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
There was no denying that the last minute loss to AFC Kerlon had dented confidence in the dressing room, but when we considered our performance in the match we realised how unlucky we had been: we’d lost because of a last minute own goal scored by a fluke deflection while playing away against the best team in the league. We were desperately unlucky; most teams ended up on the end of a hiding when playing them.
Our fortunes did not improve in the following match: a home game against Elvedon Bridge Warriors, last year’s champions but struggling this season. A number of key players had left their team after the new league rules had come in and they had not been adequately replaced. We were leading from the second minute and had a 2-0 lead as the clock ticked past ninety minutes, but we conceded two injury time goals: the second of which did not cross the goal-line because I hacked it clear, but the equaliser was unjustly given by the linesman.
The draws were a loophole in the new league rules: there was no penalty for teams drawing and as the final whistle blew, both groups of players knew that no-one would be taken or humiliated. Indeed, I wondered why many of the teams didn’t play for a draw instead of gambling on a win from the outset.
However, our next two matches were against teams towards the bottom of the table and yielded victories. I had a cocky lad from Framlington Giants groaning as I pounded my cock into his tight hole, squealing and crying as my prick bounced against his prostate and forced him into an erection. I looked at him in the eyes, my hands holding his ankles in front of me as I told him to wank himself off.
His hands gleefully rubbed his shaft, moaning like a little pig as my cock pounded past his ring, and I emptied into the condom. He came over his hairless torso, the glistening pearl of his semen contrasting with his tanned skin. He was less arrogant when I made him eat his cum.
The second victory fell on one of the league’s special weekends. We didn’t know the forfeit before the game but Dmitri noticed that the league had sent a group of four people to “assist” with the losing team. It provided an added spice to a match was marred by dozens of poor challenges and yellow cards. It was violent, and a lot of anger and frustration had built up during the ninety minutes of our victory, provided to us by Dmitri’s sublime finish. It took an hour to prepare the losing team, but after an intense delay, seventeen embarrassed men came into our changing room shaved hairless by the league’s helpful entourage. And they wore nothing but pink flimsy skirts.
We laughed, mercilessly roared with laughter as they blushed. It was part of the humiliation: we had to make the losers suffer, and that evening we did. After the match, I really wanted to as well; they had been animals on the pitch. The photos I saw were unreal; completely glabrous bodies and feminine short skirts being ravished by men. And we looked like men compared to them, hairy chests, masculine thighs and still in our muddy football socks. We treated the sissies remorselessly to eighteen horny dicks; our changing room a deafening wall of lustful sounds and testosterone.
Their arses were ravaged as we tormented the cross-dressing failures to an intense energetic pounding, causing them to squeal like little girls as we fucked them. No mercy, no stopping, just an all-consuming, raw orgy of brutal proportions. They knew we had won, meekly leaving our changing room an hour later, still dressed in their little pink skirts with their humiliation captured for posterity on video.
I had to give up an evening of my time during the following week for a Manlube photo shoot. Our sponsors had enlisted some male models and wanted to use their sponsorship of our team for their promotional posters and adverts. As I did not watch any homosexual pornography or visit such Internet forums I was unaware of how “big” or notorious our league had become but Dmitri assured all of the team that we had gathered thousands of fans on-line from the stories, the photos and the odd video posted onto the ‘net.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to be known for that reason but the guys I played football with were akin to my family and no matter what it cost, I wanted to remain part of the team. And I found it exciting; the unknown is always exhilarating and we never knew what was going to happen from one week to the next.
Whatever my thoughts were, our cooperation for Manlube’s promotional activities was part of the sponsorship deal the team had signed and instead of the players having to help pay for the kit and the transport, the club was able to fund all of the footballing activities from the lubricant manufacturer’s generous financial package. They even provided us with loads of free bottles of lubricant for “home use” that my girlfriend had seriously depleted with her rampant use of her glass dildos and occasional use of our strap-on. She had been highly sexed in recent months.
The three male models had perfect Adonis-like bodies. The Greek god had been reincarnated in triplicate, each with impressive muscles and well-defined physiques. I was in awe of them, drooling slightly at their statuesque perfection as they wandered around our changing room in just flimsy underpants. “Hey mate, can I have your autograph?” The blonde-haired lad asked, holding a pen and paper to my hands as I pretended not to admire his toned body, impressive bulge and glistening skin. And when the other two did the same, asking each of the eight players selected for the photoshoot for their autographs, I started to believe Dmitri. Perhaps I had unknown fame, which was slightly scary.
