Date: Mon, 23 Nov 2020 23:22:41 +0000
From: writer guy <premiershiplads@outlook.com>
Subject: Premiership Lads Part 208

Part 208: Saturday Night Football


Below, men on both sides of the night's Premier League game were warming
up for action, and it was an enjoyable view to cast his eyes over: the
huffing figures of tracksuited players of the host and visiting teams
bounding sideways across the turf or on short jogs or stretching on the
spot, sometimes bending over with muscular rumps highlighted as they
stooped. Even with the stands empty of supporters, there was a special
atmosphere to it that always made him feel particularly randy, the
intensified presence of so many physically impressive young men.

It had thrilled Jamie Redknapp in his youth as a player, and it thrilled
him now in his late 40s.

He let his connoisseur's eye rove some of the home team, Mourinho's
Spurs readying themselves to really start establishing a claim on the
title. He particularly watched their famed striker Harry Kane, smirking
to remember when he had cornered the inarticulate forward and enjoyed his
apparent submissiveness in a London boozer; he'd even pissed on him a
bit, not something Jamie was particularly into, but he'd sensed the
desire for degradation in that otherwise manly and heroic figure, and
loved giving him what he wanted. It definitely ranked among Redknapp's
favourite sleazy claims of recent years, to have been noshed off by the
current England captain and prolific goal-scorer; it added an extra fizz
to watching him play for their country and for this club, an ex-team of
his own, on chilly winter nights like this. He could hardly boast about
it in his punditry, as fun as that would be, but he knew it probably
showed in his content smugness as he got to air his views in exchange for
a fat Sky Sports paycheque.

Redknapp, slowly licking his thin lips and squinting down at the quick
passing exercises tall handsome Kane was engaged in, thought how he had
been hoping for a second dip at him for many months; but tonight was
unlikely to be the night for that, he wasn't even sure they would make
it down to the touchline for any pitch-side interviewing. The rules and
restrictions keeping the league in play made it hard for him to get
anywhere near the attractive young blokes that he was coveting: not just
Kane himself, but some of his fellow Spurs lads, all out there warming up
now. He ogled the beefy men of the Hotspur defence, the likes of Dire and
Alderweireld, and the slick Latinos like Lo Celso, supple and impressive
in their almost skin-tight tracksuits.

His thoughtful gaze, thinking how good it would be to get a hold of some
of those studly footballers and show them a thing or two from his own
playing days, tracked Tottenham's latest goalkeeping addition as the big
experienced figure of Joe Hart engaged in some jokey wrestling with
City's John Stones, two huge lads who would be just as fun as Kane to
spunk and piss on given the chance. Jamie loved the rough camaraderie of
the former City teammate's playing about, thought how handsome Stones
was and what a shame it was not to see him play more.

And the Manchester City squad had its own fair share of eye candy for
Redknapp to muse on: his eyes settled on the brooding stocky physique of
Sergio Aguero, still visibly readjusting after a period of injury, and
the solid midfield figure of Belgium's De Bruyne. Always an eye for the
more corruptible twinks, he also watched the small and excitable
silhouette of England's Phil Foden whipping back and forth in some
passing exercise with a couple of others, and thought how fun it would be
to entrap and initiate that scally in the same way he had that
attention-seeker in Norfolk.

But none of it was to be. He was stuck up here in the media suite and he
couldn't see himself getting close enough to charm and bully any of
those lads down there preparing for the hotly anticipated match. The
excitement of watching two Premiership leaders really get the battle for
dominance underway would have to do, he was unlikely to get his fat heavy
prick sucked this evening; another dull bachelor's night in his London
pad before returning to the respectability of family life on the south
coast.

A crackling voice in an earpiece called him away from the small exposed
balcony he occupied, summoning him indoors for the pre-match segment he
would be co-hosting with a couple of other Sky faces. Redknapp tore his
eyes off the pitch, his simmering lust interlaced with some middle-aged
envy and longing for his own short career, and adjusted the lapels of his
short suit before strolling back indoors and across the complicated
studio floor of the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium Sky media suite, where
masked production crew were fussing about and his fellow smartly dressed
pundits were already prepping their notes for the broadcast.



