Date: Sun, 8 Mar 2020 19:16:39 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 64: Chelsea Blues

Part sixty-four: Chelsea Blues



The whistle blew and Chelsea's 4-0 over Everton was complete. Ross Barkley
staggered to a halt midfield and pulled his muscular arms up behind his
head to stretch and flex, his whole body sore from over 90s minutes of
frantic running and holding the side together. Still, a victory without
some key first team players, and their second Merseyside time destroyed in
a matter of days: an ironic triumph for a die-hard Scouser to start
celebrating!

Around him, the lads in dark blue were cheering and grabbing at each other
in celebration. Ross, always far more gentlemanly than he ever seemed to
get credit for, knew how ruined his boyhood club would be by this 4-0
trashing in London: before returning to the Chelsea mass, he paced the
other half of the pitch and gave handshakes or hugs to some of the
sad-faced Merseyside visitors, including a few who he'd played alongside a
couple of seasons back before his big move south. He ended with a
comforting hug to the Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford, reputedly the
least successful keeper in the league at the moment; their paths had only
briefly crossed at Everton, but he knew him better from England trips, and
he felt for the unlucky Mackem lad.

Jordan gave him a sour nod, clearly holding back his distress at his record
today, and then backed off with a scowl. `Thanks, but I think we'll be fine
without ya, Barkley,' he grunted bitterly. `It's been two years since you
sold out after all.' With that, the resentful goalie backed off to traipse
away after a few other Everton lads.

Barkley rolled his eyes, wondering why he'd bothered trying to be a good
sportsman. He looked up past the Everton goalposts to the away fans' stand
and heard a few boos and ugly chants directed his way. Of course, two years
on, and he was still scum to Everton fans for heading south. He'd been
faintly aware of it during the game, but during play he always seemed to
slip into a more focused and intense mode.

Letting the crowd sounds fade away, the defeated Scousers packing up and
leaving after all, Ross trailed after the happily clapping and shouting
Chelsea lads at the far side of the pitch. Lampard was out on the turf,
clapping guys on the back and dishing out big hugs. The manager always
looked about ten years younger between defeats and wins, and Barkley liked
to see it: the beaming grin on the older guy's face, the warm confidence
with which he moved. It could be very different after a bad game, and Ross
let his mind slip back to their European exit not so long ago, when he'd
felt at first so angry and then so... Well, so compelled to comfort his
boss.

Their relationship just seemed to get more complicated, he reflected, as he
crunched his boots over the grass and mud and approached the line. Old
Frank was just hugging and congratulating Pedro on his contribution to the
scoresheet, but he caught Barkley's eye and pulled away from the Spaniard
to approach his stalwart midfielder.

`Ross,' breathed the Chelsea manager quietly, grabbing his hand in both of
his. `Excellent play. Excellent. 90 strong minutes again.' The look of
gratitude and appreciation on that grinning middle-aged face was strange,
so much more relaxed than the intensity that had existed between them at
other points this season.

`And Mason's goal,' Ross grunted wearily. `Where is the lad? He was
outstanding.'

`He's back in the tunnel already,' Frank said, nodding earnest
agreement. `I think he needs... congratulating.' Ross recognised the eager
look that flashed across the gaffer's beady eyes, and he tensed up a bit,
wondering what else Frank might risking saying here, pulled close together
with thousands of eyes potentially still watching. But no, nothing
more. Lampard pulled him in for a quick hug, patted his thick neck, and
sent him on his way. `Get in and relax, you were a brick out there today,
Barks,' he said, appreciative but dismissive.

Ross watched him move on, nodded, and headed on indoors. `Congratulating',
he thought, remembering the long sloppy blowjob in the boardroom on Tuesday
night. Ross had been incredibly proud of that goal, his first in a long
while; as much as his nostalgia for Everton felt less and less with each
clash, his hometown rivalry for Liverpool never seemed to dull
whatsoever. Smashing the Scousers out of the Cup on Tuesday night had felt
great, and powering in his own goal to make it happen had been
fantastic. What worried Ross more than a little though, was that almost as
soon as he'd aggressively celebrated the strike with his teammates, his
mind had turned to: what will Frank think of THAT? He'd known, deeply and
instantly, that Lampard would need to mark it somehow.

