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Subject: Premiership Lads part 107: Barkley’s Back Part 107: Barkley’s Back Ross Barkley pulled into the training ground car park and whipped the slender sunglasses from his newly bearded face, looking out of the window at the familiar buildings of the South London fitness complex with a sense of the surreal. Being back in London at all was strange enough after a couple of months’ break in Liverpool isolating with family, and now being back for the first day of proper training at Chelsea’s grounds was exciting to the point of nerve-wracking. Of course, Ross reflected sternly, there were a couple of particular points he was nervous about, football aside. The tightly-muscled midfielder knocked off the car’s engine and took his time getting out, mildly reluctant to face the oddly distanced banter and strange adjustments that these shortened training sessions would mean. His every limb twitched at the prospect of real matches though, lying tantalisingly unconfirmed in the weeks ahead. He locked the car and inspected his lockdown beard in the wing mirror, wondering what stick he’d be getting from the other lads for his longer hair and facial thicket. He stroked it idly with two fingers then stuffed the car keys into the pockets of tight skinny jeans and strolled around the back of the vehicle to pop open the boot and fetch his kit bag. He glanced up at the cloudless sky, anticipating the hot outdoor session that would await out on the training pitch. Another car was pulling in a couple of spaces down in the quiet concrete sprawl, and he didn’t immediately recognise the driver. He squinted a little in the bright early sunshine, trying to recognise the tall dark-haired lad at the driver’s seat, mentally scrolling through a few of his teammates and then noticing the more familiar passenger beyond that first young bloke. Ross paused in the middle of hoisting his bag strap over one broad shoulder and shoving the boot shut again. A few yards from him, the car paused with its engine growling, and the grinning figure of young Mason Mount emerged from the passenger seat, chuckling and saying something inaudible to his driver: Declan Rice. In moments, the car was gone again, curving across the empty spaces and out of the gates onto the quiet road. Mount was left standing alone, watching it go, a sort of goofy grin on his lips, eyes sparkling with pleasure. Ross stood still, watching quietly, hesitant before calling out, `Long time no see, Mase.’ Mount turned his way instantly and waved a hand. `Yo! Ross, mate! Fuckin’ hell… so good to see you.’ He took a few steps over, his own bag of kit swinging a little at his side. `Are we allowed to hug yet…? I can’t keep up with the rules…!’ `Probs best not to,’ Barkley responded and he heard the gruff resentment in his own voice, which he knew sounded more northern and Mersey than ever after two months away. `Was that…?’ `Dec, yeah,’ Mason replied lightly. `He’s just on his way to West Ham, so-` `You’re still staying at his?’ Again, he could hear the edge to his tone, knew he asked it too quickly. `Er, yes,’ the younger Chelsea player admitted in a slightly lower voice, a hint of embarrassment in his tone and his ruddy cheeks. He still grinned; there was a touch of pride or smugness there too, Ross thought absently. `Yes, not quite got my arse in gear,’ Mount continued more casually, `but I guess I’ll be back in my flat soon, y’know. Once training is a bit more normal, and stuff.’ He grinned bashfully, clearly aware of how much he had gradually confided in Ross, Ross who had read the texts and listened to the calls with a silent impatience. `Right,’ he said slowly, `I guess that makes sense…’ `I mean, the drive in from his parents’ place isn’t much,’ Mason continued distractedly, the pair of them beginning the slow walk up to the training centre, joining the vague stream of other players and staff members entering the wide-open double doors. `It’s probably a worse drive for him, all the way East, but… Well, things will be back to normal soon enough.’ Mason flashed him a slightly uncomfortable grin and then fired into a string of questions about Ross’s health, his family, his journey back to London, his girlfriend… The tall athletic Scouser shut off his little pangs of selfish envy and forced a friendly smile, meeting each question with short but earnest answers and heading indoors to meet the challenge of their socially distant training. Barkley was a little relieved when he was not grouped with the perky 21-year-old for the `small group’ training that would dominate the next week or so. Obviously it was great to see his friend again, there wasn’t really anyone else at Chelsea that he’d kept in such regular contact with during the weeks of isolation; with most of the others it was more casual banter in group chats and group calls, he’d struggled to get very close to most guys here in the last couple of seasons. But the pleasure of new romance seemed to glow from Mount; the young footballer was always a smiler