Subject: Premiership Lads part 118: Ball Games Part 118: Ball Hames Jamie Redknapp leaned in and delicately lifted the black plastic triangle from the table, swivelling it delicately between two forefingers. He remained in position at the head of the table, inspecting the symmetry and positioning of the neatly set balls, gleaming yellow, red and black. He grinned down the sharp arrow of the triangle and straightened up on his feet, placing the plastic prop aside on a shelf, and clapping his tanned hands gently together in front of his chest. `So,’ the 46-year-old ex-footballer said smoothly, `who’s gonna break, cuz?’ Standing at the other end of the pool table, hands planted firmly to the varnished wooden frame of it, Frank Lampard smiled pleasantly back at him, looking over as if with a critical eye in case the balls were in a splapdash mess or there was something far more complicated to set up. He was smirking with a mild, long-established mockery of Jamie’s fussy neatness and ceremonial excitement about even the simplest of contests. The men were well into their 40s, but it was a dynamic of long-ago Redknapp family holidays on the Costa, co-owned villas and mingling cousins. `I don’t mind,’ the Chelsea manager said calmly. `Oh, don’t you?’ Redknapp chuckled. `I quite like to take control, myself.’ `Hmm,’ Lampard responded mildly. `Well, if you insist.’ `But you’re the host…’ `Jamie, if you want to break, just fuckin’ break. Now, more importantly — what are you drinking?’ It was Redknapp’s first of a few nights stopping at the Lampard townhouse in Fulham. He glowed with south coast sunshine and the relaxed demeanour of a man who had spent the last few months on and off deserted beaches, far away from the stresses of cities on lockdown. He’d had his own moments of challenge but he was aware he’d lived in a rather luxurious bubble of clifftop walks and easy access to isolated family; now here he was, back in the Big Smoke and preparing for all of the media work that would begin to roll back in with the revived football season. Of course, Jamie always kept a plush bachelor pad of his own in the north of the city, but it had somehow been agreed amongst the family that he would spend a few careful days with cousin Frank and co, easing himself into city life and holding a few careful outdoors meetings with the right people, before work kicked in properly and he got himself set up at the Camden apartment. Jamie wasn’t actually sure who had suggested it — him, Frank, Frank’s wife, his dad, some other family member during an extended and possibly drunk Zoom catch-up or cringeworthy quiz. Regardless, the idea had picked up momentum and he had to say, he was glad. A sleazy part of him (a fairly large part of him, admittedly) was craving the privacy of his bachelor pad, but these were strange times, and it had been nice and comforting arriving here this afternoon. He had a sizeable guest room on the top floor, en suite bathroom, and had been cooked a slap-up dinner by Mr and Mrs L. The kids would get on his nerves by day 3 but it was only a buffer period anyway, before he got back to living it up as sports television’s hottest playboy. `Hmm,’ he mused, reaching two cues from the rack that held them in place, patrolling around the long rectangle of the pool table until he was beside his younger, slightly smaller cousin, `I could murder a gin.’ Frank, giving him a thoughtful nod, patted his arm and backed towards the stairwell of his well-furnished basement games room. `Two double gin and tonics, coming right up.’ With that, the football manager turned on his heel and disappeared noisily up a spiral of wooden steps into the main house; he seemed completely delighted to have Jamie here, which was sweet and perhaps understandable. Though Frank was back at work pretty much full-time getting the Chelsea squad ready, he must have had a LOT of cutesy family time forced on him with a younger wife and two little brats in the place; proper adult male companionship would be coming as quite a fucking relief, Jamie imagined complacently, hence this. It was already getting late and Lampard would be up early to get down to the Chelsea training ground, but a quiet game of pool and a couple of nightcaps had been irresistible to them both. So, dinner cleared away and a lateish video call to the older generation done with, they’d come down into the Lampards’ basement to pot some bollocks and chat shit. It had only been refurbished properly at the start of this year, so it was pleasantly new to Jamie, strolling about it now as he waited for his drink — a number