He'd been pulled aside by the manager from an interview and not allowed
told to avoid a shower, to stay sweaty and damp. Of course. And so an hour
later he'd been upstairs in the corridor of power, legs spread and holding
Frank's hungry face between his thighs. As usual, Lampard had been pushy,
wanted more. He was getting worse, more desperate, more obsessed. Every
time Barkley convinced himself he was in control here, things slipped a
little more. But he'd jizzed on his manager's face and watched the older
man squat and jerk off whilst sniffing his briefs. And then the next
morning, attending a fairly relaxed training session whilst the squad
recovered from the Liverpool game, a member of the wider management had
informed him that an additional new goal bonus would be going to his
account.

On the way in, Ross shook off these strange reflections, and grabbed at one
after another of his elated teammates, enjoying the atmosphere of confident
victory that presided over the tunnel and the way into the Chelsea changing
rooms. He looked about on his way into the musty environment, and saw a
shirtless Mason Mount nearby, being enthusiastically congratulated by
fellow goal-scorers Willan and Giroud. Excitable young newcomer Gilmour was
jumping in to get involved and so too was Zouma. Only once these lads had
dispersed a little did Ross risk angling near to his young fellow
midfielder and reaching out to tap him on his lean bicep.

`Great goal, Mase,' he said.

Mount turned and gave him an awkward look. Little had been said between
them over the last week and a bit. Ross knew he'd been a right cock to the
21-year-old in the time since their Dubai trip, but he didn't really know
how to put that right. He'd been so frightened by the perky lad's
enthusiastic kindnesses towards him and his seeming fixation on their beach
encounter, he'd been desperate to just severe the bond and cool things: now
he could feel Mason withdraw every time he was close, could sense his
discomfort when they had to work closely together in training or in real
games.

`Thanks,' was all the 21-year-old said to him then, turning his back on him
instantly.

Ross stood there looking at the defined muscles and pale skin of that lean
figure, and took the hint. This was what he'd wanted, wasn't it? He
strolled on, peeling up at the Chelsea shirt and long-sleeved darker blue
under-shirt he'd been wearing through his 90 minute performance of midfield
dominance. His muscled heaved and gleamed in the glaring lights as he
tossed this shirt off and down onto the mucky floor, finding his own space
further down the row of hooks and lockers. He glanced sadly back Mason's
way.

He'd become fond of the chirpy kid, but this was for the best, wasn't it?
After things got too heated in the winter moonlight of the Middle East,
he'd become really panicked: Mason had already had some kinda crush on him
before anything even really happened, he was pretty sure. Back in the whole
photography debacle, hadn't he admitted that? And because of Mad Frank and
his domineering puppetry above, things had become so... heated. It couldn't
be healthy for Mason to think there was something real budding there: Ross
was straight and he loved his girlfriend. Just cos he let his boss get all
over his prick and his arsehole in exchange for first-team favouritism...

He grimaced to himself at putting it so cynically, but sighed at the truth
of it. Around him, the celebratory lads continued to undress and prep for
their showers, and Ross tried to channel their mood once more. How had his
own excitement faded so quickly in the last few minutes?!

He looked over Mason's way again before putting up a leg to undo his
bootlaces. Lampard had come into the changing rooms, his big coat still on
over his shirt and chinos. He was taking Mason by the arm, a big
congratulatory grin on his face... to any other onlooker, it might look
like a typical happy manager singling out a hardworking player for
praise. But Ross could see the lingering hand on the lad's lower back, and
the hard edge to Frank's tight grin. He knew full well what was going on.



About forty-five minutes later, and three floors upwards, in the locked
managerial office: Mason crouched over the chair and gripped its frame as
his 41-year-old manager ploughed roughly in and out of him at the end of a
long and sweaty session of fucking. He'd been coerced into sucking on
Frank's dick so much he'd almost choked on it, and then roughly fingered
until his hole ached, and now this. There was no denying the pleasure
pounding at his G-spot, but he was also sore and tired and
felt... used. The dick was pulled from his hole and he squatted there,
naked and trembling, until he felt his boss's load shot across his back
muscles.

