Date: Sat, 9 May 2020 00:04:15 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads part 97: Frank

Part ninety-seven: Frank


Ayia Napa, 2000.

A scorching hotel room with broken-down air-con that the staff had just
scowled at and puffed on their cigarettes when expected to do anything
about it. A room that had been sold as high-end but felt trashy on
arrival and, ten days into their occupancy, was a decadent pigsty. The
air was hazy with smoke, strong aftershave, drunken cackles.

Frank Lampard swayed a little on his feet, giggled into the beer bottle
in his hand, and scratched at his smooth bare chest as he was led over to
the bed. He looked about the room with an ear-to-ear grin of hedonistic
satisfaction, allowed the belt of his cargo shorts to be tugged and
loosened by a couple of grasping female hands.

Through the haze of cigarette smoke he could see Rio Ferdinand leering,
the bigger and older football star tottering between the three double
beds and waving a camcorder in both hands, sticking out his big tongue as
he chuckled and cooed. Kieron Dyer laughed even more loudly in one of the
other bed, another busty British last curled up against him.

The next thing Frank knew, his shorts were fully down and so were his
under-crackers and, still, big Rio was filming. He laughed at this mad
realisation but was too numbed by booze and the earlier white lines to
really give a fuck. He stood with one leg lunged onto the bedframe,
crotch spread open, chugging beer from a green bottle and looking down as
the mid-30s slut sucked at a dick that was both rock hard and strangely
numbed.

The room span and blurred. The 22-year-old Premiership footballer tossed
the bottle aside, finished with it, ignoring some lewd joke from
Ferdinand that he ought to shove it up her before he fucked her. He
laughed but grimaced and rubbed at both eyes with his knuckles. The
chunky bird was pulling him down into the bed now, dragging his hands to
her fleshy tits, kissing his tummy and giggling into his trimmed pubes.
He rolled across the bed and giggled, letting her take his hand to the
folds of her cunt.

The room kept spinning. One minute Frank was on top of her, fucking her
hard and enjoying the classless squeals of her voice, then he was on his
back in a gap between the beds, drunkenly listening to the two black men
fucking their shared slags for the night. Frank groaned, feeling a bit
sickly, but playing with his still hard prick and slowly climbing up onto
his knees to watch; to one side of him, Kieron Dyer's round bubble butt
bouncing up and down as the flashy Newcastle player slammed the giggling
woman into the mattress, brimming with youthful energy; to the other,
Ferdy was bent forward with his face between two chubby pale legs,
licking out the one Frank had fucked, his pale chocolate arse up in the
air. Frank staggered out from between the beds and the room seemed to
spin again.

Dyer was still shagging one of them, up and against the wall now, but the
camcorder was in HIS hand, and he was pointing it shakily in that
direction. He laughed and threw it aside, onto another bed, and lounged
forward through the swimming blur of the room until he felt himself on
soft pillows and curled against a female body. All of the day's madness
swam in his mind, the beach party and the lined up shots and the handjob
on the beach from some tart barmaid who he'd slipped  £100 kid to shut up
after. God, this was the best holiday of his young life. Fuckkk.

He looked up and Rio was looming over him, tall and ridiculous with his
almost cartoonish grin of sleaze and adventure. He was playing with his
stupidly big cock right in front of Frank and saying something -- `play
with it, go on, play with it' -- and Frank was grabbing it, feeling its
size in his hand, laughing at it while his other hand reached into the
woman's crotch and tickled her clit. Then it all seemed to melt and fuzz
and he was squatting on the other bed, pushing his own cock into a hungry
slutty mouth, but it wasn't one of these Blackpool slappers abroad, it
was Kieron's thick lips, boyish eyes, bushy brows... and he was fucking
his mouth like a pussy, holding the headboard and cackling with laddish
glee as Rio bounced by them with the camcorder, then-



Lampard woke with a sweaty start in 2020, his face pressed awkwardly
between two pillows, his whole naked body tangled in a coil of expensive
bedsheets. The 41-year-old Chelsea manager spread out his arms, feeling
the emptiness of the king-size, his wife's absence, and groaned into the
bedding for a minute before pushing himself up on his elbows. He dragged
the sheets off his toned middle-aged body and rolled aside a little,
looking down his faintly sweat-sheened body at the pyjama shorts about
his knees. Tugged down in the night, he remembered, in a furtive and
ill-fated attempt to fuck his gorgeous missus; she'd refused with polite
chagrin and compromised with a quick hand-job, letting him cum on her
hand and watch her lick it up -- before she immediately turned over and
went to sleep, refusing to play anymore, even for her own pleasure.

