Date: Tue, 24 Mar 2020 19:38:02 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 69: Sixty Nine

Part sixty-nine: ...Sixty Nine


From the moment training shut down at Chelsea Football Club, Mason Mount
had been in pieces. Publicly, of course, this had a simple explanation: he
was an energetic young player really starting to hit his prime at the south
London team, a 21-year-old lad frustrated at suddenly being confined to his
flat. Privately, though...

That Sunday night with Ross had been so special to him. His painful first
experiences of bottoming, to Frank Lampard and to Ruben Loftus-Cheek, had
been thrilling and taboo, but having Barkley furiously fuck him in his own
bed and then hang on for hours... It gave him a little semi every time the
memory crawled into his mind. He had enjoyed several slow, luxuriant wanks
thinking about it, picturing the hesitant embrace from his older teammate,
the sensual shower together, the sweaty athletics that almost broke his
bed. It had been unexpected and electrifying.

Soon after that treasured night, though, their world had essentially ground
to a halt.

Games had been postponed and training had, briefly, trundled on, then
ended. Mason had not enjoyed a second alone with the brutish yet sensitive
Scouser since, and in all honesty, he feared the worst. There had been no
major sign of regret on Barkley's behalf by the end of that Sunday night,
he was sure of that, but still... It had been clear how nervous and
uncertain Ross actually was as they lounged about eating pizza and swilling
some lagers; when the 26-year-old had eventually left to return to his
girlfriend, Mason had seen the look of conflicted longing on his honest
face, felt the tension in the goodbye hug. And since then...? Pretty much
nothing.

Mount was trying not to message Barkley too much, and now they were all
self-isolating, he supposed the other lad would have limited privacy. But
he hadn't heard a peep from the Merseysider, and he feared that a new frost
would form over their relationship, in spite of the heat they'd shared just
week ago.

So here he was: kicking around his small but expensively furnished Chelsea
apartment, wondering how long he needed to keep self-isolating before he
could safely travel down to his family on the South Coast and hole up there
for as long as this stupid disease demanded. It turned out there was only
so much FIFA you could play, and so many overpriced local takeaways you
could Deliveroo, before the boredom began to eat at you.

It had been in this mood that he'd leapt off the sofa at a text from his
oldest mate in the footballing world. `Hey,' read the text message from
Declan Rice, `gonna go for a kickabout with some mates this pm if u free,
let me kno xx' It was Sunday afternoon and only the fourth day of lockdown
for the Chelsea players, but boyish Mount was already gagging for company
and distraction... he'd punched in his affirmative response before he could
think about the rules he was breaking.



Truth be told, Mason's excitement was more than cabin fever. Rice had been
terse with him since their little 21st birthday reunion in January, though
not explicitly shrugging off their friendship or actually referencing what
had gone on. They'd met up only once since, and their messaging had slowed
and become more memes than words. As with Ross, Mason feared that the price
of man-on-man fun was damaged relationships and dead banter. An invite to a
simple kickabout on a Sunday afternoon was a casual little thing, but it
sounded with encouraging normality, and brightened the Chelsea midfielder's
weekend immeasurably.

That's how he ended up the driver, picking up Declan and two mutual pals,
and donning vaguely protective snoods for a couple of hours' play in an
East London park. West Ham, Rice's team, weren't actually quarantined as
strictly as Chelsea yet, and so it was only Mason who was really
transgressing this afternoon, not that he gave it much thought. He enjoyed
the easy company of the other three, forgetting the new tension at Stamford
Bridge after one of the lads had tested positive for Coronavirus five days
ago.

The lads took it in turns to occupy the goal while the other three
dribbled, tackled and shot. Mason was still on a slight high from his
recent League goals, and he revelled in showing off his skills to his good
mate Declan and the other two, schoolmates of Declan's who he'd known
through him for years. Goal after goal was batted in by the Portsmouth-born
lad, a goofy grin all over his cute face; before long he'd lowered the
snood and his familiar boyish looks were on clear display. Perhaps if he
hadn't gotten so carried away, he would have kept his snood on or his hood
up, and made less noise and fuss of things... well, perhaps then he
wouldn't have found himself staring over the fenced off footy court into
the camera-phones of several onlookers.

