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
After the victory against Majestic Amateurs that sealed our passage through to the second round of the Cup competition there was no doubt the atmosphere in the changing room was one of intense confidence. We were on the up: the team was balanced, starting to click together, and there was a belief in our own abilities. Training on Monday and Wednesday was enjoyable and buoyant, very much unlike the training sessions when the team had experienced a losing streak.
Dmitri’s girlfriend, Sam, and my partner arranged a little dinner party on Thursday at their house. After training, my midfield friend and I arrived at Dmitri’s ground-floor apartment to the sweet smell of rosemary and roasted lamb.
The alcohol flowed as we ate: my girlfriend, Anna, asked if training also involved us practising the gay sex that had become the feature after the matches. We hadn’t actually been taught how to suck cock, or be buggered: the league had given us minimal guidelines of how to stay safe but we hadn’t been trained or showed anything. Condoms were mandatory for anal sex, optional (and unused) for oral. Plenty of lubrication was used for any backdoor action, and the victors had to be considerate of the man on the end of their pricks. Their advice ended there. “Perhaps we should come and give a training session!”
“I think I could teach you!” I quipped. “I’ve had to do it more than you have recently!”
She snorted. “Serves you right for losing. And anyway, it’s not a punishment for Dmitri. He does it for fun!” Dmitri blushed further as my girlfriend blustered tactlessly and loudly.
“Anna! Leave him alone.”
“It’s fine,” Sam soothed, glancing at her squirming partner. “He does. I’ve seen it so many times.”
“That’s so unfair,” my lady cried. “I want to see him get fucked. I only get second-hand accounts.”
“It is hot.” The flawless Sam ran her hands through her hair and giggled as I objected to my treacherous girlfriend’s demands. I sucked cock because it was the league rules. I got fucked in the arse because it was the league rules. I did not consent to homosexual sex to make disloyal partners flustered; the fact that a part of me found it exciting was unspoken and purely irrelevant.
“I don’t see you two getting some lesbian action going to turn me and Dmitri on!” I joked.
“OK.” Sam cried and left the table to return moments later with a deck of playing cards. “If that’s what you want, we’ll play poker. If me and Anna win, then you and Dmitri do a 69. If you two win, we’ll do one!”
I think it was the alcohol that saw me agreeing so readily, although there were clues that something was amiss: she shuffled the cards without looking, she dealt the cards confidently and there were dozens of small trophies in the display case behind us for winning poker tournaments.
And they weren’t Dmitri’s.
We didn’t stand a chance, and my girlfriend was hopping excitedly as Sam told us to strip in their guest bedroom. They watched as I looked apologetically to Dmitri: why did all the games I play always end with the losing party giving oral sex?!
The girls were impatient; their sneering and demanding had us on the bed in seconds. They giggled as I settled myself onto the mattress and looked into Dmitri’s crotch. He was shaved; I had not noticed before, but his pubis was hairless. It made his cock look imperiously big, yet smooth and majestic. I licked my lips at the prospect, waiting for him to settle on the bed.
He wasn’t erect; his foreskin covered his glans as I leant forward to swirl my tongue against his tip. I wanted to feel his cock stiffen inside me. I sucked his prick and enjoyed the length of his flaccid member flooding my mouth, hardening slowly.
A roll of my tongue against his glans was appreciated; his cock rose to its fullest engorgement. I flicked my tongue underneath his frenulum. Dmitri whimpered; my friend was squealing under my touch as I lavished adoration on his wonderful manhood.
I never heard any comments, noticed any movements or had any interaction with the two women; I had blocked them out of my mind. Dmitri’s warm mouth swirled over the head of my cock, sucking my length into him with zeal. I’d never felt anything like it, my body wallowing in the intense hedonistic delight of Dmitri’s blowjob skills; he was supremely talented.
But I was revelling in the gentle taste of Dmitri’s manhood: an aroma of excitement and masculinity. He groaned as I tucked my tongue under his cock-head and grabbed hold of his thigh, leveraging my mouth onto his prick with increasing enthusiasm.
I wanted him; he made gentle bucking motions with his hips, but he didn’t need to. I was pistoning my mouth like a wanton slut onto his cock faster and faster, desperate to have my mouth filled again and again.
He was panting, crying and mewling as I approached my peak, his tongue twisting over my most sensitive spots. I was on the edge of coming. But I was entranced: transfixed by the sounds and tastes, sights, smells and textures of Dmitri’s cock in my mouth. I needed more; thrusting my lips deep onto his shaft, feeling his little quivers as he approached the same point as me.