Behind him, Frank grunted and groaned.

Mason flexed and stretched at his sore thigh and calf muscles, leaning more
of his slender young weight into the heavy wooden chair at the manager's
desk, panting himself and feeling his arse throb and ache at the heavy
pummelling it had just received. He waited, listening to the strangled
noises of his gaffer's wordless satisfaction, then began to pull himself
upright.

Sweat was trickling down his temples, and his spiky hair was all over the
place. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Lampard backing off, almost as
sweaty, buttoning up his shirt with his boxer briefs still stretched
halfway down his thighs. There was a stern, angry look on the boss's face
that frightened Mount a little bit. You could never really tell with this
guy whether he wanted to fuck you or punch you. Mount lacked Ross's
confidence on the transaction at play: he wasn't sure if being used like
this by the Chelsea boss improved his standing at the club, or put him
lower in the pecking order. It certainly didn't feel like Frank looked at
him with any greater respect since he'd been used as a human toy by the
three of them in here.

`There,' grumbled Frank distantly. `That's your reward for such a great
goal, Mount.'

Mason turned away, a bit dizzy, and nodded his head. Between his bare legs,
his own cock was hard but wilting. Apparently, his own enjoyment was a bit
irrelevant here, even if this was supposed to be his `reward' for such a
great performance on the pitch. Sore, he pulled away from the chair and
looked around for his clothes, whilst Frank dressed with more ragged and
irritable-sounding breaths. Mason fetched his briefs from where they had
been kicked into a corner by a potted plant, and found his Chelsea shirt
dangling from a corner of the desk. His shorts and socks were scattered
across the long rectangle of dark blue carpet towards the locked door.

When he was dressed, he looked back towards the desk, where Frank was doing
up his top button and wiping his sweaty brow on a tissue. Without actually
looking up at him, Lampard dismissed his guest: `Best be on your way,
Mount. Enjoy yourself.' And that was that.

Mount let himself out of the office and pulled the door shut behind him. He
stood there for a moment and felt suddenly very low. Of course he'd been
excited to be pulled aside in the dressing room, seeing that lust in the
middle-aged man's face. Of course he wanted more of this dirty sex: now he
was comfortable with his bi side, he couldn't get enough of it, and found
it harder and harder to concentrate at Stamford Bridge, surrounded by hot
athletic guys! But he was intimidated by Frank's position and unpredictable
moods, so unsure of where he stood with him. And he was worried about the
consequences... after all, he seemed to have really fucked things up with
Ross now, and he barely heard from Declan even. The lads he'd experimented
with all seemed to turn sour.

In his dirty kit, he took the lift back downstairs, and found his way into
the silent, abandoned changing rooms. The stadium was already a place of
ghosts, having been so crowded and noisy barely half an hour ago, even as
he first sneaked into the boss's office with the cheers still echoing
beyond the double-glazed windows. Now it was just eerie.

Alone in the dressing room, he ignored the showers, and just pulled a hoody
over his clammy shirt and joggers up over his shorts, and fresh trainers
on. He dug out a beanie hat that he could wear for some anonymity on the
tube to his flat, pulled his backpack up over his shoulders, and made his
way out. A few kinder sweeter congratulations from an elderly groundsman
and one of the female cleaners, and he was ushered out of one of the exits
through the near deserted car park. But halfway across the shadowy space
towards the quiet rear gate, away from the possible media attention of the
stadium's main entrances, a sharp whistle distracted him.

Mason turned around, and there he was: Barkley. The taller, older
midfielder was leaning against the side of his car, hands in his leather
jacket pockets, staring expectantly his way. What the heck? Mason paused,
tugging on his bag straps, and wondering if he could bring himself to
ignore this odd interruption and saunter out of the grounds without really
acknowledging the lonely Scouser.

`Need a lift?' called Ross in a loud warm voice.

Mason looked him up and down, the oddly expectant look on his rugged face,
the tight fit of his jacket and skinny jeans, the almost contrivedly casual
pose of his waiting gesture. Why was he even still here? It was a chilly
day and starting to rain, shadows lengthening ahead of twilight. The
weather could decide what head and heart failed to do, and Mount headed
over the tarmac to meet him.

