premiership-lads-9

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Subject: Premiership Lads part 9: In the Manager’s Office Part nine: In the Manager’s Office Frank Lampard was looking at a busy Friday, but there was one job that was going to bother him more than anything else in the run-up to the club’s next game against Spurs in two days’ time, and it was sat in a brown paper envelope in the middle of his desk. Frank relaxed back into the swish leather chair, practically a throne, that his new life as a club manager had earned him, and stared balefully at the envelope and the PR nightmare that had been swirling about it for the past 48 hours or so. He drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair and then stroked his stubbled chin irritably, and then leaned over to the left and picked up the phone from its cradle. `Stacey � yes � best to get it out of the way. Send him up, please.’ There was a cowardly, fed up streak of Lampard that felt like acting his PA just to hold the whole fucking meeting for him and deal with this on his behalf, but it was hardly appropriate. The pressure on Frank at the moment was unreal, but this was one of several shitty jobs this weekend that he just needed to deal with on his own terms � the other option was to let it go up to the boys above, who would only make a bigger mess of it, no doubt. The 41-year-old Chelsea legend was enjoying the challenges of his new role as gaffer, but it had been a lot for the inexperienced manager to take on, especially coming back to the club that meant so much to him. Standards and expectations were high, and his strict, no-nonsense approach had meant a very intense first half to the 2019-20 season. The desk phone chirped, announcing the arrival of his morning meeting. `Send him through, please,’ he said to Stacey over the phone, practising the severe tone he would be needing for this confrontation. The door to the office opened, and in stepped a bashful, repentant looking Ross Barkley. `Alright, gaffer,’ the young Scouser coughed from the doorway. `Come in, Ross,’ Frank said in a quiet, disappointed tone, sitting forward a little in his leathery throne, spreading his hands out on the mahogany desk. The office was a long rectangle with big windows opened out on the empty cathedral of the football stadium, giving the meeting room an intimidating grandeur. The contrast in the men’s outfits � Frank in his well-tailored black suit and open shirt collar, Ross in tracksuit bottoms and a sweater over his polo shirt � gave more gravitas to the manager-player dynamic as well, and it all combined to make Barkley look incredibly nervous as he paced down the room and folded uncomfortably into one of the two chairs facing the boss. `Thanks for seeing me, chief,’ Ross said; it was obvious he was toning down his rough accent and aiming for formality, but it didn’t come easily to him. Frank just made a disappointed `hmm’ noise and drummed his fingers again, a slow tap, tap, tap on the firm dark leather. Barkley fell quiet for a long, painful minute. Frank leaned forward on one elbow. `Do you think I don’t have enough to deal with at the minute, Ross?’ he asked, firmly emphasising each word and jabbing a finger at the wood of the desk. `Without having THIS end up in my hands.’ His jabbing finger of accusation landed on the brown rectangle of the envelope. Ross squirmed, scratched his cropped hair, and let out a desperate sigh. `Gaffer…’ Frank just gave him a frosty look, and tapped the envelope a few times, then picked it up, and slid its contents out onto the surface of the desk… the expression on the footballer’s face was one of open horror. Frank separated the glossy sheets and began laying them out one at a time: pictures first of Barkley posing in his skimpy briefs, then turned round to show his plump behind, and then the progressive nudity… `I am so sorry,’ Ross said in a rush, `I just don’t know how…’ `Let me finish,’ Frank snapped, spreading out a few more of the printed, grainy photographs out on the space between them: one of bare buttocks, then the final two of the lad’s cock. The explicit phone snaps formed a collage of toned pale caramel flesh on the desk before Frank, and he watched Ross’s panicked eyes rove from one to the next. Frank leaned back into the chair with a creak and did his best Bond villain pose of steepled fingers and raised eyebrows. Ross sank in his chair and buried his face in his hands, melting some of Frank’s frustrated anger. `This is going to make a total mockery of me,’ grunted the Liverpudlian. He looked away, out of the window, and rubbed at his eyes and face again in distress. `They’re just some daft pics for my bird, that’s all, boss � just a laugh, and now… Where did these even come from?’ Lampard tried not to let his growing empathy come through � he’d fought for months to build a severe, respected authority here, knowing his relative youth and inexperience mersin escort demanded it. `The Sun,’ he put it bluntly. `They got hold of them, god knows how, and they’re ready to publish tomorrow.’ He watched Barkley wilt further, the poor lad looked utterly despairing. `Unless,’ the manager added, more quietly. `Unless?’ Ross looked at him wide-eyed. `There is discussion amongst the board that we throw a fee at the editor, get this hushed up before it’s too late,’ Frank explained slowly. `Yes, the rumour is out there, but the pictures are NOT.’ He waved a dismissive hand over the photos laid out between them. `For a price, we can keep it that way, and they will sign a non-disclosure agreement and bin the whole story.’ The moment of hope that had landed in Ross’s well-endowed lap seemed to be passing him by, and he looked just as worried. `A price,’ he said, questioningly. `What sorta price? Can we pay it? Will they really do that?’ He sounded pessimistic. `If I say so,’ Frank responded curtly. Ross gawped at him. `They’ve left it in my hands. They know I don’t put up with nonsense from my boys, and you’ve been in trouble twice this season already, young Mr Headlines. And now… these, for fuck’s sake!’ `I am so sorry,’ insisted Barkley in a growling whine. Frank let out a disappointed and frustrated grunt of a noise and shrugged his suited shoulders. The bad cop routine was wearing thin for him and he could imagine Ross’s distress. After all, he knew what it was like, he’d had all this sorta shite when his marriage fell apart. He also knew Ross had been victimised by the Sun before, and had any Scouser’s hatred for the shit-rag. `Of course we’ll fucking pay the price,’ he snapped. `Do you think I’m going to let your wang and arse cheeks be out there for the world to see? When we’ve got so much to fight for? Jesus, Barkley, you fucking idiot poser.’ Ross leaned sharply over the desk and grabbed Frank’s hand tightly in his own. `Are you serious? Thank you so much gaffer,’ he gasped. `I am so fucking grateful. I’ll do anything, anything at all. Give me any fine, any punishment. I’ll take it.’ Frank looked at the intense grip on his hands, appreciating the gesture, the grovel, but also a little intrigued by it. He shook Ross’s grip off but nodded appreciatively. `You’re a good lad, Ross, you know I’ve always said that,’ he said in his firm-but-fair training ground voice. `And you’re a fair gaffer,’ the Scouser responded instantly, `I’m always saying that to the lads, always bigging you up, you know I…’ `My ego doesn’t need this,’ snapped Frank dismissively, silencing him. `But we obviously can’t let you just carry on scot-free when the powers that be are going to have to shell out for this, and the rumours are already a stain.’ He jabbed one of the pictures, the one of Ross posing backwards into the mirror showing off his arse cheeks a bit in briefs. `You can see the club crest on the mirror, for fuck’s sake: imagine the embarrassment when people think our players get up to this shit on paid time!’ Ross hung his head limply and groaned his embarrassment again. `I don’t know what to say, boss,’ he said a bit pathetically, emasculated by the whole experience. `I wish I’d never let that fucking Mount take the stupid pictures.’ Lampard paused, and cast his eyes over the shots again with a hint of surprise: but of course, a few of them DID look like they were too composed, too careful, to have been selfies, especially for a clumsy brute like this midfield beast from Merseyside. He stared at Ross curiously. `Mason fucking Mount?’ he queried. `Huh?’ It seemed to dawn on Barkley that he’d overshared and perhaps made things worse, or implicated someone else. `Oh, um, god… er, yeah, Mason was about the place, caught me being a dick, and just sorta helped to… Oh boss, you won’t take anything out on him will you, please? He’s a good lad, he just…’ `He’s a good photographer, I’ll give him that,’ Frank admitted with something close to a laugh. At the comment, Ross seemed to survey the printed images afresh, and nod an awkward agreement. `They are good shots,’ Frank said pointedly. `I… I… I guess they are,’ Ross grunted hesitantly, seeming to sense a trap. `You guess?’ Frank said, a touch bitterly. There was something about the athleticism of players like Ross that irked him now; he knew he was in shape for his age but it was strange to watch yourself sag a little after years as a professional player. `They make you look… good,’ Lampard almost spat out, a bit reproachfully. Ross began to mouth the word `Thanks’ then seemed to think better of it. The two men sat in a tense silence for what seemed like several minutes. Eventually, Ross touched the pictures nervously, moving them about a bit like clues in a murder mystery. `My girlfriend definitely liked them,’ he dared escort mersin to comment. `She likes to see pictures of your arse?’ remarked Lampard a little coldly. `Bit weird, mate.’ The player blushed and shifted and shrugged. `Well, like I say, was just a laugh, and… You know people tease me about my, erm, butt. It’s kinda big for a guy’s, or whatever. And you said it yourself… it looks good.’ Nervous choked chuckle. Frank stared down at those couple of photos, the bare curve on display, and thought for a moment of how peculiar it was for young Mason to be the one photographing it, getting so close to it. But it was… beautiful. Like some tanned Latina, a fucking J Lo in their midst; Lampard almost laughed at the thought. He picked one of the photos up � in a way, it could have been from some porno of hot girls. The slang word `thicc’ rolled amusingly through his mind. `It does look good,’ he said, a bit to himself, and then noticed Barkley’s almost proud shift of expression. `But I am so sorry,’ Barkley insisted, quietly, pleadingly. `I really am. You know I would never want to… bring shame on you, or the club, or… risk my career. I hope this doesn’t affect my place in the squad on Sunday.’ Frank watched him thoughtfully. `Look, I said we need to punish you,’ he said, `but… there’s no reason that needs to involve missing games. Or financial action. There’s no need for this issue to really leave this room today, in an ideal world.’ `Totally,’ Ross agreed with an urgent expression. `So let’s just settle this man-to-man,’ Frank said, and watched the younger bloke nod furiously, then he burst out what had been building in his subconscious. `I want to see it. In the flesh. See how it looks compared to this.’ Ross blinked, stared, didn’t really move. `I mean, I just want to see it,’ Frank urged, in a gruffer, harsher voice, `and I want you to feel as embarrassed as you could easily have made me this week.’ Ross gawped a bit then sighed and slowly nodded his head, half-understanding. `Okay, boss,’ he said, then glanced to the big windows. `Er, but…’ `Nobody can see in,’ Frank cut him off sharply. `Come on. Get up.’ Barkley got up from his seat, nodding again, and turned around with his back to the manager’s desk. He untied a cord at the front of his trackies and slid them down to just below his cheeks, exposing his rounded behind through the thin layer of his white Calvins. Behind him, Frank watched intently and glanced thoughtfully back at the naked image. `Off with them, then,’ he barked. `Get it out for me to see properly.’ And Ross obliged, pulling the waistband of his CKs back down over the plump cheeks and baring his behind properly for his frustrated manager. It had been a sexless year for Frank Lampard, really. His second marriage and young children with her had left him largely without action. That was the only thing that could explain his fascination right now, surely. Ross’s big arse really did look like the `booty’ of some hot PornHub babe, not the manly backside of a fucking football player. He realised he had been staring at it for several moments when Ross looked over his shoulder uncomfortably to await the instruction to put it away. `You ever been spanked, Ross?’ Frank asked, pushing his chair back a bit. `What? No… I didn’t grow up in Victorian fucking London…’ `But you agreed you needed to be punished,’ Lampard said softly, as he came upright from his chair, and eyed the beautiful fleshy globes. `So… bend over the desk.’ Ross turned his head and stared at him, nostrils flaring a bit aggressively, but the lad said nothing. Like Frank had said, they both wanted this issue over without leaving the room. Ross turned and leaned over the desk a bit, planting his hands against the wood, and unfortunately having to stare down into his own shame: the scattered pornography of his leaked pictures. Lampard took a few steps round behind him. He’d not done this with a bird in a while, it was the sort of kinky rubbish he’d got up to with hookers and club socialites back in the day. But, fuck it: Ross needed a bit of a telling off, and he was distractedly excited by the smooth cheeks. Before he knew it, he was planting a smack on one. Ross grunted, the muscle jiggled a bit, and after a pause, Frank landed a red slap-print on the other buttock. He didn’t go too hard, he wasn’t so kinky as that, but he enjoyed the feel of it, and the noise it made. Ross bent a bit more, propping himself against the desk to take the punishment and end the stupid debacle. Frank slapped both cheeks once more each, biting his lip with eagerness at the contact, the grunts from Ross, the shake of those strong glutes. Then, he decided to touch them more gently, laying his hand on first the right cheek, then the left, stroking the curve of them. `I’m so sorry, boss,’ Ross grunted, mersin escort bayan perhaps in the hope it would end the humiliation. `Good,’ Frank murmured. `But god, you do have a beautiful, beautiful backside, mate.’ The footballer went quiet, clearly unsure how to respond to this. Frank grabbed and squeezed one buttock again, and this time let his fingers play a bit more, tickling the edges of the crack, feeling the downy fluffy of hair there, and running it along this line a little bit so that Ross’s legs trembled a little and another muffled noise of protest was made. Frank became aware, quite suddenly, of the rigid hard-on in his suit trousers. Fuck’s sake. If only he could just race home in his jeep now and bang his missus, but he knew she wouldn’t be in the mood. She was never in the fucking mood these days. He stroked the other cheek now. `Are we okay now?’ he heard Ross question in a small, humiliated voice. He couldn’t bring himself to spank again. It had been a stupid, cruel idea, even if it had worked, and got the message over. But now he was so excited he needed to… do something. `Nearly,’ Lampard replied in a mutter. `Don’t turn around,’ he instructed firmly. He reached down and undid the zip fly of his trousers, and rummaged a bit against the taut fabrics until his cock was out and in hand. He pulled back the tight foreskin and stroked his veiny, throbbing hard-on, having not blown a load in days, really. Maybe more than a week. Too much pressure, too much expectation, not enough fucking opportunity. He bit his lip and stared down at the big, meaty behind, and began to wank. It was like tossing off over some pornstar or prostitute, and it felt good. He pulled hard and fast on his dick, and it occurred only in passing to him that Ross would guess that wet sound or note his rapid breathing. He didn’t really care, in the moment. He let out rhythmic grunts regardless. Barkley just tensed and steadied himself and � was that a hint of a worried moan? � stayed resolutely still, accepting his forfeit. Frank reached out again to cup one cheek, sliding his fingers around the bottom of it where it met Ross’s fluffy thigh. God it felt so good, even the hair, the manliness of it… Shit, Frank had never felt quite so… Oh god… With a long strangling grunt noise, he climaxed faster than expected, and… there was his cum, streaked mostly against one bare arse cheek. Ross’s body flinched a bit at the warm wetness, but he didn’t really move. Frank tugged on his cock a few more times, letting out a long, shaky breath, squeezing the last of his cum in drops on the expensive carpet. In the long pause of recovery, he turned to look at the office door behind them. Fucking hell, he really should have locked that! And then, his breathing still rapid, he pushed his dick back into his trousers, where it made an obvious tent, and zipped himself up, and walked to lean by the window as he let himself cool down, feeling the sheen of sweat on his brow and cheeks. `That’s it, you’re forgiven,’ he said, but his firm voice of authority was a bit less severe and sure after what had just gone on. Ross slowly rose up, and when he turned his head, he looked at Frank in pure bewilderment. He gulped, and pulled his pants and trackies up. Frank thought for a moment that the big lad was oblivious to what had landed on his arse, but realised that was impossible: Ross was just ignoring it, strong and silent and accepting that this was the price for his reputation. Lampard felt both a surge of respect and affection for the meaty midfielder, and a rush of shame and guilt at his abuse of power. `Can I take the pictures?’ was all Barkley said, hopefully. `I’ll destroy them,’ Frank said, taking a handkerchief from his suit pocket to dry his face a little. Fucking hell, he felt weird now. `Don’t you worry. I will ring the chairman now, prod a few buttons. This mess will be cleared up in no time.’ It was as if both men flinched a bit at the word `mess’, and all Frank could think about was Ross’s undies sticking to his cheeks with his own spilled load. Ross looked only vaguely troubled. `You can go now,’ Lampard said dismissively. `I will see you in training. And you WILL play on Sunday, Ross.’ Barkley nodded with muted gratitude and left the office slowly but silently, walking a bit oddly, perhaps with a slight sting in his backside. Once the door, never locked, fell shut after him, Frank sagged a bit, and hurried back into his seat, where he let out a long sigh and began shuffling the offending photos in a hurry. Fucking hell, what had he just done! He shoved the pictures roughly into their envelope, feeling the sweating continue, now more at stress and confusion than the dominant exertion of his spanking or wanking. He reached for the phone, thinking of the shredder in Stacey’s office down the corridor, but he put it back down without dialing a number, and then slowly opened one of the big heavy drawers of the expensive old desk. In went the photographs, and he pushed it firmly shut, and twisted a little key. No need to destroy them JUST yet, was there?

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