Part Forty-Two: Redknapp's Conquests
Jamie Redknapp left his dressing room at the Sky Sports studios, unable to suppress a smug whistle to himself as he tugged on the lapels of his faintly tweed blazer, and strutted his way through the backstage tangle of camera equipment and busy technical and production staff. He loved it here in the slick studios where he knew he got paid ridiculous amounts for a job he'd happily do for free. And tonight he only had a quick bit of punditry and interviewing left to do for the Sunday night revue, and then he could fuck off on a hot date with a certain supermodel in her early 20s who he'd been pursuing on Instagram messenger for weeks now. Oh yes, life was good.
Unable to contain his bursting smugness, the handsome late-40s TV presenter strutted his way out onto the studio floor proper, and made his various greetings to the Sky staff working on tonight's broadcast. Aha, there was Lisa-Marie, the slightly curvy assistant producer he'd had bent over the production desks after the office Christmas party at the end of last year – and yep, just sorting out his papers at the studio desk was the hot intern (Holly? Helen? Hermione? Who fucking cares) that he'd talked into anal sex at his south coast home one weekend last summer even though she had just got engaged – and hah, just over there setting up a camera, that young lad in his mid-20s who he had convinced to nosh him off in his dressing room just last Saturday, because it had been a fucking dull afternoon and he needed to shoot SOMEWHERE.
Redknapp had never really had to put the word bisexual' out there out loud, but if pressed, he supposed that was what he was. Perhaps he always had been? As a young lad, it had just been random one-off incidents of guy-on-guy fun, just playful pranks and silly drunken or over-excited experiments... now, after the end of a long marriage, unleashed on the dating' scene once more, 46-year old Jamie was much freer in his desire to get his dick wet with literally anything that took his fancy, male or female. In these recent years of freedom, he hadn't really stopped to over-think or question it... not when getting tossed off by his handsome younger cousin Frank, nor when spilling his juices on a couple of hot-blooded Liverpool stars. Nope, easy cum, easy go.
And limping his way into the studio proper was tonight's footballing guest – aha, now THERE was a lad Redknapp could really see himself defiling, haha.
Harry Kane.
The 6'4 England skipper was smartly clad in a slim-fit navy suit and open-collared white shirt, leaning slightly on a slender crutch as he made his way into the guest seat at the pundits' table, dirty blond hair gelled back in his usual smart-casual quiff, a real clean-cut national hero folding into his seat. Jamie wasn't quite reflective enough to figure out what did and didn't randomly attract him to certain guys – after all, during his happy years with Louise, he'd never given a second thought to any bloke he'd seen, really. (Except maybe Frank around the pool on extended family holidays, but that was probably a teenage crush from a confused hormonal phase!) But here, the strapping Spurs striker was... just so big and masculine, such a potent symbol of manliness, exactly something Jamie would like to stamp his dominance on.
He tittered to himself as he was fitted up with a mic and began making his way onto the stage-like front end of the studio, ready to greet his co-hosts and tonight's guest. Silly speculation! Harry Kane was as straight as they came, and he looked as dour and serious-faced as always... He was not some silly tart of a lad like Alex Oxlade-Chamberlain who could be led astray with a bit of mind games, haha. No, silly thoughts, Jamie, he told himself, just focus on the job at hand. In fact, he reflected, Kane looked even more socially awkward and sour-mouthed than usual tonight, the miserable lanky bastard. One of the main features of the brief revue show would be Spurs 2-0 win against City this afternoon, so why did their injured striker not look more pleased to be here to discuss it?!
Jamie approached him and stuck out a hand in familiar greeting, knowing they didn't have long until they were live on Sky Sports. He felt Harry's big powerful hand about his and nodded down warmly at his guest. `Wotcha, pal... Great to see you again, Harry. Welcome.'
An awkward half-smile and nod from the seated footballer. `Yeh, thanks for having me.'
And that was that for pleasantries, because a director was shouting instructions and preparations were underway for filming to begin. Jamie took his seat next to his female co-host (he'd been trying to shag her ever since they ended up in this Sunday night slot together, but she was the most frigid thing he'd ever shared a drink with) and the show began.