and a lively colleague, but today he seemed to be walking on air, exuding the honeymoon feeling of his budding relationship with his `best friend’ Rice. Barkley was sure it was quickly becoming something a bit more series, based largely on the fact that Mason had gone from shyly admitting things to him to being suddenly vague and evasive. Ross suspected that sudden discretion and privacy was evidence of a new closeness between the 21-year-old lovers. Ross was not jealous. How could he be jealous? He was happy. Mason was a great lad and his feelings for Ross had been an awkward barrier, a troubling distraction. Ross didn’t have time for that, this was much better for their friendship and their work together, definitely. After all, his forays into man-on-man pleasure were nothing but a seedy tactic to protect his career, a way of holding some fragile power over their erratic young manager; nothing more. So, asked the voice at the back of his mind, what about Oxlade and Elliott…? Being reunited with Frank Lampard had caused him equal mild anxiety to the thought of seeing Mason Mount again, and Barkley’s own training group seemed to be spending the bulk of the session with the Chelsea top dog himself. Lampard did not seem overwhelmed with joy at being reunited with his squad, he just seemed full of a sorta irritable determination, eager to stress the pressure on them if/when the Premiership restarted. His team talk on arrival had been brief and harsh — this was characteristic of his management style but Ross found it vaguely out of kilter with the mood of the day, the mood of the country. At a few points through the training session, Barkley tried to make eye contact with him, as if to imprint some stern message over those inappropriate messages and calls to him in the last few weeks, that stupid porno screenshot and the almost threatening desperation of his suggestion. Barkley aimed a few fiery glares his way, but Lamps never seemed to meet them, in fact barely seemed to look his way. A few rival theories on this jerked about Ross’s brain as his body committed to a series of increasingly challenging fitness and skills exercises; he wondered if Frank was a bit embarrassed by his own desperation and forwardness, or if he was trying to play down his obsessive attraction that had clearly persisted from a distance. With a vague narcissistic worry, a third explanation came and went: what if that obsession had actually burned out now, and Frank was simply disinterested in him after all…? Ross hated how this notion bothered him. As he sweated out his frustrations and impressed his group-mates with his speed and a few particularly forceful strikes at the mocked up goal, he let his bitter feelings play out: how could both Mason and Frank seem to lose interest in him so easily and rapidly…? Wasn’t he meant to be some super-attractive alpha male to them both? Wasn’t that pretty much what they’d said…? Scowling with annoyance at his own vanity there, Ross powered the ball across the green and almost smashed the head of one of the cardboard cut-out defenders he was supposed to be curving it around. He gritted his teeth and snorted a breath, turning back to the other lads in his training group; behind them, he caught Frank looking his way, arms folded and brows creased — Ross’s eyes sought his, wanting to convey some of his frustration, sweat pooling against his bearded features; but Frank swept his eyes away and turned to stroll away from their group, just tapping the assistant coach on the shoulder to indicate he was in charge now. Barkley watched him go, the 41-year-old swaggering across the sunlit grass with a tablet open on one arm, tapping in whatever notes and strategies were passing through his analytical mind. Ross thought irritably of a time when he’d purely admired and respected the Chelsea legend, before he’d become… well, whatever he was now! `You wanna go and cool down a minute, Barks?’ interrupted the voice of their group coach, another middle-aged retired player with a clipboard in his hands. He was giving Ross a look of cautious judgment, clearly unimpressed by the inaccuracy of his last couple of shots. `I’m good,’ Ross grunted back. `Sure?’ `Yes boss,’ he said less aggressively, giving him a sweaty nod and huddling behind the other blokes, trying to centre himself and cool down the mounting frustrations of the day. Training was over just as it going, another part of the distancing and rules of this gradual return to normal. When his group were dismissed, Ross slowed down and languished behind the other lads he’d been playing with, unable to drag himself into their jokey discussion of stupid hobbies they’d picked up over the break. It wasn’t as if he could join the conversation with `oh yeh, I got noshed off a couple of times in some cruising woods on the Mersey, was a right laugh’. Slowly striding his long muscular legs over the grass, his eyes picked out Mason, giggling and shoving at another young player and bouncing through the last fitness drills of his own session. Love’s