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Subject: Premiership Lads part 14: Boxing Day in Chelsea Part fourteen: Boxing Day in Chelsea It was a frustrating game to watch from the sidelines. Chelsea were 1 goal down to Southampton, though pretty much all of the stats would say they were having the better game: possession, passes, shots, everything except the actual fucking scoresheet. And for some benched players, it was more frustrating than others. Ross Barkley was fuming. It was coming up to the final quarter, and he’d already had to watch two other subs, his good mates Mount and Pulisic, take to the field at their manager’s call, and here he was, still stuck on the bench, freezing his nips off despite a good number of layers, wondering why the hell he’d been busting his arse in training so hard to sit here. Again. And this was not just a case of hard work and ambition versus the drudgery of professional life. This was different, after what had gone on. After what he had… put up with. He narrowed his eyes, sinking into the relative warmth of his Chelsea FC coat, and watched their manager stomp up and down the sidelines authoritatively. True, Lampard was probably more frustrated and pissed off at the potential loss than Ross was, but… that was his role. Okay, Frank Lampard had made a problem disappear: there had been no more murmurings whatsoever about nude pics. No dodgy calls from journalists, no mutterings amongst the squad, no online shit in sports or gossip forums. The leak had been stalled by whatever pay-out the powers above had agreed. And Barkley was sorry, as he’d done his best to profess when he met with Frank that day last week. But Frank’s message had seemed clear: he was still on the team, his role undented. Ross had undergone that weird… humiliation, he could only see it as, in order to secure just that. Yet just a day later he’d been dropped from the side, left on the bench, and now, on fucking Boxing Day, here he was again. Ross watched the game proceed and sourly told himself that his defensive skills would have kept that needless Southampton goal away and AT LEAST secured a draw for Chelsea, if not helping them to a win. He was a hard worker and he had a lot to offer. And he was relegated to warming the benches just because a few photos had pissed off the gaffer? Oh, and in went the second goal. For fuck’s sake! Ross sat there and listened to the disappointed booing of the home crowd echoing out overhead. Again, he bitterly watched Lampard pacing his steps and gesturing instructions and recriminations. At best, Barkley might make it on for a final ten-minute run-around, but even that was seeming unlikely now. The minutes ticked on, and a third substitution was made, but still no playtime for the impatient Scouser. And the inevitable loss closed in at full-time, and Ross just rubbed moodily at his face. He never took defeats lightly, but it really wasn’t just the Boxing Day failure of the club getting to him now. This felt really personal, and it had all started with those stupid messages to his girlfriend. How idiotic he’d been to get up to that nonsense at work, to be so reckless, just for… what? A shag that he would have got anyways? She had been REALLY turned on, yeah, but… he didn’t need dirty picture messaging to keep his bedroom active. He avoided the morose post-match atmosphere of the dugout and the home changing rooms by strolling indoors quickly, hands dug into the pockets of his tracksuit top, chewing at the zipped up collar in a sulk and keeping to the background. The sounds of the Southampton fans’ cheers echoed down the tunnel and into the backstage world of Stamford Bridge. Ross was thinking of just escaping early, heading out to the car park, but he knew that wouldn’t be simple: he was bound to run into fans, opposition or media at any exit if he went anywhere now. Security might help, but then word would get back to the gaffer that he’d fucked off. And so he sulked in a quiet spot for a while, until resolution started to form. He needed to confront this issue. He headed up in search of Frank Lampard’s office. He knew the manager was likely to be still being interviewed somewhere, but he knew the gaffer well enough by now. Lampard would want to cut that short, would give little comment to the critical reporters, and he wouldn’t be wasting his time dressing down any players, that would wait until tomorrow. No, their manager was likely to retreat to his office before anything, so that’s where Ross headed. He stepped out of the elevator on that floor and immediately recalled their recent meeting: the awkward formality of being summoned, his desperation to apologise, the relief of a solution, and… the other stuff. He was just dwelling on what went on that morning when he realised he was arriving at exactly the same time as the big boss. Frank emerged from the other side of the corridor, an assistant coach at his side � he