When the half hour broadcast was over, the skilfully lit glamour of the pundit tables was immediately disassembled. Jamie relaxed in his chair, still shuffling some papers for the fading camera shot, and beamed smugly about his surroundings. He put the papers down, as his disinterested female co-host got up to march off (he'd whispered some snide comment about her attempts at analysis, and was still sniggering inwardly at the banter) and the other commentators departed the recording area one by one.
Jamie slid the mobile phone from the inside pocket of his tweed blazer and switched it off airplane mode to check his messages, and noticed as he did that Kane was still with him at the long shared table, a gloomy look still on his already long young face.
`You need a hand off?' Redknapp asked politely, noting again the crutch resting behind big Harry's seat.
Kane grimaced but laughed. No, just letting some life get back into my leg,' he said. Had some rough physio on it over this weekend so it seizes up a bit when I have to sit for a while.' Jamie half-watched as the slick professional rubbed at one suited leg, an odd sight, as he cast such a figure of athleticism in spite of his current injury. Jamie flicked his eyes back to his phone screen, and the incoming messages. Ah, fuck.
`Sorry babe – another night plz – something came up!!! Sorry xx'
Oh for fuck's sake, the prick-teasing bitch! He had been looking forward to their drinks at her hotel and the literally inevitable sweaty fuck-fest that would have followed. Jesus Christ. He couldn't hide his scowl of dismay at his phone, as if this hunk of plastic and microchip was personally responsible for his disappointment, and when he looked up, it was obvious his TV guest had noticed too.
`Something up?' Harry grunted distantly, watching him.
Jamie just made a little scoffing noise, locked his phone, and slid it away before getting up from his seat. `Oh, nothing,' he muttered distractedly. He looked about the room with idle but predatory eyes: right, so that bird had cancelled on him, but that was no reason for him to end his weekend with a dry cock, was it? Who could he work on for at least a blowie tonight, if not...
`You sure?' Kane interrupted, getting up to with a tiny wince of pain, grabbing his single crutch to him before joining Jamie in stepping off the stage area and in amongst the bustle of the studio floor.
Yes, yes, fine,' Redknapp told him a little dismissively, then remembered himself. You had to schmooze these Premier League types these days, otherwise your name would be muck with their agents and the team PR crew, and so on. Getting an injured Harry Kane on this Sky revue show was a decent coup for Redknapp's producers, so he had to be treated fucking well. He shot a slick TV smile at the bigger bloke and reached to pat his shoulder. Absolutely great,' he said exaggeratedly. `Thanks again for coming, mate. Quality input from you as always.'
Harry nodded, absorbing the compliment with his dull sincerity. `Cheers... I mean, it was a lucky fucking win for my lads, I reckon, but couldn't quite say that on screen,' he said with a slightly awkward chuckle, always a little shyer than you would expect from a bloke of his stature and career status.
True,' Jamie agreed with a little smirk. City played shite.'
Walker looked exhausted,' Kane said confidingly, I love that lad but what was he playing at out there? Looked like he'd been up all night or something – and Stones and Foden not making it on at all when they're both fit...?'
Both men let out sneering laughs amidst the busy studio atmosphere. Jamie cast his eyes about searchingly, spotting only a few possibilities, all girls (and one lad) who he'd either been with and pissed off, or failed to charm in the past. Maybe he WAS going to have to go without tonight, after all...
`What is Pep playing at?' questioned Kane loudly.
I know,' Jamie agreed, returning his attention to the England golden boy. A wrong move for him against Jose's boys, for sure. Good to see them cope without YOU, anyway! For a change.' He smirked teasingly at his guest, who laughed again and slid his fingers back through his hair, looking a bit restless and lost. Hey,' Jamie grunted, after a thoughtful pause, do you fancy a quick pint before you catch your Tube?'