of recognisable ornaments and trophies, treasured pictures and framed football shirts, but in a new setting. A real man-cave, much more relaxed than that stuffy office Frank kept upstairs at the front of the house. Jamie smirked to think of that room: it reminded him now of the last time he’d been here, stayed here, after the belated Christmas do. On cue, Frank was back, a heavy chalice of G they’d spoken regularly from afar but it was different being together, in the mild intimacy of this done-up basement, surrounded by the sporting paraphernalia of Frank’s triumphs. Frank made a few observations about how training was going, a little evasive about closer details, but beaming with obvious pride when Jamie alluded to the transfer rumours and his key role in securing some potential big names; Jamie couldn’t help but turn the conversation to himself, as interested as he was, boasting to his cousin about a couple of new projects that had come up lately. He also felt the oddest temptation to boast about other televisual exploits, but it hardly seemed the moment to confess to excitedly degrading a Norwich City twink over webcam, did it? Still, he thought smugly, half-listening to Lamps sum up his expectations for Chelsea’s finish in the league table, there were subtle ways of bringing the conversation that way…! Just then, he made himself `reds’, clattering the first gleaming ball into its corner socket and performing a tiny graceful fist pump of hyperbolised victory. He gave Frank a wink and picked up his gin, draining what was left of it from among the chunky ice. `Well, the fun begins,’ he remarked, but offered his empty glass forward. `Go sort us a top-up and then I’ll really whip your arse at this, cuz.’ `Already?’ He could see the surprise, but Frank paused and downed the dregs of his own, and took the glass. Jamie grinned almost patronisingly at him and watched him go, then surveyed the table, wondering just how quickly he could whip through this and beat the youngster, as he couldn’t help but think of the 41-year-old ex-professional. He looked up at a wall of pictures and souvenirs of Frank’s Chelsea history, immensely proud but… undeniably jealous. Jamie LOVED Frank, had done since they were tiny, but there had been an awkward moment somewhere in their twenties when the younger lad had overtaken him. Just as Jamie’s injury woes slowed, interrupted and ended his career, his dear cousin became one of the most celebrated midfielders in the English game. There was far too much family pride and affection for real resentment, but Jamie had his moments of regret or envy. Something about Lampard’s Chelsea renaissance had woken that, he supposed, though management had never been attractive to him, not compared to the bright lights and fuckable make-up artists of life in a Sky TV studio. Looking back, he thought, that had been a bit of the thrill, at Christmas-time… He unconsciously looked upwards and remembered that other late nightcap between them, busy middle-aged men stealing moments of old-school enjoyment together. The discovery of those ridiculous photographs, the tension that had followed. Jamie was faintly aware of the added taboo of being tossed off by his own cousin, but not with any particular shame or regret; shame and regret had found little place in the handsome playboy’s sex life since he was barely playing for senior football teams. Okay, there had been a hideously well-behaved moratorium during mersin escort his ever-faithful marriage, but without Louise on the scene… See, want, have. He saw himself as pretty irresistible. Even to his twice-married, macho football legend younger cousin. They’d both been very drunk, sure, but Redknapp had known on a primal level what he was up to: teasing and cajoling the younger stud into getting hands-on. Sprawling there on the couch and letting his younger cousin bring him off to a messy orgasm had been a half-conscious victory, some long overdue assertion of his dominance in their friendly competition. More than any of his other dabbles with lads, he’d valued the feel of Frank’s hand on him, the excitement he’d caused for this fellow straight bloke; more than humiliating those two Liverpool ponces in one go, more even than exerting his authority on that overrated England striker in a pub toilet. More than his recent exploits with Cantwell, though… he looked forward to following THAT up when fate allowed! Frank was back, two re-filled glasses swaying in his cupped hands, cheeks flushed with booze and hurrying. All was quiet upstairs. Jamie paused and let his cousin come to him, taking the drink from him and clacking them gently together. `Let’s make this interesting, cuz, shall we?’ he said quietly. `I’m leading I guess, but… well, we’re fairly matched. Let’s call it… strip pool.’ `Jamie, this ain’t a fucking stag do,’ the Chelsea ace chuckled back, then when Jamie didn’t laugh or shift from the spot, he looked bewildered. `For real, cuz?’ `Come on, just a laugh…!’ He sipped more G well, this DID make it interesting, didn’t it? He could feel the silly excitement of it, the embarrassing prospect of stripping almost fully off whilst Jamie remained smugly clothed in his well-fitting designer gear, strutting about the basement like he owned the place. `Oh, bad luck!’ he crowed, as a tiny margin of error left Jamie’s shot unsuccessful, though well-positioned for later with a cluster of red around one corner. Frank swaggered up in inexplicable victory, clearly the loser in this scenario, but finding pleasure in Jamie’s slip-up and the delay of the inevitable. His torso and arms bare, he leant into the table and made his shot — but he was so agitated with the tipsy mischief of the game that he misjudged it too. No ball pocketed, Jamie’s turn. Fuck’s sake. Predictably, Jamie’s next shot was a success. His third ball in. Frank rolled his eyes, stood at opposite ends of the table to the other man; he gripped the heavy buckle of his belt and undid it slowly — no erotic striptease, just bullish delay. He yanked it open and slid it noisily from its position, then chucked it heavily towards the same chair. Jamie raised a single eyebrow and readied his next shot; Frank found himself almost willing it to go in and then stopped himself, realising just how much he’d bloody drank and how carried away he was getting already! Anyway… Jamie’s shot missed. Steadying himself, suddenly a tiny bit self-conscious at his shirtlessness, Frank took position along the side of the table and aimed purposefully between the hold of his stretched fingers and knuckles. He jolted the cue forward with contained strength and, hah, in it went. He made a little mock hissing noise as if there was a crowd cheering him, and smiled expectantly at his cousin, looking at the buttoned up black shirt that clung to his tall, athletic torso. Jamie smiled placidly back and it took Frank a moment to see what he was doing as he reached down and twisted a leg. He held a single sock in his hand, peeled from his foot. `One item,’ Redknapp said coyly. `Deal’s a deal, poser.’ They played on, Frank’s cheeks burning. He toyed with his dark hair and took comfort in a few hurried sips of gin. He felt a trick had been played on him, but he wasn’t 100% sure what it was. Frank missed his follow-up shot and Jamie, with a weighty sense of inevitability, potted his. Ball four of seven. Lampard looked down at the socks on his feet but somehow, following Jamie’s example seemed to be admitting a kind of moral defeat, sinking to his level. His hands brushed the button at the front of his Levis but then pulled away. He grinned and unclasped the heavy rose gold watch on his wrist. Jamie let out a little chuckle of admiration for this. `Touché,’ he said. Then hunkered down, sighed pleasurably, and potted his fifth ball. `Oh for fuck’s sake,’ Lampard laughed. `Sock it is, then!’ He yanked it off and tossed it Jamie’s way. Redknapp caught it and dangled it playfully then chucked it aside, getting ready for his next shot. Frank watched with a strangely high tension; suddenly his own basement felt like Wembley in a penalty shootout. And like the slick pro he was, Redknapp nudged the white skilfully and pocketed a sixth. Second sock down. Frank made a slow fuss of it, bringing his foot up onto the arm of the corner chair then teasing the patterned sock down his ankle like an early 20th century stripper. He chuckled and blushed and winked at his cousin, who seemed so calm and suave — though he’d drank just as much! Barefoot, Frank traipsed back to the table and folded his arms over his quite smooth chest, relaxing into his state of undress. `My last red,’ Jamie murmured a little provokingly. `You’ll miss it, you’re too distracted by my man-tits,’ Frank jibed. `Oh, well they ARE distracting…’ Did he miss deliberately, to give punchline to this joke? Lampard wasn’t sure. But he laughed anyway, and picked his cue back up. Right, time to get that smug prick out of SOMETHING. He felt his palms sweaty on the wood and his vision less precise than he would like it to be. Still… The yellows were well-positioned, he thought he might even get… aha! Two in one shot. Hurrah. He smirked up at Jamie and twirled