The pre-show discussion ended up dominated by talk of the managers more
than their teams: Pep Guardiola's new contract to stay two more years at
Manchester City (with some jokey speculation from each of the men on what
might be keeping the seasoned Spaniard there) and then some evaluation of
Jose Mourinho's full year at Tottenham Hotspur (and his jokey Instagram
account). Still just delighted to be working consistently for Sky in this
role, Micah Richards enjoyed every minute of it, particularly the
inevitable linking of himself with his former club -- and the ensuing
banter between himself and his co-presenter over which competitor would
take the 3 points tonight.

Even when the cameras had switched to the pitch ready for an imminent
kick-off, Richards found himself trailing across the studio towards the
window desks where they would watch the action, away from the glaring
blue lighting panels of their studio space, with the senior pundit
patting him on the elbow and quipping at him about how Spurs were
definitely going to steal the win today -- and possibly the title.

The prematurely retired right-back gave a sidelong glance and smirk at
the older football expert, re-buttoning the taut grey-blue blazer of his
muscle-hugging suit. `Bold claim there, Jamie,' the 32-year-old
muscular bloke remarked back at Redknapp, pausing on their way to the
set-up of desks and printed notes from which they would enjoy the
unfolding action with the other two sports journalists they were sharing
the slot with.

Jamie gave him on of those whistling little `geezer' gestures that he
liked, wobbling a hand in the air and shrugging one broad shoulder in his
own tight-fitting darker blue suit -- there wasn't quite anyone like
this man for wearing a suit, Micah often thought, and the slick
businessman profile of the handsome 47-year-old made his own tailoring
feel almost shabby comparison. It was hard getting suits to fit well with
his broad almost rugby physique, even now he had pulled away from playing
in his early 30s.

`It's Jose,' Jamie said simply, `never bet against him.'

`Is that not heresy against your dear Liverpool?' the younger man
teased with a raised eyebrow, treating Jamie to one of his broad toothy
grins. `Don't let the boys in red here you on like that, bro...'

A smug little chuckle of enjoyment from Redknapp. `Now now, Meeks. I
didn't say a word against His Holiness Jurgen Klopp.' He rubbed a hand
across the short dark stubble of his chin, grinning with all of his
roguish charm. `Just saying -- Spurs have a good shot, better than some
of the obvious teams, like your old mates out there... I'm telling you,
Spurs have the edge tonight.'

Micah gave a blustering laugh, adjusting his tie to try and make sure it
looked as slick and professional as Jamie's. `I thought you were just
pushing that for the sake of the TV,' he commented. `Thought you were
playing devil's advocate or getting a debate going...! You don't really
think Pep will let Jose get the points, do ya...?'

`Course he will,' Redknapp boasted lightly, drawing himself to his full
6ft. `Why, are you sure that City will clinch it, are ya, fella...?'

`Pretty sure,' he said back with one of his deep chesty laughs. `I'd
put good money on it.'

`Alright,' the other sports presenter answered simple, reaching out a
handshake. `What shall we say? £100? Nah, nothing to geezers like us --
let's make it a round £500. Unless you want to push it to a grand, do
ya...?'

Micah laughed heavily then realised there was a sternness in the older
man's expression and handshake as his own thick fingers slid against it
and shook it firmly. `A grand is fine with me!' he boasted with a
lingering chuckle. `Over ONE result...? You're mad. Just you wait until
City unleash their squad out there, you've seen the line-up. What am I
gonna spend my winnings on...?'

The handsome former midfielder just smiled gently at him, squeezing and
shaking his paw with a competitive tightness then patting him almost
patronisingly on one bulky shoulder and backing off, stepping across to
the stools they had to adopt for their vantage point over the game, now
launching into action with a muffled distant whistling noise. Redknapp
muttered something to himself as he got comfortable and chuckled
arrogantly, but Richards didn't quite catch the words; he clambered up
onto the adjacent stool and thumbed through the dossier of prepared stats
the producer had provided for them, plus plenty of space for his own
pundit's scribbles and reactions.

