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Winners and Losers Ch. 01

By: bawdybloke



The swell of his cock bobbed in front of my face, the feint aroma of masculinity and sweat swirling around me. There are no chains binding me to the wet floor of the changing room, but I was immobile. Captivated. Unable to move, my lips parted for the first time to allow a man to stuff his erect prick into my mouth.

I was naked; I was vulnerable and defeated, but they cared not. They had no reason to care. I had played the game and I had lost; all of us had. The Woodford Wanderers were hammered by South Oak Harriers and we had to suffer the consequences.

Fortunately, it was just a friendly: the victors could only claim a blowjob for a friendly win, so as the final whistle blew and the referee led the teams from the pitch, our football kit glued to our bodies in the rain, we knew what the Harriers would demand.

It was crowded in the small changing room: victorious yells and screams dominated, echos bouncing from walls and jostling players intimidated and disorientated us. Our clothes were torn from our bodies: the laughter as they saw our naked crotches served to belittle us.

It was part of the game. We had to grin and bear it. They won, they savoured their victory, with excited voices and overflowing testosterone, they were able to enjoy their thirty minutes of fun at our expense.

Their striker, the victim of a few steady tackles from myself, grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me onto my knees. He had short-blonde hair, a bit of bulk around the middle and a cheeky smile on his face. An extrovert, my tormentor, glowed as his cock bobbed free and he swung it into my face. I watched it harden, the veins on his meaty prick becoming prominent. His uncut cock now textured and ready for him to claim his reward.

Me.

My mouth welcomed the victor, sliding his warm, firm cock between my lips. I sucked; I'd practised on my girlfriends dildo as we knew the rule changes in the league for this year, but nothing prepared me for the real thing. I licked the soft ridges as his foreskin slid back and his glans became exposed, sucking in his masculinity and swirling my tongue over his sensitive head.

I tasted it, the bitter fluid, a pea of pre-cum forming on my tastebuds as I sucked his manly scent in; his pubic hair tickled my nose, his hands rubbing the back of my head as I closed my eyes and bobbed, allowing him to guide my head further and further onto his cock.

I barely heard the insults, didn't need to hear to the cries or groans of satisfaction; his cock twitched repeatedly, spasming as my mouth slid up and down his shaft, taking in every aspect of him. Savouring him, enjoying his taste and my submission.

My hands rubbed around his legs; pressing against the roughness of the hair on his muscular thighs. He jerked as two fingers pressed against his taint, groaning as I circled it with firm movements on his perineum.

Pre-cum leaked from my own cock: I had never done this before, and the feeling of the twitching cock in my mouth was far hotter than I expected. I waited for his final twitch and jerk as he pulled against my head, pressing his cock deep into my mouth before several pulses spewed his cum into my throat.

I coughed much of it up; the realisation that another man had come down my throat was intensely erotic yet much of a headfuck. He leant against the wall, eyeing me as his salty deposits dribbled from my chin.

His erection was withering, but the glowing sheen on his shaft was a testament to his victory as he revelled in the sight of his team-mates face-fucking my team-mates. It was visceral: the grunting of the passionate debauchery surrounding us. "I want spanking rule too. And I choose you!"

"But that's not in friendlies!"

He shouted across the room. "Hey Dino! Spanking rule is friendlies too, ain't it?" Dino grunted, nodding as our goalkeeper's mouth swept the captain into a vocal climax that covered our guy's face in pearlescent goo.

I was pinned to the bench, protesting, arguing as their striker smashed his hand against my backside. My team-mates did nothing, watching or sucking as the nine goal winning margin was played out in spanks on my rump. I had to take them, struggling against the cold wood in the draughty changing room. My face held down on sweaty clothing as the striker counted; each strike bouncing off my arse. It hurt, more than the embarrassment of a straight guy giving a blowjob, more than the humiliation of our defeat, and more than the physical pain of the spanks, but the emotional angst of being hit, being disciplined like I was an errant Victorian child punctured the very core of my dignity.,

I held onto the bench as his triumphantly counted to nine. My arse burnt with agony while my cheeks burnt with shame at his treatment. "Go!" He cried, releasing his grip on me and watching as I scrambled to my feet. "I'm so looking forward to our match in three weeks time," he gestured, licking his lips. "I want to get my prick up there!"

And with the way we play, I was going to be sucking a lot of cocks, and being fucked by lots of men before the end of the season.

Winners and Losers Ch. 02



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.



Winners and Losers Ch. 03



The second game of the campaign was another away match: our opponents took the name of and played in the grounds of a pub called The Cock Inn, which given the activities of the previous few matches could have been seen as a bit of an omen.