Fuck.

`Hey, clear off,' one of Declan's mates was calling to the nosy walkers,
but Mason knew who was in the wrong here. Fuck, fuck. He wasn't meant to be
leaving his flat AT ALL, never mind at the other end of the capital city
hanging out with his mates like this... Fuck. He flashed a nervous look to
Declan, who instantly understood.

`Game's over, boys,' the taller midfielder called out, giving a wary look
to the onlookers, and snatching their shared ball up off the tarmac. `To
the car, guys. Now.' As Mason bustled nervously past him, he grabbed a
shoulder. `Don't fret, Mase, it'll be cool...'

`I'm gonna be in the shit,' Mount whispered at him. `This is bad. I
shouldn't have come. What if I get YOU in trouble too...?'

The other 21-year-old shrugged his broad bony shoulders and
scoffed. `Nobody's told me to isolate, yet,' he responded bluntly. `West
Ham don't have any confirmed cases, so... Come on. To the car. It'll be
grand.' He grabbed and squeezed Mason's shoulder again and gave him a
smile: both gestures were, Mason had to admit, pretty comforting. Any male
contact would be right now, after his starved days since the night with
Ross.

He gave one last nervous look towards the gaggle of park walkers who had
photographed him so clearly and invasively, and stormed down the path to
the side-street where he'd left the car. He clenched the keys into his palm
until they almost cut his skin, full of guilty remorse. He was picturing
Frank's snarling face when he found out...

There was a lot of laughing as the guys piled into the cramped confines of
his flashy-but-small car. The other two lads couldn't seem to see the
seriousness of the exposure, and Declan was chuckling along with them,
though his sidelong glances and pats to the arm made it clear he understood
Mason's fears. `Don't worry, just a bunch of fans or nosy parkers,' he
grunted, as Mason spun them down the street and towards the nearest tube
station. `I'm sure it won't come to anything!'

Mount wished he could share this confidence. He pulled up on a kerb near
the tube, drumming his fingertips on the wheel and chewing at his
lip. `Cheers, Mase!' `Yeah, don't worry...' With their vague, dismissive
encouragements, the other two climbed out of the back seats. At his side,
Declan seemed to be hesitating, staring thoughtfully at him.

`Don't you need to go?' Mount asked him distractedly.

`I'm not leaving you in this nervous state.'

`I'm totally fine – I just need to get back to mine.'

Declan reluctantly took his eyes off him. He turned a little in his seat,
but only to push a button and lower his window. He called out to his two
old school mates, lingering on the pavement – something about seeing
them around soon, ringing them later, something... Mason watched in
surprise as he wound the window back up and turned his way again.

`I'm not leaving you stressing out, buddy,' Rice said quietly, and reached
a hand over, laying it on top of Mason's where it clutched the
gearstick. His hand was warm and reassuring on his skin. `Not when we ain't
seen each other in as long as this, yeah?' His fingers stroked a little on
the back of the hand and across Mason's knuckles.

Mason let out a nervous little laugh and shifted the stick into action,
feeling Declan's fingers slip from the back of his hand. `If you insist,'
he said with a paper-thin pretence of coolness, setting the car back into
motion and keeping his eyes on the road. `I'm gonna be in deep trouble if
those pics end up on the net, mate. Lamps will...' He screwed up his
face. `He'll go bananas.'

Declan scoffed. `You're hot property at the minute,' he insisted. `Chelsea
can hardly...'

`This is a serious situation, mate, this epidemic. I don't think people
here are realising yet. Fuck, fuck. I'm such a tool. Risking everyone just
cos I was BORED... risking you! For fuck's sake...'