I wanted him; I wanted to taste him and experience the flavours of his cum sliding over my tongue. And I wanted to bring a friend to orgasm; to feel that bond of friendship tightened by the enjoyment of mutual bisexuality.
I came first; my pumping waves of semen squirting onto Dmitri’s tongue was enough to trigger his own reaction: jets of his cum landed on my tongue that I eagerly gulped. It was lovely; musky and slightly bitter, yet so smooth.
I let his flaccid cock fall from my lips, staring at the spent dick laying provocatively against his muscular thigh. I wanted to go again; I would have happily surrendered my arse for him at that point, looking at the perfect lines and texture of his masculinity, aching for more attention.
But a cough from the girls, smiling at us, brought me back to reality. I had forgotten for a moment why I had my team-mates cock in my mouth, or why we were doing a 69. It started with a game of poker, but it had ended with a mutual glorious orgasm.
We got dressed and had a drink in the lounge; the girls teased us and Dmitri reacted.
“I’ll get the cane,” she warned. He shrank back in his seat at the prospect. “Sorry, I should have said. We have a BDSM relationship. He’s my sub.” Dmitri bowed his head as Sam spoke, acting if he was ashamed by his sexuality.
“That’s cool,” my girlfriend replied, eyeing the blushing Dmitri with a smirk. “So that’s …”
“So I get to rule the roost, I punish him, tie him up and beat him. I sent him to the gay sauna last week, and sometimes watch him get fucked or go down on people … men and women. It’s fun!”
“Yeah!” Anna muttered drunkenly, her eyes swimming with possibilities. “I sometimes get to take him with a strap-on but I’d love him to go to …”
“No!” I interrupted her thoughts. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m not going to the gay sauna!” But it was already too late to stop her imagination whirring. And in truth, mine too.
“Be honest,” she asked. “You enjoyed doing that with Dmitri, right?”
No comment. But she most certainly did enjoy watching our little show; five minutes after leaving our hosts’ flat, we had to stop the car in a layby for me to fuck her senseless. For some reason, she loved me having a bisexual side.
The game against AFC Kerlon was an away match on the edge of a rough part of the nearest city, a thirty minute minibus ride away. They were consistently one of the best teams in the league, and this year were still unbeaten. The team modelled themselves on Brazil: adopting the yellow shirts and flair for the game that our workmanlike style of years gone past had been unable to compete with.
They also had a rich base of players: the city providing ample numbers of footballers in a way that our small village team simply couldn’t manage. Their ground, that they shared with other teams in different leagues, was impressive: it had been built with lottery funding and possessed spacious changing rooms as well as a terraced stand holding almost 1,000 spectators.
We were a few men down for the game and had just thirteen players for the match, but we were highly competitive. It was 0-0 at half-time; I had been busy breaking up several of their attacks while our attacking players Lee and Dmitri both missed easy chances to score. Lee made amends just after half-time before their left-back lashed home an unjust free-kick. As the clock ticked past ninety minutes, we were on the verge of a highly creditable draw when their winger, while putting a hopeful punt into the box, skewed the lob. It flicked off the boot of our captain and swerved over our goalkeeper.
A total fluke.
A lucky own goal.
A freak occurrence.
But it changed nothing. The whistle sounded a few moments later to signify we had lost by two goals to one. We knew the implications for their victory. They jostled and taunted as we left the pitch: it was an own goal so we did it on purpose. Did we want to be fucked by the muscle-bound winners? Or were we just bitches who played football to get rodgered and buggered? The words stung, almost as much as the defeat. The shirtless men lapping up the adoration of their fans as we skulked into the changing room.
The captain was incredibly apologetic, but he had nothing to apologise for. It was one of those things; it happened in football. He was just unlucky. The thirteen of us stripped to just our football socks: we had all played some part in the match but the manager had only two substitutes to call upon whereas AFC Kerlon had the full seven; they would be doubling up on some of us!
Their captain banged angrily on the door moments before we left our changing room; I stretched my tired muscles before I left the sanctuary of our space. We filed submissively into their Testosterone-charged room. Many AFC Kerlon players had just their yellow shorts on, a few were naked, standing confidently as we entered and shaking their impressive cocks. They were full of muscles: big pectoral bulges and massive thighs. They swore as we came in, insulting our masculinity, our penis sizes and our fitness.