young dream. Huh. mersin escort He padded about the changing rooms, patting at his sweat-damp neck and arms with a hand towel and slurping rehydration fluids greedily, taking his time before resolving in his decision to confront the matter. He left the changing rooms behind, shrugging off some conversation starters from Christian Pulisic and Reece James, who were engaged in some heated debate of when the club’s first game back into the season would fall. He marched away down the passage, making vague excuses about needing to check something with the boss; the last of the playing groups were in and occupying different corners of the spacious changing rooms now, so surely Frank himself was indoors and heading to his offices. He caught up with him quickly, finding Frank in the middle of inspecting some notices on the wall beside the meeting room. The retired legend was in short dark shorts and tshirt, under-dressed for the heat and informality of the training resumption. He turned his tanned, freckled face, still oddly youthful at 41, and made a little frown of surprise or disappointment at seeing his brooding midfielder march around the corner towards him. Ross stalled in his Chelsea training kit, shorts and jersey tight about his sweaty body, boots clacking on the lino flooring. He paused silently at the corner, bunching his hands into vaguely threatening fists, and eyeing up his manager with an expression of determined confrontation. Now he was here, though, he felt vaguely silly; what was he even confronting? What needed to be said? `Good effort this morning, Ross,’ Lampard said in the most frustratingly bland tone, barely looking up from the notices he was pinning up, the groupings for tomorrow or something similarly mundane. `Frank,’ he almost hissed at him, wanting his full attention. `You were a bit sloppy towards the end but you’ve obviously been keeping yourself fit in the last couple of months, Barks, we’re all pretty pleased with that,’ the manager went on in the same almost bored tone, turning fully away from him now and scanning the other notices to see what he needed to update this week. `I think we need to talk, mate,’ Barkley muttered in a deliberately low, secretive voice. He edged further around the corner, smearing sweaty palms on his blue training top and flexing his biceps as he approached his boss. `Don’t you?’ Frank turned and gave him a suspicious sidelong glance, but then nodded. `Guess you’re right, pal.’ He looked up and down the corridor, then nodded to the nearest door. It led into one of the physio rooms, currently unused for the sake of social distancing; the small room didn’t leave much space for distancing for the two athletic men though, Frank leading the way in then folding his arms defensively and eyeing up his aggressive player. `Those messages,’ Ross burst out in a low growl, ready to argue. `You had no right, you…’ `I know,’ Frank said quickly, disarming in his bluntness and the softened expression on his face. This rather took the wind out of Barkley’s sails. `It was so fuckin’ inappropriate,’ he added aggressively. `What if my missus saw those, or my mum, or…? Fuck’s sake, Lamps, you’ve really gone too far, and-` `I know,’ the Londoner said again, opening up his arms and shrugging his shoulders now. `And you know what, Ross lad, I’m actually really sorry.’ His eyes were wide and his mouth a sort of apologetic grin. `You’re right, we do need to talk, Barks, I need to…’ `What? Ross snapped at him, taken aback by everything about this dialogue. `I’ve had some time to think,’ the manager muttered a little hesitantly, `and I know I’ve been bang out of order, pal…’ He rested his hands on the hips of his shorts and cricked his neck, infuriatingly calm and detached. `I’ve been exploiting you, Barkley, I realise that, and I’m just fuckin’ glad you’ve been so… so…’ He searched for the word and when it came, its bland dismissal sent shivers of rage through the midfielder’s body: `Accommodating.’ Ross stared at him, unable to quite believe how this `confrontation’ was going now. `Yeah, too right you’ve been out of order,’ he grumbled back, feeling the vague weakness of his position and his retort. He tugged irritably at his shirt and the front of his shorts, feeling Frank’s eyes stray a little to his chest and his crotch then pull back up. There was a weird lack of tension in the small room now. He felt pretty sure that Lampard wanted him as much as he ever had, but… it was if the older bloke was holding back, restraining himself in a way he’d previously been unable to. `Ross,’ sighed Frank, holding a hand up patiently, `I just think that-` `You need to leave Mase alone,’ Ross burst out, seizing on a different thread of argument. He glowered oppressively at his manager. `You’ve been treatin’ him worse than me, mate. It’s not on. He’s too young and naïve to-` `-okay-` `You leave him alone,’ Barkley insisted almost violently. `You don’t touch him again — you know he can’t say no to you, how would he? It ain’t right, Lamps, and-` `I said okay,’ Frank said more forcefully. `You’re right. No more of that.’ Now that things were a bit more explicit between them, though the word `touch’ was so euphemistic for the violent fucking that they really referred to, he looked less cool and collected, but he was still frustratingly reserved and contained. `No more of that nonsense,’ Lampard said, some tension showing in his jaw and in his eyes. `Squad line-ups will purely be on performance, from now on.’ Then he added in a strange, almost threateningly calm tone, `For better or for worse, eh?’ Ross stared at him then and for a second wanted to hit him. He felt confused and a little bit emasculated. This wasn’t how he’d thought this would go. By now, he thought, his shorts should be off and he should be stuffing that smug prick’s mouth, and- Whoa, Ross, what are you really after here…?! He stood there a little limply, sweaty heat cooling and feeling entirely puzzled. There was something indefinably different about Frank Lampard here, none of that neurotic energy that had charged their earliest encounters, those silent struggles for power as Ross allowed his body to be explored. He could see the flickers of desire still there in his boss, but neither of them were doing anything; it was dawning on him that he would need to be the one to make the first move here, if he wanted sucking off or, erm, the other thing, and so… He gritted his teeth and bunched his fists again, and took a step back. He was damned if he was going to be the one crawling for `fun’ here. `Well that’s sorted then,’ he snapped. `Hands off Mount. Leave the lad alone. Eh?’ Frank gave a long slow nod. `Yeah — it’s for the best. Don’t wanna confuse him, do we?’ What did that mean? Ross just glared at him, feeling stupid against the oddly impassive gaze of the older man, confined in this awkward physio room. He let out a long huffing breath and backed into the door, awkwardly wrenching it open and stomping back into the corridor, abandoning the conversation and the infuriating calm of his manager. The changing rooms were unsurprisingly quiet when he got back to them, but he still dragged his things to the furthest end, not wanting to be spoken to. He couldn’t explain the electric feeling throughout his big body, the itching desire to let off steam; part of him was tempted to make his way to the gyms and put in a second shift of training, though they’d all been banned from doing so. He definitely needed to vent or release or something like that. Off came the sweaty rag of his training top, peeled away from the dense compact muscles of his six pack and flat chest, tossed at a peg on the wall as he rubbed at his scratchy beard and massaged his throbbing forehead with fingertips. What the fuck had happened with Lamps…? He’d felt none of the strange shifting power struggle there, none of the intensity or neediness. He thought of all those times he’d pushed his cock or arse cheeks at Frank’s hungry mouth, those sweaty half-time and post-match incidents in locked toilet cubicles or against the mahogany desk of his office. Lampard had just apologised for exploiting him, and the formality of that itched at his temper, but he wondered for the hundredth time: who had really been exploiting who…? And then there was smug little Mason and his fucking `boyfriend’… Ross lifted one foot then the other, undoing laces and tossing them sharply to the floor, rolling down socks and bunching them up, thinking how he’d love to shove them in Frank or Mason’s mouth to gag those squealing bitches and then get his dick wet… He shuddered at the intensity of his own sudden lust, pushing down the shorts, dragging them over his glutes and thighs, then snatching a towel form the rack. The shower block on this side of the changing rooms was empty now, he was alone as he turned the corner and hung up his towel, thumbing down his sweaty briefs and dropping them carelessly to the damp floor. His dick was semi-hard before he even made it to the corner showerhead and practically punched it into life, stretching out his body in front of the hot cascade. He closed his eyes and slicked his palms in soap then slowly ran them from the curling hairs of his beard, down his thick neck, over his chest and abs, into the hot private world between his legs. One hand curled up under the fat weight of his balls and the other stroked very gently down the length of his rising hard-on. He’d show Frank fucking Lampard. How long could the smug 41-year-old has been keep up this infuriating calm? Who knows what fucking soul-searching the old bloke has been up to in the hiatus, but he’s mad for this body — Ross knew with such precise memory how desperately the manager admired and craved him. He’d seen the wild hunger in his eyes too many times. He thought about the night after that big Chelsea loss when he’d sneaked into his house, maybe to attack him or just trash the place, fuck knows what… he thought about how low Frank had been, his own instinctive need to escort mersin comfort him, the way he’d comforted and dominated him all at once… His cock trembled