It was the first week of September and my defensive centre-back pointed to me in training, that as we lost our last four matches of the previous campaign, plus the Summer break and the match this year, it had been almost six months since our team had last tasted victory.

My girlfriend had teased me relentlessly since our defeat to Sunnyside Cross FC, as I had spent half-an-hour, along with most of my team-mates having the erect cocks of the victorious team in places where no straight man would voluntarily choose to have them. She found it funny, but also a lot arousing; we had had sex every night for a whole week as she liked the idea of me having a "bisexual side." In truth, I was curious and didn't find the sexual acts unpleasant experiences, but my pride was damaged: as sportsmen we wanted to win on the sports field.

Our opponents had finished only a couple of places above us in the league last year and we had high hopes of registering our first win of the campaign against them. They too had taken a battering in their first match, and the opening exchanges were dominated by a lack of confidence on each side. The scarlet-shirted opponents took the lead shortly before half-time and they doubled it as their muscular brute of a centre-forward towered above our defence to head home. We knocked in a couple of goals to level the match, but a final minute rasping drive after I failed to cut out a pass in midfield gave them victory and precious three points.

It also meant that for the third match in succession, my team-mates and I would be providing relief to the victors. There was mutterings of discontent in the changing room; player turned against player as tempers flared. I was not the only one at fault for conceding a goal, and we needed the coach to step in as our centre back squared up to our goalkeeper.

I was almost glad to get into our opponents' changing room. The temporary hut was small and rotten; a musty smell permeated everywhere and the sweaty odour of exercised athletes filled my nostrils. They jeered us as we entered; muscular men watching as our fragile confidence withered under their vocal humiliation.

I glanced around me, the benches surrounded us: several men were already naked, wanting to show off their cocks to the men who would be buggered by their impressive specimens. "Come on ladies," their captain shouted. "Might as well played the girls team, be more of a challenge."

"Fuck off," a voice cried and the origin of the outburst was seized from the line as we were jostled in the centre of the tiled room.

Jostled and manhandled, squeezed and pulled, crying out as the wanton winners descended upon the huddle. It was a free-for-all. They all wanted someone to fuck, someone to subjugate themselves to the sexual pleasure of the testosterone filled beasts. Hands grabbed me, my football kit was pulled and my body fondled for their pleasure. I was in the mass of a melee: an uncontrolled orgy as horny men desperately reached for someone to fuck.

It was a meat market. There was no consideration as to whom they were going to select, just a bawdy scream of cries from the crowd of horny men. All they wanted was holes; that's all we were to them, a couple of orifices to bring them guilty pleasure. To boost their ego and to feel the consequences of their victory.

I got pulled towards the bench by their captain: a bald-headed half-naked man of imposing muscles and a deep, raspy voice. His pectoral muscles glistened in the faint light of the changing room, sweat beading on his chest.

I was envious: he possessed a definition I could only dream of achieving and his strong grip left me with little hope of escape, if I wanted to. I could see an impressive bulge in his grass-stained white shorts. "Best give it a kiss, lad!" I glanced around the room at my team-mates, most of them were already on their knees fellating pricks.

He made eye contact with me as I fell to the cold, tiled floor and slowly pulled the drawstring on his muddy shorts. He said nothing as I lowered the flimsy garment, hooking the waistband of his stained jockstrap with my thumb as I brought both items to his ankles.

His circumcised cock bobbed free inches from my eyes. A smooth, erect shaft with a mass of pubic hair at the base was waiting for me to impale my mouth on. Both the room and his cock smelt of manly sweat: the odour of exertion and competition.

My heart pounded as my tongue poked forward to flick the purple head of his prick; I was doing it again. I had not touched another man's cock until last month and now I was on number three. I felt shamed and exhilarated. Degraded and humiliated yet excited. It was taboo.

He looked down at me swirling my tongue over his frenulum. "Suck it boy!" The middle-aged man cried. I felt his fingers firmly grab my hair. He impatiently pulled the back of my head forward, to impale his six inch cock towards my gag reflex. He filled my mouth as I wrapped my lips around his shaft, gasping for air.

But he wanted to face-fuck me and the sounds around the room told me I was not the only person from my team getting abused in this way. He grunted as he slammed my face into his musky pubic hair, rocking his hips and forcing his cock deep into my mouth.

He was guttural and raw, thrusting harder and faster as I tried to regulate my breathing to stop the gagging sensation. He was panting, breathing deeply when he withdrew, pulling me by the hair over the changing bench. "I'm going to fuck you."