But it was part of the game. We barely got into the room when they descended upon us: my right arm was pulled onto a changing bench. “Open,” he demanded roughly. He was my age with bulging biceps and a body covered in sexually provocative tattoos: naked women with huge breasts adorned his arms and a scandalous scene of rampant debauchery was inked across his chest. But I wasn’t there to admire his body art; his eyes sparked aggressively as I glanced at him, his body reeking of sweat and endeavour.
My mouth opened slightly, seeing the parting of his shorts inches from my eyes as my lips were poked by the helmet of his cock. It smelt. It was slimy too. The muscular brute, pushed the erect cock against my lips as I allowed it to slide in.
“Ooh, guys, he likes it!”
Perhaps I did: my swollen cock pushed against the wooden bench as my bisexual tendencies resurfaced. I licked my lips around the swell of his manhood, feeling his dominance as his hands clenched around the back of my head.
He wanted to seize and command his victory. He wanted to feel the degradation and humiliation of the losing player. He wanted to fuck me, to snatch every last ounce of dignity from my tired limbs and make me submit to his will. He wanted to be the big man.
And I was powerless to stop him. His cock thrust deep into my throat, the evocative smell of his masculinity smashing into my senses as I inhaled his scent. His pubes tickled my nose, his cock poked against my gag reflex as I felt a cool sensation on the whorl of my butt.
“Fuck ‘im Barry. Little fag likes it!”
I was aware of fingers pressed against my butthole, sliding past my resistance as the muscular centre-back ravaged my mouth. I felt used. I felt worthless, as lubricated fingers were replaced in my arse with a slippery cock.
His mate ravished me; his slow movements replaced by rampant thrusts of an energetic intensity. They high-fived each other over my back, my erection rubbing against the cold bench with every push on my body.
His cock felt massive; the stretching of my anus uncomfortable at first, but my muscles soon relaxed to accept its fate. I closed my eyes, floating in my submission; I was in another place, enjoying the pounding of my exhausted body by two alpha males. It was wanton and raw. It was scintillating.
I panted as I felt the cock in my mouth quiver; he held the back of my head and slammed it onto my spasming cock as cum was pumped directly into my throat, causing me to choke on my quivering manhood.
He cared not as I fought for air, savouring his orgasm as my survival instinct panicked. He withdrew from my lips, just as his mate climaxed; the trembling prick ejaculating into a condom and pushing his cock deep against my prostate.
They were sated; I wasn’t. My cock had rubbed against the bench into a lustful state and when they both stepped away from me, I scrambled to my feet.
“Not finished with you. Wank yourself,” the tattooed player demanded. I looked at him as his friend sat me onto the bench with a firm hand on my shoulder. “Now!”
My cock tingled as my fingers gripped around the shaft, jerking it as they watched. Sniggering. Not childish giggling but a smug look of superiority. They wanted to see me come, orgasm meekly after they had plundered my body for their fervid satisfaction.
They wanted to enjoy my humiliation, as my hands trembled over my cock. But it betrayed me, complicit in my degradation; after my prostate had been rodgered and my throat fucked, my arousal was overflowing. I needed to come, I needed to enjoy the surge of cum flow from my shaft.
I had the sights and sounds of dozens of couplings around me. I had the thick cocks of Barry and his mate standing over me, inches from my face. I had everything I needed to get off and moments later, I curled my toes as I surged past my point of inevitability.
They sneered as cum landed on my hand and chest, glancing up at them as Barry grabbed my wrist and wiped my face with my semen-covered hand.
They laughed. “Now you look like a real slut!”
I probably did. It was the final humiliation and they gestured towards the door; they’d finished with me. I got to my feet, glad to be leaving. We’d lost and I just wanted to curl up with my girlfriend and not think about the spitroasting I’d just had. It had been an experience but we had lost a game we should have won, and the sportsman inside of me needed to grieve.
“Hey kid!” The man called, ignorant to the fact that I was no younger than him. “You guys did good out there today. Shit unlucky.” He glanced at his team-mates still ravaging my team. “Play like that, you guys won’t be fucking or sucking much. Best team we’ve played all season.” Compliments were all well and good, but I still had cum on my face, a sore throat and a sore arse for my trouble. “You’ll get your revenge later in the season,” he muttered. “I know you will. You guys are good.”
I fucking hoped so! His treatment of me had been brutal. But I would get even.
Continued on chapter seven.
Featured image from here and used under as CC-license.