Lampard had just really wanted a shag; really wanted to please and excite
HER, too.

He lay there, a little embarrassed to think of the nocturnal rejection
and the stagnation of their sex life, but also just a little bit relieved
that at his age he was still so keen for it, a randy teenager in a
41-year-old body. Was it okay to be a bit proud of that?

He tugged up his shorts and left the bed, pacing the room and dragging
open the curtains with some reluctance; morning sunshine swept in and
began washing away the night memories, both of the compromise wank and
the dreams it had slipped him into. Fucking hell, he thought, that summer
in Aiya Napa! That whole year; the mad, hungry early days of his
professional career. He stood at the window and closed his eyes and he
was back in a bar or on the beach or in THAT hotel room; was that even
the wildest night, or just the most notorious? Then he was picturing how
his dream had ended, Rio's big dick in his hand and Kieron's lips on
his own prick, but... that was bullshit, that wasn't how it had
happened... was it? No! Of course not... it hadn't been like that, for
fuck's sake, the whole internet had SEEN it wasn't like that, the tape
still floated and resurfaced.

That tape! God, the trouble it had caused. He cringed to think of it and
ran his hands back up his stubbled cheeks and leant his elbows on the
windowsill, staring down into the lengthy back garden where his wife was
already up with the kids, eating breakfast on the patio. He groaned to
think of his riskier youth, the madness he'd been pulled into by older
players and insane new wage packets. Wild Rio and flamboyant young
Kieron, but so many others too. He thought about big Titus Bramble, a man
who would buy everyone in the bar a pint if it meant there was no talk of
calling it a night, of wasted Robbie Keane stripping off midway through
his karaoke; he thought of Jonny Woodgate sourcing everyone's cocaine
and lording it over them like a minor gangster. Ashley Cole and Andy
Myers spit-roasting the hotel manager's wife over the reception desk at
4 in the morning while he was dragged upstairs by his own conquest. A
montage of debauchery ran through his memory, but of course, the tape
stood out.

It had taken years of hard work once he signed for Chelsea the following
year, years of keeping his head down and building a more professional
reputation; all he'd cared about for a decade was undoing the stain of
his early decadence, becoming a respectable family guy, a footballer
worth investing in. And he'd been lucky, or at least successful; he
thought of a bloke like Dyer, whose reputation had seen him out of the
limelight and the League, and guys like Cole, branded `womaniser' and
`homewrecker' and nowt else. Some, he supposed, were finding their
second wind in management like him, Jonny Woodgate up at Boro for
example, but he knew how fortunate he was himself: who even thought back
to that shameful holiday footage at the mention of his name now, except
for a few pervs on the internet maybe? He was an icon of English
football, a hero for the club he now ran.

He took a shower in the roomy en suite and pushed away the final scenes
of his dream. Just a dream -- those bits were NOT real. It had been a
lurid night of shared pussy but it had NOT been anything more. He'd
never once touched Rio's dick. He'd never once seen Kieron hint at
bi-curiosity. Those scenes were a crazed imagination, not a memory.

But you wanted it, came the sinister voice at the back of his mind. You
dreamt about it even then.

Out of the shower and wrapped in a towel, he stared himself down in the
steamy mirror, considering this prospect. Was even that true? It was hard
to believe. All he remembered chasing that summer, and in the years that
followed, were beautiful young women, big tits and tight cunts. He'd
never dipped a toe in anything more... ambiguous. He looked himself in the
eye and asked the big question: what, you never even thought about it? He
couldn't answer himself, he just didn't know. He certainly didn't
remember being drunk in that hotel room and giving any thought to the two
naked men that were with him, driving the seedy action; it was only NOW
that he found himself imagining a different dynamic.

He examined himself critically, already convinced that the stresses of
top-flight management were ageing his handsome face, smearing moisturiser
onto his cheeks and plucking a few stray nostril hairs with a vanity he
never would have predicted for himself. In the bedroom, he dressed slowly
and delayed joining the family below, troubled by the dream and the trail
of thoughts it left him with. The vividness of the imagined play left him
worried but horny.