Kane looked indecisive, and Jamie just grinned at that familiar expression, one he liked to call the husband thumbprint, the expression of a man caught beneath the squashing thumb of a controlling spouse. You could almost hear the distant crack of a whip. He sniggered. Oh come on, mate, just one,' he said. On me, obviously. There's a decent boozer just on the corner as we leave.'
Well, that would be cool,' said big Harry Kane, a man who didn't look like he got to relax properly much, in Jamie's mid-life bachelor opinion. If you're sure.'
Redknapp gave him a curt nod, and stood aside as an assistant (an older bird nearer his own age, who he'd fingered to climax in the back of a van whilst doing some on-site reporting at a football awards show two years ago) undid his mic and such, releasing him from presenter mode entirely. He reached over to grab and squeeze Harry's hand. `Let me get my shit together, and I'll see you at the studio back door in about ten minutes, okay, pal?'
Redknapp had half given up on the idea he might get his dick wet tonight, but a casual pint with a lad he had some respect for was going to have to do. He quite liked a couple of the barmaids in the King's Crown though, and maybe he could sort something one of them whilst working his charms on Kane to ensure some good interviews or guest spots again in future, or get some inside gossip on life at Tottenham Hotspurs. If conversation was totally fucking dull, as he rather feared it might be, then he could ditch Kane easily with a faked phone call and a remembered appointment: and the big dopey bugger would just hurry off in relief to avoid too much flack from his wife.
Jamie hoisted his leather backpack over one shoulder, waiting at the exit for the limping striker to join him there. He made a few jokes about the hobbling hero as they exited onto the London back-street and took the corner towards the small, old-fashioned pub nearby, the King's Crown. Harry laughed along and seemed marginally more relaxed, but Jamie kept catching his frowns out of the corner of his eye, and sensing that the bloke's mind was elsewhere.
The two of them looked over-dressed in here, but the proximity of the boozer meant that its beer-addled clientele and weary-looking staff were unfazed by passing sports celebrities. Jamie was on first-name terms with many of them, dipping in here for a cheeky beer many times, often waiting for a date or hook-up to be confirmed on nights like these. He got a round in and elbowed Harry into a narrow, smoky-smelling booth in the corner, a tiny little space that felt like a portal to a different era of London pubs.
So,' he said confrontationally, after a bit more small talk, what's got you looking so mardy this Sunday night, eh?'
Kane eyed him in surprise, clearly lacking in the self-awareness to know the grumpy signals he'd been firing off since arriving at Sky Sports this evening. Jamie just smiled at his naivety, supped more ale, and nudged him across the narrow table. Well, come on,' he said. No mic on me now. I ask as a mate, Harry. You don't look... yourself.' Yes you do, he corrected mentally, a big miserable beanpole as always, needs a good sorting out to relax you! Again, he paused to think how good it would be to give that sorting out himself, there really was something special about this one, maybe just his heroic status.
`Oh, I dunno,' grumbled Kane.
Yes, you do,' Jamie said, impatiently but not unkindly. Something is bothering you, big man.'
`Just... relationship trouble.'
`Huh. Wives. Mate, Oscar Wilde put it best when he said "divorces are made in heaven"...!'
Kane, clearly relaxed enough on half a pint to drop some of his professional formality, snorted and nudged him back over the table. `Quoting literature nowadays, are we? You sound like a right melt,' he teased, and Jamie enjoyed the slight change in tone and mood, so laughed along, though he felt like making some sharp comeback about doubting if Kane could even read a book.
`It is your wife, not your mistress?' Jamie chuckled.
Kane looked mortified, pale-faced, holier-than-thou! My wife of course,' he mumbled. I'm totally faithful, mate.' Did the tall lady protest too much? Probably not. He looked way too boring to even consider cheating on his (admittedly pretty tasty) wife. The serious-faced striker took a couple of quiet sips then made a face like he was chewing a wasp, as if deciding what to share. It's more the opposite of that,' he said in a low, confiding voice. I kinda... walked in on her... with... someone else, and...'
Oh, fuck,' Jamie said. Cuckolded?'
`Huh?'
Never mind.' Thick shit. Shit mate, sorry. Is it serious?'