It was dark before we got onto the pitch; the bald-headed director barked and snapped impatiently. He wanted the blonde-haired six-foot rugby player, Paul, and myself for the first picture. Paul and I wore just differing coloured socks in the light rain; it was cold, especially when I had to kneel on all fours in the mud, and Paul positioned his impressive hairless cock against my crack.
Excitement surged through me, wondering if Paul would slip his cock inside me. We had a bottle of lubricant in the foreground of the photo, and I relaxed my muscles as I expected him to poke me with his prick. I almost wanted him to, closing my eyes as I took deep breaths.
I wondered what had I become? Was I completely bisexual, desperate for cock, or just highly sexed? Hours before, I was balls-deep inside my girlfriend, pumping cum onto her belly as we finished our morning tryst and then suddenly I was thinking about Paul being balls-deep inside my butt.
My internal confusion didn’t show on my face. A camera clicked as the photographer took the picture along my mud-splattered body of me being “fucked” by Paul. Only I wasn’t being fucked by his smooth tool, but teased as his manhood rested on my skin. A torture: playfully showing me with what he could do but leaving my hole unpoked. Paul was told to rock gently, I was told to yell, opening my mouth wide as the photographer tried to capture the rawness of the faux-penetration.
But I wanted it. I was being neglected. I had the semi-erect cock of the well-built, good-looking model waiting against my butt-hole and I was aroused. I needed him to slide a well lubricated finger against my ring, before ramming his cock into me. I needed to feel the familiar touch of an erect prick slamming against my prostate, the forceful rhythm of my body being violated as it was abused by a sportsman claiming their right to satisfaction.
I needed sex.
I mattered not whether I truly was bisexual or not. I had no romantic or relationship interest in men, but at that moment I just wanted to be plundered. To hell with the rights and wrongs of a “heterosexual” man wanting to be buggered by a sportsman, I wanted it. I needed it. The league rules had opened a door to me, opened my eyes to new experiences and I was suddenly desperate for that penetration. It had been a month since I was spit-roasted by the brutish AFC Kerlon, and I longed for the passionate thrusting and the submissive pounding in my arse again. I wanted to feel sore for a few hours, complete in the knowledge that I had been ravaged. Nothing else but to sate my overwhelming urges.
The photographer swore as the camera whirred. “Stay there,” he muttered, taking his camera as he strode across the muddy field and past the director. I glanced behind me; the rain drizzling onto my back. I was cold, but not uncomfortable; I had the strong grip of Paul on my hips. He said nothing as we waited. Tense moments, I felt every pull on my waist as time stood still. He reached over to take the bottle of lubricant into his hand.
My heart quickened as I felt something fall onto my anus: a cheeky giggle accompanied the shivering rush of the cold sensation. He said nothing as his finger worked the clearless gloop into my butt. I hoped. The bottle was returned to it’s place on the muddy ground before the photographer returned, screwing a new lens onto his camera. Paul’s clandestine activities had not been noticed.
Not that I cared if it had. “Go on,” I whispered, my mind screaming at Paul to impale his thick cock into me. “Do it.” He did nothing, rubbing his impressive tool along my perineum as he rocked on his haunches. The rain didn’t matter, the unsuspecting audience didn’t matter, the location in the centre of the pitch didn’t matter, in that glorious moment I just wanted to be taken.
“OK sorry guys, let’s get this wrapped up! Sure you don’t want to be out here any longer than necessary.” Another time, the photographer’s cheery innocence would have been comical. Instead, it grated: he was interrupting my moment with the model. Paul pulled his hips back and pushed the blunt head of his unfettered cock against my lubricated hole. I felt it straining; the resistance disappearing as I felt his hands pulling my hips back onto him. He was piercing me, pulling me into his crotch, guiding my body back as his cock slid slowly into my butt.
But it was my choice: I craved for it. Unlike our forfeits after losing matches, I chose to allow him. I became oblivious to the world around me as I gasped with every rock of his hips, pushing his cock deeper and deeper, faster and faster into me.
The flashes in my eyes were possibly the camera, or maybe I was seeing stars. I heard a multitude of cries escape from my mouth as he plowed my arse. My cock danced to his tune, bobbing with every thrust as my hands and knees slipped in the mud. I heard little grunts on the autumn wind, felt every slide on his thick cock and savoured every touch on my prostate.
With a merest gasp, I felt his cock quiver and he buried his prick balls-deep into my arse. A flood of warmth filled my rectum.
“OK thanks guys,” the photographer shouted over the rain, getting to his feet and wiping his muddy knees. My arousal flitted with my peak, flickering at the cliff and desperate for a merest stroke of my cock. “That was pretty awesome. They’ll come out fantastically!”