the cue in his fingertips in front of him, watching the slow acceptance in Redknapp’s face. Again, the man twisted a little in the spot, barely lifting a leg properly as he dropped one shoulder down and did it; another sock off, tossed into the heap of the other three at one side. Jamie stepped back then, away from the table, and picked up his gin to take a long, sensual gulp. Frank saw a little of its moisture glisten about the man’s reddish lips and on the faintly red-brown fur of his beard. He licked his own lips unconsciously, and glanced at his glass: empty. `One more item,’ he chirped, looking back at Jamie. `I know, I know,’ Redknapp responded lightly. He reached both hands up to near his throat, finding the top button of the close-fitting black shirt that hugged his shoulders and taut arms. Below it he wore very light pants of linen or similar, grey and faintly striped; like the shirt, figure-hugging and well-cut. Below, his feet were bare like Frank’s, ever so slightly bigger. Jamie undid one button but then reached further up. Frank blinked, a rush of drunken disappointment teasing him for a second. Redknapp was unclasping the fine gold chain about his neck, holding it forward, dropping it gently against the green baize of the table. `You prick,’ Frank sniggered through a smile. `What, did you want to see my… man-tits…?’ Frank just grunted. He took his shot, but he was clumsy with it. The white angled off in totally the wrong direction, hitting the black. Well, that was an extra go to Jamie! Huffing, he backed away from the table and held his hands at his hips. Redknapp made a show of concentrating on his angles and positioning, but somehow fluffed it; one go wasted, but another allowed. And this one was predatorial in its efficiency, as was the smirk on the TV presenter’s face as he looked up from the table. The last red, pocketed. `Off these come then,’ Lampard muttered matter-of-factly. He tugged the Levi buttons one at a time to loosen the jeans, then stepped further back from the table, as if he really needed to prove he was doing it. He pushed down at the front, wrestling the 501s over his fairly thick midfielder’s thighs, baring their hairy girth. He lifted one leg at a time to escort mersin push and pull the heavy denim down about his ankles and off, until he was just stood there in the tight grey fabric of his boxers. Redknapp was looking at him an excitingly thoughtful expression. Frank hardly dared to hope that… well… Christmas might come again… `Just need to pot the black, then,’ Redknapp mumbled. `Yeah, that’s it,’ Frank replied. He could hear his own voice and he wasn’t sure if he sounded uneasy or flirtatious. He wasn’t sure if he cared. He balled his hands into fists and swung them a little at his side, and watched the pantomime of the nearly fully-dressed Jamie, mere socks sacrified, touring the table and finding the best position. The number of lingering yellows meant it wasn’t so easy for Redknapp to achieve endgame, but he was sure looking for his angle. Eventually, he found it, at the same end of the table as Lampard; as the 6ft tanned media hunk leaned forward over the table, back at a tight angle, those linen trousers pulled up and hugged at the back of his thighs and the perfect curve of his rear. Frank gulped and tore his eyes aware, damned sure for a moment that the posture was deliberate, provocative, teasing. He was too undressed to start getting aroused, but he could feel it happening; the grey bulge was gonna get bigger. He heard rather than saw Jamie’s success; the rustle, the tap, the roll, the fall. Redknapp stood and looked his way, leaning on his cue, game over. `That, Franco, was TOO easy,’ he laughed. Was there an accusation in that teasing comment…? He raised his brows and smiled wider, a clear gesture of `well, get on with it…’ Frank could feel his cock twitch and elongate. If he ragged off these boxer shorts then it would be completely fucking obvious. Sure, the pair of them had a bit of drunken history, but — well, getting hard over THIS, over a stupid game of pool…! No way. Right now, he knew his bulge looked a bit big and heavy, but it could be blamed on the undies, or the lighting, so… Aha! He lifted one hand and then the other, and `stripped’ his item. With a toothy grin, he stepped closer to the table, and Jamie, and placed his wedding ring down on the green material. `Oh Lampard, you flirt.’ `Huh. Bet you’d rather it was the pants, you old perv. I’ve told you before… single for too long!’ `Yeah — sure. I really wanted you naked, that was all I came to London for… hehe.’ `Wouldn’t be THAT surprised.’ `Of course, you still need to.’ `Huh? What?’ `Well, Franco, my man. I potted seven reds. And the black. Add it up, bro. You should have stripped one thing before we even got going. I potted that first red and got the game moving, so…’ Redknapp leaned in a little closer, the pair of them stood at the end of the table. Frank felt his hand brush close, somewhere around his left hip, then very momentarily on the waistband of his underpants. `These grey things are gonna have to come off…’ Lampard didn’t try to dispute it, even in his own head. He let out a few slow breaths then released the cue from his fingers, letting it fall into Jamie’s grip. He turned sideways and faced his cousin, five years his senior, similar heights and builds. The deeply one-sided game had left him more excited than he thought he could admit out loud. But it would be fucking obvious as soon as… So he did it slow. Jamie, perhaps mistaking this for deliberate tease, bit his lip and suppressed some lewd sniggers; the grey fabric edged down past the short curls of Frank’s pubes then over the squashed shaft, then the pants went down, his semi-hard dick was out, and his low-hanging balls… The undies fell about his ankles and he stood there, his dick slowly twitching and rising where it hung. `Oh cuz,’ murmured Jamie ironically, `you DO enjoy losing…’ `It was hardly a fair game,’ Frank said hoarsely, trying to find a casual posture despite being stark naked in his games room, surrounded by symbols of his virility and sporting prowess, but smirked condescendingly at by his more handsome older cousin. `No. With you being terrible and me being decent. But Frank, don’t be a sore loser.’ `I’m not. I followed through. As you can fucking see, Jamie.’ He glowered at him, resentful but excited, sensing what might, just might, happen next. He pictured them in the lounge at Christmas, making the sofa into a bed, and… oh god. Shameful delight rose up in his chest. His nipples hardened. Any second now, Redknapp would- Jamie backed off, and leaned their cues idly against the mantelpiece, not even in their correct slots by the corner. He was rolling his shoulders and shaking his arms and yawning disinterestedly, as if the games were over and it was just bedtime. No way! `Cuz,’ Frank hissed, and he stepped urgently after him, his hardened cock flopping a bit as he did. `Whoa,’ laughed Redknapp, `don’t point that weapon at me…’ He laughed, his hands held up in a mime of innocence, then finding their ways to Frank’s shoulders. `But, Franco, I see you… remember our… little playtime, so…’ He was pressing coolly at the rise of Frank’s shoulders, and he understood. He reached one hand forward and brushed his knuckles against the front of those taut linen trousers, the soft warm contents hiding behind two layers. Mmm. `Oh Lamps,’ whispered Jamie now, `more than just your fingers this time, surely…’ And he was pressing down more on his shoulder-blades, firm and guiding. Lampard let out a little sigh of consent; it was as if Jamie knew everything he’d been up to! He considered confiding in him then, a rush of narrative from his hot lips, but he knew he’d muck it up and tell it wrong; he knew a better way his lips could tell that story. Down to his knees, kneeling on the soft luxurious carpet that the builders had ripped him off for. One elbow brushing at the corner of the pool table. Both hands roving over the waist of Jamie’s trousers, finding the buttons and zip; finding the outline of that cock. Frank looked up but Jamie had his eyes closed lazily, head tilted back, one elbow leaning on the mantelpiece; a pose of smug male privilege, ready for pleasure. And it drove Frank wild. He wrenched open the trousers and pulled them down far enough, and then too the bright red briefs underneath. Jamie’s cock. He hadn’t looked at it really properly last time, they’d sat in the dark. When he touched it, though, it felt familiar. Familiar and hot and hard. `That’s it, mate,’ Jamie encouraged. `Now, shall we swap your hand for your…? Hehe…’ Lampard wasted no time. He leant in and licked the tip, heard Jamie’s little vulnerable moan and shudder, licked it some more. He sensed the other guy, confident as he was, had been a little shocked or blindsided by the urgency and readiness of this oral attention. Frank took the dick in his lips and pushed forward, swallowing as much as he could and realising how naturally this skill came to him now, well-fed on Barkley and Loftus-Cheek. Jamie’s sighs and groans were shaky and honest, none of the smug performance of a man used to winning. The