Buttoning up the blue oxford shirt he'd left out ready for this busy
day, his eyes found his mobile phone on the side-table and he thought
guiltily of the messages he'd been sending, the thwarted attempts to
engage with his two `special' players. Fucking ignorant pricks. They'd
regret ignoring him when training started up; he hoped their plump
backsides would enjoy the feeling of a bench for a good few fucking
months, because he certainly wasn't gonna rush to play the traitors who
ignored and dismissed him. Even as he thought this, he judged himself.
What are you doing? What do you want from them? What do you EXPECT?

But really, when his own wife wouldn't take a shag in the middle of the
night, who could blame him for these fantasies and distractions? He
thought about the feeling of Mason's tight hole and the repeated
sessions inside it and his self-loathing receded. If only Mount had
stayed in the city. Or Barkley, he added, then drove himself mad with the
long-imagined treat of fucking that lad. He thought about his aggressive
latest suggestion to Ross, the porno he'd screenshotted; part of him
knew that the Scouser would never relent, but that didn't stop him
wanting it.

Frank did the top button of his shirt then stuffed its tails into the
belt of his dark khaki chinos then selected a pair of smart-ish trainers
from the closet and prepared to go downstairs wearing the affable smile
of the loving husband and father, the calmly confident Premiership ace
and junior manager. He had a busy day of such smiles and goodwill today,
he didn't have time for sitting around dwelling on salacious memories of
what had been or what hadn't been or indulging his newfound fetishes for
a couple of his brightest players. He HAD to knock that on the head; it
was driving him insane.

Down he went, to breakfast and to face the day of charity work his team
had arranged.



It was easy work for a good cause, so the tall young footballer found
himself whistling cheerily as he got on with it. He was a naturally
positive and easy-going guy and he wasn't going to let the oddities of
the scenario chip that: the safety gloves on his big hands, the face mask
he'd been issued on arrival, the safe distances between him and the
other Chelsea volunteers at his station, packing up the food boxes to be
delivered to key workers and needy families.

Ruben Loftus-Cheek laughed idly at some banter from the others around the
big table in the Stamford Bridge hospitality kitchens and carried on
stacking fruit into packages as instructed; opposite him were two other
youngish players who had signed up for this goodwill project, mingled
with a member of the physio team and two ladies who worked in ticket
sales. He was enjoying the mix of players and different staff who made up
the carefully distanced volunteering team working at the stadium today;
he felt as interested in the kind chatter of the club's ordinary staff
than the jokes and patter of his fellow players.

Ruben was having a fairly content time of it in lockdown, very aware of
his privileges as a well-paid footballer, and incredibly grateful for his
close family who shared his big South London mansion, including his young
siblings. The 24-year-old was actively avoiding the obvious bitterness:
to reach match fitness after a frustrating injury absence just as the
entire footballing world ground to a halt, that was shit, but he knew he
had a lot of blessings in his life and he let them take up his thoughts,
instead of the potential gloom.

A radio was playing somewhere in the big industrial kitchen and one by
one volunteers began singing along; he laughed at it but joined in, and
the work went on faster. Soon their `shift' of prepping food packages
was over for the morning. Some of the helpers had been assigned to do
delivery driving, but not Ruben; he slightly regretted this now, having
enjoyed the past few hours of helping out and doing something good, but
he didn't have the right driving license for the big vans.

The 6ft3 pillar of a footballer peeled his gloves off like everybody off,
tossing them away as instructed, and left the vaguely clinical atmosphere
of the kitchen behind, strolling out through the broad hallway and
watching the gathering slowly dissolve; the two other players he'd been
stationed with were both driving, so headed off with trolleys. Ruben
flashed one of his good-boy smiles at the two middle-aged ladies he'd
been near to and they grinned and thanked him for his help and time; he
knew he had one of those smiles and attitudes that really pleased the
mums. He took a slow troll out through the building, in no real rush to
get to his car -- whilst he was having a decent time at home with his
family, it still felt good to be back here, to be somewhere different, to
see other people.

Ahead of him, amongst the separated volunteer force, he spotted the
gaffer. Frank Lampard looked almost presidential in his smart oxford
shirt, sleeves rolled up and serious, helpful expression on his gently
lined face, nodding along officiously as he spoke to two senior club
officials who were coordinating this charity effort for the local area.

