A couple of weeks ago I wrote a short story called “Winners and Losers” about a losing football team having to give sexual rewards to the winning team. Even though the acts contained in the story are gay, and I am straight, it received lots of feedback and it has become one of my most popular stories so I must have done something right! I've followed it up with more chapters and I have around a dozen chapters planned if there is the demand. Let me know what you think!
Other Chapters: All Chapters - 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - 8 - 9 - 10 - 11- 12
We trained a lot that following week; the humiliation the Woodford Wanderers suffered in giving blowjobs to the victors of our friendly match burnt into every aspect of our waking moments, and even as I was fucking my girlfriend, the vivid memories of the swell of his cock and the tickle of his pubic hair on the end of my nose, was innermost in my mind.
In truth, I think I found the game exciting too, and relished to be back on that field of play, longing to right the wrongs of our 5-0 drubbing. We had a workmanlike team, without the natural flair of a creative midfielder, but the rule changes made it difficult to recruit. After all, why would a talented player want to join a team that had finished second-from-bottom the last two seasons and just been humiliated in their friendly match? Particularly as the losing team now had punishments to endure, that for straight men was bordering on humiliation.
It wasn’t just blowjobs we faced either: they were for the friendlies. For league matches the victorious team would be sodomising the losers and there were weekends allocated during the year for “special” celebrations, while a four-goal victory or greater allowed the winning team to issue “spankings” just as their team had been spanked. And the cup winners had all night with the losers. It was quite daunting, but the league wanted to drive up standards and they thought by increasing the incentive to win, the teams would adopt more effort in the matches, and the quality of the football would rise.
The opening match of the league season would not be an easy one: away to Sunnyside Cross FC who had come third in the league the year before. Their team had bulked out considerably, the beefy striker who was strong and uncontrollable in their emphatic 6-0 victory last season was stronger and full of rippling muscle. He eyed me as we lined up, and sent a few crunching tackles my way in the first few minutes.
We did well to hold them off until half-time, but as the team tired in the second half, they got their goals and the final score of 4-1 flattered us not them.
We knew the implications: tired and exhausted our coach gave us a pep talk in our changing room; we needed to improve, we needed to track midfield runners and we all needed to be fitter. But our ten minutes of cooling down was over before it felt like it had begun. A bang on the door woke us from our heated discussions. “Get your fucking arses in here, losers!”
I took a deep breath. At least we had avoided the spanking punishment again. “Be out soon,” the captain shouted back as I looked around the room. Shirtless sportsmen, all with bulging muscles looked almost broken. We had expected to hold them to a draw at least and yet had been overpowered by their relentless attacks and insatiable drive to win.
“Come on. We got some losers to fuck!”
It was all part of the game; they were right to impose their victory on us, as had we won we would have done the same. But it exposed our weaknesses as a team: unless we found a way to improve, and quickly, our Saturdays would see us on the receiving end of a lot of cocks.
“I’m not going,” Terry spat. “This is a stupid idea and I’m not being buggered. The blowjobs were bad enough. The league can fuck off if they think …”
“You’ve got to,” our coach responded but our left-winger was adamant. We knew what the implications would be for him if he didn’t prostrate himself to the victorious cocks of Sunnyside Cross FC. He refused; the tricky dribbler shook his head and crossed his arms as the door banged again, the voice threatening to report us to the league if we resisted any further.
Whoops, jeers and whistles greeted us as we traipsed into their changing room: the smell of sweat and exertion filling my nostrils as we lined up against the wall, eyeing the half-naked goading men: this was new territory for both of us. Who made the first move?
Our nimble, pacy striker was picked first: a brute of a centre back, hauling him by the shoulder and pressing him against the rough wooden bench that lined the room. “Come on lads,” he shouted, pulling down our striker’s golden shorts to reveal his cheeks, ready to impose his will on the bank clerk’s anus.
I watched, open-mouthed. I had never seen a man get buggered before, and only a sly finger from my girlfriend while giving a blowjob had ever violated my ring; butterflies spun in my stomach as I stared, entranced and enchanted at the muddy players.
