Just Like Jose Mourinho
Rating: NC-17 because that's the way I like it.
Pairing: Frank Lampard/André Villas-Boas. Because that's the way I like it.
Disclaimer: Based on something that's false which is in turn based on something that's supposed to be true. Yet, I think that if you see my sources, you'll agree this is all false.
Summary: So, Andy decides to do what Frank says Mou did. Mou doesn't appear here, by the way.
"Jose Snoreinho. That's not even witty. Or funny," André mumbled, running his hand through his hair. He just couldn't believe the talk he'd just had with the guys at the training ground. What the hell? The only one who had had his back was Fernando, and he didn't want Fernando, of all the guys, to have his back. If he had been scoring, at least, but no, so... it was a setback, instead of an advantage.
He reviewed the list of requests he had gotten from the guys. Sure enough, he wasn't going to take blame for Fernando not scoring, nor was he going to shave his beard because Mata had a beard too, nor was he going to let Ashley Cole play with air guns. No way.
He sighed when he read what Lampard had written down for him.
Mourinho complimented me when I was in the shower washing my balls. That gave me extra confidence. You never do that.
Another sigh. Did he really have to do this? Did it really work?
When he stepped inside the showers, suit and all, André knew he was desperate for results. He could not even convince himself that he was doing this because perhaps there were some rituals at Chelsea Football Club that he ignored.
And, as if he had been waiting for him, it turned out Frank Lampard was the only one at the shower, and he was just pouring shampoo over his head.
"Can't I just compliment you right now and then leave?" André spoke then, his eyes fixed on the shower-head, pointedly ignoring the player's naked butt.
However, Frank Lampard turned around. A huge grin shone on the Englishman's face.
"Oh, Andy. So you came. Well, I'm sorry, but no. You have to wait until I'm washing my balls. And I'm just washing my hair, so, c'mon, make yourself comfortable. I still have some way to go."
"Ok... If you say so."
André sat down at a bench, letting his eyes wander over the shower. It felt so weird, to be there, all alone--well, with no one else but Frankie. Frankie, who was taking his sweet time washing his hair. Who then bent over to leave the shampoo bottle on the shower floor--who had this exquisite butt, not to mention muscular, tense legs--
Oh no.
André crossed his legs awkwardly. Sure enough. He had been a victim of a practical joke.
But how could they know?
Of course, the guys at Porto knew. But then again, he'd been there long enough to gain their trust, mainly after his successful career as a wunderkind manager. They knew he was into guys, but never did anything to him. The relationship was friendly, nice, some banter, yes, but not something like that, no--
Frankie had finished with the shampoo, and now he was using the sponge, tracing his body with it, soap falling over his chest and arms.
André made a face and hoped the Englishman didn't see it.
"How long until you wash your balls?"
"Almost there."
The next sentence should have been: You know what? I'm leaving, but the Portuguese coach didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he just watched as Frankie washed himself, the sponge tracing his legs as he bended over (again) so gracefully, so nimbly, and then his thighs, his waist...
The sponge fell to the floor and Lampard filled his hands with soap before placing them on his length.
"Ready, Andy."
André, who had been watching the shower more attentively that he would have wanted to, was reluctant to stand up--he had felt something inside his trousers. However, when he got up and saw it wasn't so noticeable, he decided he should just do it and get it over with.
Frankie, for his part, had his hand firmly over his balls when the coach stood in front of him. André tried hard not to look down.
"Well, Lamps..." he started out. "I think you're a great player, and I know that if only you recovered your confidence in yourself you would bring confidence to the whole team. We would be back on top if you did that, and I know you can do it."
Frankie didn't answer, he just kept on washing himself.
"Is that all?" the Englishman said after a while.
André looked down then. Certainly it didn't look like Lampard was washing his balls. It looked more like he was stroking himself.
"You know what?" the Portuguese snapped all of a sudden. "I'm leaving. You know, I don't need to come here and beg forgiveness from you. It's not like I offended you. I'm the coach, and you should respect my decisions. I had no need to come here and be part of this little joke of yours. I'm not Jose Mourinho anyways."