Ruben was struggling to adjust to seeing the 41-year-old in a new light.
When Loftus-Cheek had joined Chelsea as a hopefully 18-year-old Lewisham
lad, Lampard had been just on the way out, passing each other like
proverbial ships in the night. Lampard was a straight-laced figure,
something of a legend in the Chelsea world, a serious professional who
had been welcomed back with open arms to take on their management despite
relatively little experience. Loftus liked and admired him: he liked his
discipline, his rigour, his ambition. He'd enjoyed the mentality Lamps
brought to the squad, even if injury had limited his experience actually
playing under his leadership.

And now... All of those things were still true. But they were intermingled
with strange new knowledge and a confusing new perception. Not just of
Frank, admittedly, but somehow it was him who felt like the enigmatic
centre of the puzzle... Ross and Mason, he thought he understood, in a
distant analytical sort of way. Big old Frank, married dad and respected
manager, not so much. He watched the polite, hardworking Chelsea gaffer
instinctively go for respectful handshakes at the end of the conversation
then remember himself, pull back, clap his hands gently together and say
his earnest goodbyes to the two older gentlemen. As soon as they were
gone, following the men and women with food trolleys out into the car
park, a visible change overcame Lampard. His posture drooped and his face
shifted from a look of sincere helpfulness to a weary scowl. He turned,
clearly expecting to be alone, and stared down this passageway to where
his recently recovered player stood watching.

Ruben smiled cautiously and lifted a single hand in greeting. `Good to
see you here, gaffer,' he said in as bright and casual a voice as the
situation demanded.

`Ruben,' Frank murmured, collecting himself and switching back to the
public-facing leader he'd been all morning. He paced down the hall and
paused 6ft away. `Thanks so much for coming and helping out -- fucking
fantastic to have you here pitching in. Good man.'

Ruben nodded gently. `Any time, boss. Any time. You well?'

`I'm good,' Frank declared with a firmness that hinted at the conflict
he'd observed. `As good as possible in the circumstances, you know.
Keeping well. Family all good. I hope you're the same?' Ruben nodded
silent agreement. `I'm just glad we can do our small bit,' Lampard
said, and it sounded like a quote from a press release. Already, the
middle-aged England hero was restless and scratching at his stubble, his
shoulders drooping a little.

`Small bit?' Ruben asked. `It's fantastic what you and the bosses
have got going on. I'm sure people will really appreciate it.' He gave
a broader, cheering grin. `Excellent work, boss.' Big cheesy thumbs up.
`You really are a very giving man.'

`What does that mean?' Frank said abruptly, taking a long stride
closer.

Ruben lifted his brows and gently rubbed the fuzzy beard at his chin.
`Huh?'

`What do you mean by that? Giver?' the manager demanded, another step
closer. He looked agitated, fussing with the roll of his pale sleeves. He
moved, glancing about the big junction of passages and scratching at the
back of his head, then glaring back at Ruben. `What are you trying to
suggest?'

The 24-year-old just cocked his head casually and raised both hands.
`Innocent comment, chief,' he said, though he was beginning to guess
what Frank was reading into it. `I wasn't trying to suggest anything.
Just saying, you're doing good. Big respect.' He shrugged his broad
shoulders and took a step back, pulling the protective mask down from his
mouth. `If you think I'd ever bring up what happened that day, you're
pretty wrong,' he added, a notch quieter. Frank stared intensely at him,
and he regretted the provocative addition.

Frank looked like he wanted to say or ask something, but he backed off,
shaking his head. Ruben followed at a 2m distance and they passed from
the car park exits into the closed-off hospitality bars and VIP areas
that dominated this side of the stadium. Like other parts of the
building, they were eerie in this empty state. Frank strode on ahead past
the row of unmanned bars and Ruben slowed his walk, not too keen on
engaging in tense conversation with this mysterious man who was so
important here now.

But ahead, Frank had slowed and stopped, in the middle of the sweep of
bars and well-furnished seating areas. He half-turned, and a thoughtful
scowl was evident on his face. Ruben took a few slow steps after him,
hands dug into the pocket of his retro tracksuit, feeling much more
casual than the businessman's-day-off look of his manager. Ruben
couldn't help but admire the older man, still athletic in profile,
filling his chinos and shirt nicely and looking like he could put in a
90-minute shift if asked. Now he really was thinking back to that day,
that session in the manager's office. What's more, he could see that
Frank was too.

He allowed himself a curious grin of possibility. `You sure all's good,
chief?' he asked innocently.