`I dunno,' Harry said distantly. He actually looked like he might burst into tears, a gentle giant after all. Jamie reached over and squeezed his arm a bit, his suit jacket off now and sleeves rolled up a little. He sighed sympathetically (mores-o than he felt) and looked at the emotional glimmer in those wide blue eyes. A big handsome prick, really.
`I don't think anyone has ever... cheated on me before,' Kane said quietly, draining his glass.
`Hmm. I think this calls for another pint,' Jamie said slowly. And so it did. And then a couple more after that. He struggled to prise any more details out of Kane as the night wore on. Really, he didn't MUCH care, but he would have liked the titillating details: where had she been caught? And who with? And what was she wearing? And what did the guy's dong look like? Jamie held back such questions and nodded with as sincere and supportive an expression as he could maintain while he bought round after round. It was getting late.
The same thought seemed to strike the lanky Walthamstow lad, who looked at his rolex and started folding down those cuffs of his starchy white shirt. I ought to make tracks now,' he said, a touch regretfully. Last train out my way leaves before long, and I need to make a couple of changes first.' He stared morosely at the watch-face, a big lovesick puppy. Jamie, twenty years older and a whole lifetime more cynical, sneered a little, but nodded.
Yeah, it is getting on a bit,' he said, unable to hide a slightly bored edge to his voice. He hadn't bargained on having the big guy's heart poured out to him so much: not just on his relationship troubles, as vague and unclear as they were, but also on how tough it was taking yet another injury absence, an almost annual event in an otherwise golden career. (How dare he?! Jamie knew ALL about this... he was famously one of the youngest retirements in top-flight footy...) He checked his own watch, idly, and started pulling his blazer back on over his baby-blue oxford shirt. I might need to go piss first,' he grunted vaguely.
`Mmm. Me too,' Harry responded in a detached murmur.
`Right, then.'
They got up, two tall blokes trying not to bash their heads on the low ceiling of the busy but low-key boozer, crossing to the bar with their empty pint glasses then nipping through a narrow doorway into the small gents' loos on the way out. Harry made his way to the furthest of the three chipped white urinals and Jamie, his usual arrogance jet-fuelled with a few pints of ale, ignored the silent etiquette of the patriarchy and shuffled up to the middle of the three porcelain troughs.
If Kane was aware or bothered by this quiet transgression, he didn't show it, doing the stereotypical middle-distance stare into a mildew wall as he squared up to his urinal, reached down to undo his zip, and got his equipment out; at his side Jamie squared his shoulders and did the same, unzipping his black chino pants and fumbling out his prick, but losing interest in his own need to relieve himself, and taking the moment to check out what the England skipper was packing. Yeah, looking at it while he pissed wasn't ideal, but it was still an interesting view. Heh, sort of as he imagined really: quite a thick, sturdy piece, but not that long by the look of it, unless it was more grower than shower.
He stood silently, idly observing the thing between Harry's fingers, listening to the splash of his piss, and then letting his eyes rove up over the navy suit jacket to Harry's long proud neck and strangely Romanesque profile. Then the taller guy gave him a shifty, uncertain look, as if he had been trying to ignore being watched, but now couldn't. Kane didn't say anything though, he just finished his business and shook his dick, and glanced fleetingly from Jamie to the wall and back to Jamie.
`Nice piece, mate,' Redknapp muttered in an opening gambit that had mixed success rate.
`Er...' Kane didn't know what to say, so Jamie just laughed, as if it might have been a total piss-take of a comment after all. He was still weighing up the weighty, aftershave-scented presence of the tall striker: surely Kane was totally hetero, totally unexperimental, a real vanilla slice... And yet, curiosity and appetite made Jamie push the envelope a bit.
Well it is,' he added. There was an extra thrill in the air as loud voices leaked through the rickety door of this gents' room, from the footfall of the main bar. Anyone could wander in at any moment, really. He smirked at Kane, who made an awkward expression, and stared back at the wall. As he did so, Jamie thumbed at his own hanging nob in a gentle simulation of more explicit activity, and watched as Harry's beady blue eyes drifted back that way. What do you think of my one then?' he asked in a meaningful low voice. Harry just gawped.