The grinning ex-footballer rested his elbows heavily against the high
desk and cracked his knuckles, watching the early cautious minutes of
play as the two teams sized one another up, two line-ups of Premiership
talent and accomplishment; City looked sharp and fast and he'd seen
enough of them this season to know that Guardiola's men would soon shoot
up the table to their more typical position, exposing the flaws in all of
these surprising competitors of the first few months. He knew it in his
chest and his mind, and yet when Son's goal went in after just five
minutes and Spurs took the 1-0 lead, he could only wince and roll his
eyes at Redknapp's inevitable smug grin.



`Not looking good for Pep's boys, is it?' Redknapp asked him slyly,
while the female production aside checked the mic on his lapel and fussed
about his tanned features with a delicate make-up brush just in case. He
enjoyed the stretched and unconvincing smile of confidence on the other
man's face in response to this, the two of them appropriately distanced
on the studio floor, about to pick up their discussion during the
half-time intermission.

Micah huffed and looked back at the notepaper in his large brown hands,
ignoring the provocation of Jamie's rhetorical question. `Still, I
suppose there could be 4 or 5 goals left to come in the second half,'
the 47-year-old said as if to himself, in a playful quiet voice, sorting
the cuffs of his shirt and blazer and checking himself out in a monitor
somewhere up by the ceiling. `4 or 5 goals for Spurs, that is...'

The other pundit burst out with friendly laughter at this hyperbole.
`Kane is special but he isn't THAT special,' returned Micah, `nor or
are any of his chums out there...!' He gave Jamie a slightly more
assertive look across the 2m space, raising one eyebrow. `Just you watch
how the game unfolds, Knappers. I can see it happening. The win is still
ours.'

`Ours?' sighed Jamie teasingly, checking the countdown timer on another
screen that indicated how long the advertisement break would last before
they were live on camera again. `How sweet that you still see yourself
as a player, big man...'

`Fine, THEIRS,' corrected Richards with a titter.

`Still cocky then?'

`What? Oh, I'm the cocky one, am I...?!'

Jamie, keeping his eyes on the timer, stretched his arms and angled his
face at the different camera set-ups to ensure his hair looked right.
`Well then -- let's make it even more interesting, shall we? This bet,
mate.'

`2 grand?' muttered Micah at that, looking a little taken aback by the
notion despite their obvious wealth. But Jamie just sniggered at him,
shaking his head without properly acknowledging him. `No,' he answered,
`I don't think money means a great deal to your or aye, pal. I was
thinking something more creative.'

`Creative?' Somewhere close by, a thirty second warning was called for
live television, and a fussing Sky producer looked irritated by their
mumbled lingering conversation, gesturing for quiet.

`Yeah, creative,' Redknapp said anyway, finally looking over at
Richards, ignoring the instruction to be totally ready for the live
footage to begin any second now. `No money prize for the winner, but --
just a dare, for the other guy to complete. What do you say?' He fixed
the former City defender with a mysterious smile and watched his slowly
thoughtful reaction, then heard the same producer shout out `Five! Four!
Three...'

`Fine,' snapped Micah a little impatiently, breaking the stare between
them to ready himself in front of the cameras, while Jamie just smiled
and turned fluidly to greet the eyes of the Sky viewership, launching
quickly into his spiel and clapping his hands authoritatively together to
start off the conversation between the panel of suited men.



When Tottenham's second goal made it in, the obscure silliness of the
shifting bet began to sink in for Micah Richards; he scowled
disappointedly across at Redknapp on the next stool, thumping his fist
once against the glossy black desktop, then shuffling his papers and
scribbling a few furious little notes ready for the post-match analysis
they would need to engage in either way. He thought about how unbearably
self-satisfied the slick-suited southerner would be if they were
discussing a Tottenham win, never mind the stupidity of handing over
£1000 or doing some `dare'...! Whatever THAT meant.

`Worried, pal?' questioned Jamie now quietly, winking at him and
nudging their well-dressed elbows across the tabletop.