already looked angry, and his forehead creased when he saw Barkley skulking about outside his office. `I need to speak to you gaffer,’ the usually tough Scouser chirped in a voice that sounded pathetic even to himself, hands still in pockets. Frank dismissed the assistant, and gave him an intense look, not unlocking the office door between them. `What is it, Ross?’ he demanded in a weary voice. He really must have rushed through and dismissed the interviews to be up here early. The man had looked ecstatic in recent days, since the Spurs win, and now he looked ready to wage war. `We need to talk,’ Ross tried again. `Chief, I thought things were okay, you said I would be on the team…’ `Barkley,’ snapped Frank, `the team just lost 2-0 to South-fuckin-hampton and you’re up here knocking on my office to whinge that you’ve sat out two fuckin’ games? Seriously?’ A little red in the face, the suited manager stepped closer to him, narrowing his eyes. Ross tried not to wilt too visibly at this reaction. `Gaffer,’ he said, pleadingly, but his anger and frustration was making it difficult to get out clearly what he’d been rehearsing in his head on the way up here. `That whole… controversy… you said it was all sorted, and…’ `It is,’ Frank said curtly. `Sorted. mersin escort An expensive mess, tidied. I told you that, and I did it. And?’ `You said I’d be on the team,’ Ross repeated lamely. He was pretty sure Frank had said just that to him in the office, after… after… Well, his punishment. His face must have been a petulant mask of dismay, and it seemed to annoy the chief even more. `Ross Barkley, get out of my sight before I blame this entire fucking loss on you,’ fumed Lampard irritably. `This is not the time for benchwarmers to come whinging. Go moan to someone with time to care.’ In a much smaller voice, `You said I’d had my punishment,’ Ross tried one last time. His wording got a slightly different reaction. For a minute, Frank Lampard looked… what? Guilty? Ashamed? It certainly wasn’t just the redirected anger he’d been throwing at Ross throughout this short exchange. Did the gaffer feel bad for how he’d treated Ross that day…? `Speak to me when you’ve proven yourself back in training, and had your fucking nappy changed, you whinging brat,’ was all the manager had to say to him, the moment of vulnerability quickly leaving his intense face. Ross backed off swiftly and returned to the lift, knowing that his own anger would quickly spill and he would say something he would quickly regret. Through the closing lift doors, he watched Lampard escape into the privacy of his office. Downstairs, things were quietening down. Ross went to the changing rooms, though he didn’t need them, he’d hardly worked up a sweat sitting still and sighing to himself for 90 minutes. He was at least partly hoping to get involved in some chat, to distract himself, or to try and comfort someone who’d fucked up a bit on the pitch � that was more the normal Ross, the team player, not the `whinging brat’ as his boss upstairs had put it. He frustratedly rationalised it all in his head: he wasn’t sulking at being on the bench, he knew that was always an inevitable part of the job, the cycle, but he was pissed off at a weird phase beyond his control. Or… partly beyond his control. He knew he’d messed up, with those pics, but… The changing rooms were already quiet, a lot of guys seeming in a hurry to get themselves away from today’s shame, perhaps back to their family celebrations. Since all Ross’s family were up in Liverpool, he was less bothered. He exchanged pleasantries with a few guys on their way out, or in the middle of dressing, and wondered if he ought to go too. And then he saw someone else to take his building frustrations out on. Mason Mount. The slim, good-looking 20-year-old was just about to head into the showers, stripped down to his black briefs and picking up a fresh towel, his lean pale body exposed and streaked with a little mud and grass on the limbs. Barkley hadn’t spoken much to him since the phone incident, not really wanting to blame the lad for his own silly mistakes, but also aware that he’d been pushed and goaded by the younger guy’s `assistance’. And there was one point that kept nagging at Ross’s frustrations here: he had made it fully fucking clear that Mount was to delete the pictures immediately. If he’d just done that, no stolen fucking iPhone would have jeopardised anything! Ross could see the showers were emptying, as were the rooms. God knows why Mason was so late getting changed, must have been doing an interview or just clowning about like a tool. But this was the perfect moment to confront him, the fucking twat. Ross moved to a quiet corner to undress, unzipping his tracksuit top and tugging off his clean Chelsea shirt and thermal under-shirt. If anyone noticed him prepping to shower he’d just say he’d sweated like hell watching them all fuck up without him! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a towel-clad Mason head over towards the shower area, passing the remaining few teammates who were getting ready. Ross kicked off his shoes, socks, dropped his trackies and undies, knowing the privacy of the showers was the best place to confront that dickhead without others getting involved. He could tell half the lads had heard rumours about his `leaked pics’ but having them know that he’d been photographed by Mount, well that was a very different embarrassment. Ross snapped up a fresh towel, flung it about his waist, and followed Mason on through the square entranceway to their showers. To the left was a long wall of communal showerheads, now empty, but opposite it were a series of shower-protected cubicles. Like a lot of the shyer younger lads these days, Mason had just disappeared into one of these rather than get naked more publicly � hah, the irony! � and his towel was visible on the hook outside the far one. If Ross had been thinking straight, he would have told himself he was being a crazy dickhead, letting his Scouse aggression boil over needlessly, risking further embarrassment… but it had been a long 90 minutes of sulking, and his attempt to speak to Frank upstairs had really pushed him over the edge. Confident nobody else would be coming through to this side, he stormed up to the last curtain, ripped it open, and pushed himself inside. Back to him, Mason turned in surprise at the noise, eyes widened, and was about to shout or laugh, but Ross clamped a hand to his mouth and shoved him back in the white tiling with a fleshy thud, so the naked youngster was pinned between him and the wall � for a moment, Ross’s towel-clad lower half was almost brushing the other guy, but he pulled his body back a bit to prevent this. `You fucking prick,’ he muttered in a low voice, eyeing Mason furiously. Mount struggled with his face and escaped Ross’s clammy fingers. `Mate, I’m sorry,’ he breathed in a panicked high-pitched voice. `Is this about the…’ `Of course it’s about the pictures,’ Barkley grunted at him, giving his body another shove, firm hands against those slim but defined shoulder muscles. His own thicker physique towered a good few inches over the younger bloke, his biceps tensed up and his pecs rising and falling with each angry breath. `Ross, mate,’ Mason said in a groan, `I am so sorry… I’ve been trying to speak to you properly about escort mersin it ever since but thought you were avoiding me…’ `Well do you blame me?’ Ross snapped, and realised his voice was getting a bit loud. He didn’t want any lads left in the changing rooms to here. `I’ve been on the bench for 2 games cos the gaffer is pissed off at me, you cunt.’ `Oh shit…’ `You know the papers had them?’ Ross hissed. `I’m sure you’ve heard the fucking rumours.’ `But nothing got printed,’ Mason pointed out weakly. `Nah, fucking bosses had to buy that,’ Ross said, his anger fading a little bit back to self-pity � after all, here was a good mate of his, looking shit scared, right in front of him. Was he really gonna punch this prick and make things worse? `I am so sorry,’ Mason said again, shaking his head, `I honestly can’t believe it happened… Mate, I was at fucking knifepoint…’ `But why didn’t you delete them?’ Ross snapped with a resurgence of fury, trying to fight down his natural sympathy at what had recently happened to the youngster. `Those fucking pics… You were out of order that day, mate, you took liberties…’ And again, his anger might have gone away, if his eyes hadn’t flicked down at that point and noticed it. Wide-eyed with terror, gibbering Mason followed his gaze, and both men stared at it. `Is this fucking turning you on??’ Ross exclaimed, again too loudly, utterly perplexed now. Between them, beneath Mason’s taut young six-pack, his dick had risen fully to attention, a good seven inches of slender veiny meat. Mason was bright red in the face, looked fit to burst into tears. Ross just stared at his silent panic, and then back down at the erection, feeling uncomfortable with the cramped cubicle around them, reminded of the photoshoot in the loos. For fuck’s sake, he’d come in here to intimidate the prick, now he was intimidated by… a prick. `I’m sorry,’ Mason said in a frightened whisper, `you just… do it to me.’ `What?!’ Ross barked, but remembering to keep his voice down this time. `I… I do what?’ He let go of Mason’s shoulders, releasing the pressure pinning him to the wall, but unsure what to do with his hands and arms, and still half-wanting to hit the lad, finding it hard not to blame him for everything in this moment: and cogs were turning in Barkley’s head, putting it together. `You weren’t helping me with those pics,’ he said, after the long awkward silence between them, `you were perving on me.’ The idea that another guy might find him attractive was new and weird to Ross. `I was helping,’ Mason protested, `I just… I just enjoyed it more than I… let on. I’m sorry, mate…’ `You’re gay?’ `Er… bi? I dunno…’ An embarrassed moan, eyes squeezed shut. `I’m not that into guys, I don’t think, just… some… like, er, you… Fuckin’ hell.’ Mason tried to squirm past then, still looking like he might cry, but Ross barred his way with one thick arm, tingling with a mixture of indignation and total shock at this. `That’s why the pics were still on your phone,’ Barkley said slowly. `You were… keeping them?’ Mason opened his eyes and their gazes met, awkwardly close. And even now, in this distress, bloody Mason Mount had a hell of a boner on him � how the fuck was any of this exciting to him? Ross wanted to beat him to a pulp, no… Jesus, it didn’t bear thinking about. Another dim thought hit Barkley in the back of the head: if other guys found him attractive, had Frank Lampard’s `punishment’ been just about humiliation, or…? `Please let me go,’ Mount whimpered. `Don’t… hurt me…’ Ross melted a bit at that. On the pitch and when provoked, he knew he could be an animal, but he was really a fucking gentleman. Of course he wasn’t going to hurt this whimpering youth, especially not when the lad had been mugged not long ago! But all that pent-up frustration and energy was still in him. He needed to do SOMETHING. He noticed Mason watching his conflict intently, knew that the quick-witted southerner would see his uncertainty. `Things will get better,’ Mason whispered to him. `I’m sure Frank will forgive you, you’re a fucking star here, Barks. Ross the fucking Boss.’ He dared a hand on Ross’s bulging shoulder muscle. `I reckon you’ll be back on the pitch in…’ `Stop touching me,’ Ross grunted, shrugging the trembling hand off his flesh. `And for fuck’s sake… how are you still hard? Just cos of ME?’ `That… that really surprises you?’ Mount asked, with a nervous, almost flirty giggle. `Jesus… didn’t you SEE the pictures we took that day…?’ His red cheeks flushed even more. `Stop it,’ Barkley groaned self-consciously. `The fucking trouble those pictures got me in… Mate!’ He bunched his hands into fists and again wanted to override his kinder nature. Mason flinched back from him, sensing this. Damn it, he had to do something to release this… this… this energy… And then Mason was looking down between them, and Ross followed his eyes, and was even more shocked by what he saw this time. `I’m not the only one getting excited,’ Mount remarked in as quiet and timid a voice as he dared, and Ross stared at the bulging outline in his towel. What the fuck? Was his anger just being redirected into, erm, horniness? Was he… kinda liking the attention?! He had certainly enjoyed being photographed that day, however much he’d focused on the real audience of his girlfriend and her dripping fanny. Mason’s hands moved quickly and nervously, reaching for the knot at Barkley’s hip, undoing the towel so it fell to the floor, sliding down the step out of the dry shower cubicle. That fat, prominent dick was back out between them, just as it had been in the cubicle when Mason had taken his beautiful close ups. Except this time, both men were in the nude, and in various states of… Ross didn’t want to use the word `arousal’, but there it was. Shitting hell. `It’s a gorgeous cock,’ Mason breathed, barely audibly. `What the fuck?’ was all Ross could respond to that, but he reflected on the description: was it? He’d never looked closely at any others! He knew he was, well, kinda lucky down there, but… weren’t all cocks just a bit shrivelled and mersin escort bayan ugly, when you came down to it? Not according to the adoring look on Mason’s face right now. Jesus! `Your girlfriend is so lucky,’ cooed Mason awkwardly. `Don’t push it,’ Barkley growled. `Sorry,’ the youngster murmured, `I just… well. You’re just so fucking hot, mate. I’m sorry.’ `Stop saying that…’ `But you are. It drives me mad. I’m sorry. I dunno what it is…’ `You’re just young,’ Ross said stupidly, not sure what he even meant. He certainly hadn’t had problems with crushing on older teammates at 20, so this didn’t make sense. He couldn’t even look Mason in the face now, the intense look of worship in those young eyes was too much for him to cope with. It occurred to him now that he needed to back out of this, get the hell away from an encounter that had gone so wrong. But what if there WAS any other player about, and they saw him stepping out of the showers with a total semi, and stupid Mount here, stiff as a rod… Now why was Mason sliding down onto his knees? Why was he letting his smooth hands run down Ross’s chiselled flanks, resting on his hips… `Mate,’ he cautioned, but in a low, barely heard grunt. Mason breathed softly on the flesh of his shaft. Ross felt a tingle. `Don’t,’ he began. `So beautiful,’ he heard Mount say, and then, risking everything, the lad began to kiss it. Whoa. This was too far. Being looked at was, okay, exciting, let’s say, but this was… God those lips felt good. Soft, eager. And Ross