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
The league table does not lie. Woodford Wanderers, Played 5, Won 0, Drawn 0, Lost 5, Goals scored 4, Goals conceded 15. The close defeat against The Cock Inn was followed by two 1-0 losses and then a 6-1 thumping at home by Heston United. I’d missed the last three games: first through my cousin’s wedding in Scotland and then work commitments overshadowing my Saturdays.
So much so, the coach was on the phone on Sunday morning, begging me to return to the team: the league had seen a number of teams losing players and he feared that the run of five losses would cause others in our team to drift too.
It wasn’t my intention. I longed to get back onto the football pitch and in the three weeks I had been away I would be a liar if I said I hadn’t missed the thrill of the danger and jeopardy the penalties caused.
There had been some fallout from the league’s decision to allow victorious teams to sodomise the losing players in the dressing room. A couple of teams, in the second tier, had lost access to their ground: for “immoral and shameful” acts and Terry, our ex-left winger had gone to the newspapers, along with a couple of ex-players from the other teams. Attendance swelled at the games however, the Internet was awash with the story and, possibly in part due to our losing streak making us notorious, we were now sponsored by ManLube, who had provided two new football strips to the team containing their logo.
The new navy shirt with bright golden shorts looked fantastic, the heraldic colours of our village, and at training I was told several other teams had landed sponsorship deals too. The big news was that the coach had managed to find a couple of new players, include Dmitri, a playmaker from Sofia who had an impressive eye for a pass!
I would have thought that the near certainty to being fucked by testosterone-filled football players on Saturday, especially given our reputation, would be an obstacle to further recruitment but Dmitri wasn’t bothered by the prospect. The day before the match, the nervous graduate student admitted to me that he was bisexual. The punishments for failure were strange, he wouldn’t have chosen them, but it didn’t faze him.
In many ways, I was delighted that Dmitri had joined us with his attitude. I didn’t dislike the sensations of being sodomised and my girlfriend and I were playing with her strap-on much more. I just would rather not be buggered by another guy. The protestations from my team-mates about the league’s plan meant I couldn’t discuss my thoughts with them and Dmitri quietly listened to my predicament.
“Let’s just win,” he suggested in his Bulgarian accent, and I thought that was a great idea. The league had decided that the match would fall on the first of their “special weekends” and planned to take full advantage of the fame and interest by conducting the victory fuck in public and not in the dressing rooms.
The sixth match of our league campaign was the home match against The Cock Inn. The league had rescheduled some matches at the request of a team whose ground was flooded. It was quite an intriguing thought to think that we would be able to seek revenge for the raw fucking we had been on the end of only three weeks previous.
It didn’t start well: they scored within sixty seconds when their cocky striker volleyed the ball past our defence, and at half-time they were leading 1-0. Their captain snarled as we walked off the pitch, rubbing his crotch suggestively. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be sitting down for a week.” It was all part of the mind games.
We needed a lucky break, and we got two. Dmitri came on at half time, playing in front of me in our midfield, and his first shot on goal bulged the back of the net after it clipped the heels of a defender for a big deflection. The second goal was scored by our goalkeeper: a wind assisted punt down field embarrassingly bouncing over their stopper. And as they attacked, we defended with our lives: the first victory was in sight and as the ninetieth minute edged closer and they threw everyone forward, our Bulgarian playmaker clipped the ball into the box for our striker to head home.
The pitchside celebrations were emphatic and wild; the sliding of the players across the muddy ground to celebrate in front our solitary stand was intense. It meant a lot to us. It meant a lot to our supporters. They cheered for us, and as the final whistle sounded, the realisation of what The Cock Inn players would be doing had sunk in. In the heat of the game, I had forgotten the leagues rules and the joviality in the changing rooms was clear.
“Come on, we got some losers to fuck!” Our captain shouted as we banged on their locker room door. “Get out here and face your fans! And our cocks!” There were other more uncharitable jeers: but for the first time it would be another team on the end of our pricks.
Our ground was full: the 300-seater stand was erected in the club’s heyday thirty years ago and was crammed with expectant adults: men and women eager to see over a dozen sweaty athletes buggered for their entertainment. Their humiliation would be public; no doubt it would be captured on camera and uploaded to the pornography tube sites on the Internet. They would become infamous, we might be too.
The sheepish looks on the faces of the losing team was stark from their attitude three weeks ago: they were cocky then, kings of the world, dominants. Now their spirits were broken, punched by the result and aching for their torment to be over before it had begun.