`Of course not,' he said gruffly, puffing his chest out and flexing his
upper arms, stretching his pale blue shirt and fitted jacket in the
process. `But what the hell did you mean by a "dare" anyway, man?
Loada nonsense...!'

Jamie whistled, tapping his pen against the desk. `Why, are you having
second thoughts? Hmm, bottling it already, big man, that IS a
disappointment... Well, I suppose you spent long enough at City, it's in
the water in Manchester, I think...'

`Oi,' Micah said a little loudly, `I'm not bottling anything!' His
raised voice earned them an annoyed or concerned look from one of the
other pundits and so he dropped his voice to a hiss, leaning closer to
the older guy. `I just mean -- well -- what are we talking about, dares?
What kinda thing? This ain't some training session in your early
20s...!'

`Are you worrying?' Jamie asked again, more pushily. His grin was
infuriatingly smooth and calm. `I just mean -- oh, you know -- a bit of
a laugh, something humiliating. Something just been us, you know?' He
shrugged loosely, turning his attention back to the view of the game
while Micah continued to stare hotly at him, still a bit perplexed and
suddenly cautious about what he had signed up to when they shook on this
ridiculous bet.

`I'm sure I'll think of something when I win,' Redknapp said
dismissively, not looking away from his notes or his privileged view of
the 2-0 game below, his calm and disinterest as angering as his smug
grins. Micah just laughed irritably at him, shuffling about on his stool
and rallying with his own bold claims. `Well I'll get thinking too,'
he said bluntly. `So I'm ready to wipe that grin off your face when Man
City make their comeback. Any minute now!'

`...Right.'

`It's almost like you didn't watch a single match of theirs last
season,' he said pushily.

`Last season.'

`Huh.' He frowningly watched the action, seeing the slow defeat in the
listless play of the visiting Manchester team he was backing. `They can
still turn it round,' he added, as much to himself as to Jamie,
narrowing his eyes and willing a last spurt of energy and resilience from
Pep's squad.



He stretched out his body against the semi-comfortable rotating seat in
the narrow dressing room he'd been given, letting the dark blue silky
suit fabric catch against the chunky muscles of his legs and reaching up
to loosen the knot of his tie and the top button of his shirt. He stifled
a yawn, a little tired by the long evening of media work but much of him
also very awake to the prospect of toying further with his fellow
pundit.

It had added an extra spice to the brief fiery conversation after the
match, Redknapp confidently reasserting his opinions to the rest of the
small panel, vindicated, while provocatively eyeing up the other retired
player and letting him know the bet was far from forgotten. He'd taken
him by the arm on their way off set and demanded to see him in his
dressing room ASAP, then slunk back here himself to relax and plot:
currently he was trying to work out just how pliable and kinky the burly
right-back might be. Unfortunately his calculations were leading to the
answer `not very'; there was something so solid and unshakeable about
Richards, both as a player and as a man on his own terms, he wasn't like
the tremulous young twinks Redknapp often singled out for attention --
the Todd Cantwells of this world. God, that had been hot, and how eager
the Norwich poser had been when push came to shove...! Shame he was
languishing in the Championship after all, Jamie having made zero effort
to help connect him with the right people -- he had every intention of
following up on his promise, but the wary young man had blocked his
number and avoided his attempts at video calls in the summer, so Jamie
had written him off as a failed project after all.

No, Micah was nothing like that type, but that was the appeal -- the
sense of corrupting and seducing had always been a big thrill for a guy
of his looks, where action was always VERY available, but challenges were
few and far between. Maybe that was the only reason he ever sought out
the clumsy secretive hand and blowjobs from men when female sexual
partners were lining up.

Sure enough, the heavy tread of the thickset former City player was soon
heard in the narrow corridor, shuffling down this way from his own nearby
glorified closet; there was a pause in that noise, the big sturdy black
lad clearly hovering out there in the corridor. Then a visible tug of the
handle and his broad 5ft11 form leaning in, shifty-eyed but grinning.
`Jamie,' he puffed, pushing his way fully in and closing the space
between himself and where Jamie's stretched out brogues reached,
instantly rifling in the inner pocket of his own open blazer.