`I'll take that as a yes,' Ross said more quietly.

`Why are you here?' Mason found himself asking, knowing it would sound
rude, but too worn out from the afternoon. `Didn't you get changed ages ago
with everyone else?'

Ross shrugged a single shoulder and clicked open the passenger door. `I
hung about,' he said. `I thought you might need it.' There was something
coy or bashful about the Scouser's voice here, and it took Mason
surprise. He looked at the apologetic expression on his face, slung off his
backpack, then climbed into the passenger seat. His arse, so bruised
feeling from Frank's excitement, twitched and tensed against the leather,
and he struggled to find a comfortable sitting position.

Ross got in beside him, and something about that man's brooding physicality
or charisma made the inside of this expensive sports car feel way too small
and intimate. Still clammy and uncomfortable in his kit and layers, Mason
turned to give his driver a curious, bewildered look. But his doubts and
disbelief at the kind gesture were overshadowed then by the reality how
much he needed it: he felt totally drained and dehumanised right now, being
in this warm car with someone to get him home felt like a fucking miracle
here.

`Thanks,' he said quietly.

`Are you okay?' Ross asked in a gruffly sensitive tone, whilst starting up
the engine and shifting the gearstick, only looking at him through
reflected eyes in the rear-view. `Frank was... okay to you?'

Mason didn't know what to say to that. He shifted in his seat again, and
let out a long sighing breath. `What the fuck does that bloke want?' he
wondered aloud, voicing both of their anxieties in that single
question. `And are we gonna be sold off to some shit Championship club when
he gets sick of messing us about?!' He looked a little desperately at Ross
for reassurance here, but saw his own nervous thoughts reflected in the
Scouser's rugged visage.

`I think he's pretty confused,' Barkley sighed, kicking the car into
gear. `But... aren't we all?'

`Huh. Yeh. Sure.'

`I'm sorry I've been so shit, Mase...'

`No, no, don't...' Mason stared sadly out of the car window as they whizzed
out of the Stamford Bridge grounds and onto the streets of London. `I get
it, I do. I was a bit... much, in Dubai, and after... I'm sorry Ross, I get
carried away. I'm such a loser.'

`No! No... you're not that, it's just...'

`I can take a hint,' Mason insisted. `I shouldn't have pushed you so far in
Dubai.'

Ross let out a bitter grunt of laughter. `I'm not sure you exactly forced
me.'

`Well, you know what I mean,' Mason muttered. `But it's okay, I do get
it. I know you aren't... like that. I know it's just a sorta... deal to
you, a pact with the gaffer. I'm sorry I was a bit too... extra, or
whatever. You don't need to feel bad for...'

`Speaking to you like a piece of shit?' Ross snapped, looking over sharply
at him as they paused at some traffic lights. `Yeah, Mase, yeah I do. I'm
sorry. Shouldn't have just... turned my back on you like that. Not after
what we've been through together. We're mates, right?'

`We are,' Mason agreed with a weak smile. `And... thanks for waiting,
buddy. It's... really kind.'

They travelled on largely in silence. It was a short way across into
Kensington, but the traffic was slow. Mason watched the rain begin to fall
more heavily and the cloudy sky darken. The bright sun in which they'd
trashed Everton seemed a long while ago. Why didn't it feel like a winning
matchday Sunday...? He thought about Frank's intensity and almost angry
mood as soon as they were alone, his sombre face when he'd finished. And
Ross looked almost as intense and gloomy now. What had come over them all?

`This is you, right?' Ross interrupted his thoughts, as they pulled up out
front of the small new-build apartment block. Mason nodded quietly, looking
up at his building, and then over at his teammate who had got him here in
comfort.

`You want to come up for a drink?' he offered, pretty sure of the negative
answer that would come. Mason suddenly felt incredibly lonely, to think of
all his other friends returning to their partners: Ross would drive on from
here to meet that girlfriend of his and go back to their shared flat; Frank
would already be home with his wife and kids by now.

`Yeah, alright,' Ross said after a long pause. `Just one, but...'

`Oh, er, yeah, cool. Come on.'