`Hey, hey...' Declan reached over and stroked his back a little in the
driver's seat, whilst the car idled in London traffic. `Don't be like
that. I wanted to see you. I'd risk anything to see my mate when he needs
me, you know that.' He pressed his hand a little more firmly on Mason's
back. `Now... relax. What's the worst that can happen? A slapped wrist... a
little fine... a bit of bad press...'

Mason stared gloomily ahead into the stagnant traffic. `Things are a
bit... more complicated than that,' he admitted in a faraway voice, still
performing a little drum solo with his fingertips on the driving
wheel. `It's... hard to explain.'

Declan relaxed in the passenger seat and made a curious little
noise. `Well,' he said, `you had better stop off at mine before you get
home, then. So you can explain properly – eh?'



The West Ham midfielder, 6'1 of gangly muscle, draped in an armchair by the
window of his front room, staring in disbelief at his friend on the
sofa. `You're telling me that... you've been fucked by Frank Lampard...?'
He blinked, creased his heavy brows, and then laughed. `And you DEFO aren't
joking, bro...?'

Mason sat at an angle to him on the long sofa, playing with the zip of his
Adidas tracksuit top, wondering if he'd been a silly twit to confide so
much of the truth in a mate, even one as trusted as this. `You cannot tell
a single soul, Dec,' he said intensely. `I'm serious about that.'

`Mase, who would fuckin' believe me?!' exclaimed the other footballer,
shifting position in his chair, still dressed in the baggy hoody and short
shorts he'd worn for their kickabout in the park, his legs long and bare
and fluffy with dark hair. `Jesus... I mean, I was shocked enough when you
noshed off Barks, but... fuck! Lamps? Frank actual fucking
Lampard... wow...'

`Oh, yeh,' mumbled Mount, letting go of the zip and placing his hands
anxiously on his knees. `That's the other thing. I did stuff again
with... with, erm, Ross, you see. And...'

`Jesus Christ, lad,' said Declan in a disbelieving laugh. `You have been a
busy boy, haven't you?'

Mason groaned in dismay and hunched over where he sat. Sometimes he thought
his current sex life and work dynamics were almost normal, but trying to
explain any of it aloud now to a friend... Well, it was hard enough
accepting that he was clearly bi, never mind trying to decode the
relationships and hierarchy of it all. And now he'd fucked up royally,
breaking his quarantine, risking friends and strangers alike... What a
bell-end. This was NOT him: he was conscientious, disciplined, caring. It
seemed to Mason like an ominous sign of the impact Frank and Ross had made
on his life, that he should be fucking about London at a time of crisis,
taking silly risks just to escape his own thoughts!

He got up from the sofa and wandered to the bay windows of the
townhouse. Declan shared it with two other younger players on the West Ham
squad, but they were away for the weekend, so it felt huge and quiet for
the two of them. Mount looked out onto the quiet street: already, Londoners
were keeping to themselves, the roads were getting quieter and quieter. Not
everyone was as dumb and careless as him! He could make out the vague hint
of his own image reflected in the glass as he stared out into the late
afternoon, but that dim shape was joined by another, taller form, and
Declan appeared by his side, throwing a long arm about his sloping
shoulders in a half-hug.

`Well, let's put it this way,' Rice said in a confidential voice, despite
their being alone. `I think things could be... worse, for you. I mean...'
He pulled his arm more tightly over Mount's back and leaned in. `You've
really got the dirt on your manager, haven't you? I think you're in a
pretty strong position there, as far as...'

Mason turned his head sharply to look at his bigger pal, shocked despite
the enjoyable sensation of that warm encircling him. `Are you talking about
blackmail?'

`Fuck, no... what an ugly word. I just mean... Look, Mase, buddy... you
will be in a little bit of trouble if they find out, yeh, but... Imagine if
you started spreading it about that the Chelsea manager has been exploiting
his position to make players-`

`He didn't MAKE me, he just...'