`You took your time,' Redknapp said unnecessarily, starting to push his
upper hand.

`Fuck off,' dismissed Richards lightly, throaty laugh and suddenly
displaying hand full of notes. Jamie just raised his brows as the cash
was fanned. `It isn't a grand but it's all I have on me, bro.'

`Who carries CASH?' Redknapp asked with derisive bluntness. `We
dropped the cash bet, "bro", don't you remember?' He lifted both
arms, crocking his hands behind his head and stretching out the sleeves
of his blazer now. `We moved well past that, my friend.' He stretched
out more, enjoying the position and the fluttering worry of Micah's
lashes and pouting lips. He stood there holding the notes lamely, huffing
out his breaths, swelling his chest.

`You're a terrible winner,' he said quietly but deeply.

`The worst,' Jamie agreed, and he swung himself up out of his reclining
posture, slapping one hand down on the broad plateau of muscle at the
younger man's shoulder, then on to the door; there was no proper lock on
it but a little weak bolt near the handle which looked like it might snap
if anyone pushed at it. Still, it was something; he slid it across.
Behind him, Micah was muttering to himself, rustling at the paper money
and behaving resentfully.

When Jamie turned to face him, he had done some rustling and resentment
of his own, and Micah turned this way and stared at him in naïve alarm:
before turning around, Redknapp had reached down and tugged on the zip
fly of his suit pants, and now he stood there, smartly dressed from head
to toe, but his long tan semi dangling luxuriously out of the front,
fully on display for the wide-eyed young stud to observe.



`Jamie,' Richards panted, `that's very funny, but-`

`Who's laughing?' his superior asked sharply, taking a step forward.

`So this is the prank,' the 32-year-old barked. `Hilarious. Look, well
done, you have a big cock mate, but-`

`You're gonna give it a feel,' he was informed. `That's the dare,
mate.'

`Is that a dare?' he huffed back, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot,
not just feeling oversized and chunky for his suit, but for the
claustrophobic room itself, now he was face to face with this egomaniac
and his dangling dong. `Fucking hell, fella...! I've heard about players
like you...'

`I've heard about bad losers,' the ageing playboy said to him, growing
closer, his face wrinkled gently with the playful troublemaker's smile.
`Cocky and rash with their promises while they think they're winning,
and then...' He smirked. `You agreed, right? We said. A prank instead of
cash, cos what's a fucking thousand notes to fella like you or me,
buddy? City lost, Spurs win. Ergo, you jerk my cock, and I get to grin at
you like a fucking champion every time we share a Sky studio, knowing
what a losing bitch you are.'

The force of his words was chastising and embarrassing to Micah, stood
squarely in front of him in the intense space. `And,' Jamie added
almost threateningly, `just think how difficult I could make it if you
DO welsh on the deal, big man. How long have you been signed to Sky,
Meeks...? Five minutes?' He was adjusting his cuffs and his loosened tie
and moving his body very lightly, making the visible appendage swing.
`I'm quite a big deal around here, as you know.'

`Fuckin' hell then,' the former defender exclaimed in a hot quiet
grunt, slapping his hand ruefully against the exposed member, grabbing at
it quite roughly in a way that was meant to turn this stupid power
dynamic back on the smug prick, but literally just made him grin more. He
pulled at it and wrapped his own large pink palm about it, brushing his
knuckles against that soft luxuriously fabric of the suit pants. It felt
stupidly long and thick and warm and he held it, glaring into Jamie's
eyes, waiting for this game of `chicken' to climax and go. `You're a
tosser, you know that?' he told him bluntly, but not without a certain
amused appreciation of his commitment to a joke. `A real tosser.'

`No,' Jamie barely murmured. `You'll do the tossing, "bro".'

It was, he realised, already hardening. He could feel it swell and throb
against his hand in a way that was alien, having never held any meaty nob
but his own ample length. He held his hand firmly against it, refusing to
be shamed back or bullied further, but internally horrified by the
swelling heat of it, the way it twitched and grew. By the time he began
to daintily edge his fist forward and back a little, it was a thick rod
in his grip, a very different thing to the fleshy rope he'd grabbed at.
He stood dangerously close to Redknapp, trying to emphasise his own
weightier build and presence, an inch shorter than the smug privileged
bell-end, but so much heavier with gym-earned muscle.