Not a question, request or demand. But a statement of fact. He was going to do it. It felt like I had no say, and I didn't. I wouldn't have resisted anyway; I played the game and I lost, but I wanted to experience his cock. He was rough with his movements, forceful with his actions. He was going to seize his victory and subconsciously I liked that.

My shorts were painfully stripped; angrily ripped from my waist to my ankles. My underwear likewise. He already had a condom in his hand, the cool lube he drizzled down my butt crack, forcing his fingers into my waiting hole to smear the clear liquid into me.

I waited expectantly. My cock had betrayed me by being hard as I waited. I knew what was coming. He rubbed his cock between my butt-cheeks and I gave a slight groan. My mouth felt empty; after being pounded by his cock I wanted something between my lips.

But that feeling was short-lived: he put pressure on the whorl of my bud, firmly forcing his cock past my resistance and then slowly slide into me.

Like the week before, I felt incredibly full: it didn't hurt or feel particularly uncomfortable but there was a deep feeling of pressure from the sodomy. His manhood rubbed against my prostate, I was eager for more. My traitorous cock leaked pre-cum onto the bench and I wanted my own pleasure, but I was about to be used. Nothing more than a fucktoy for their captain as he rhythmically slid his cock in and out of my arse.

It poked my prostate; pleasurable yet so very dirty. My mind spun, desperately confused as he started to pound my arse. His hands gripped my hips as he forced his cock deeper and deeper into me, faster and faster, harder and harder.

He was fucking me. I existed just for him and he was taking advantage of his victory, groaning as his sheathed cock rammed into me.

I heard him grunt, and his cock twitch; my arse the reason for him filling his condom with cum. He withdrew slowly, not looking at me in the eye as he tied a knot in the latex sheath and tossed it into the bin.

My team-mates were being fucked; screams, cries and groans filled the room as The Cock Inn claimed their victory.

"Come have a drink with us?" The captain added with an awkward smile. "There's a pub next door. First drink is on us." I declined. I had no ill feeling towards him or his team; we would have done the same, but we had lost the match. It had been a crap day. I was not in the mood for drinking. I just wanted to get home to my girlfriend and have my cock sucked.

I'd earned it.



Winners and Losers Ch. 04



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!



Winners and Losers Ch. 05



After our victorious match against The Cock Inn, the team played South End Harriers, who beat us 5-0 in a pre-season friendly. They were unbeaten so far in the league season and had clearly marked us down as a guaranteed three points but Dmitri scored the winner in a 2-1 win. I felt imperious as my dick slid past the lips of the smarmy sod who forced me to fellate him in his team's victory a few weeks previous.

The gagging of the footballer as I rammed my cock into his mouth and gripped the back of his head to impale my erection deep into him was fantastic. I felt invincible, before flipping the angry man onto his front and thrusting my cock deep into his barely lubricated arse: his choice, not mine.

The hot stream of pleasure built as he wailed and squealed. Their unbeaten record had not seen anyone in that team have to succumb to the losers under the league's plans, and he wasn't taking his buggery like a man.

Every angry cry was met with a threat or abuse, and I responded to every unwarranted word with deeper and deeper thrusts. I revelled as my powerful grip on his waist helped me pound his arse to my scintillating climax; grunting as my cock spasmed with glorious sensations.

He left our changing room sheepishly, and I was certain that our return match later in the season would be a feisty affair.

Indeed, the notoriety of the league's plan had certainly spread and I was interviewed on an Internet radio station. My girlfriend teased me relentlessly afterwards, suggesting that I got my fame by sucking men's cocks, which wasn't totally untrue.

I was glad she was OK with what we did; she said she found it "funny" but in truth I know it made her horny. Me recalling what I did in the changing rooms always made her feel flushed and we'd finish the evening in the bedroom fucking like rabbits. Combined with the football matches, I was getting a lot of sex, one way or another!

We, as a couple, also spent some time with Dmitri and Sam: we lived close to each other and the two women had a shared hobby in jewellery making, ensuring that they became friends quickly. This also helped Dmitri and I to become mates, which helped the team with our burgeoning understanding as the midfield axis.

We took a break from the league games for the following weekend with a cup game against a lower division side -- Majestic Amateurs. They had travelled around twenty miles to our ground and their team appeared to be made up of overweight middle-aged men. They were rooted to the bottom of their league. This was no great surprise.

The league authorities were keen to throw in some interesting variations during the season, and a couple of weeks after the successful public sex shows, the first round cup games would be used for a "bukkake the losing captain."