was just so full of energy now, wasted on the bench, wasted in his manager’s dismissive treatment… god, he needed to spend some of it… And now Mason’s mouth was closing about his nob: hot, wet, tight. Oh, fuck. Squatted in front of his muscular idol, Mount began to pull his head back and forth, lips caressing the growing, tightening length of Barkley’s tool. For a few moments of bewildering pleasure, Ross thrust his strong arms at the tiled walls to support himself, but then, that fury resurfaced, that energy that needed an outlet, and he reached down to grab Mason by the head. Curling his fingers aggressively through the gelled tufts of Mason’s hair, he thrust forward with his hips, pushing as much of his building erection into the boy’s mouth as he could: Mount gasped and wavered on his haunches, but Ross needed to release. He began to fuck the lad in the mouth, much rougher than he ever would have dared with a girl. He pushed the length of his pipe in and out of that wet, hungry gob, letting his loaded balls slap the footballer’s chin, letting his trimmed pubes graze Mason’s big hooked nose. The sounds of spluttering and gasping just drove him on, so he used the power of his strong hips and arse to fuck that face like a pussy, holding it in both hands. Struggling for balance by the feel of it, Mason’s hands worked their way around his hips and thigh muscles to clutch his ass, holding onto those big strong cheeks much like dirty Frank Lampard had done that day to embarrass and punish him, and… `Ohhh yes,’ Ross groaned, `oh fucking hell,’ trying his best to keep his ecstatic noises low and minimal, but no longer thinking about the risk of anyone overhearing. `Take it, you fucking bitch, you stupid little prick… take it… Mmm…’ And then, in what felt like an instant, he was cumming. His whole cock throbbed and twitched and his balls slapped Mason on the chin one last time before spilling their contents. He fired his cum down the lad’s throat, three long spurts, and then leant forward, elbows to the wall, gasping and shaking with each muscle in his body. Below, Mason carried on regardless. His tongue and lips lapped at the salty mess on the head of Ross’ cock, then back up the trembling shaft, then licking at his big balls, jesus this lad was dirty! And the fap fap fap sound below… was Mason wanking off just at licking him like this? Fucking hell… the boy had it bad… It didn’t even take him long. Ross had barely begun to recover and calm when he felt Mason’s head pressed into the warm comfort his thigh, and the vague splash of jizz hitting his own bare foot. The boy made whimpering noises against his crotch, trembling as he leant on him. Ross let out one long sigh, and reached over to knock the shower controls. Icy cold water blasted both lads’ bodies for a moment before heating up, and washing everything away. Mason rose slowly, clinging to the muscly architecture of Barkley’s frame to pull himself up. `Sorry,’ he mumbled again, red-eyed and troubled looking. `Sorry about the…’ `Forget it,’ Ross grunted dismissively. He looked anxiously at the slightly traumatised expression on Mason’s face. `I didn’t… hurt you, did I?’ he asked tentatively, realising just how rough he’d been. Mason just stared at him through the rush of the shower. `It was incredible,’ he breathed. Two metres away, stood in hunched, tense silence, another member of the Chelsea squad let out a silent breath of surprise and excitement. He had only come through here to see if Mason was still being a vain cunt sorting his hair. He had thought everyone else was gone, been really fucking surprised to see Barkley’s shirt hanging on a peg, since the big Scouser hadn’t even played � but that surprise had paled next to the groaning noises and double ankles seen and heard at the final shower cubicle. Did the guys not fucking realise these shower curtains weren’t full length? He stood there, a throbbing boner in his jogging bottoms, totally astounded. For years, he’d thought he was pretty much the only gay footballer in the Premiership, and now he’d just overheard… wow. It had taken all decorum and self-discipline not to rip aside the shower curtain and see it properly. But he was embarrassed, a bit scared, and it had sounded so… aggressive. The roar of the shower in that tiny space ceased, and with as much care to be silent as possible, he backed slowly away and out of the shower block before either guy could emerge and realise they were outed. Head racing with excitement at what he had discovered, Ruben Loftus-Cheek fled the home changing rooms of Stamford Bridge, willing away the erection in his pants as he visualised Ross and Mason, hard at it, making those noises… Shit, this was going to be fun. ENJOY! THANKS FOR READING – WILL TRY AND GET A COUPLE MORE STORIES OUT BEFORE 2019 ENDS, LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU WANT TO SEE NEXT. x

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