Redknapp slowly lifted a hand and laid it against his arm. `Maybe you
ain't such a bad loser.'

`You're filth,' Micah told him, but again with a mixture of surface
revulsion and a little tremor of admiration. After all, here was a prince
of the footballing world, and a real role model as far as media presence
was concerned. And yeah, fucking mental, his dick was in his hand. Hard
and warm with the friction against his thumb and palm. He blinked and
steadied himself in sudden realisation of exactly what he was doing,
wondering how many £1000s he'd rather hand over than have this go on.
And yet he found himself looking down at it, the sight of his own
chocolatey-brown hand around the paler girth of an older man's member,
stricken by the contrast and the strangeness of it.

Jamie, who had been quiet for a few moments, let out a really lingering
sigh, a showy noise of enjoyment that it disturbed Micah to find...
enjoyable. Against all odds, it relaxed him, the noise of it, and he felt
his own held breath sigh out, mingling with the noise of it. He squeezed
a little more tenderly and nudged his hand back and forth, a workmanlike
determination to do a good job it after all. He looked back up from the
sight of his hand rubbing and gripping and met Jamie's face, still smug
and relaxed, lined but handsome, on the verge of some new threat or
insult, or... `Mate,' he purred, and his hand was off his bicep and on
his shoulder, pushing downwards through the layers and the muscle, `go
on...' Micah barely knew what was happening as he loosened his posture
and bent his legs at the knee. Still he succumbed, his eyes locking on
the enigmatic hazel of Jamie's.



Redknapp's cock throbbed as it had before, seeing footballers and other
unlikely lads kneel before him, since that first time as a handsome youth
player at Liverpool, surprised at his own power over other men when it
came to the crunch. The bulky muscular presence of Richards was exciting
settling before him, and the parted confusion of his lips, the little
nervous roll upwards of his eyes; Jamie didn't give him much time for
doubt, pushing the tip of his cock so that it rolled across the wet
softness of those lips and encouraged them further apart, Micah's strong
grip still about it as it transferred from his tense jerks to the softer
pressure of his opening mouth. `That's it,' Jamie sighed in a more
tender and encouraging voice, easing the moment, guiding his rod a good
few inches into the hot cavern of an unexplored mouth, then sighing
again.

But once the lips were pursing about it and sucking uncertainly at his
thickness, he spoke more brusquely, his voice rattling with faux-cockney
aggression: `How's that you feel, you fuckin' slut?' he asked quietly
but harshly, reaching his fingertips through the short dense curls of
black hair and running a thumb across the soft sweaty sheen of his
forehead. He edged more of his cock into that big mouth, grazing his
teeth, and sighed more deeply.

He pushed it in too much, barely halfway over his broad tongue, but the
surprised study on his knees began to gag and reel, and Jamie had to
retract then slap his cock across his cheeks, smearing spit and a little
bit of pre-cum over his glossy brown skin above the neat lines of his
facial hair, then stuff it back between quivering lips, sighing and
muttering more dirty talk: `Eat it, City scum, you fuckin' loser...
mmmm... bro...'

He nudged Micah's limp thick fingers off the base of it so he could jerk
it himself while feeding the tip in and out of his mouth, against lips
and tongue and then rolling sensitively over the short dark hair of his
chin, then back in. It felt good. For his inexperience, Micah just had
the most magically soft and satisfying cunt of a mouth, so good to fuck,
even with this caution and carefulness, which Jamie found so irritating;
he soon overcame that, his lust outweighing any concern for the naïve
hunk, pushing more firmly into his mouth until he gagged again; once,
twice, thrice. Sweat prickled at the expensive fabrics of his shirt and
trousers, but he removed none of his slick suit, enjoying their smart
attire against the filthy intimacy.