Our captain, the blue-eyed stocky central defender was unmoved by this decree as our manager read the league notice in the changing room; if we could not beat a lower league side in the cup then we all had big problems.

Indeed, the game was a little cagey for the first half-an-hour; what they lacked in fitness and skill they made up for with enthusiasm, charging around the pitch with wild abandon and throwing themselves in front of crosses and shots. Dmitri opened the scoring, before our star striker added a couple more in the second half to finish a comfortable 3-0 victory.

It was good-natured and fun; their team hadn't expected to win and both teams piled into our cramped changing rooms to witness the humiliation of Paul, their captain. He laughed and joked with us all; he expected to be doing something, and knelt on the floor by the drain with his faded light green top on, while a couple of his team-mates got him to pose for pictures.

It didn't feel like we were seizing victory or forcing a punishment onto him, because we weren't. This wasn't the humiliation it sounded like; he was taking it in his stride. But as we lined up around him, I realised that him and his team were used to dishing out sexual favours for poor footballing ability. This was part of their football matchday now: play football, lose, give blowjobs. They knew nothing else.

Our captain slid his shorts to one side. The loser's eyes widened as the cock bobbed in front of him, moving forward to kiss the tip. "You're such a fucking slut," one of his team-mates called. "Suck it!"

And he did, sliding his mouth over the tip and gleefully running his tongue over the slit, causing Ralph to groan instinctively. So often did he have to blow the winners that I don't think he wanted to do anything any differently. Instead as Ralph's loins convulsed with pleasure, and his prick twitched, he pulled out of Paul's mouth and coated his face with his pearly jism.

Lee was next. The losing captain licked his lips of the male cum on his face and then impaled his mouth on our young striker's prick. It was hot; the room was full of groaning and squealing, grunting and heavy breathing. Jostling too; we all wanted to watch as the loser's hands felt for the dicks in our hands and started jerking them as his eyes focused on Lee's pubic hair and his mouth around his cock.

My erection was clear, my arousal desperate. As Dimitri blew his load over Paul, covering his hair and his face in cum, the rotund captain took my prick in his hand. I mewed slightly as his fingers rubbed the swell of my cock, panting as his tongue flicked at my frenulum. He knew how to excite a man, and I involuntarily ground my hips as his mouth worked eagerly on my cock.

His movements sent ripples through my body: my mind agog with the liberating energy flowing from my prick. He sensed the spasming in my cock, the quiver in the mews of my voice and the tensing of my muscles, sliding my prick from his mouth and clamping his fingers over my glistening cock.

He pumped, sliding his hands down my shaft as I rode my climax; savouring the swell of arousal until it peaked into a cyclone of pleasure and relief, sweeping through my body and expelling several waves of cum onto the gooey face of the loser.

He looked like a glazed doughnut, the sheet of cum dripping from his face and onto his shirt; wet patches adorned his clothing with the biggest dollop over his team's badge.

He looked a mess, but I wasn't the last. Several more men, including our coach and the referee, had cocks slipped between the sucking lips of Paul before coating his glistening face with another dose of cum. He must have felt the rivers of silky goo sliding down his face, the masses of splotches in his hair and the dozens of wet patches on this clothes as he finished.

A few more pictures for his humiliation and he was done. "Thanks guys!" Was all he said as he left, leaving me unsure if he was gay or just a very good sport. Either way, it was three victories on the bounce for us and our away trip to top-of-the-table inner-city AFC Kerlon couldn't have come at a better time.

We were confident, we were sated and we were going to win!

To be continued ...



Winners and Losers Ch. 06



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. 



Winners and Losers Ch. 07



If you have missed the previous instalments the premise of the story is that after a football match, the losing team must provide sexual relief for the victorious players. 

Previous chapters for Winners and Losers are on Literotica. 

* * * * *

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.




Winners and Losers Ch. 07



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.

* * * * *

To be continued ... 



Winners and Losers Ch. 08



The premise of the story is that the losing football team in a league have to provide sexual satisfaction to the winning team; previous chapters are on Literotica

* * * * *

Despite that narrow loss to Sutton, our league form was still good: only two losses from nine games and both of those defeats were by solitary goals. We "punished" our errant right back by making him train naked, which elicited wolf-whistling from the men and women observing our training session. They gleefully enjoyed the slapping cock of the young man as he ran, but we'd never had an audience for our training before.

We also had over 750 spectators for the next match. I didn't play as I twisted my ankle the day before during training and had to watch from the substitute bench: a 5-3 victory against Leyton Kennels, who had lost all but one of their matches and were struggling in the league. Their team was sponsored by PartyBoyz.com, and their gay video porn site sponsor had provided them with bright pink shirts, shorts, socks and boots.