In his kitchen, Mason sloshed some vodka into two highballs and then opened
a couple of coke cans with a fizz and mixed the drinks. Ross watched him
quietly, leather jacket off and just in a thin sweatshirt over his tight
pale jeans. He accepted his drink and took a long sip, nodding approval at
the strong mix. He didn't have far left to drive after this, it would be
fine.

`You probably have plans to get to,' Mason commented quietly to him over
the kitchen.

Ross shrugged his broad shoulders. `Mmm, not really. The missus is out at
some bottomless brunch with her pals, she'll be wasted by now.' He smiled
and looked at his watch. `If not crashed out asleep on one of their
couches. I think it'll be a quiet night in for me. I'm utterly fucked.'

`Yeah, me too,' Mason said, and then the literal relevance of the word
struck him, and his eyes bulged, and he saw a simultaneous realisation on
Ross's face. `God, what am I like...' As one, the two men burst out
laughing in relief at eased tension and the silliness of their
predicament. Ross took another deep sip of vodka and coke and watched the
younger guy bashfully cradle his glass.

`Are you sure you're okay, Mase?' he asked tenderly.

`I'm great.'

`Well, that was convincing.' Ross sighed worriedly and stepped closer. `You
scored a blinder out there and you looked happy as larry. Now... this.' He
put his drink aside on the counter and then took Mason's out of his hand
placed it firmly on the counter, then laid that hand on the lad's
shoulder. `Did you actually want to have sex with Lampard...? He didn't,
like, force you...?'

`No, no,' Mason said, `I did want a shag, I just...'

`I feel bad when he wants to do stuff with you,' Ross admitted
gloomily. `He really wants to fuck me, you know.' He realised how vain this
might sound, but he noted the empathetic shock it provoked in
Mason. `That's why I... erm, put him on to you in the first place. He's
obsessed with my arse for some reason.' He saw Mason about to speak: `Do
NOT agree with him, please!'

`Well, it is a bit... special,' Mount said in a strained giggle. `Sorry.'

`He thought he could dominate me,' Ross chuckled fondly. `He soon found
out.'

`Nobody dominates a Scouser,' Mason pointed out with the same anxious laugh
to his voice. They were standing very close in the small kitchen of the
apartment, and he was aware of how sweaty he must still smell. `So what
you're saying is... he fucks me because he can't fuck you...?'

Ross grimaced. `Well, no... I mean, he probably is interested in you too, I
just mean... Fuck...' He groaned and shook his head, thinking about how
conceited it must sound out loud, though it was an idea that seemed so
comfortably true to him that he had expected it to come out much better. `I
just mean that...'

`No, no,' Mason said, placing a hand on his where it rested on his own
shoulder. `I get what you mean, Ross. I mean... I guess that kinda makes
two of us.'

Ross frowned, losing track of the conversation there. `Huh?' he asked.

`I mean... if Frank is fucking me because he wishes he was fucking you,
then...' The younger footballer made an awkward laugh again and looked
sharply away as he continued. `I guess I'm just letting him because I wish
it was you... hah.' A slow silence forming between them, apart from the
clicking of a clock somewhere on the wall and a couple of traffic noises
from the London street below. `Hah, how lame do I sound?!' Mason exclaimed
self-consciously, and he moved to escape the intimate encounter in his
embarrassment, but Ross blocked him and put gentle hands to his elbows to
pin him to the counter before he could slide out of the kitchenette.

`Mase,' the Scouser breathed quietly.

`I know, I know,' Mason told him, trapped between the muscular bloke and
the kitchen worktop. `I know it isn't like that between us. I can't help
what I want, though. What I think about. I know who you are and who you're
not. I'm letting go, it'll just take time...'

Ross looked at him, wide-eyed, feeling the surge of sympathy and
affection. He really did like this lad, his loyalty and his cheeky
humour. He squeezed his hands a little tighter about the middle of those
leaner arms and pulled in closer, really pressing him back against the
kitchen work surface and letting his own heavier body slide close, looming
over him by a good couple of inches. He let out another long, frustrated
sigh. `Mason, we shouldn't have done that in Dubai,' he admitted in a shaky
little voice, so unlike his usual firm grunts. `I shouldn't have...'