It had been a few days without action for Redknapp and so he didn't last
too long, powerless really against the beautiful velvety feel of this
man's mouth. He pulled back a little before he shot, jerking his stiff
rod and holding the side of Micah's face so he couldn't move away, just
coating his lips and chin in an oozing white gush of seed. Nostrils
flared and eyes bulged and Micah just opened and closed his mouth
stupidly, getting a jolting taste of the goods as he did so, trembling on
his knees and lost for words.



Micah reached up and felt with a grim knowledge the sticky splashes on
the lapel of his blue-grey blazer, overwhelmed by the smell and taste of
cum. He reached backwards for the chair beside him, hoisting himself
upwards with it while Jamie snickered softly and cum dribbled about the
curve of his chin, cooling on his skin. `You cunt,' he growled,
ignoring the willingness with which he had mouthed that explosive dick,
seeing the only the abusive dominance of the much older man. His head
span.

He heard a rougher, more taunting laugh burst from Jamie's sighing lips,
still grabbing at the chair for balance then pulling uselessly at his
tie, accidentally tightening it rather than loosening it from his thick
bulging neck. He glared at him, grasping the pocket square from his
jacket pocket and rubbing it frantically over his stickly lips and mouth,
seeing the playfulness in Jamie's weary-looking face.

`God, sometimes a guy just can't hide his enjoyment, eh!' chuckled the
long-retired midfielder.

Micah did not immediately know what he was talking about, brushing him
away and throwing the cum-stained little square of silk to the floor,
disgusted with it and still tasting the salty pang of Jamie's seed in
his mouth. `Jesus christ,' he swore. `That was a bit more than a
PRANK, Redknapp, what is WRONG with you...?'

`Tell it to your dick, City boy!' cackled Redknapp far more loudly than
he could handle.

He lashed out, pushing at him in the chest, knocking him an awkward step
away, then making for the door, but looking downwards as he did. The
close-fitting trousers had not left a lot of room for imagination in his
leg muscles or crotch before, but now the angled shape stretching at the
front of them was fucking obvious, how had he not felt it?! The nervously
excited boner straining at his pants. He grunted angrily to himself,
crashing to a stop at the door, planting both hands to the frame of it,
and just staring accusingly down the smartly attired bulk of his body,
seeing the exposing physical thrill of what he'd just engaged in.



Redknapp basked in the post-orgasmic warmth of his selfish satisfaction,
steadying himself and adjusting his suit, unflapped by Richards'
aggression; he turned leisurely his way, still chuckling at the sight of
his hard-on, and now letting his eyes fix on the tightness of that suit
from behind, the way it barely covered his broad shoulders and the way
his rear jutted so prominently from the trousers that the tails of the
blazer hung apart over it. What an arse, he thought almost jokingly,
admiring Micah's booty with a vague mental comparison to some of the
thicker babes he had taken back to his flat over the years since his
divorce.

A combination of thoughts or memories hit Jamie then as he staggered
forward back into the centre of the dressing room, his spent cock still
hard and jiggling out from his open flies, flicking a little dab of cum
down against one of his expensive brogues. It was a kinda muscle memory:
a sense of so many decadent moments when he'd cum after a long fuck and
then flipped over to attend to her, biting at her tits and licking down
her tummy before burying his gorgeous face between her legs; it was that,
and another more specific memory, a hot night in the basement of his
younger cousin's townhouse.

He reached and grabbed one of those thick cheeks through the tight suit
pants, still wheezing out a laugh and then muttering out in the same
voice of authority. `You better wank that out, geezer,' he hissed.
`Can't step out there with a hard-on for Redknapp, can ya...?'

The answer was just a grunt of frustration. Jamie sank to his knees with
almost as little certainty of his actions as Micah had knelt for him. He
was giddy with the release of his own ejaculation, and fascinated by the
meaty attractiveness of his latest and most masculine conquest, a treat
to rival Kane or his dear Lampard! His knees brushed the rough carpet of
the floor and he found himself tugging at the waistband of those suit
pants, tugging uselessly until, at the front, Micah's begrudging hands
were undoing his flies and beginning to grab at himself. His grunts were
almost pained in their conflict and indecision, but Jamie grinned to know
he was reaching for himself, unable to resist touching his hard-on,
stimulated by a mouthful of Redknapp juice.