beneath his fingers and he couldn’t hold in the growling groan of self-loathing: you shouldn’t have been so kind to the prick, he told himself, he treats you like shit and now he’s acting like he doesn’t even give a shit… As for Mason, well… He thought about the last time he’d showered in this building in such a frenzy of undefinable hunger. It had been after a failed confrontation with Lampard that day too, and he’d taken it out on Mount, furious at his silly photography and careless losing of the pictures, the pictures that had started everything. So now little Mason was happy as larry with that ugly West Ham Neanderthal, playing happy fucking families in some Surrey mansion and… Well, Ross resolved, he’d show them, he’d remind Mason where his loyalties really lay. He remembered the vague, bashful comments that skinny twink had made, lying in his bed and eating Hawaiian pizza, fresh from the most invigorating fucking… Barkley stood in the corner of the shower block, gripped by his angry libido and misguided confidence that he was discreetly alone. He hunched his strong shoulders and pulled forcefully on his long thick hard-on, blinking how water from his eyes and letting soap suds flow down his sculpted tanned body, hitting the tiles around his big bare feet. `God, someone needs that wank, huh!’ He opened his eyes sharply at the interrupting voice and jerked his head to the side in alarm as another, taller lad took up position at the next showerhead, pushing the lever and inviting the same steamy spray against his milk chocolate skin. Ruben Loftus-Cheek grinned warmly at him and reached for the mutual soap dispenser between their positions, squeezing its pink goo into his pale palm and slapping it to his developed pectorals. `Fuck,’ Ross gasped awkwardly, `you sneaking up on me there, Lofty?’ He was both horrified and relieved. After all, the 6ft3 Lewisham lad was the only other guy in the Chelsea bubble who knew some of what he’d been up to; it had vaguely bothered him ever since that Loftus-Cheek had been party to that intense orgy in Lampard’s office, but at the time it had seemed perfect and helpful. Ruben’s lingering injury had meant their paths had barely crossed in the weeks and months since, and the season shutdown had come just as the big handsome Londoner was ready to properly re-join the squad. So of all the lads to wander in now and catch him wanking his nob with soap for lube, this was probably the best case scenario. `We aren’t all has heavy-footed as you, Scouser,’ chuckled Ruben pleasantly. The taller midfielder pushed his head under the spray, snorted water, then laughed idly to himself and leaned his big shoulders into the wall in a way that was oddly provocative, some scene from a porno or music video. Ross started a little, eyes taken by the way soapy water curved and danced around Ruben’s pecs and nipples and down his six-pack. He didn’t let his eyes stray further south, bringing them back up to the complacent grin on the other footballer’s face. Ross let his hand linger at his dick. He should stop now, disturbed and interrupted; he should gruffly apologise and deny that he’d been pleasuring himself, laugh it off as an accident of over-hyped testosterone. But he was so fucking horny, and it hardly looked like Lofty minded. `We all get a bit horned up after a good desh, don’t we?’ said the other lad, apparently a mind-reader. They both laughed gruffly and didn’t look away from one another. Ross found something challenging and exciting in the 24-year-old’s grin. He thought a little about how relaxed and confident this big lad had been, interrupting and then joining Frank’s first fuck of Mason. Back then, Ross had been unable to imagine himself mounting a lad, but… well, times had changed… `Yeh,’ he grumbled back, `I guess we do.’ Ruben was playing with himself too now. Ross remembered the fairly impressive proportions of the other guy’s equipment, though he resented having his eyes pulled down to it by the suggestive grabs and pulls of those big hands. There was something irritating and challenging just in the lad’s height and physique, even; Ross had enjoyed his physical dominance over slim little Mason and going-to-seed Frank, so aware of his own superior strength at all times. Ruben, for all his injury bad luck, was a tall powerhouse, broad and strapping and, apparently, pretty well-hung. `You’re a real mysterious bloke, Ross Barkley,’ said Ruben quietly, a little moan to his voice. `Am I?’ Barkley asked with a nervous tremble he was embarrassed to hear. `All these lads after you,’ sighed Ruben knowingly, `but what are you after…?’ Barkley frowned at him, slowly stroking his dick. `Dunno what you’re on about, pal.’ He glared denyingly at him, refusing to acknowledge the time they’d shared, not so openly or publicly; how much did Loftus-Cheek actually know? The glint in his eyes and the curl of his smirk suggested a lot more than Ross might have previously guessed. Then, to his mild surprise, one of Ruben’s hands was crossing the space between them, and the big London bloke was touching them both, pulling idly on his own semi and running his long fingers up and down the shaft of Ross’s furious erection. Barkley suppressed a little moan of pleasure and pressed one hand to the shower wall to steady himself. He looked at his cock and then Ruben’s cock and then up at his bold smirk. `You’ve no idea what you’re messing with,’ he said ambiguously. `That’s my point,’ Ruben said in a seductive chuckle. `But I really want to.’ Ross gave up holding the moan. He tensed his muscles and glared curiously at the bloke beside him, realising how little thought he’d given him. Big macho Lofty, South London lad of all lads, who’d casually strode into that office and basically shown Lamps how to fuck a man-pussy. Why had Barkley never questioned that confidence before now…? The grip on his tool tightened and he let out a slow whimpering gasp of enjoyment. `And there was me thinking you were just out for manager’s favour,’ murmured Ruben curiously. `I always figured… Barks? Just an opportunist, a man who knows how to play the game… I mean, you must have always known how irresistible you were, right…?’ He felt Ruben’s fingers slide up and down him, teasing the sensitive tip, curling against his loaded bollocks, grazing his inner thighs. `But now… hmm… I’m not so sure… I’ve seen the way you look at, you know, little Mase, so… What is it you’re really looking for, Ross Barkley?’ He made a strange noise, a sort of dismissive scoff mixed with an agonised groan. `Fuck off, Lofty,’ he muttered back, `you don’t know a thing about me.’ `No,’ Ruben admitted, `except that this is one gorgeous cock.’ `Guess you’d know,’ he muttered with pathetic resentment. But his teammate just sniggered and nodded, pulling a little closer. `I’ve seen enough.’ He pulled almost close enough to reach for a kiss and Ross felt a stab of panic, unsure quite how’d react if that happened; he remembered his furtive little kisses with Mason Mount as guilty transgressions, something more dangerous than any of the more sexual delights he’d indulged. But their heads pulled away a little even as their long-muscled bodies drifted closer. `I think you’re a bit intimidated right now,’ Ruben guessed perceptively. `Dunno why you’d think that,’ Ross muttered at him. `You’re the bitch wanking my cock.’ Ruben lowered his voice even more, deep and soothing. `What if I told you, Barks… that I enjoy receiving just as much as I enjoy… giving…’ His eyes sparkled with daring and desire. Ross had to turn the words over, not 100% sure what he actually meant; the signals got clearer as Ruben’s other hand reached to take his, and pulled it around his muscled hip and onto his backside. `You’ve seen me fuck,’ Lofty said provokingly, `but don’t you wanna see me… take it?’ Barkley didn’t answer because he suddenly felt like his whole body was made out of soft fudge and like he didn’t know what to do with his hands or his bulging boner. Hot water rushed over them both. But then Ruben began to turn. He planted his elbows and forearms to the wall, leaning forward a little so his superior height was less apparent. As a result, his long back of dark muscled curved down and his backside, round and firm (if not as prominent or architectural as Barkley’s own) was lifting and pushing back towards Ross. His cock, released from Ruben’s hand, twanged and grazed at the firm brown flesh of the man’s cheeks, tingling with desire. It had been so long since that evening of pounding Mount, and sex with his girlfriend had just felt so gently vanilla ever since… `Why don’t you show me what I’m messing with?’ was all Ruben said then. Barkley couldn’t have stopped himself then if the whole Chelsea squad filed into the shower block to watch. He planted his hands firmly to the chunky hips of Ruben’s broad body and slid his dick forward, letting its head slide a little between the cheeks, squashing against that narrow canyon. He rolled his own hips back and forth so that his member teased up and down that plump crack, then slid his thumbs over to gently part the buttocks. He leaned over and spat messily down on his cock for some lubrication, then tried again, pushing it in and down the crack, slowly finding entrance. Ruben’s moans were quiet but encouraging, his head twisting a little to watch over his shoulder. Something in his challenging grin pushed the buttons of Ross’s temper; he took his right hand off the man’s hip and slid it imperiously up his back until it reached his long neck, where he turned Ruben’s head for him and pressed it roughly into the wall so he couldn’t watch. This dominant gesture just earned a little yelp of excitement from the tall manly bloke, and Ross thrust his rock-hard cock into him then and there. It felt so good. Not, perhaps, as tight as Mason, god knows how many times Ruben had been fucked, and mersin escort bayan by whom… But still, so much tighter than any cunt he’d entered, hot and resistant against his girth. And the manly growls and pants he made, wow. The size and stature of the black lad, which had