Redknapp felt a familiar buzz, of taboo and risk, of dominance and possibility. No way, he was NOT gonna get any fun out of this big bore... was he??
Well, it's...' Harry burst into a quiet uncomfortable laugh. What am I meant to say?'
Jamie smiled widely at him and gave a thoughtful little sigh as he stretched and pulled on his exposed dick, then let it dangle a bit in front of him between the open flies of his chinos. He looked at Harry's, which still hung free too, not returned to the safety of those suit trousers. Was that alone a good sign?
Jamie took his own member, twitching a little with his rising excitement, and stuffed it back inside his underpants and trousers, and let out another long, faint sigh – he watched Harry's confused, perhaps very gently disappointed expression, and then sidled over the narrow, tiled box of a room, to the cubicle that took up the other end. He shot an intense glance across the tiny space to where Kane still stood, then slid in through the open door of the cubicle, and pushed at it with a creak, holding it invitingly open. There was a dangerous moment where anything could happen (though the main thing that Jamie expected to happen was a drunk, upset England captain to go bolting out of the pub, and he would pass it all of as a mad laddish prank when he rang him up tomorrow). But no, after a few moments, Harry glared nervously at the exterior door, then crossed the small bathroom and joined him. He had to stoop a bit to get through the cubicle door, and Jamie pulled it shut after him, sliding the bolt in place.
And there, in a claustrophobic box of peeling paintwork and rattling little windowpane, barred up like this was a prison and not a minor pub, amongst fading graffiti and the acidic stench of cleaning product, the two men stood face to face in their TV pundit get-up, their breaths slow and ragged between them. Jamie was a well built man of 6'2, but he enjoyed the height and breadth of the younger bloke he had cornered here, and the sense of power it gave him. Harry's nob was still hanging out of his trousers, amusingly. He reached and took it gently in hand, and heard the anxious striker's gasp.
Yeah,' Jamie whispered into the tight space between them, just like I thought... a nice piece.' It was getting hard already, haha. Jamie gave it a slow pull, then reached back into his own black CKs to pull his own nob back out, and Kane quickly responded by reaching over to hold it appreciatively as it swelled and lengthened. What do you think of it then?' he demanded, quietly but assertively. I'm waiting for your punditry, big man.'
Harry's voice sounded different, gruff and awkward still, but a youthful neediness to it now, not the voice of a seasoned footballer and leader. `It's... beautiful,' he muttered ashamedly.
Isn't it?' Redknapp agreed smugly. You wanna lick it, buddy?'
Harry nodded his big head.
On your knees, then,' the older man purred. Go on.'
The unkempt surroundings made a great sight even more ridiculously horny for Jamie, as those expensive suit trousers brushed the grimy flooring and Harry Kane, England hero, knelt before him and lowered his head to Jamie's semi. He was surprised by how quickly and confidently Harry took his prick into his mouth, though it still did not occur to him that this might be anything but the tall striker's first ever taste of such taboo behaviour. Jamie rested one hand against the doorframe and the other to the sill of the little frosted window, and relaxed his body, feeling Kane's lips and tongue on his prick, and sighing his enjoyment.
`Oh Harry, lad,' he groaned.
There was a slight noise, the opening of the outer door. Harry froze and stared up with wide eyes, but Jamie just smiled, and put a single finger against his own lips in a gesture of playful quiet – but despite the caution, he slid his hips back and forth, both of them listening to the sound of a couple of old Cockneys chatting away and pissing and washing their hands, all the while Redknapp's sturdy nob slipping in and out of Harry's throat, threatening to gag him noisily if he went too far. The men through the tiny cubicle partition were probably there less than two minutes, but the moments of risk seemed to go on forever, Kane just frozen on his knees, passively taking the older man's cock, fear and dread all over his long, pale face.
