolling through a series of half-hearted consolation messages that were no more helpful than the platitudes of his fellow coaches - although topmost among them turned out to be one from a pundit who he knew would be unusually reserved when this match got chewed over on the Sky sports round-up. His own cousin, Jamie Redknapp: `Sorry to see that result, Franco - but good to see you back home and the fans supporting you x' And then there was a second message that had come in from his handsome older cousin and fellow retired football star: `Haven't seen enough of you lately, big man - let's hang out soon, ditch the wives and kids for a change?' Frank shook his cock and pushed it back into his pants, about to put the phone away, but starting as the device buzzed in his hand, and a third message slid onto the screen from the same contact, following up Jamie's kind words and matey suggestion: `Maybe I should visit you at work ha - see if I can't whip some of those wimpy players of yours into shape?' Ending in a trio of emojis: a cheeky winking face, another one laughing, and then lastly, at the end of the message, a single `eggplant'. 'Writer guy' - Premiership Lads on Nifty https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/celebrity/premiership-lads/ Amazon Wishlist here if you wanna say thanks LOL https://www.amazon.co.uk/hz/wishlist/ls/26BW3WSABBHNM?ref_=wl_share