I took some deep breaths as he eagerly jogged to our pavilion to escape from the rain. I leaned forward, feeling empty as Paul’s shrivelled member glided out of me. I was wet, the slime of his cum lining my whirl.
“I’ve never fucked a celebrity before,” Paul joked as he helped me to my feet. “That was pretty intense.”
I couldn’t disagree.
The team were at our floodlit ground for over four hours as the photographer took dozens of promotional pictures. The rest of the pictures were faked homosexual or masturbatory acts: Manlube couldn’t advertise their products with explicit sex knowingly. The darkness of the night-time pitch had masked our original fun that the light of the changing room wouldn’t do. Paul later confessed I was the first man he had taken, and had the strangest conversation as two “straight guys” sat in the changing room naked while talking about the secret gay sex we had just had and had both wanted.
He offered to sneak off to the other changing rooms with me if I wanted to “even it up” but I politely declined. I needed to understand why I wanted penetration at that moment: I wasn’t compelled to let him do anything but I had needed it, I had been desperate for him to ram his prick into me.
I confessed all to my girlfriend when I got home, not sure what she would say. She jumped me.
After I assured her that I wasn’t joking, she jumped me, desperate for sex. The heat in her crotch not satisfied after dozens of orgasms. But my climax, when I came, was incredible: I’d had the excitement of my secret buggering, the taboo of doing it my public and my prostate poked by a male model. I was so worked up and horny that being deep inside my wife helped alleviate all of my desperation.
It’s safe to say, my Anna found my admission to male-on-male sex to be an aphrodisiac; I knew she wanted me to have more and more bisexual encounters!
I never told any of my team-mates what really happened on the pitch during the photoshoot; there was a gradual acceptance that the league’s rules were “fun” as they added an element of chance and jeopardy to the proceedings, but I wasn’t ready to say that I had wanted to be taken. It’s not that they were homophobic but to be honest, I wasn’t sure I really wanted to admit it to myself. I still considered myself to be straight; just with bisexual tendencies and needs.
That said, there would be no chance that I would be happy that we lost a game. Quite the reverse. I enjoyed the session with Paul because I was in control, if that had happened after a match, not only had we lost the game, but also that I would be ceding control to someone I didn’t know.
Sutton Workings Men Club existed on the west side of the town: it was located in a parish that was traditionally popular with ethnic minorities and had the multi-cultral mix of the area well reflected in its football team. They had finished fourth the year before, and were on a good run of form after a poor opening few games. It would not be an easy match and they had beaten us by four goals in the fixtures last season.
We always remember their games however: their players and spectators were full of life, and their stadium announcer had an incredible wit with a fantastic sense of humour. Despite being hammered last season, and every season as long as I can remember, we enjoyed our visits to their dilapidated pavilion and muddy pitch more than any other match.
Some of the money flowing into the league because of the increased publicity had certainly found its way to Sutton: they sported a new scarlet red football kit, complete with the name of their new sponsor – a local sportswear manufacturer. Their captain, a big, beastly giant of a man, nearly headed them in front within sixty seconds but his effort cannoned of the crossbar. Their team, mostly of black men, were skilful and clever in possession, working space and time on the ball as we struggled to match them physically. The bog-like conditions were tiring on the muscles and the ball rarely ran true on the muddy pitch.
But our goalkeeper was in imperious form, performing several incredible saves to keep out their onslaught, and with the 0-0 draw in sight, our right back slid in for a tackle in the box and took down the opposition player. It was a challenge Ben didn’t have to make. It was a challenge he had no hope of winning. It was a challenge that led to a penalty, which was slotted home.
We lost 1-0.
But as our coach decried, we win as a team and we lose as a team. It was no use blaming Ben; it had happened and if Lee or Dmitri had taken their chances earlier in the match, we wouldn’t have lost. Of course we got teased as we left the field; the “stadium” announcer poked jokes at our expense as we filed into the giant changing room, partitioned with a thin piece of curtain.
We were soaked and filthy, covered in mud and dirt: it was always like that at Sutton.
Their captain tossed a tube of lubricant over the curtain from their side of the changing room. “Hope your holes are ready, boys. The big pricks are coming!”
We had ten minutes to remove our wet kit, the sodden garments clinging to us as we stripped naked in the changing area. They blew wolf whistles as they peered over the curtain; offering lewd comments as we bent over to untie bootlaces or discarded saturated underwear. It was good-natured and we responded accordingly. Unlike AFC Kerlon who thrived on our humiliation, I had no such thoughts about Sutton. They came for a game and a laugh, and the sex was a side benefit.