Jamie reached down as the door shut and relative safety resumed, and stroked the gelled parting of dirty blonde hair, then smirked down at his latest conquest. Wow. Here he was, fucking the mouth of a true legend... jesus, this beat Frank's nighttime handjob out of the park, and even that risky little threesome with the Ox and that Scottish scally... oh wow, this was a career highlight for the filthy born-again bachelor, a real treat he would remember forever... He shifted his hips with more playful force and chuckled to himself at Harry's hot quick breaths and slight gurgles. It still did not occur to him just how easily hetero Harry was taking to the task: Jamie was too lost in his own ego and filthy satisfaction.
Jamie was a selfish lover when he interacted with guys, that he knew to be true, but he was also whimsical and driven by a lust he didn't quite understand. He pulled up on the shoulders of Kane's blazer, needing to own him more than just thrusting into his open mouth. Gesturing for cautious silence, he pulled the guy about, back to him, and reached around to toss him off into the gaping toilet, whilst idly toying with his own prick. He hugged the bigger guy to him, and let his hand brush and grab at the broad, tight-hugged behind in those navy trousers, before fully going for it, giving Kane a furious right-hand wank whilst pressing his face into the beautiful smell of his long neck. It wasn't long before Kane's majestic frame was shaking with pleasure and he was biting back his sounds of orgasm. His cum splashed the toilet seat and its watery bowl. The big striker gasped and gasped and whimpered.
Jamie turned him around with a tight grip on his wrist, looking at the conflicted shame on his face, and then applying his right hand to his own nob, wet with Harry's saliva, and wanking just as aggressively on that. Just looking at the big handsome England player and his queasy expression was enough to bring Redknapp up to his own climax: seeing this big, handsome fucker, this totem of the national sport, and knowing he was dominating him here in this filthy cubicle, wow... It was beyond any of Jamie's dirty moments of homoerotic fantasy that he allowed himself only when feeling at his most secure.
He wanted to yell his orgasm out, but he knew the doors could open again any second, so he bit his lips so hard he almost drew blood, and shot a thick, sticky load – not at the toilet like Harry had, but at the man by his side. His seed hit and trickled down the thigh of Harry's trousers, messy and streaky. He heard the man's cry of dismay and just laughed, trying to keep it as quiet as possible, both of them leaning on each other a little for support as they panted for breath, sweat prickling their faces and necks and beneath the cover of their suits.
And then Jamie felt his cock wilt, his erection lessen, and the return of another need, the feeling that had first driven him to the toilet cubicles. He sighed and relieved himself, the golden piss arcing from his semi-hard dick towards the toilet seat. With a dirty snigger, he redirected it and let it spill down the leg of Harry's suit pants. Another whimper of dismay, but no physical protest. Jamie sniggered and sighed, letting his urine splash the expensive fabric then pointing it back into the loo before it made more mess than he wanted. When he was done, he pushed his nob into his pants, let out a long-satisfied sigh, and then put Harry's cock away for him, since the drunk bloke looked too shellshocked to do it for himself.
He unbolted the door and went out into the main toilet room, which felt huge by comparison to the dingy cubicle the two big men had just shared. Jamie washed his hands and smirked into his handsome reflection, then watched in its chipped, scratched surface as Harry limped out of the cubicle, fumbling with his phone.
`Gonna... order... an Uber...'
Yeah,' Jamie murmured. You do that, big man.'
Yeh...' Harry stood and looked at him, their eyes meeting in the mirror. I can't believe I just... cheated on... him...'
Redknapp sniggered and shook his wet hands at the sink and mirror to dry them. He enjoyed the other man's pronoun confusion, and the homewrecker thrill of what he had tossed into the Kanes' smug little marriage. Fair's fair though, he thought, if Harry's horny wife HAD been cheating on him already. And then Kane was rushing out of the toilets, one lower leg a bit of a mess with fluids, out into the night. Redknapp briefly hoped that his young mate found a particularly disinterested taxi driver to carry him, and one with a bad sense of smell. Then he just laughed to himself, and left the toilets. Kane's crutch was propped, abandoned, by the doorway out onto the street. He stared it, burst out in mocking laughter, and then wandered to the bar.
Why not have just one more pint before he headed back to his city apartment...?