Villas-Boas started walking out the room when the Englihsman's voice stopped him.
"I know you're not Jose."
"Then?" André turned around. He didn't seem happy.
"Well... I don't know why you're calling this a joke. And why you're so angry. I thought you were liking it."
André froze. Frankie, for his part, still had his hand over his privates, and kept on talking:
"I could feel your eyes tracing my body while I was taking a shower. You were watching me. And I think you really loved what you saw."
The coach couldn't even move. In front of him, Frank had left the shower, and was walking towards him, naked, dripping, his hand moving away from his cock, revealing that it was stiff, hard, against his stomach.
"I think you should know, Andy, that, even though I love watching that sexy bum of yours when you squat, I get tired of being on the bench all the time."
That said, the Englishman pressed a wet hand against André's perfect shirt, leaving a mark on it, revealing some skin below the fabric.
"Why am I never on the pitch? Don't you like me... Andy?"
The Portuguese didn't have time to answer--the kiss was rough, and wet, and it had tongue, so André didn't really know what to do: if he should protest, resist, answer the actual question, respond to the kiss, scold Lamps for the fact he had left the goddamn shower running--but he couldn't. Frank broke the kiss, and then, eagerly, hungrily, his hands started wandering all over André, trying to take his coat off, to unlace his tie, to open his shirt, or pulling him towards the--
He actually had to close his eyes when a cascade of warm water fell all over him, leaving his ginger hair matted over his head.
"You--you--ruined my shoes. And my suit."
"You don't need them," Lampard answered, feverishly.
Another kiss: wet, hot, the drops from the shower mixing with Frank's saliva--and his too, for André had now completely given in. Of course he had been turned on by the Englishman. And, was it of any use resisting now that he had been dragged inside a shower? Not really. So, he just started peeling off his wet clothes, leaving the expensive suit a ruined heap on the floor--not to mention the shoes. For a second, André felt he really should say something about those loafers, but finally decided to forget them.
Lampard, for his part, had not even noticed his coach was looking at his outfit. He was just taking the sight in, reveling in Villas-Boas' beauty. Not to mention the fact the Portuguese was fully hard, too.
"See? I knew you had liked it."
"I wonder if Mourinho liked it too. Frank Lampard, you're a whore."
Even though it was André the one who took the lead then, kissing the player, Lamps was the one who controlled the situation. He gathered the Portuguese up in his arms and ended up pushing him against the shower wall, leaving him sandwiched between the cold tiles and his warm body.
"Nice bod for a coach, Andy..." the Englishman breathed, nipping at the other man's neck, his hands touching André's chest and nipples, his hips, as he started rubbing his erect cock against the Portuguese's.
The older man could just close his eyes and moan. The feeling of Frank's shaft against his, sensitive skin against sensitive skin, the combination of two hard lengths rubbing was sending electric jolts all over his spine. It wasn't long before he came, scratching Lamps' chest, leaving red marks over the other man's skin.
"Not that fast," he heard the Englishman chuckle. "I'm just getting started..."
André's breath caught in his throat when he felt a finger pressing against his opening.
"This drives you crazy, right Andy? Yeah. I was right all this time."
Second finger. Frank might not have been very gentle, but, fortunately, the water was helping a lot.
"Fuck... Lampard..." The Portuguese couldn't really think, so he just spoke whatever came out of his mouth.
"We'll fuck soon enough, Andy..." Frankie bit at the other man's earlobe. "Just lemme get you good and ready... Though, I don't know... Do you really want to fuck?"
"Of course... shit..." A third finger was finding its way inside André, and he could feel his wet body breaking out in a sweat, not to mention his cock getting hard again. He so needed it. "Why you ask?"
"We'll only fuck..." The coach couldn't see the smile, but he could feel it. "If you tell me what a great player I am."
"Lampard!" The groan was deep, and desperate. "What do you... want to know? That you're the best there is in Chelsea? That I wish I could play you but you seem not to respond? And that I... would like to see you playing because you're one hot bastard? That yes, I've wanted to fuck you since I got here--?"