Down he pulled, able now to peel the trousers down, and the thin grey
boxer briefs beneath, exposing the gleaming glutes of dark brown. One
hand planted to each, squeezing on that hard muscle, making a little huff
of surprise sound from the big strong man, but no protest or physical
reaction. No, he was just pressing himself into the wall and door and the
elbow of one arm jerked as he moved it to get to work, wanking himself,
dirty submissive bugger...!

Jamie had long prided himself on a talented tongue, knew he could make
women wail with happiness in their third or fourth orgasm with his
cunnilingus. He'd never thought that his tongue might have other uses,
not even when he reluctantly let Frank lick there beneath him, the loser
in a different man-to-man bet, another little smug victory for his long
list... but now in the satisfied afterglow, he found himself prising open
those heavy buttocks and looking between them into the dark hairy
entrance, and leaning in very close. He spat against his crack first,
then blew against it, then dared to run his tongue against unfamiliar
skin.

`Fuck!' whined or growled or shouted Micah.

Jamie flickered and darted his tongue. He held the cheeks firmly,
squeezing so hard his fingers might bruise. He pushed his face in more,
ran his tongue ab it more adventurously. Spat some more. He breathed in
deeply, excited by the sweaty smell, thought of it as just another cunt.
He sighed his breath against it, parting the glutes even further, running
his tongue against the wire-wool black hair and feeling the little
muscular knot against his tongue-tip, then retreating as the arse pushed
backwards and Micah let out a more howling breath -- one surely audible
in the corridor beyond!

Quickly, he was tugging up at his undies and trousers, and Jamie was
cautiously backing off, panting a little and rubbing his mouth on a dark
blazer sleeve, feeling clammy and sweaty beneath his suit, his smug calm
disturbed. Micah had half-turned, busied with shoving his shirt tails
into his trousers; beyond him, Jamie could see the dirty gooey trail down
the lower half of the wooden door, the little snaking rivers of his
spilled jizz. Dirty fucker! He leered happily at him, but his joy in
their transgression was not reciprocated.

`You're sick,' Micah told him, having just let him lick his arsehole
and eaten his cum. `Fuck you! Redknapp, you're- ugh, does your dad know
you're a dirty queer? Fuck's sake!' Those were his last words,
snapping the weak bolt in his rush as he tugged the door inwards and
burst out into the corridor on his own, leaving Jamie alone with his limp
cock still hanging through his trousers flies. He silently pushed it
away, zipped up, stood gathering his breath, then burst out into fresh
evaluative laughter before sinking once more into his seat in the exact
same relaxed pose he had awaited his naïve visitor not so long ago.

`Fuck yes,' he moaned to himself, stretching his limbs and letting the
flush of completion cool off, his dick limp in the front of his tight
pants and his mouth a little sour with the odd taste of licking down
there. He'd been angry at his cousin for doing it, a bit turned off; but
he could see that it was dirty and fun, a little like first going down on
girls as a horny younger man. And he had to admit there was something
sexy about Micah's big thick arse, he'd always admired the strong rears
on other players... he leaned dozily back, far too self-confident to
regret or question the line he'd crossed, and the question that hung on
the other side of it.

He could remember the certainty with which he'd recoiled from Frank's
desperate plea that night, his cousin begging to be fucked. No, Jamie had
thought then, not that. A stray hand or a willing mouth, yes, but no
further, not for him... right? He chewed his lip thoughtfully and stroked
vainly at the creased bulge of his privates, letting his mind wander.
Fucking a man was a step too far for his naughty games of cat and mouse
-- wasn't it?



*A LONG OVERDUE RETURN FOR JAMIE REDKNAPP, SURELY? AND A SLIGHTLY NEW
DIRECTION... LET ME KNOW WHO YOU'D LIKE TO SEE HIM TRY TOPPING FOR THE
FIRST TIME. AND THERE'S SO MANY OTHER LITTLE STORYLINES TO CHECK IN, BUT
WHAT DO YOU NEED TO READ NEXT...?*