`Yeh, yeh, whatever. It could sound pretty bad, couldn't it? And he's a
married man, he's got kids. Tabloid already had him down as a love-rat
years ago. They'd go MAD for this.' He smirked and squeezed Mason by the
shoulders. `You've got a secret weapon here, buddy, and Ross as witness. I
don't think you need to worry quite so much. You just head on home, keep up
the rest of your isolation like a good boy, let this blow over...'

Mason nodded and began to pull away, but as he did, one of Declan's arms
swung down and he grabbed his wrist.

`I didn't say you should go just yet, though, Mase,' his West Ham host said
softly.

Mason turned and looked at him, caught the naughty glint in his eyes. He
was almost too tense now with the consequences of his actions to really
feel any excitement, but he did feel surprise. It must have shown on his
face, or something, because he saw Declan look a bit guilty, a bit awkward.

`I didn't think you wanted to do anything like that again,' Mason said to
him in the same intimate voices, though the big four-bedroomed townhouse
was all theirs for now, silent but for their heartbeats and murmurs. `I
thought maybe I'd fucked things up in January.'

`Not at all,' Dec breathed. `It's been a busy time, for us both. I just...'
A long sigh. `I had a funny experience that made me nervous about what
happened, that's all. Oh, don't give me that jealous little look... jeez,
how many guys have I had to share YOU with now, eh...?' A little snigger,
the grip on Mason's wrist turning into a gentle stroke of his forearm. He
turned the other young lad's words over in his head, blushing: `share you
with...' The hints of ownership and belonging were an aphrodisiac to him
here, but he squirmed awkwardly all the same.

`I should really go,' Mason said in a reluctant groan. `I'm meant to be...'

`Isolating, yeh,' Declan agreed vaguely. `But first...' Mason's arm was
pulled down a bit and his hand was brought in against the front of the
undersized football shorts, old 90s kit, that Rice wore, til his knuckles
were grazing that heavy bulge ever-so-gently. Unable to resist, he folded
his fingers about the rustling package, gulped, looked up into the smirking
eyes.

`How am I meant to resist this?' he sighed, defeated.

`Simples, buddy. You aren't.'



Declan's bedroom was the attic of the townhouse. On the steep flight of
stairs from the middle floor to this converted loft, Mason found his hand
interlocking with his friend's, guided up the last few steps and enjoying
the affectionate hold. For all of the rough excitement that his other
exploits had offered, there was a safety and a familiarity in Declan's
touch that nobody else could match, he realised.

The room was dark, blinds covering the sloping windows in the eaves of the
big house. Neither of them hit a switch to turn on any lamps, enjoying the
soft gloom that shrouded them as they drifted across the spacious
room. Rice's king-size bed sprawled in front of them like a little secret
world. Faint birdsong leaked in through one window, open a crack. There
really was something soothing and secretive in the air up here: Mason felt
a million miles from street level, from London, from Chelsea, from any of
his worries. He let out a soft laugh to himself and unzipped the top of his
matching black tracksuit, letting it fall open over the thin white vest
beneath, and he chewed his lip again, in anticipation rather than fear.

`You really thought I wouldn't ever want a repeat of what we did?' Dec
asked him quietly, shedding his own thick hoody and exposing the naked
torso beneath.

`Kinda,' Mason mumbled.

`Didn't you think we had a good time?'

`Of course I did, just...'

`Come here, buddy...'

Mason approached his close friend, sinking in against him and resting his
brow on one shoulder, then pushing his hand down the tight six-pack and
inside the sweaty mesh inner of those shorts, cupping the Rice jewels in
his palm. He fondled their clammy warm weight and sighed excitedly, whilst
Declan's surprisingly strong hands kneaded his back and played with the
fabric of his vest. None of the violent intensity of his manager or
teammates, true, but...