`It felt so good though,' Mount told him, matching his little whisper.

`It did,' Ross said, and he wasn't even sure if he was making a statement
or asking a question. He realised just how close he had gotten physically,
but didn't pull away. He looked at the washed out clammy face of the
unwashed midfielder in front of him, the wide innocent eyes, the fluffy
messed up hair. The little nervous quiver to his bottom lip. `You know I
love someone else,' he said, almost on autopilot with the excuse. `I'm no
good for you, Mase, I can't be what you want from me.'

`Ross...'

`I'm just a dirty fucking Scouser,' grumbled Ross. `I'm just being dirt,
huh? Leading Lampard on, letting him play with me... knowing he's going
crazy for it... Just in the hope of more first-team games... god, it's
embarrassing... What am I playing at?' He slid his hands across Mason's
elbows and onto his back and pulled him in more tightly, their faces
drawing an inch apart.

`You're not a dirty anything,' Mason murmured, close to him. `You're just
doing your best.'

`Is that what I'm doing?'

`Ross, you don't have to keep messing with him if it bothers you so much,'
Mason told him. `You never did. You're a great player.' Ross felt the
younger guy's hands rest on the front of his sweater, just below the curve
of his pecs. He leaned in and smelt the stale sporty odour of him. They
stood close by in the small kitchen for what felt an eternity.

`You really imagine it's me when he fucks you?' Barkley asked quietly but
suddenly, breaking the uneasy quiet between them. Mason's head nodded a
little, close to his. `Was I... was I even any good that night? I didn't
know what I was doing. I was off my head.'

`You were... incredible.'

Ross felt a little tingle at the begged compliment, and he tightened his
arms that little bit more about the toned young player, and leant his head
forward a tiny bit, until their faces were almost touching. He could sense
Mason's mouth reaching forward even before the gentle brush of their lips,
the soft slow first kiss that broke some slowly boiling tension that he
hadn't even known was there. He held onto him, but pulled his lips away,
and tried to stifle the groan of nervous doubt at what he'd just done. The
whole point of this conversation was to STOP leading the poor lad on...

`I know you love her,' Mason said in a muffled whisper, their lips still
close by. `I know you're not as into guys as maybe I am. I know you're
confused. But... I really, really want you, Ross. You're like a
god. Just... one more time?'

Ross let out a little growl of desire, and pushed his mouth forward, lips
clashing with Mason's to shut him up. He squeezed on the slighter southern
lad and pulled him into his own body, and pressed his tongue forcefully
into his mouth, and then felt Mason's tongue lashing back as their bodies
curled and ground into the bench behind. The long, aggressive kiss finally
broke with mutual gasps of surprise, and tightly grabbing hands dragging at
each of their tops.

Ross grasped Mason by the wrist and pulled on him, dragging them from the
kitchen. He looked wildly about to see which door led off to the flat's
main bedroom, but Mason pulled on his grip a little and nodded to another
door, into the bathroom. `I'm so sweaty, I need to shower,' Mount insisted.

`Then we shower,' Ross grunted firmly.

He grabbed at and dragged his sweatshirt up and off as he stomped after his
pal into the bathroom. He undid his jeans button fly in one tug and started
shoving them down. In front of him, Mason was pulling one item off after
another. When Ross bore into him and pressed him back into the wet-room
corner and slapped the shower controls on, neither of them had made it out
of their underpants before the initially chilly water crashed down on
them. It heated rapidly over their bared bodies as Ross slapped his big
hands to Mason's toned pale six pack and pressed his lips to his once
more. He bit at his bottom lip and let out little growling purrs of
excitement. Mason's hands worked down his back and began to pull on his
already soaked undies. He reached for Mason's in turn, and down went the
soggy briefs, just their socks sodden on their feet now as they cuddled and
kissed beneath the hot blast.

`Oh dear god,' mumbled Mount passionately.

`I thought I was your god?' sniggered Ross, running one hand up the firm
surface of Mason's smooth chest and gently gripping him by the throat.

`Oh you are,' hissed the excited footballer, reaching down to fondle his
bollocks and his fat prick.