The Englishman silenced the coach with a kiss.
"That's good enough for me."
André then moaned and writhed when Frankie started pushing inside him, hard, hungry as well. The man was big, and he loved that. He really did.
Frank, for his part, didn't bother to talk anymore. Instead, he just moved, drowning in everything--the shower water's warmth, Andy's heat, the friction inside that nice hole of his. The wetness of their kisses. The coach's butt when his hands found it--he had a bloody hell of a body, definitely. And that cock that had risen completely again, and was leaking, precum mixing with the water. God, certainly not something I'd like to wash away, the very own Lampard thought.
I should have fucked this bloke sooner.
André, for his part, had been deprived of any coherent thought. He could only feel Lamps moving inside him, filling him, and damn it was good, so good. He wanted to feel Lamps inside all the time, and fuck how come I thought Frank was not playing well, because he's proving he's in great shape, God...
Frank hit his prostate then, and André let out a scream that most likely rang not only inside the showers, but perhaps throughout the halls of all the stadium.
"Oh, Andy. Fuck Andy yeah Andy..." Frank had felt the contraction of the Portuguese's muscles around his length, and that had been enough to drive him crazy, close to release. So, his thrusts had become quicker, frenzied. He wanted to come, so he kept on pounding inside André, who just let out another groan as he was the one who reached his climax, spilling himself all over both bodies. His entrance tightened even more, so Frank came too, that warmth and pressure milking his dick clean when he shot everything inside his coach.
André let his head hang back. The drops of water were cold now, and they contrasted with the heat of both bodies. He just sighed, even allowed himself to drink from the cold shower, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged, while Frankie pulled out of him, slowly, and also remained there for a while.
The coach could feel the Englishman was looking at him.
"You know..." Frank almost sighed, "now I see. You're even better than Jose Mourinho."
André could not even talk. He just watched Frank walk away, and he remained there, feeling his skin burn with the lust the Englishman had left there, printed.
(Sadly, we all know what happened next).
The End
Pairing: Frank Lampard/André Villas-Boas. Because that's the way I like it.
Disclaimer: Based on something that's false which is in turn based on something that's supposed to be true. Yet, I think that if you see my sources, you'll agree this is all false.
Summary: So, Andy decides to do what Frank says Mou did. Mou doesn't appear here, by the way.
"Jose Snoreinho. That's not even witty. Or funny," André mumbled, running his hand through his hair. He just couldn't believe the talk he'd just had with the guys at the training ground. What the hell? The only one who had had his back was Fernando, and he didn't want Fernando, of all the guys, to have his back. If he had been scoring, at least, but no, so... it was a setback, instead of an advantage.
He reviewed the list of requests he had gotten from the guys. Sure enough, he wasn't going to take blame for Fernando not scoring, nor was he going to shave his beard because Mata had a beard too, nor was he going to let Ashley Cole play with air guns. No way.
He sighed when he read what Lampard had written down for him.
Mourinho complimented me when I was in the shower washing my balls. That gave me extra confidence. You never do that.
Another sigh. Did he really have to do this? Did it really work?
When he stepped inside the showers, suit and all, André knew he was desperate for results. He could not even convince himself that he was doing this because perhaps there were some rituals at Chelsea Football Club that he ignored.
And, as if he had been waiting for him, it turned out Frank Lampard was the only one at the shower, and he was just pouring shampoo over his head.
"Can't I just compliment you right now and then leave?" André spoke then, his eyes fixed on the shower-head, pointedly ignoring the player's naked butt.
However, Frank Lampard turned around. A huge grin shone on the Englishman's face.
"Oh, Andy. So you came. Well, I'm sorry, but no. You have to wait until I'm washing my balls. And I'm just washing my hair, so, c'mon, make yourself comfortable. I still have some way to go."
"Ok... If you say so."
André sat down at a bench, letting his eyes wander over the shower. It felt so weird, to be there, all alone--well, with no one else but Frankie. Frankie, who was taking his sweet time washing his hair. Who then bent over to leave the shampoo bottle on the shower floor--who had this exquisite butt, not to mention muscular, tense legs--
Oh no.