He took a deep breath of that familiar scent. Declan had used the same
deoderants and aftershaves since they were teenage hopefuls together, and
mixed with his distinctive musk, it was a strangely comforting whiff. He
breathed it deeply and pulled that cock into stiffness, then slid down to
his knees. He briefly kissed the lower rungs of his mate's abs and then
shoved the shorts down a little to get his mouth to the prize. Declan's
long thin boner tasted exactly as his body smelled: comforting, homely,
laddish.

On his knees on the soft carpet, Mason slid his lips back and forth,
teasing, savouring. He tickled at the tight bollocks beneath and stroked
the little nest of pubes. He circled his tongue around the foreskin and
took his time, and let his eyes roam up across the pale sculpture of
Declan's torso to his almost caveman expression of pure enjoyment.

`Enough,' groaned Rice, pulling away a little. `Get on the bed, buddy.'

Mason wiped his mouth and rose, a little surprised at the change of
direction. He pushed down his tracksuit bottoms and the tight undies
beneath, and then lifted his vest. He felt oddly exposed, though they'd
been naked together before, and he was glad of the half-darkness of the
loft space as he climbed onto the bedding, his cock twitching and erect
between his bared legs. He licked his lips, hungering for a fresh taste of
his mate's piece.

`What I've been wondering,' Declan confided in the dark, `is whether I'd be
any good at that...'

For a second, Mount didn't understand, but then his naked body was
manhandled into position, and he trembled with anticipation. He slid onto
his back on the soft bedding and felt his strong lean thighs pulled
open. Staring down his own bare body he saw the big Neanderthal head of his
longtime confidante hovering, able even in this low light to make out the
nervous excitement in those beady eyes, the tight-lipped grin of
determination on his mouth.

`You're sure?' he asked gratefully. It occurred to him that no guy at
Chelsea had done this for him yet: not Ross, not Frank, not Ruben. Someone
had, on that swirling beach scene in Dubai: had it been Ben Chilwell, or
James Maddison, or both of them? The memory made his cock twitch and
stiffen more at a tighter angle to his toned body, and he saw Declan swoop
in to press a tentative lick against its length. He must have been so
wasted and out of it that night on the beach, he decided, because he didn't
remember a male blowjob feeling QUITE this good...

`Oh buddy,' he cooed, and he watched as Declan opened his mouth wide and
sank down over his cock, ready to try something new for him. He hadn't
expected this, and he couldn't have imagined how good it would feel. He
growled in satisfaction and arched his back, inadvertently thrusting his
cock further into the uncertain mouth, making Dec gag and pull back a
little. `Sorry!' he sniggered, but Rice was laughing too, and planted a
fond kiss on the inside of his thigh.

`It's okay, I'm just not sure what I'm doing...'

`Well keep doing it – it feels so good...!'

`Does it?!'

`Oh god yes...'

`Right, well... let's go...!'

The tall midfielder tried again, and Mason just lay back and relaxed,
enjoying even the clumsy awkwardness of those lips on his prick. There was
something sexy in the inexperience and uncertainty of it. The idea that
this butch lad he'd known for so many years, so laddish and rough, was
taking the first cock into his lips, just for his comfort... wow. He felt
like he could have relaxed fully right there, and blown his load in
moments! But...

`Dec, Dec...'

`What is it? Am I doing it wrong? I'm sorry, mate...'

`No, no, Dec buddy, it's great, just...'

`What, then?'

`I'm hungry too, babe...'

`Eh?'

Mason giggled. `Come on, 69 with me?'

There was an excited pause, and then the other lad was scrambling onto the
bed with him. In seconds, Mason was lying still, but with his pal hunched
over him on hands and knees: just above him dangled the cock he wanted to
taste, and he lifted his head gently between the fluffy thighs, applying
lips to meat. He reached his hands up to hold Declan's strong hips, and
bobbed up and down to suck him off, whilst Declan's head descended and
reciprocated. The two 21-year-old bodies, lithe and muscular, tensed up and
gleamed with sweat in the dark, whilst two hungry mouths did their work:
Mason at an awkward angle, but confident now after several visits to the
Chelsea managerial office; Declan picking up some sense of what to do, but
still pushing Mason's prick in odd ways and sniggering at his own
incompetence as he accidentally grazed the shaft with his teeth every
thirty seconds.