`Never been called that before,' grunted Barkley, his other hand going
round to squeeze a buttock.

`Mmm grab it, it's yours,' whined Mason eagerly.

`Let's get you cleaned up then, shall we?' growled Ross, and he snatched
the bar of soap from the ledge beside them, and pressed it firmly into the
young lad's pecs and slid it left and right. When he wrapped his arms fully
about the smaller footballer again, their bodies slid against one another
in a smear of soapy bubbles, and they rolled about, brushing tiled walls
and metal piping and swaying beneath the blast of the shower.



Mason led the way into his bedroom, trembling with anticipation, his whole
body scrubbed clean of the football game and the manager's office. He clung
with a few loose fingers to Ross's hand, pulling the other naked bloke
through into the privacy of his bedroom and gulping nervously. Since that
night on the beach, he'd barely been able to think of anything but this
happening again. He looked at big burly Ross following him, and was shocked
to see almost as nervous an expression on his features: in the shower, the
big northerner had been a big soapy beast, all animal instinct and brute
force. Yet now he looked...

`You sure you're up for this?' he asked quietly.

`Can't see you this...?' Ross asked him, and they both looked down. Both
lads dicks were rock hard veiny shafts, little and large. Mason laughed
gently, and squeezed his hand. It occurred to him, amongst the mad
unexpected pleasure of the evening, that Ross could only nervous about one
thing: living up to his high expectations.

He let out a gasp of thrill as Ross grasped his waist and practically threw
him forward onto the bed. He landed on his back, sprawled out over the
covers, and felt it squeak and strain as Barkley climbed on after him. And
then they were kissing again. He had never expected THIS. The fierce lips
and pushing tongue. His dick ached with enjoyment. Ross's hands were so
powerful yet tender against his arms and his six pack and then his hips. In
turn, he grabbed and pulled at each bulging muscle of the bigger guy's
form.

The room was a little chilly after the heat of the shower, but Ross seemed
to have that covered too; he grabbed at the duvet and threw it over them,
pressing down on Mason from above and kissing now at his neck. Mason
wondered if his girlfriend appreciated this every time, if women felt the
same excitement to be pinned beneath this muscular brute, receiving his
tender passion. Mount reached down to feel that thick straining erection
and wanted nothing more than to feel it inside him.

On cue, Ross was pushing a finger between his cheeks and stroking his
hole. `Will it be ok?' he heard Barkley groan into his hear. `Can you take
another tonight?'

`Please, please,' Mason heard himself begging.

`I'll be careful,' Ross promised, and though he dismissed that silly oath,
he realised it was needed: he was still sore from Frank's furied thrusts,
and his bottom felt so tender and raw as Ross began to stroke and push at
his slightly loosened hole.

Mason made little yelps of discomfort and he saw the guilty panic spread
over Ross's reddened face. Mount stretched and rolled over, reluctant to
leave the heat of their embrace, but finding the little pot of Vaseline in
his bedside draw. He pushed it into Ross's hand. `Use that,' he told him
pleadingly. `I want you inside me, Ross. I need it.' He could see the
effects of his words in the steely determination of the other man's
eyes. Soon Ross's fingers were between his pert cheeks again, slippery with
the gel. With surprising gentleness, Barkley opened him up and explored his
hole, and as he did, planted hot wet kisses on his neck and shoulder. Mason
just panted and whimpered, both hands scratching across Ross's back muscles
in anticipation. `Fuck me, please,' he drawled.

`I'm going to,' Ross promised. `I'm gonna pound you.'

`Please... oh god...'

And then Mason could feel it, the thick head of Ross's member. It really
was bigger than Frank's, and that made him nervous, but he knew he'd taken
it once before. He knew he could do this. He pulled his own legs wider
apart and lifted them more to ease Barkley's angle. He tried his best to
relax and ignore the lingering pain from Lampard's clumsy efforts. Ross was
so big but so strong and controlled: the dick slid into him with the same
shocking tenderness as before. Mason pushed his head back into the pillows
and cried out: `YES...'