momentarily intimidated Ross before, now felt like some dirty triumph; fucking a squeaky-clean 21-year-old like Mason was one thing, but now dominating this big bastard, this strong Lewisham hunk, well… Their bodies ran against each other, hot and slippery. Ross remained aggressive and dismissive with his touch, refusing to lock fingers with Ruben when he felt for his hand, not cuddling or holding his long torso, just pushing and grabbing at it in a way that might leave bruises after. He enjoyed the vague knock of Ruben’s head occasionally bashing softly against the wall, always leading to little giggles and cries from Lofty as if this was all part of the fun. Mostly Barkley just concentrated on his rhythm, powering his dick deeper into the man’s hole with a fast drilling motion. Nothing seemed to hurt or distress Ruben, not like little Mason, so he really let himself go, using all his strength to fuck him into the shower wall. `Yes, mate,’ breathed Ruben eventually, finding his voice. `Fuck me so hard, Barks…’ `Harder than THIS?’ Ross demanded with a deep thrust, slapping his head and shoulder into the tiles as he did. `Even HARDER, buddy…?’ `Oh, yes…!’ But Barkley didn’t have the breath leftover for more dirty talk, ignoring further mumbled begs and barbs from the horny fucker in front of him. He just focused on maintaining the fast, blunt strokes of his lower body, feeling himself balls-deep in this beautiful black backside. He gripped tightly at his side and then at his biceps, digging his thumbs into firm muscular flesh. He began to hear the wet forceful slap of his own body hitting Ruben’s arse and he loved the pat-pat-pat-pat of it, echoing in this empty shower block. When he knew it was nearly time to cum, he pulled out, hearing the disappointed groan of his partner, but determined to see his domination more visually. He couldn’t find the breath or the words to mouth his desire so just used his hands, hard and forceful, shoving Ruben’s shoulders downwards until his tall body crumpled against the wall and at Ross’s feet. His head rolled up, mouth still grinning limply, and his hands stroked at Ross’s thighs and hips while he reached down to jerk his dick to climax, making animalistic pants of exertion. `You gonna feed me your cum, Barkley, you dirty beast?’ Ruben hissed. `Yes,’ Ross just about mouthed, feeling the veins almost popping in his neck and forehead, totally giving in to the pleasure. He did his best to keep his eyes open as he came and blew his load, seeing his white seed flick and splash at Ruben’s handsome features, his thick lips, his gentle dark goatee, his broad smooth shoulders. The silvery streaks were quickly washed away by the rush of the shower, but he saw the wide flat tongue of his friend’s mouth swirl about to pick up a drop and taste it with a groan. Ross collapsed forward a bit, catching himself on the wall, holding himself there while Ruben slumped at his feet, tossing himself. His head pulled forward and he was licking and kissing at Ross’s satisfied dick now; the sensations were so weird and soothing, his cock sore from the furious energy of his fucking and wanking. He was only vaguely aware of Lofty’s own orgasm, because he stopped licking long enough to swear a few times and breathe his name. Then he was climbing up, grabbing heavily at Barkley’s own body to steady himself. They were face to face again, and he was reminded just how tall and broad this sexually liberated younger man actually was. `God, you’re good,’ murmured Lofty. `You must know that, huh?’ `That was only my third time,’ Ross said hoarsely, not even sure if it was a humble-brag or an apology. He pulled away a bit, needing to let the shower splash the fresh sweat from his tanned body, needing to get his aching cock out of Ruben’s massaging hand. `I don’t know… what I’m… doing…’ `Oh, you do,’ Ruben assured him gently, stepping back and squirting more soap into his hands. `Oh, you really fucking do, Ross Barkley. Whoa…’ He just laughed then, deep and satisfied, and washed at his pits and his crotch and his arse. Ross watched him dimly, gratified and embarrassed all at once. When Ruben seemed to be finished, he just stepped briefly closer and slapped him on the bicep. `When you accept what a hot stud you really are, you’re gonna be one hell of a monster, haha. For now… that shy vibe is just so… fucking… sexy…’ He squeezed his arm muscle for a second, again looked like he might lean in for a kiss, then dragged himself away with a single wink. `Peace out, Ross the Boss,’ he said playfully, `and watch out for me in training tomorrow, I’ll be the one with a bit of a limp, hehe…’ And with a laddish chuckle, the big lad was nabbing his towel and disappearing from the steamy showers, no limp in evidence; he’d taken the fucking with gusto. Ross slumped to the wall and let himself recover, red all over with lust and exhaustion. Outside, the sun had clouded over a little, and the cool breeze was a relief. His freshly showered body still felt red-hot beneath the black tshirt and skinny jeans he’d