Frank turned more fully, glowering at him. `I'm sure,' he said in a
low, ponderous voice. There was a silent `but' hanging after the
answer, and Ruben walked towards it. Hmm, he thought, social distance,
but... well, if we've both been isolating for weeks since we tested
negative, and we've been really careful... He reached where Frank stood
and lifted a hand to one arm.

`Cos if you wanted to chat, boss, I'm free now,' he said, keeping his
voice breezy and letting his eyes do the talking. He saw a sort of
indecisive twitch in his boss's expression, a defensive edge to
Lampard's body language. The tall handsome footballer grinned to himself
casually; if the married bloke shot back at this gentle initiation, then
so be it. Nothing to lose. He just grinned at Frank from his superior
height, then grinned. `We can do more than chat,' he prompted quietly.

He could see Lampard didn't quite know how to deal with this dialogue.
`You think you know stuff about me,' he remarked gruffly.

`I only know what we did,' Ruben said in a low, warm voice, `and
all's cool. No judgment here.'

He watched the Chelsea boss digest that, and glance away, furtively. They
both looked about them at the gleaming emptiness of the hospitality
suites. Ruben pulled his other hand from its pocket and rested it on the
other arm, gently stroking the vague curve of bicep beneath the sleeve.
He saw Frank flinch just a little and smiled conspiratorially. `No
judgment,' he repeated in a laddish chuckle, and leaned in a bit closer.
`You must be missing Mount, I guess.'

Lampard let out an immediate huff then backed off. `I miss the whole
team,' he muttered. `I miss us scoring goals and winning games, Loftus.
That's what I miss.' He dragged one hand across the side and back of
his lightly sweating neck and cracked the knuckles of the other. His eyes
didn't leave Ruben's. The tall Lewisham midfielder took a step towards
his senior and leaned in towards him again, dropping his voice to a purr.

`If you were missing him, I could step in,' he said, and he let his big
gentle tongue roll along his bottom lip before closing his mouth. He saw
his manager shiver.



It was an executive box where the wealthiest of Chelsea sponsors, clients
or guests might enjoy a game: comfortable leather armchairs and sofa
spaced out around low serving tables and a minibar all of its own set up
in the corner. Its door slammed shut behind them and Frank dumped the
bunch of master keys down heavily on a side cabinet, then pushed forward.
Ruben smiled and chuckled and remained powerfully still as the older man
grabbed his tracksuit top and reached around his waist. Then Frank's
hands were reaching up to the height of his shoulders and pushing down.
There was an almost snarling look of lust on the boss's face, but Ruben
firmly resisted the push of his hands and the curl of his lip.

`Slow down chief,' he murmured. `What's the rush?'

`Thought you were gonna suck my dick,' snapped Lampard bluntly.
`Ain't you?'

Ruben nodded his head slow. `Can do,' he offered, `if that's what you
want.' Frank pushed on his shoulders again, a dominant set to his face
-- but Ruben grabbed his forearms and pulled them down, exerting his
superior height and weight and noting the flicker of alarm in his
manager's eyes. `We don't need to rush to anything,' he said, then
leant in. He didn't dare kiss this volatile bloke on the lips, but he
grabbed one shoulder and pushed his mouth in against the sweaty side of
his neck, planting rough kisses on the stubbled throat and jawline. Frank
gasped and trembled a little, began to push back, but he held him, and
kissed his neck passionately and teasingly. He knew he was taking the
chief by surprise, knew that gave him an upper hand here.

He pulled his mouth away and licked his lip, ran his hand up the damp
neck until he was stroking long fingers through Frank's thin dark hair.
`We can do whatever you want, chief,' he offered in a voice of gentle
submission, whilst his strong hands did the opposite, grabbing and
holding the slighter physique of the older bloke.

`Get on your knees,' Lampard spat. `None of this funny business.'

Ruben grinned gently at him. `Straight guys are all the same,' he said
in an almost mocking sigh. `But then you all taste so fuckin' good.'
Down he went, resting his knees to the carpeted floor and sinking his
arse a bit lower, bringing himself to the right height. Above, he could
see Frank still looking agitated and hesitant, so he acted roughly and
quickly. He grabbed and undid the thin belt and the button fly, and
didn't just open the chinos, but tugged them right down to the ankles,
exposing the pleasingly toned hairy legs of the retired player. Then he
scooped his hand beneath the bulge of Frank's briefs, lifted the front
of his shirt, and kissed him just below the naval. As expected, a long
gasp of tenderness from the married man.