And then Barkley was really fucking him, holding his whole body tight
between his limbs and thrusting his mighty hips and arse muscles, driving
his dick into Mason's hole over and over. He could feel it filling him up,
going deep, punching at his G spot. He couldn't stop letting out his sounds
of pleasure, screaming Barkley's name and every swear word he could
muster. He felt Ross kissing so sharply at his neck that love-bites would
surely show up in the morning. He wrapped his arms tighter about the
muscular frame of his lover and wrapped his legs around him too, feeling
his body dragged back and forth over the crumpled sheets with each dominant
thrust of the man on top of him.

And then they were moving again: Ross was getting up, with Mason's four
limbs clinging about him. The Scouser was standing up on the bed and
pressing Mason's body into the wall above the headboard, and fucking him
standing up, his weight held between bare muscle and the wallpaper, pinned
by that piston boner. `Oh god YES,' he howled, `fuck me baby, fuck me...'
His body thumped repeatedly into the wall, so hard that he feared he'd go
straight through it, but there was no pain, just exhilaration. He soon knew
Ross was close to cumming, could feel it in his tight grip, and see it in
flashes of his veiny face, eyes screwed up and jaw gritted. `YES,' he
cried, `cum inside me... fill me up... OHHHH...' And there it was. Ross
stopped thrusting, just pinned him to the wall, gasping and groaning and
spluttering inaudible words.

When they slid back into the bed, Ross's cock still halfway up his hole,
Mason could have cried with happiness. He felt a little twinge of panic as
their bodies disentangled a little, but then he realised this was only so
Ross could grab hold of his cock. Oh! Mason lay there, hole aching, with
Ross's body about him, and the man's strong hand pumping his dick until he
too shot his load, spilling his seed all the way up the tight ridges of
Barkley's six pack. He whined and gurgled his orgasm and was silenced with
another rough kiss.

Ross, seeming totally spent, pressed his face into the pillows and lay
heavily over him, trembling with the exertion. Mason clung to him, gasping
for air, and staring down at his quivering cock still half-held in Ross's
limp fingers. And in that tight embrace of homoerotica, they both slid into
sleep.



When Ross woke up, he knew he'd snored, and he braced himself for a loud
rant from his girlfriend. But then he remembered where he was, and found
the slender form in his arms was not her, but Mason Mount, who was looking
at him with an expression of odd fear. He blinked his sleepy eyes, and gave
his bed buddy a vague smile. Down below, his cock ached a little from his
energetic performance, and his muscles throbbed from the match.

`Don't look so worried,' he sighed lazily. `Did you think I'd wake up and
be angry?'

`Er... a bit.'

Ross just made a scoffing huff. `How could anyone ever get angry at
you...?'

He loosened his tight muscled grip on the other lad and rolled away in the
double bed a little, warm and achey and restless. He looked about the
bedroom and then back at the younger guy, who was still staring at him,
clearly expecting some regret or consequence. Ross realised he shared
Mason's surprise: he felt none of that. No shame or anger or confusion, not
really. He just felt really fucking satisfied. `That was great,' he thought
aloud in a gentle murmur, and he felt Mason's sigh of relief, and again,
felt he was as surprised as anyone. It HAD been great.

`Thank you,' Mason muttered.

`You don't have to thank me,' Ross chided gently, pushing at him.

`Do you need to go now?'

`I dunno... do you want me to...?'

`Not even a little bit.'

`Well... maybe I'll leave... slowly.' They both chuckled heavily. `I
mean... I am kinda hungry.' He saw the new flash of nervous panic on
Mason's face, clearly unable to believe what had happened or how they were
comfortably processing it. Ross could feel himself on thin ice here: he was
entering into the dangerous territory he'd tried so hard to avoid, but here
they were. Intimate, close, trusting. This was how people got hurt. `In
fact, not kinda hungry,' Ross growled sleepily, `absolutely fucking
starving.'

`Well, I won't keep you,' Mason mumbled sheepishly somewhere about his
armpit and bicep.

`Mmm...' Ross turned his face to that side so they were inches apart, eye
to eye. `I dunno... you do have a takeaway app on your phone, don't
you...?' He gave the younger player a sleazy grin, and with his free hand,
he patted his six-pack gently. `I could murder a pizza, lad. Will you kick
me out of bed if I order pineapple...?'