Mason began to realise just how difficult it was to get to the cock
hovering above him. He planted a few wet kisses to the other guy's ball
sack and then stroked his sides gently. `Dec, babe,' he gasped into the
shadows of their bodies, `let's swap... let's flip...'

They cuddled at each other's pelvises and rolled, Declan flumping onto his
back and Mason swinging up onto his knees. Aha, that was better. He shifted
back a little, helping Declan out, and guiding his shaft into those
unskilled but greedy lips, and then took his friend's boner in one hand and
started lapping his tongue back and forth over the tip. The sixty-nine was
much more comfortable now, and the only interruptions to the licking and
sucking were the moments when the pleasure was so intense – too intense
– and one lad or the other had to pull away and just cry out their
enjoyment.

`Oh Mase, god you're... oh that feels so fuckin' good...'

`Dec, do that, more of that, mmm...'

The room span. Position after position, the two young athletes worked on
each other's erections. Mason couldn't remember the last his had enjoyed so
much attention, and he kept having to resist his own need to finish,
pushing Dec's face away in sweet little moments, the same anxious
questioning coming back every time (`Was that not good?' `No it was TOO
good...!') until their bodies were slippery with passionate sweat and their
mouths were tired out. Hands replaced lips, and their faces rested close by
on the pillow.

`I've missed this,' Dec hissed. `I've wanted to call you so many times.'

`Why the fuck didn't you?'

`I... er... I don't know. Oh Mase...'

`I'm going to cum. I can't hold it any more!'

`Do it, baby. Do it!'

Mason writhed against the bedding and clung to his friend's toned body,
groaning out loudly then feeling that long-delayed release. It felt like
his cum must have shot all over the attic bedroom like an explosion,
droplets everywhere. Declan's gruff admiring laugh confirmed his sense of
how explosive it had been, and then he felt wet lips kissing his forehead,
and a couple of last slow tugs on his boner. He leant his head over and
smiled dizzily.

`Cum in my mouth again,' he said.

`Mmm, really?'

`Yep... come on... please...'

`You do not have to say please there, man...'

Mason sank back onto the soft bed and felt Declan knee his way up his side
until he was hunched right by his shoulder, scooping his head up in one
hand. Mason leaned a little and grabbed one of Rice's legs to support
himself, and pressed his mouth against the tip, playing his tongue around
it and teasing the foreskin once more. Dec wanked the base of his own cock
and grunted. Mason stopped his motion and let his tongue remain still so
that it was the jerking cock that moved, pressing back and forth over his
soft warm tongue. He rolled his eyes up and down the tight six-pack of
Declan's tummy.

He grinned and waited and ran his hand around the circumference of one
strong thigh until it was tickling the balls again, then past them,
stroking Declan's gooch and reaching further, into the fluff of his
crack. Mason felt Declan's whole body jerk and react, and he feared he
might have pushed the boundaries too much, but... `Oh yeh,' Rice exclaimed,
`stick a finger in there...' Mount quickly complied, pushing a single digit
up between the tight muscle, rising off the bed to do so, and kissing one
ab muscle before returning his patient tongue to the tip of that straining
boner. A strangled groan signalled the end, and there it was: hot wet spunk
streaming against his mouth, trickling over his tongue, running along his
lips.

Mason kept his one finger pushed in against Declan's hole as he lapped at
the sticky mess, tasting that cum for the third time in his life. He'd
enjoyed a breathless mouthful of it last time in his own bedroom on the
night of his 21st, and when he was just a terrified teenager, he'd licked a
drop of it from his finger in the middle of the night. Now he freely took
it in his mouth and savoured its salty tang, and very slowly withdrew his
index finger from the heat of his friend's tight ring.