`Just get on with it,' Frank hissed through gritted teeth.

`But I'm enjoying myself,' Ruben gasped quietly. `Aren't you...?'
Then he dipped his face and rubbed his mouth against that fabric bulge,
pushing his thick lips around the outline, letting his beard tickle
through the cotton. His hands pushed upwards, almost tearing the shirt
open; he thought he heard a single button ping off a panelled wall. He
rubbed and tickled at the smooth toned white of Frank's abdomen and
chest, then pulled back on his haunches and made another exaggerated lick
of his lips. He knew his height and power were intimidating the horny
manager; he compared himself to a handsome dweeb like Mason Mount. But
then, what was there between Frank and Barkley, too...?

`You've done this before,' Lampard said, and it surprised Ruben that
he sounded so surprised. Had the Chelsea manager thought he'd just
casually wandered into his office and helped him fuck a 20-year-old
footballer on a whim, with no previous...? He couldn't help but chuckle
out loud at this. `What?' Frank demanded crossly. `What are you
laughing at?'

`Nowt,' Ruben sighed, and he went to work. He snatched the waist of the
dark blue briefs and tugged them down then immediately took his
manager's semi into his mouth, enjoying its size and shape on his
tongue. Straight guys really were the best to suck off, he thought
hungrily. How many had he noshed over the years of locker rooms,
nightclub toilets, late night afterparties...? He lost count. He gave the
stiffening dick a good long suck then patted his `superior' on the
hips. `Get on the couch,' he said. He didn't say it as a command, but
he knew it would be followed.

Frank moved quickly to the bigger of the leather couches, shirt hanging
open and pants all about his shins. He slid back onto it, arse to
leather, and Ruben crawled seductively after him. He came at the dick
from the side, bowing to kiss it; his left hand roved up Frank's torso
and scratched at his loose pecs, his right hand rubbed up and down one
hairy thigh. The married football manager writhed on the couch and
groaned with an ecstasy that Ruben normally took much longer to drag out
of a `straight' bloke. The moans were loud and passionate and sometimes
sounded like words, then not words at all, then maybe... He said something
that sounded a bit like `Kieron', maybe it was just Ruben, wait, nope...
`Oh Dyer,' gasped Frank distantly, `oh yes buddy...' Ruben paused, his
lips about his manager's shaft, but he decided to roll with it. He could
be whoever Lampard wanted to be, he was horny as hell today.

He hadn't sucked dick in ages. He hadn't had a drop of action since
lockdown began, nothing but self-pleasure and a whole lot of internet
porn. This was a beautiful surprise. He lapped appreciatively at the cock
fate had put in front of him and reached into the front of his own
tracksuit bottoms, feeling himself in his boxer shorts, incredibly turned
on. He'd never have supposed Frank to be his type, in all honesty, but
having seen the man pounding a lad's arse, well... there was a fierceness
there that excited him deeply.

He realised Frank's eyes had opened and he was staring at him as he blew
him. The expression on the manager's face was odd. Excited and enjoying
it, but also a bit shocked and worried. Again, it made Ruben muse on the
strange dynamics he'd observed: so Frank was dominant, right, and it was
freaking him out how relaxed and confident this new lover was... that made
sense for Mason, he reflected, but could a lad like Ross really be made
to submit...? He met his boss's eyes and winked again, then just took the
dick in hand and slapped its wet length against his own cheek. `Feel
good?' he asked in a growl.

Frank nodded but said nothing, narrowing his eyes a little. Ruben went
back to sloppy work and now Frank's head rolled back and his eyes closed
and his groans filled the cosy executive box they occupied. Ruben
clambered onto the couch with him and stroked both thighs as he continued
to suck and lick and kiss. Then he returned his hand to the spit-lubed
meat and sat up, looking down as he comfortably tossed the Chelsea legend
off. `You're new to this?' he asked quietly.

Frank looked reluctant to answer, but he spoke between his groans and
pants. `I'm on my second wife, Ruben,' he grunted. `This isn't
my...'

`But here you are.'

`But here I am.'

He slowed his strokes, really teasing his palm and up and down the
managerial cock, watching every frown and twitch and gasp of the man
spread in front of him. He licked his lips yet again with arch slowness,
then dipped his head as if about to lick the boner, but didn't and rose
up again. He enjoyed the vivid frustration that flared on his master's
face.