He dribbled a small drop of anal lubricant onto the butthole in front of him, causing my friend to jerk in shock at the sudden appearance of the wetness. “If you think that’s bad, wait until you feel this!” His team-mates laughed as we watched the victor unfastening his own shorts and letting them fall to the floor, before removing his jockstrap.
His veiny cock was big: eight or nine inches and thicker than anything else I had ever seen, glistening with sweat. He said nothing as a condom covered his manhood and then pressed the head of his lubed cock against the parted buttocks.
There was something filthy yet visceral as the victor squeezed the globes of my team-mate, forcing his cheeks apart so he could access his hole. Our striker gasped as the prick made its way into his bum, sliding an inch or two in before stopping. His cries tickled my insides with intrigue and sympathy; were they of discomfort or submission?
I heard a few squeals to my left and right: some of my other team-mates were having their arses prepared for a pounding while I watched, transfixed at the sight. Every inch the erect cock slid in, the more my friend cried and squealed. It was slow, the top was going patiently, but his size was big and we had discussed this in the coach coming down to the game: we were all anal virgins.
I felt a firm grip on my arm: a ginger lad who had scored the fourth and final goal against us, squeezed tighter. “I’m claiming my prize,” he demanded in a Northern accent, pulling me into the corner of the room.
I was frightened but excited; I was straight, loving my girlfriend deeply and until recently had never contemplated being with a man, but now found the situation exciting. He was going to fuck my arse, and I was under an obligation to let him.
In truth, I wanted him to. The confused squeals and unmistakeable grunts from the room piqued my curiosity. I could never admit it to my team-mates, but at that moment I was intrigued as to what buggery would feel like. I needed to know.
I was almost too hasty in removing my shorts and underwear, watching as his cock, smaller than mine, was exposed to a condom and some clear anal lubricant. I was given the same tube. “Grease yourself up.”
My hand trembled as I squeezed the bottle, putting a generous sized amount onto my finger and rubbed it against the whorl of my anus. It sent shivers down my spine: I was unused to the feeling of wetness there.
I never got a moment to consider the new sensation. It was a prelude to the stuffing of my arse with the ginger guy’s cock. Two strong hands on my cheeks, holding me steady as he poked at my opening, sliding his head past my resistance.
The grunts and sounds of my team mates were irrelevant, I was focused on him; his muddy hands on my hairy arse, sliding his sheathed cock past my virginal orifice. His grunts, his movements, his rocking against my opening.
It was a weird feeling; he pushed his cock further into me, brushing his thighs against my buttocks. I squealed as my butt felt uncomfortably full, pressure on my prostate that leaked pre-cum from my cock onto the bench.
He cried out insults. “Like my cock, loser? Eh?” His voice snarling with every poke of his prick into me. I felt used and abused as he pounded: a pathetic loser taking his punishment from the winner, a worthless slave ceding control his master or a vile prisoner paying his debt to society. He wanted me to feel insignificant as my body jerked forward to his rhythm.
But I didn’t dislike the feeling. Sure, I didn’t like that we had capitulated, but the warm glow against my prostate, the desperate pressure in my butt and the sparkling sensation along my erection was pleasurable and unlike anything else I had experienced in my life.
His pace increased, thrusting deep into me as he neared his orgasm, squealing and grunting as I felt his cock twitch and quiver in my butt-hole.
The victor withdrew his pirck, unfurling the condom and flinging it into the bin. He looked away from me, and I did him. I saw many of my team-mates on their knees, sucking the last of the cum from the cocks bobbing in front of them, but as I felt for the dripping wetness of lube leaking from my anus, he poked me in the shoulder. “Be fuckin’ ya later in the season!” He taunted, gesturing towards the door.
I returned to the changing room: Terry had gone and we wouldn’t see him again. The league rules were clear: losers could withdraw consent but they lost the right to play in the league.
And as my dejected team-mates returned, I knew it would be a very long season.
Continued on Chapter 3
Featured image from here and used under as CC-license.