André crossed his legs awkwardly. Sure enough. He had been a victim of a practical joke.
But how could they know?
Of course, the guys at Porto knew. But then again, he'd been there long enough to gain their trust, mainly after his successful career as a wunderkind manager. They knew he was into guys, but never did anything to him. The relationship was friendly, nice, some banter, yes, but not something like that, no--
Frankie had finished with the shampoo, and now he was using the sponge, tracing his body with it, soap falling over his chest and arms.
André made a face and hoped the Englishman didn't see it.
"How long until you wash your balls?"
"Almost there."
The next sentence should have been: You know what? I'm leaving, but the Portuguese coach didn't say anything of the sort. Instead, he just watched as Frankie washed himself, the sponge tracing his legs as he bended over (again) so gracefully, so nimbly, and then his thighs, his waist...
The sponge fell to the floor and Lampard filled his hands with soap before placing them on his length.
"Ready, Andy."
André, who had been watching the shower more attentively that he would have wanted to, was reluctant to stand up--he had felt something inside his trousers. However, when he got up and saw it wasn't so noticeable, he decided he should just do it and get it over with.
Frankie, for his part, had his hand firmly over his balls when the coach stood in front of him. André tried hard not to look down.
"Well, Lamps..." he started out. "I think you're a great player, and I know that if only you recovered your confidence in yourself you would bring confidence to the whole team. We would be back on top if you did that, and I know you can do it."
Frankie didn't answer, he just kept on washing himself.
"Is that all?" the Englishman said after a while.
André looked down then. Certainly it didn't look like Lampard was washing his balls. It looked more like he was stroking himself.
"You know what?" the Portuguese snapped all of a sudden. "I'm leaving. You know, I don't need to come here and beg forgiveness from you. It's not like I offended you. I'm the coach, and you should respect my decisions. I had no need to come here and be part of this little joke of yours. I'm not Jose Mourinho anyways."
Villas-Boas started walking out the room when the Englihsman's voice stopped him.
"I know you're not Jose."
"Then?" André turned around. He didn't seem happy.
"Well... I don't know why you're calling this a joke. And why you're so angry. I thought you were liking it."
André froze. Frankie, for his part, still had his hand over his privates, and kept on talking:
"I could feel your eyes tracing my body while I was taking a shower. You were watching me. And I think you really loved what you saw."
The coach couldn't even move. In front of him, Frank had left the shower, and was walking towards him, naked, dripping, his hand moving away from his cock, revealing that it was stiff, hard, against his stomach.
"I think you should know, Andy, that, even though I love watching that sexy bum of yours when you squat, I get tired of being on the bench all the time."
That said, the Englishman pressed a wet hand against André's perfect shirt, leaving a mark on it, revealing some skin below the fabric.
"Why am I never on the pitch? Don't you like me... Andy?"
The Portuguese didn't have time to answer--the kiss was rough, and wet, and it had tongue, so André didn't really know what to do: if he should protest, resist, answer the actual question, respond to the kiss, scold Lamps for the fact he had left the goddamn shower running--but he couldn't. Frank broke the kiss, and then, eagerly, hungrily, his hands started wandering all over André, trying to take his coat off, to unlace his tie, to open his shirt, or pulling him towards the--
He actually had to close his eyes when a cascade of warm water fell all over him, leaving his ginger hair matted over his head.
"You--you--ruined my shoes. And my suit."
"You don't need them," Lampard answered, feverishly.
Another kiss: wet, hot, the drops from the shower mixing with Frank's saliva--and his too, for André had now completely given in. Of course he had been turned on by the Englishman. And, was it of any use resisting now that he had been dragged inside a shower? Not really. So, he just started peeling off his wet clothes, leaving the expensive suit a ruined heap on the floor--not to mention the shoes. For a second, André felt he really should say something about those loafers, but finally decided to forget them.