`You'll do well next season for this,' Lampard muttered. `Good lad.
Good cocksucker.'

Ruben spat on his dick and rubbed the saliva along its average-sized
shaft. `You don't need to bribe me for this, boss,' he said quite
dismissively, `I'm having my own fun here.' With his other hand, he
squeezed the ample diagonal of flesh in the front of his dark maroon
trackies. `And you're gonna return the favour, right?'

Lampard glared at him. `Sorry?'

`Fair's fair, boss,' Ruben laughed. `Come on. You sucked it good last
time. Don't you remember?' The anxiety on the straight man's face told
him he did. He slid around, pushing his limbs beneath Frank's bare legs,
still wanking him off whilst with his other hand unzipping his top and
lifting his tshirt a bit. He reached inside his trackies and took out his
own lengthy black meat, saw Frank's eyes flash to it. Ruben loved
sucking a bit of straight meat, but he adored straight lips on his. He
reached for one of Frank's hands and brought it to his thick brown rod.
Immediately, the married guy began to stroke and fumble at his manhood.

`Oh, that's it,' Loftus-Cheek groaned, `god what soft hands you got,
boss...'

`Shut up... I ain't into this shit, you prick... just want my dick
sucked...'

`Oh, don't we all? Relax, boss man, relax... mmm, that feels good...'

`Does it...?'

`Oh, yeah...'

`I'll play you in every game you want for this,' offered Lampard
again, a wildness to his tone, `I'll make sure you get a great pay-rise
in the summer negotiations, and-`

`Shut up,' Ruben told him flatly, `you're killing my buzz, mate. Just
tug me off like the horny fucking bastard you are. God you're hot, you
know? Proper DILF. Mmm, Lamps.'

`Fuck,' swore the Chelsea boss in a mixture of excitement and shame. He
gripped Ruben's thick boner tighter and really tugged on it now. He was
starting to lean over, pulling his body closer, his bare legs
interlocking with Ruben's clothed ones. Wanking himself with his other
hand.

`Suck it,' Ruben said. Again, not a forceful command, just a breezy
comment. He grinned darkly at the man next to him and felt him begin to
lean closer; he reached out a powerful hand and urged him on his way,
pressing Frank's shoulders forward and his head into his lap. Tongue and
lips met the fat head of his dick and he purred. `Good god, boss,
that's nice... Mmm... so... you sucked Mase off...? Nah... didn't think so...
Barkley, was it? Hmm... yeh, bet you did, lucky you... Mmm... Whose tasted
best, haha? Nah, don't answer that...'

He lounged back, relaxed and comfortable, and stroked at Frank's hair,
his neck, his shirt collar. He watched the wild hunger of the man's
face, a real intensity in his eyes and jaw and his roving lips. He
managed to look horrified and delighted all at once by the thick black
meat offered to him; Ruben didn't remember him being half this good the
first time, that brief wet suck before they both shagged the hell out of
Mount's backside. Had he been totally new to it then? How experienced
was he now? Such questions drifted happily through Ruben's thoughts as
he pushed Frank's face down and watched him gag on his rod.

Enough, he thought.

There was something much more exciting about pleasuring this England and
Chelsea icon, as good as this sloppy BJ was. Ruben was really enjoying
the frenzy of it. But he wanted to taste dick in between his lips. He
slid off the couch, leaving Frank dazed for a moment, then he pulled his
legs apart and knelt into his crotch and sucked him off with more energy
and aggression. He pushed Frank right back against the leather and pumped
his mouth up and down his member. As he ran his hands over the torso and
hips and thighs, he didn't just stroke or caress, but grabbed and
massaged and slapped, and he could till this confused man loved it.

`Oh Rio,' he was gasping. Rio? Ruben? Some name beginning with R,
certainly. `Oh mate... oh yes... baby... oh Dyer mate... oh lads...' He was
lost in some long-lost fantasy! God, just how horny and kinky was old
Lamps, at the end of the day? Ruben thrilled at even this confusion,
tasting this hero who he'd grown up watching on TV sports, seventeen
years his senior.