Their defeat was inevitable although my team-mates did let their concentration slip in the final five minutes to concede two very soft goals; they clearly missed my commanding presence! I felt somewhat empathetic with the losing team, and a little guilty when they filed into the changing room. Even as an unused substitute, I still got to have my way with a loser.

I guessed it wasn't much fun losing each week, dressed in a neon pink kit, and took my inspiration from Sutton after the previous match. I disregarded the condom and lubricant, pushing the young defender onto his knees and letting my cock slide over his lips.

He gobbled it eagerly, sucking powerfully on my cock as his mouth bobbed on my turgid prick. His tongue swirled against the head, flicking against the underside as my orgasm roared from inside and I came with a grunt in his waiting mouth.

He sucked me dry and swallowed, leaving me breathless and exhausted. "Thanks," I muttered as he got to his feet. He expected me to plow his arse but I declined; I was spent.

As there were thirteen teams in the league, each team had two weekends in the season where they had no game scheduled and the following weekend was our first. A handful of our team had been invited to a ManLube event on the Saturday where the promotional adverts of their latest products were to be unveiled, including the pictures taken of us. They also wanted us to sign autographs and be visible to help promote their product.

It somewhat grated on me that I was being used so much by the company for profit, but they had been very generous with their sponsorship and our trip to the expansive sex toy roadshow did also involve an all-expenses paid visit to a restaurant and a hotel stay overnight. I guessed it would be fun and agreed to go.

The ManLube stand was big, covered in navy blue insignia with posters advertising their wares covering the walls. The owner welcomed us with a cheesy grin as seven men, dressed in football kit and trainers, approached him, looking a little lost in the conference venue. He had another seven men, dressed in just jockstraps, holding flyers and goldfish bowls containing miniature sachets of lube. I spotted Paul immediately, his chiselled torso looking more impressive than ever.

The picture at the centre of the stand was of Paul and me. My expression of my eyes closed and my mouth open as Paul's slightly blurred motion behind me was adorned with the phrase underneath, "When my team loses, I insist on MANLUBE."

"We've got these going out in magazines next week," the owner said as he showed the multitude of pictures from that day, although I was only on the central poster. I smiled at Dmitri's picture: his glossy hands sliding over his obviously erect cock, which was hidden from view by his fingers, and adorned with the tagline - "MANLUBE: Not just epic in my arse!"

I nodded towards Paul, he smiled back. The dance of awkwardness normally associated with one-night standards briefly apparent as he tore his eyes away from me. I wasn't sure what to say or do, and as the owner had prepared part of his stall with a squad poster of our team, I meandered away from my sodomite. "Come meet Woodford Wanderers," he offered as we milled around the stand.

The event was busy and the ManLube stand was extremely crowded. Hundreds of delegates wanted to talk to us, joke with us or just collect autographs. Dozens of beautiful models, dressed in the merest of lingerie and the hottest porn stars, sought us out; it was surreal. Several even offered to come down to our training to teach us good blow-job technique; I teased one, scoffing at her offer.

She was Betty Maxxx, a blonde-haired, big-chested star of hundreds of porn films, dressed in a tight corset that left little to the imagination. "I could teach you!" I joked; she twirled her long hair on her finger, pushing it behind her ear, as she considered her response.

"Listen, love. I've blown two thousand cocks on camera, probably ten times that off. If you think you can match me, bring it on! Bee-atch!"

My team-mates laughed at her attitude, eyes focusing on me as I self-consciously felt the centre of attention. I spluttered. "Sure," I heard myself saying, not really understanding the challenge Betty was making.

She chortled at me, either at my expression or my seriousness; I wasn't sure which. Her sparkling blue eyes focused on my nervousness. I rubbed my palms, shifting my weight anxiously from one foot to another. "First to get an orgasm?" She suggested, beckoning two of the male models towards us. I choose Paul; he looked a little flustered, but Betty acknowledged the assembled crowd.

ManLube sent their minions into the rapidly growing audience, handing out flyers advertising their products as Betty addressed the watching perverts. "May the best slut win," she cried with a chuckle, turning towards a gentleman holding a video camera. "That's me!" She added, tapping her breastbone with raised eyebrows. "I'm the biggest slut!"

Paul's navy jockstrap bulged as Betty and I sank to our knees. Our faces were inches away from the pricks. A voice yelled "go" and my hands yanked the underwear downwards, freeing the turgid cock of Paul. I glanced up at him as his prick slid between my lips: slightly sweaty, mildly moist but delightful.