sound of it thrilled Lampard immensely, much more than the playful exhibitionism of strip pool. He ran his hands under the tight black cotton of the shirt and then undid its lower buttons; Jamie echoed him and undid the rest, so it fell open, allowing frank to stroke right up that beautiful toned torso, so developed and sturdy for his age. As it always did, the submissive position troubled him, but his mouth was full and his own cock was rock-hard. He’d never obsessed over Jamie in the way his fixation on Ross Barkley had burnt this last six months, but here was an athletic man’s man who he’d admired as long as he could remember, and pleasing him like this was heavenly. Frank just wanted more and more. He slurped away, teased the sizeable cock with his fingers, then licked the underside of the shaft up and down, until he was kissing at Jamie’s smooth balls, rolling them on tongue and lips and breathing the musty scent. Those groans were getting deeper and stronger. mersin escort bayan Still, Frank wanted more. He pushed his face in, lapping his tongue hungrily under the sweat sack, grabbing Jamie’s hips. `Oh fuck,’ hissed the stud, `you dirty bitch Frank, you dirty boy… Mmmm….’ Frank nipped at the looser skin and soothed with his loving tongue. Then, hungry and filthy, he pushed further, easing Jamie’s thighs open a little and nuzzling past the bollocks to the gooch, and- `Mate,’ snapped Jamie, `no…’ A hand was on his head, holding him at bay, pushing him down or away. Redknapp’s limits? Frank ignored it, pushing forward, tonguing around and below his cousins’ heavy spunk-filled balls, pulling at the furry flesh of his thighs and- `No,’ Jamie hissed, `you aren’t touching my-` Frank made a sort of growling whimper, pushed the thighs apart and angled his head desperately until his tongue pushed up between the chubby entrance to lick the base of the man’s arse crack. Jamie’s little moan of response was as awkward and animalistic as his own. Frank seized his chance, pushed the legs open a bit more and brought his head under and up to really lick between the cheeks. `Oh crap,’ whined Redknapp. Frank pulled back, intoxicated, and pushed and grabbed at Jamie’s hips until he was turning round, pressing into the decorated mantelpiece; the black shirt still hung around his arms and shoulders and its tails provided a beautiful frame above the exposed white chunks of his buttocks, which Frank planted affectionate kisses on, three on each. Then he went for the prize, pushing his tongue between them. For a second, he was a traitor here: he wasn’t thinking of Redknapp at all, he was wishing he was on his knees in a sweaty Chelsea changing room, serving his No.8. The sound of Jamie’s voice brought him back to the delightful present: `Frank mate, this is too much, you dirty cunt you, are you really — ohhhh…’ So this was new to Redknapp, was it? That prospect gave a maddening intensity to it all. Cocky experienced Redknapp giving up his hole to Lampard’s lusting tongue… His mouth still tasted of gin and red wine as he rimmed at Redknapp’s bottom, sliding his tongue in that crack and against the tiny untouched rosebud. He spat at it but daren’t prod with a finger, sensing that Jamie was on a knife-edge of excited acceptance. His own arsehole twitched and his cock was practically dripping. He licked on for a minute more then kissed and bit idly at the plump cheeks some more, gasping for breath every now and then. Jamie, impatient, was turning around, practically whipping him in the cheek with his boner, then pushing it to his lips; Frank resumed sucking, letting his big cousin more or less fuck the roof of his mouth with a few lazy drunken pushes — then again he slid off it and lowered to kiss and lick the balls, hoping to get to the back door again. When he tried to, Jamie’s groans were intense but his hands were authoritative: `Enough,’ he barked eventually, pushing Frank’s face away from his greasy backside, and stepping away. Frank grabbed the edge of the pool table, wild with the experience and playfulness of the months since their last close contact; he felt like he’d seen and done so much since then, grown so much through his morally dubious adventures with his own team players, and… And yet what came out of his mouth shocked him, though he knew he’d nearly said it before so many times. Why else would he have needed to make such greedy and ominous remarks to beautiful Barkley, unless it was the reverse he wanted? `I’m gonna fuck you,’ he’d muttered at Ross, one too many times, but now, in his basement, he stared hard at Redknapp and hissed it, `Fuck me, Jamie.’ Redknapp’s face twisted in horror. `What?’ he demanded. `Fuck no, you dirty bugger, I don’t do that.’ Frank was shocked, by the prudishness of this sleazebag, by the desperation of his own repressed begging, by the force of Jamie’s disapproval; there seemed to be some complex rules here that he just didn’t get, and now he was gutted that he’d exposed his deep desire to someone who could never share it. `Suck my dick and be happy,’ Redknapp pretty much snarled at him. Frank, to cover his shock and disappointment, nodded furiously and slid back until he was on his knees. He took Jamie’s cock in hand and slid his mouth around the end; he held and wanked his own meat too, matching each stroke. The sound of his own voice (`Fuck me, Jamie!!!’) echoed in his head and he could see the judgment and disgust on the other man’s face, nonsensical as it felt to him now. He was too horny to stop, too desperate to pull away. He noshed on Redknapp until the groans grew unbearable up above and he knew they could cum almost at the same time. He slowed with skill that still surprised him, and edged the both of them in unison. `You are so good at this you slut,’ Jamie growled, but it was fond and playful, not harsh and disgusted like a minute ago. Frank was soothed. `Mmm, you dirty dirty bugger, eat my dick, Franco, you fuckin’ legend… ugh… Oh!’ And here it was. The taste of Redknapp’s seed. Mmmm. Frank felt his own cum froth against his knuckles and fingers and, probably, stain the new carpet. He pulled his head back enough to roll his tongue around the bell-end of Jamie’s dick and then kissed it messily, listening to the man’s long ragged breaths. Frank settled back, his clammy body resting on the side of the prized pool table. He stroked his hands a little against Jamie’s thighs, up and down. `Fuck me,’ he heard his own voice repeat in his mind, and he tried to bury it. No way, he couldn’t sink to that, could he? He was a man, born to fuck! He tried to picture that ecstatic moment when he’d mounted Mason and really dominated the cute youngster, but… now he’d cum, all of it appalled him a little bit. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm and started getting up. Jamie was laughing gently, finding his briefs at his ankles and edging them up to contain his cock and balls. `Well,’ he said quietly, `I certainly pocketed a few balls in a hole there, huh…’ Frank looked nervously at him, both glad he was grinning and relaxed, and appalled by how he’d exposed himself to this sleazy lothario. He scrabbled for his things on the floor and pulled them up to his chest in one bundle. `You could say I really used my cue well to-` `Enough attempts at puns,’ Lampard told him grumpily. Redknapp smiled gently. `Sorry, cuz. Just trying to… ease the tension.’ He cocked his head, a knowing twinkle in his eyes. `Someone’s been pretty busy since Christmas, eh…?’ Frank’s face was already red with the hot rush of orgasm, he was sure he couldn’t betray himself with pink cheeks now. He hugged the bundle of his clothes and watched Jamie dress slowly and calmly, buttoning his shirt back up and fastening his linen trousers. `You should get yourself to the guest room, make yourself comfy,’ he muttered. `And… some of us have to be up very early.’ He coughed awkwardly. Jamie reached past him to pull his gold chain off the table and fasten it once more at his neck before retreating for the stairs. `True, some of us do,’ he chuckled. `I think I’ll have a lie-in. See if your missus will bring me breakfast in bed.’ He paused on the steps and looked over his shoulder. `Maybe she’ll BE breakfast in bed…? Now that would be funny…’ He turned away to ascend the spiral. `Night, cuz…’ `Night.’ Frank shivered despite the stuffy warmth of the night down here, and loosened his arms, his clothes dropping at his feet across the carpet in a tangled mess. He let out his sigh, daring to savour Jamie’s salty flavour on his lips and tongue, but rocked by the familiar nauseous regret of sober aftermath, as he had too many times in toilet cubicles an his own office floor, ever since becoming entangled in this other side of sex. He was getting better, with Ruben’s help, at relaxing and enjoying it, feeling less anger and self-loathing, and yet… He turned and looked at his wedding ring, a plain band of gold resting on the richly textured border of varnished wood. He picked it up and slid it back on with a shudder of shame. Now to climb upstairs and crawl into bed with her, a man’s cum drying on his chin. Frank Lampard, he thought worriedly, a husband to her… and a wife to men.