Then it came back to him. Rio. Kieron. Frank. A memory of a fusty teenage
bedroom in his mum's council flat in Lewisham, poor-quality internet
loading on his desktop. A video on an internet forum. At that stage,
young Ruben had been making his way into a major London youth team,
increasingly sure he was at least bisexual, and a bit frightened about
how it would fit with his sporting career. He'd been obsessive about
internet rumours about players' sexualities and any sex scandal had
snatched his interest. That's how he'd ended up finding and watching
it: that crazy shitty video of the three of them in Aiya Napa, proper
slaggy and low resolution, but... He pictured his teenage self, wanking
off furiously in his bedroom to the buffering, interrupted footage of
Frank Lampard swigging beer and being noshed off. And now here he was, on
his knees, tasting it himself...

When he stopped sucking, Lampard groaned and whimpered in dismay at the
interruption; a vocal and thrilling reminder of just how talented Ruben
had become over the years of fun. But the fun needed to peak. He rose up
to his feet, still largely clothed, and jerked energetically on his
bigger erection, stood over the sprawled figure of his manager. Frank
looked up at him, wide-eyed, and began to jerk off too. Ruben stared at
the 41-year-old man, still so handsome and fresh, but so grown and
developed from the youth in that ancient tape, what was it, year 2000?

He blew his load thinking of them both: the 21-year-old Frank in the sex
tape and the 41-year-old bugger laid up in front of him. He thought of
the fantasy and the reality and couldn't decide which he liked better.
He shot his seed over Frank's chest and face and watched globs of it
settle around his nose and mouth as he gasped and whined to his own
climax. Flecks of Frank's seed hit Ruben's tracky bottoms and his white
tshirt, and a single streak landed on his own cheek. Both men continued
to tease and pull their spent cocks for a few long moments.

Ruben dropped into the armchair to the side and lounged back. His dick
hung out of the waist of his tracksuit bottoms, smearing a bit more cum
on them, and he let his pecs rise and fall as his body cooled down. He
looked over at Frank, who was slowly and clumsily buttoning his shirt
over the sticky patches of Loftus-Cheek juice while his privates lolled
between bare thighs. He could see the mingled shame and satisfaction on
the boss's face.

`That was fucking fun,' he announced quietly. Just a grunt from the
chief. `You ought to relax a bit, boss. Let yourself enjoy things.'
Frank looked up and glared at him more directly. `Sorry -- I know you
got a wife, and an ex-wife, and kids, and... well, a fuck-ton of
responsibility. I'm just saying. This don't have to be anything dark or
dodgy. This was beautiful and fun.' He reached down and pushed his soft
prick away and stared with mild annoyance at the tiny cum-stains on his
clothes. This had cost 100s of quid online.

`You don't know what you're talking about,' Lampard muttered crossly.
He was dragging his briefs and chinos back up his strong ex-footballer's
legs. Ruben watched and smiled and wanted to pull and grab at those
thighs again. Soon.

`No, perhaps not,' he mused aloud. `I'm gay. And pretty cool with it.
Even if I know the fucking League around me won't be.' He noted the
surprise on his boss's face, as Frank shot up from the sofa to do his
belt. He rose too, folding his arms. `But you... well. I think I do get
it, boss. You're a guy who's had a lot of women. Maybe you always
noticed guys, maybe it's new. But it's happened, and your dick loves
it. Your head? Not so much. But it's happening.' He stepped up to his
manager, grinning down at him from a few inches of greater height.
`You're one hot daddy, Frank Lampard. This was hot. I'm gonna wank one
out thinking about it tonight in bed.'

Lampard's nostrils flared. He looked equally appalled and gratified. He
did up his top button and then wiped hands over his mouth and chin,
trying to smear away the last traces of Ruben's seed. The tall young
midfielder chuckled, leaned in, and kissed a smear of his own spunk off
the side of his boss's neck, then pulled back, licking his lips. Frank
scoffed and blinked and backed off a step or two.

`Whatever you think,' Ruben went on in a quiet voice, `it's obvious
you need to unload. A lot. Wife got a bit boring after the latest baby?
Just tell me when I speak too much truth, boss. But all I'm saying is...
whenever you need that sweet cock of yours sucked, give me a buzz. It's
been a long lockdown, and I'm fucking hungry.' He grinned, zipped up
his tracksuit top, and strolled past the older man and his frowning fury,
tugging open the door and exiting the box. On the way out of the door, he
looked back once, saw Lampard's awkward stiff posture, and his faint
reflection in the huge glass wall overlooking the stadium: his face was
contorted into a snarl of regret and agitation. But Ruben knew, with the
confidence of experience, that the message or call would come: this would
not be the last time they sucked each other off.