I wanted to suck on his prick; I wanted to beat Betty but I wanted to feel the quiver of his orgasm in my mouth. I pushed my head back and gripped my left thumb to suppress my gag reflex as I impaled him against my soft-palette. I bobbed on his cock, sucking his glans as my right hand explored his balls. I pressed against his perineum, sliding over his anus as my tongue massaged the underside of his prick.

I savoured his scent from his pubes, smashing against my nose as his prick slid into my throat; I inhaled with every deep thrust, exhaled with every exit. I panted, I groaned as my own hardness pressed against my underwear. He was swimming with lust, his cock quivering as I sucked on his glans, flicking his slit with my tongue.

His buttocks clenched as my finger swirled on his perineum, pressing firmly to draw the orgasm from his body. I felt his balls contract, and his cock tremble and pulse in my mouth as I waited. Desperate for the first squirt of his cum onto my tongue. Desperate to taste the height of his pleasure and the feel of his spasming cock.

I glanced up at his orgasming face: his body on the brink of a powerful relief. He grunted, I was taking him there. My tongue felt the first wave of his cum, squirting onto the back of my throat as he came; several sprays of thick semen jettisoned into me, for the second time in a fortnight.

His spent cock fell from my mouth, leaving a little trail of wetness across my chin. I looked at Betty, waiting for me to finish and showing me the cum in her mouth. She giggled, swallowing dramatically as she looked up at the camera. "I am the biggest slut," she cried. "Me! Who else wants a blow-job?!"

Betty, ManLube and myself got a gentle reminder from the organisers that there should be no explicit sex at the event, and Betty admitted that she was only a few seconds ahead of me. I bought her a coffee from the venue café and we sat down to talk: she was incredibly bright, a good laugh and she gave me a plethora of blow-job tips.

And she offered me a re-run of the challenge. On camera. At her porn studios. Diplomatically, I said I'd think about it.

My team-mates thought that the challenge had been set up with ManLube and that I had "taken one for the team" by agreeing to do it. I wasn't going to shatter their delusion and said nothing more. We were in constant demand to sign things; if it wasn't cards, it was T-Shirts, shorts or even bodies.

I'd never been so popular.

The ManLube entourage had ten twin rooms at the hotel next door reserved, and after we finished making money for the owner, we decamped into the hotel lobby, still barely dressed. The jockstrap guys shivered as we walked up to the receptionist; her eyes bulging with the sight of so many half-naked men in her hotel lobby.

I opted to share a room with Paul; at least one of the football team would have to share with a male model, and I was happy to do so. "Don't blow each other," my captain teased as we unlocked the door to our bedroom; it was spartan yet functional.

The provided meal was also basic, and by 11pm, we had all drunk a fair amount of beer before returning to our twin bedrooms.

Paul and I were both tipsy. I admired his naked body as he strode from the bathroom to his bed; talking to me as he shuffled past me: our naked torsos touching. He looked hot as his naked cock bounced in front of my eyes; I wanted to play with it again.

He caught me looking, but said nothing, winking as he wished me "sweet dreams." The rampant tease!

"Yeah, sweet dreams!" I replied, settling into the mattress.

The bright sunshine was joined by the loud cacophony of our phones. His alarm clock sounded first; mine sounded a few minutes later. He stretched loudly in the bed opposite, pushing his duvet to his waist as he groaned. "Morning horn," he moaned, glancing down at his firm dick. "Don't you hate it!"

The sight of his erect cock was a slap in the face; I woke instantly and ogled his muscular body. It taunted me. "Ummm... yeah!"

"Unless you want to do something about it..." His eyes sparkled mischievously as I squirmed, staring at his smooth appendage laying invitingly on his stomach.

"Well I've had you in my arse, in my mouth. Surely there's just my hands left for the hat-trick?" I asked. He said nothing, but smiled; words became unnecessary.

I grabbed hold of the trial size ManLube in the goody bag and advanced on my room-mate. I drizzled cold lube onto the bell of his erect prick, listening for his murmur of approval. The lubricant ran down his shaft as I emptied the sachet, grabbing hold of another man's cock to play; to jerk him to orgasm with a smile.

He wriggled on the bed as my hands glided effortlessly over his erect prick, my thumb sliding over his frenulum with the gentlest of touches. He groaned and bucked his hips, his buttocks bouncing to thrust his cock through my lubricated grip.

My hand cupped his balls as I watched his tortured face; he was eager to come. Desperate. I felt his cock twitch and he shuddered, groaning as his cum arced into the air and landed on my naked body. A few smaller squirts painted my hand as he threw his head back, panting. "Wow!" He muttered, sighing with his deep breathing.