They would not be so lucky. The club had placed a handful of mats, and a couple of boxes, across the pitch as we cooled down in the changing room and we entered the pitch to a loud roar: louder than anything that greeted a goal during the match. It came from the stand and the gathered supporters around the pitch, including the wives and girlfriends of The Cock Inn players.
The crowd wanted action, and behind us the losing players entered the field of play. Many were shirtless, accepting the cool breeze of a late September afternoon. Their goalkeeper was naked, his large cock swinging as he walked towards the mats. I think he wanted to show off his masculinity, to try and salvage some pride from his well endowed prick.
We faced them. Watching their apathetic looks. I glanced down the line of players, wondering if I should exact a revenge on the player who had sodomised me weeks ago. Would that make it personal or just still the instrument of physical enjoyment and humiliation the league board had decreed?
I didn’t get that option. Dmitri seized the bald-headed captain as the first player to make a move. The crowd erupted into cheers as he pushed him onto his knees, ready to enjoy his first blow-job of the league season.
It was the cue for everyone to pile into the Cock Inn team, choosing a loser to degrade and humiliate. To bugger in front of their wife or girlfriend, in front of their adoring fans and cheering friends. The sadistic urge to debase and humble the opposition was overwhelmingly strong, grasping at the cocky forward who had taunted us through the match.
His sneering had long since disappeared; his pride vanished equally as quickly, watching with worried eyes as my shorts fell to my ankles. “Suck it.”
I loved saying those words; those words meant I had someone to fellate me, someone to do as they were told, someone we had beaten. His tortured expression gazed up at me: he didn’t want to do this in front of his family and friends, but I was going to seize my reward for my victory. It was inevitable.
My heart pounded loudly as he closed his eyes, and his tongue touched the slit on the end of my cock. I grabbed hold of the back of his head, thrusting my prick deep into his mouth as he gagged, spluttering as my cock swept past his lips. “Suck it,” I demanded.
His tongue swept over the head of my cock; warmly sliding his mouth over my erection. I became oblivious to the noise, ignoring the cheering from the crowd as my opponent sucked my prick with tentative apprehension.
The public humiliation was playing with his mind; he was aware of everything invading his consciousness. My hand grabbed hold of his locks of hair, tugging at them as a warning. I would face-fuck the spent athlete if he didn’t co-operate! He realised. He groaned and sucked, sliding his mouth over my prick and tasting my sweaty cock. His actions were exquisite: quite the little cocksucker. I felt ten feet tall. I was centre stage as hundreds of men and women looked on. I was the victor, penetrating the failure who was no match for my superior strength. I adored the adulation and ignored the insults raining down onto the pitch.
I was passed a condom and the bottle of lubricant – ManLube of course – from the match officials, walking among the homosexual acts to ensure “fair play.”
His eyes widened, as I pushed him off my face, pushing him backwards onto the ground. I wanted him to see my face as I came. I wanted him to see the pleasure that his ritual humiliation had offered me and remember my moment of climatic pleasure when he next fucks his girlfriend.
I didn’t know where it had come from, but he said nothing, clearly reading my mind as the condom rolled down my glistening prick. He took the lubricant gratefully, hesitating about removing his shorts. A firm look from me cracked his resistance and he generously coated his bud with the clear liquid.
His small cock was hard; both of these facts he found embarrassing. I heard some jeers from the crowd: his checks reddened instantly. Holding his this calves up, my hard cock powered into the depths of his arse, sliding past his ring of resistance with ease.
We both groaned; pleasure encompassing my cock as my arousal rose. I grunted angrily as I rammed my cock deeper and deeper into him; this was a raw battle: exertion and concentration etched upon my face as I thrusted harder and harder, savouring the tight ring of muscle that massaged my cock.
He grunted with every thrust, his body quivering and trembling as my hips ground my prick into his sanctuary. His cock bobbed and pulsated, his eyes glazed as he fought the sensations from his prostate.
But it was too good for both of us; my hands holding his legs squeezed as I slammed into him. I was on the edge of my cliff, sweat dripping from my brow as I drove my cock. He whimpered, as his muscles quivered against me, and a spurt of cum was jettisoned onto his belly; his humiliation complete as my spasming cock filled the well of the condom inside of him.
I said nothing as I withdrew, discarding the condom into the bin and grabbing a tissue for my cock. Aware of the battery of laughs and jeers descending onto the pitch. My loser wasn’t the only one to come from the assault on his prostate, and the dripping cum from his cock was a magnet for the teasing.
But ignoring that, it was good to get our first win under our belt. Even better to enjoy some fun as a result!
To be continued …
Featured image from here and used under as CC-license.