Their bodies fell apart, rested a moment, and then interlocked in a sweaty
cuddle.



Mason was woken in a jolt of confusion by the sound of a message arriving
in his phone. He sat up in bed, half-pinned by the weight of Declan's naked
form, and stared at the tangle of his clothes on the floor. He tried to
crawl out of bed without waking Rice, but a confused groan from the other
lad announced his failure. All the same, he hopped out, naked, and snatched
his things up off the floor to get his phone out of the pocket of his
tracksuit bottoms.

`What is it?' yawned Rice's voice. `Fuck, did we really fall asleep...?'

Mason stared grimly at the message, horrified but not shocked. It was his
agent's office, and there was a hyperlink to a tabloid news story at the
bottom. Fuck's sake. He didn't bother opening it now, already fully aware
of the shit-storm to come. He locked the screen and dropped it down into
the soft nest of his discarded clothing, then climbed back onto the bed. He
needed to go, but he could enjoy a few more moments in the safety of this
dark loft space.

`I'm gonna be in trouble,' he sighed, finding Dec's body in the sheets,
pulling in close.

`Yep, you are,' Rice agreed in a similarly heavy voice.

`Thanks!'

`Well... it's true. But... remember what I said.'

`About having the dirt?'

`You know I'm right, Mase.' One of Rice's hands lifted out of the shadows
and stroked his hair. `Why do you let those pricks mess you around? Frank,
Ross, whoever else...?' The same hand stroked down Mason's shoulder and
arm. `You need people around you who support you. Look after you. That's
all you need.'

Mason's heart ached. He had felt so obsessed with Barkley, so powerless to
Lampard. Here, though, he just felt... protected. Fuck. Had things just
gotten even more complex? He screwed up his face and pulled away from his
best mate, and back out of the bed, rubbing at his face with clammy hands
that smelled of Declan's prick. He heard a little sulky huff from his
abandoned friend and lover.

`I'm just saying,' grunted Dec. `I didn't mean to...'

`No, no, you haven't said anything wrong,' Mason moaned. He picked up his
clothes one item at a time and looked at the naked form of the West Ham
midfielder sprawled in the bed. `It's just...'

`You know,' interrupted Declan's voice faintly, `my people have been
talking to your people lately, actually.' A long silence between
them. `There's... murmurings. Of a space at Stamford Bridge, y'know.'

Mason stared at him, though neither lad could quite make out the other's
face in the deep shadows; afternoon was turning to evening
outside. `Seriously?' he asked in a little exhalation of
surprise. `You... might come to... be my teammate...?'

`That would be cool, right?'

`Of course!'

`Unless...'

`Unless what?'

A moody silence from Declan, still lying in the shadows of the bed. `Unless
you have enough fun with the guys already around you.' A little derisive
snort. `Even if they do treat you like a fuckin' toy, mate.' Then an
embarrassed groan. `I'm being a dick...'

Mason approached the bed, leant over, and stroked his arm. `I would love us
to be on the same team, Dec,' he confirmed quietly. `I would. But for
now... I gotta go. Face the music. This was... special. I love you, buddy.'
He let go of the arm and backed off, pulling on his tracksuit top in
silence, his breaths hot and laboured, his thoughts disturbed.

`It was special,' Declan agreed, finally sitting up and blinking into full
wakefulness. He clambered from the bed, gangly and nude, dick swinging. He
stood just in front of Mason but didn't touch him again. `But I don't know
if I need to be jealous, Mase... You told me you were all mine, do you
remember? And now it seems... Has Ross fucked you too, eh?' Mason's
expression or little sharp intake of breath gave the answer he couldn't put
into words. `I thought so. Everyone but me, basically...'

`Dec!'

A gentle, awkward laugh. `It's okay, it's okay... I, er, don't think I'm
ready for that. But... Mason, those guys, they don't deserve you. You and
me, we go way back.'

`We're just friends though... right?'