We showered; he offered to sate my horniness, but there was little time and I waited until after the event, when we drove back to our hometown and my girlfriend had found the video of me racing Betty on the Internet.

She demanded satisfaction and was not satisfied with five or even ten climaxes; my tongue and fingers kept playing with her until she came with a screaming battery of panted yells before I got to plow her sopping pussy.

I could not remember ever having this much sex!

We only had two matches until the Christmas break and the first was a cup match against a lower-league side, Polyton Fireflies. They had three men suspended, players injured and could not field a regular goalkeeper: their left-back played between the sticks and was understandably calamitous. We trounced them; it was 4-0 at the break and 11-1 by full time; the match became ill-tempered as their players fought dirty on the pitch and had two men red-carded. It should have been more. The last goal of our eleven-goal rout was scored by me: a towering header into the far corner that wouldn't even have been saved by a regular goalie.

I felt embarrassed to be celebrating. It was too easy. Even more when the losing team filed into our changing room, naked, forlorn and well-beaten. We had never won a match by such a massive scoreline, and the celebratory mood was matched by surging testosterone from us. It had been a brutal, angry match and I was looking forward to retribution for the bruises on my legs. We liked a full-bloodied competition; we enjoyed fierce play and no-nonsense tackling. We didn't like dangerous play.

But because it was a Cup match, there was a "special event" planned, and the organisers summoned all of us onto the pitch. It was cold and wet; the English December weather lashing angrily onto the field of play. The floodlights illuminated the muddy pitch, the crowd surged impatiently; eager to see the debauchery. Two long benches were brought onto the pitch. All of the players stood and watched, a little bemused, as one by one the Polyton Fireflies players were called to the benches and handcuffed to them: their bare arses displayed for the victorious team: us.

I selected a leather paddle from a tray of weapons; Dmitri picked a wooden cane.

"Because Woodford Wanderers won by ten goals, each losing player will receive ten hits from each victorious player," the announcer shouted into his megaphone. The crowd urged us to start; our captain went first, drawing the wooden paddle over his left shoulder and bringing it down firmly on their striker's rump. He yelled in pain, the crowd cheered, laughing as our captain beat the losing player hard with another nine strikes.

I was nearer the end of the queue. His bottom was bloodied and beaten by the time I reached him. The air had been think with yells and cries, squeals and screams. Profanity filled my eardrums as player after player savaged the losing team, smashing their rumps with ever increasing harder implements.

Their striker at the front of the queue got the hardest hits: he was first victim for us all, when we were most enthusiastic with our weaponry.

His panted screams drowned out by others as my first hit on his right buttock had him yelping and crying. He begged for mercy, my hand showed him little, sweeping the blue leather paddle against his tortured posterior.

I smiled knowingly at his cries as I moved onto their captain: a wiry defender who had made several mistakes during the match. His hands were screwed into fists: his bottom a bruised mess of abused skin. My paddle smashed against his purple haze of agony, my eardrums receipt of his blue words, screaming abuse at me.

The cold rain may have helped them cope; the audience of their fans, their wives and their girlfriends probably didn't. We had humiliated them, reduced them to blubbering wrecks with a few dozen short smacks of the exposed rumps with our BDSM implements.

The sadist in me loved it; I saved my hardest hits for the players who had been sent off: one of them for an awful tackle on myself. His bottom was already seeping: he screamed into the stadium as my first pelt smashed into his defenceless behind, bringing the fresh scarlet to the surface.

He begged for mercy; his fist banged into the bench as my furious hits bounced painfully off his rear.

Justice done.

Our last game before the Christmas break was a home game against Ramplington Rovers: a team heralding from a working-class area of the neighbouring city. The players were honest and fair, but ultra-competitive. They arrived in a brand-new minibus, sponsored by Wondermen Spa: a sauna for the liberal man!

They played in the league's change kit of all white: their royal blue shirts were too similar to our navy and gold kit. The all-male spa's logo adorned their pristine shirts as they took to the field: the cold, wintery air bit into our sensitive skin.

It was not a day to stay still: we all ran around the pitch to keep warm as both teams played with energy: flying tackles and desperate lunges were everywhere. Dmitri scored a sublime goal to open the scoring; they equalised after the break and scored a second after I slipped while clearing the ball to concede possession. Dmitri saved my blushes with a final-minute free-kick that whipped over the wall and nestled in the far corner.

We drew 2-2.