They were naked too, discarding their soggy garments in a pile by the door, and whistled as we poked aside the curtain. I had a “cute little ass,” Dmitri had a “mouth fit for sucking” and our captain would “look good in suspenders.” The least said about the size of Lee’s prick the better; he blushed immensely! It was all said jokingly, but I looked at their swinging pricks wondering which one would be in me. We barely made it into their space before they started picking.
I felt a cold rush of apprehension as their young midfielder grabbed me on the shoulder. “Hey!” I cried as he painfully pulled me into our side of the curtain: there was more space. “Ow!”
“Sorry man!” His Caribbean drawl was deep, his apology sincere. “But ya took me down, I want some payback.” He chuckled ominously, laughing as I remembered my mistimed tackle in the first half.
“Yeah, sorry for that.” I had apologised at the time when the referee had threatened me with a yellow card. “You’re too bloody quick.”
He smiled half-heartedly as I looked him up and down; he was in his early twenties, much younger than me. His hairless torso had the outline of a “six-pack,” his leg muscles bulging and his body wrapped in skin of dark espresso.
My eyes flicked downwards as he stood dignified and expectant. His cock jutted towards me, eager for me to wrap my lips around its bulbous tip and pleasure the skilful footballer. He leant on the bench, sitting up slightly and beaming as he pushed his legs outwards. I knew the score; I sank to my knees, taking a moment to admire him.
To focus my eyes on his cock: long but not excessively so. It was hairless with the veins pronounced and the skin dark. It made it more taboo: the old white man sucking the young black man. It was a clichéed porn film plot but I didn’t care: I was feeling entranced by the appendage inches from my mouth.
He adjusted himself on the bench, sliding his hardening length towards my lips. I felt an unspoken impatience from him as his tip touched my orifice. I grabbed hold of his cock pushing my tongue out to slide down his shaft and wrap around his wrinkled balls.
He tasted of sportsman: a strong mix of muskiness and sweat, seasoned with laborious effort. I sucked each of his testicles, allowing the heavy pendulums to fall between my lips and drink the sudor from the textured orbs. He groaned with every flick of my tongue, shuddered with every suck.
I’d not done that technique on a blow-job before, but copied an article Dmitri had sent me. And I wanted to; with Sutton it was different: I wasn’t having the humiliation seized from me, but it felt like a mutually agreed bet I’d lost. The tone was different, the feeling inside of me was different, the blow-job was so very different.
I wanted him to come. I wanted him to come hard.
I lifted his rock-hard cock higher pushing my tongue along his taint. He whimpered as I flicked at his skin, sliding across his balls. I felt him shake with every touch of my lips on his genitals. He was aroused and swimming with unspent lust. Desperately close to orgasm.
I could delay the delight no more, glancing down his smooth, elegant body as I leant over him and rubbed the top of his pre-cum covered cock with my mouth, sucking on his glans and sliding my tongue under his frenulum.
His whimpers were hot, his cries erotic. He panted, and squealed as I my mouth took almost half of his length, sliding up and down his shaft before he reached my gag reflex. But I cared not, my own lust controlling my enthusiasm as his cock quivered underneath my tongue.
My fingers pressed against his perineum, brushing against his balls as his moans being louder and his breathing ragged, hyperventilating as my toil was rewarded with several blasts of his thick cum into my mouth.
He lay on the bench for a few moments, his cock falling from my lips and dribbling pearlescent semen onto his belly. It contrasted sexily with his dark skin.
“Wish my girl could do it like that,” he laughed as he stirred. I passed him the Manlube lubricant and condom from the side but he wouldn’t take them. “We do it for a laugh and a blowie,” he replied. “I dain’t wan’ ya’r backside.” His eyes glistened cheekily. “But I do need a shower.”
And we were the first to hit the tepid showers, shared between the two changing areas. I scrubbed his back, he scrubbed mine and the two teams met in the Working Club for a couple of pints, a chat, some games of pool and an afternoon of roaring enjoyment. I even got to meet the mother and girlfriend of the guy I blew; they teased me, his young lady making me blush as she spoke lewdly. It was harmless, it was fun, and it was a nice reminder of the sort of attitude that made football so very special.
After all, it wasn’t so much fun for the losers when it was all about drilling your opponents ass into humiliation but a bit of banter, reasonableness and playfulness goes a long way into making it into an enjoyable day for both teams, whatever the result. I just wished AFC Kerlon had the same attitude.
Chapter eight is here.
Featured image from here and used under as CC-license.