pulled back on, his body clammy with sex even after ten more minutes washing down. No sign of Ruben on the way out, which was a slight relief; though the man’s pleasant laughter and wink suggested there would be no need for any awkwardness or difficulty now. Loftus-Cheek was clearly something of a man-whore, he thought, with equal disapproval and admiration. In the car park, he was not surprised that almost every car but his was gone; he was surprised, though, to find Mason Mount resting on the kerb a few metres from his car, kit bag against his knees, a Youtube music video sounding brashly from the phone in his hands. When Ross approached, still trying to cool down, he looked up with a coy smile. `You were a while showering,’ Mount remarked, perhaps quite innocently. Ross shrugged his shoulders and tugged irritably at the hot black tshirt, dropping his kit bag to the concrete and popping open the boot again. `Just had something that needed sorting out,’ he answered vaguely. There was no reason he shouldn’t confide his exploits with Mason, really, though he felt a secretive urge not to; similarly, he’d held back on any mention of the Liverpool FC lips that had graced his member recently, even when Mason was shyly telling him what happened every time he lost a game of FIFA on Rice’s sofa. He suspected things had gone further between the pair lately, but he hadn’t dared ask for details. `I see,’ Mason said, a little less innocent-sounding. `Good training session…?’ `Decent,’ Ross said, aware again of the almost sulky sound of his voice. `You?’ `Yeah… pretty great, actually. Felt so good.’ `How come you’re still here?’ `Oh, just waiting on my lift, you know…’ `I could drop you somewhere,’ Ross said without looking his way, pushing the boot closed and fishing a key from his tight pocket. `I mean, if that was helpful, or you wanted to… erm…’ He trailed off and glanced up, saw the odd expression on Mount’s face; a look of almost hungry temptation, a little chewing of the lip and wide-eyed hopefulness, a look that reminded him of different times. But he also saw a creeping guilty frown. `Well, Dec’s on his way across London,’ Mason explained quietly, `just finished up at West Ham, so erm, he won’t be long…’ `Oh, yeah. Of course.’ `Thanks, though, Ross.’ A bright little smile, flash of white teeth. `No worries,’ Ross grunted back. He paused at the door of his car, hand lingering on the sun-heated handle. He should get moving; they were still settling back into their shared flat, he and the girlfriend, after so many weeks away at the Liverpool place. There was plenty to get organised, and she’d made a point about wanting to maximise the `alone time’ after having to fuck quietly at his mother’s property. It would be a lazy lunch in bed when he got back there; he hoped he still had it in him to, erm, perform. He watched Mason look away, his nervous young eyes on the gate and the road. Ross thought guiltily about his bitter inner ranting before, lusty and alone in the shower. `You, er, want me to hang here and wait til he picks you up?’ he offered in a deliberately disinterested voice. `Oh, well — I mean, if you’re not in a rush, or…’ `No rush. Time to kill. Just don’t wanna… you know, cramp your style.’ `Ross…! You know I always like hanging out with you, buddy.’ `Sure, sure… Erm, so what were you just listening to on YouTube, sounded pretty boss…’ He walked over and curled down into a sitting position on the kerb, inches apart from his slim friend, who exuded the same post-shower heat as himself. The clouds were fading apart and the hotter sun blasted down on the car park and their patient wait. Mason had begun to bang on about some new R&B singer he’d picked up on thanks to Declan, flicking through a couple of YouTube videos and chatting about some cancelled tour date being rearranged, and- `He better treat you good, Mase,’ Ross said. He was aware of a choked thickness in his voice, a tell-tale gulp of emotion as soon as he paused. The younger footballer was looking earnestly across at him. `He better look after you and make you real fuckin’ happy, eh?’ Mount gawped a little. `I… I think he does, Barks, mate. Erm…’ Ross nodded curtly. `Well,’ he said, with comical menace, `if he puts a foot wrong, he’ll have me to answer to. I’ll fuck him up so he won’t play football ever again.’ He couldn’t decide if he was jokingly exaggerating or not, but he forced an uncomfortable laugh to hide his welling emotion. Mason chuckled too and threw an arm over his shoulder. `You’re such a good mate, Ross,’ he sighed happily. `Yeah, that’s me,’ Barkley agreed dryly. `Just a really good mate. So — what did you say this singer’s name was…?’ **HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS RETURN TO CHELSEA WITH THE RESUMED PREMIERSHIP TRAINING… HOPEFULLY GAMES WILL BE BACK VERY SOON! LET ME KNOW WHAT OTHER SQUADS YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE NEXT FEW STORIES, ALL THESE FRUSTRATED GUYS GETTING SWEATY AFTER SO MANY WEEKS APART…**

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