Lampard, for his part, had not even noticed his coach was looking at his outfit. He was just taking the sight in, reveling in Villas-Boas' beauty. Not to mention the fact the Portuguese was fully hard, too.
"See? I knew you had liked it."
"I wonder if Mourinho liked it too. Frank Lampard, you're a whore."
Even though it was André the one who took the lead then, kissing the player, Lamps was the one who controlled the situation. He gathered the Portuguese up in his arms and ended up pushing him against the shower wall, leaving him sandwiched between the cold tiles and his warm body.
"Nice bod for a coach, Andy..." the Englishman breathed, nipping at the other man's neck, his hands touching André's chest and nipples, his hips, as he started rubbing his erect cock against the Portuguese's.
The older man could just close his eyes and moan. The feeling of Frank's shaft against his, sensitive skin against sensitive skin, the combination of two hard lengths rubbing was sending electric jolts all over his spine. It wasn't long before he came, scratching Lamps' chest, leaving red marks over the other man's skin.
"Not that fast," he heard the Englishman chuckle. "I'm just getting started..."
André's breath caught in his throat when he felt a finger pressing against his opening.
"This drives you crazy, right Andy? Yeah. I was right all this time."
Second finger. Frank might not have been very gentle, but, fortunately, the water was helping a lot.
"Fuck... Lampard..." The Portuguese couldn't really think, so he just spoke whatever came out of his mouth.
"We'll fuck soon enough, Andy..." Frankie bit at the other man's earlobe. "Just lemme get you good and ready... Though, I don't know... Do you really want to fuck?"
"Of course... shit..." A third finger was finding its way inside André, and he could feel his wet body breaking out in a sweat, not to mention his cock getting hard again. He so needed it. "Why you ask?"
"We'll only fuck..." The coach couldn't see the smile, but he could feel it. "If you tell me what a great player I am."
"Lampard!" The groan was deep, and desperate. "What do you... want to know? That you're the best there is in Chelsea? That I wish I could play you but you seem not to respond? And that I... would like to see you playing because you're one hot bastard? That yes, I've wanted to fuck you since I got here--?"
The Englishman silenced the coach with a kiss.
"That's good enough for me."
André then moaned and writhed when Frankie started pushing inside him, hard, hungry as well. The man was big, and he loved that. He really did.
Frank, for his part, didn't bother to talk anymore. Instead, he just moved, drowning in everything--the shower water's warmth, Andy's heat, the friction inside that nice hole of his. The wetness of their kisses. The coach's butt when his hands found it--he had a bloody hell of a body, definitely. And that cock that had risen completely again, and was leaking, precum mixing with the water. God, certainly not something I'd like to wash away, the very own Lampard thought.
I should have fucked this bloke sooner.
André, for his part, had been deprived of any coherent thought. He could only feel Lamps moving inside him, filling him, and damn it was good, so good. He wanted to feel Lamps inside all the time, and fuck how come I thought Frank was not playing well, because he's proving he's in great shape, God...
Frank hit his prostate then, and André let out a scream that most likely rang not only inside the showers, but perhaps throughout the halls of all the stadium.
"Oh, Andy. Fuck Andy yeah Andy..." Frank had felt the contraction of the Portuguese's muscles around his length, and that had been enough to drive him crazy, close to release. So, his thrusts had become quicker, frenzied. He wanted to come, so he kept on pounding inside André, who just let out another groan as he was the one who reached his climax, spilling himself all over both bodies. His entrance tightened even more, so Frank came too, that warmth and pressure milking his dick clean when he shot everything inside his coach.
André let his head hang back. The drops of water were cold now, and they contrasted with the heat of both bodies. He just sighed, even allowed himself to drink from the cold shower, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged, while Frankie pulled out of him, slowly, and also remained there for a while.
The coach could feel the Englishman was looking at him.
"You know..." Frank almost sighed, "now I see. You're even better than Jose Mourinho."
André could not even talk. He just watched Frank walk away, and he remained there, feeling his skin burn with the lust the Englishman had left there, printed.
(Sadly, we all know what happened next).
The End