A shrug in the shadows. `I haven't came in the mouths of any other friends,
Mase.'

They both stood there in the dark loft, close but not touching, one clothed
and one naked. In a pocket, Mason's phone buzzed again, alarming and
distracting him. `I really have to go,' he breathed. `I need to sort this
out. But...'

`When shit gets locked down seriously,' Declan said suddenly, `you could
come back here.' He spoke quickly and urgently, sounding almost as
surprised to say it as Mason was to hear it. `You don't have to stay
alone. You could... stay here. We could... isolate... together.' His words
sounded broken and confused, and so did his thoughts. Mason didn't know
what to say, so he said nothing. Another vibration in his pocket, and he
backed away.

`I need to go, Dec.'

`Okay. Okay, buddy. That's fine.'

`I –`

`You need to go. We'll speak soon. It's okay.'

Mason backed off, head spinning, and found his way to the top of the
stairs. He heard a last thoughtful sigh from his friend, but didn't look
back, too overwhelmed and confused.



In the car, he opened up his phone before he started the engine, and lay it
in his lap on speakerphone. His head throbbed with a little pain, a
thousand confused thoughts crashing into one another every few moments. He
poked at the Bluetooth control panel in the front of the car, and made the
call from there; the in-car speakers vibrated the dial-tone through the
seat into his arse and legs. His spent cock throbbed in his pants.

`Mason,' grunted Frank Lampard's voice through the speaker. `What the fuck
are you up to?'

Mason sat there in the driver's seat, holding the wheel in his hands,
staring intently into the middle-distance. He thought about all he'd been
through in a confusing few months, and his stupid behaviour today. Was it
any wonder he'd needed to get out and see friends, after everything...?

`Mason,' came the Chelsea manager's voice again, rigid with anger. `I've
just spoken to the press officers, and –`

`Gaffer,' Mount interrupted, surprised at the cool authority of his own
tone in the moment. Frank shut up on the other end, surprised to be cut
off. `I messed up. I shouldn't have been out. I'm sorry.' He was
apologising, but keeping his voice firm, clear. `But you and I both know
I've been having a tricky time lately,' he added, in the same confident
voice.

`Pardon?'

`A tricky time,' he repeated. `All those meetings in your office.'

Silence.

`I think, given the circumstances, you don't need to give me too much shit
for today,' Mason concluded, and his voice was shakier, less assertive, but
his message was clearly understood. No response from Lampard. `I think a
warning and a small fine will probably do, right? I'm going to be a good
lad and stick out my isolation now. It was a stupid error. That's all. No
need for the board to get involved, right... sir?'

More silence, and then, `You've got a nerve, Mount. I'm in charge here. Not
you.'

Mason nodded to the empty interior of his car. `Maybe, but I think we both
know who's the boss of you, don't we?' he said, in a lower voice, drumming
his fingers on the wheel and looking down at the phone between his legs on
the seat. `And I think Mrs L would be really interested to hear the things
you've done for Ross Barkley this season, right? Oh yes, gaffer, he's told
me the lot...' Breathy quiet on the other end of the line. `I'm sorry for
my mistake today, sir, but let's leave it at that... shall we?'

A long moment and then the beep of an ending call. Frank Lampard would be
fuming, but Mason knew his good friend had been right. He wasn't a
powerless pawn in this game, not any more. He didn't need to be treated
like a toy to get his pleasures, not any more. He let out a long breath,
realised how much his body was shaking, and tried to calm down before
starting the engine. As the car kicked into gear, he leant over and looked
out of the passenger window for one last glance at the big old East London
townhouse: somewhere inside there, Declan would be regretting his sincerity
and intimacy in their conversation, and resenting Mason's failure to
respond.

He drove away, stomach lurching. What should he do now?




**INSPIRED BY SOME REAL HEADLINES ABOUT MASON MOUNT... SILLY BOY - STAY
SAFE AND INDOORS, PEOPLE!**