But whereas we had previously worked out that there was a perverse incentive for all players to play for a draw as it meant that there was no loser, the league had concluded the lacunae in their new rules was detrimental to the spirit of the game. They had published an addendum effective immediately. Our coach read it out to us in the changing room; we had only been involved in one draw before that day but other teams were playing to not lose, rather than to win and the league had acted.

From that day, when teams draw both captains and two other players from either side had to go into the opposition changing room to satisfy the other team. It left an element of jeopardy in the game and our captain looked around the changing room for volunteers.

"I'll go," I heard myself saying. My team-mates looked at me incredulously. "If I hadn't slipped for their second goal we'd have won."

"Yeah, I was at fault for their first," Connor, our left-back, admitted. "I'll go too."

Our team thanked us; we had slaps on the back as we left our changing room naked except for our golden socks, passing three nervous looking Ramplington Rovers players walking past us. "Well played guys." The captains shook hands as they passed each other, nodding respectfully.

Their door was ajar; the cries loud and boisterous. There was no losing team or winning team, but that made little difference: Ramplington had brought fifteen players and I had knew I would have four of them cumming inside me. It was the most I had ever taken in one sitting and my palms felt sweaty.

It was a lot of male arousal for one man to satisfy. I felt my heart quicken, my cock twitch at the prospect.

Their goalkeeper gestured for me to suck his cock, a click of his fingers and a fleeting point at his groin. My lips salivated at the prospect. Firm and stocky: wonderfully textured and gloriously slick with his endurance. My lips enveloped around his purple head, sucking his blunt glans with zeal as other fingers probed my arse with lubricant.

It excited me; my cock erect with the burning lust coursing through my body as I was hauled onto a small padded stool: perfectly engineered for the purpose. I tilted my head back to slide the goalkeeper's cock further into my mouth.

He grunted, holding the back of my head and thrusting deeper into me. I was being taken, roughly and forcefully, by the groaning player. His sweaty taste of pure man filled my senses as my nose buried into his pubic hair. His cock pulsed.

I felt his cum hit the back of my throat as he came; cum surged down my gullet as he unloaded several waves of his semen into me.

Two hands gripped my waist and the erection of an unknown man pushed against my sphincter. I relaxed; I tried to loosen my anus as his cock slipped past my lubed resistance and entered my inner sanctuary.

He grunts were manly; his actions powerful. He drove his cock deep into me, bringing my body back onto his impaling manhood. I was a rag-doll, mercilessly exploited for his pleasure as his fingertips dug painfully into my skin as he pulled me onto his cock. He dug harder with every smack of our skin: the deep slapping of muscular flesh became the musical arrangement for his fuck.




Winners and Losers Ch. 08



He jabbed against my prostate, poking me with muted grunts in tune with the rhythm of his thrusts. I was far more vocal: mews escaping with my pants, expectant squeals accompanying my cries. "Shut him up," he demanded as a fresh prick was stuffed into my mouth.

That didn't help!

I sucked the glorious stubby: a thick, short cock with smooth, soft skin. My head was sinking with lust: all I wanted was cum and I passionately sucked the intruding cock, longing for him to squirt into my mouth.

I grunted onto his cock as my prostate pulsed with the intruding cock: I was floating on desperate arousal as the guy buried his prick deep into my butt and his cock twitched. He filled the condom and withdrew slowly as I longed for it's return. My arse felt empty: my body wanted to feel an intruder in my slippery rectum. I got my wish as the fourth guy pressed against my ring.

"He's a slut!" One of the men above me observed: the addition of a prick had me groaning, glancing up at the hairy body of the man fucking my face. He grabbed the side of my cheeks and thrust his prick deeper and deeper into my mouth. I desperately tried to suck the pistoning cock sliding over my tongue.

The sheathed cock in my arse rammed against my prostate: I groaned as the two men fucked me. Not impaled but fucked me. Both of them had hands on my body and they ground their cocks deep into my orifices: my mouth and my arse wantonly taken by the two.

I was being used and abused. At that moment, it felt unbelievable as the two men came at the same time, my body feeling the spasm of two cocks simultaneously.

I whimpered into the dick as the prick was removed from my arse. I wanted more; but I had received all the sex I was going to get, and I waited until Connor and Ralph had been finished with before we returned to our changing room as heroes.

I got my sex that night from my girlfriend: a few chosen lines about the spit-roast and her panties were consigned to the floor and her ankles were being used as earmuffs. Gay and bisexual sex really did get her going!

A few days after the draw, Anna and I were invited to my employer's Christmas party at a local hotel and golf-course. It was an occasion where the beer and wine typically flowed liberally and the talk and behaviour became salaciously sexual and decadent as the alcohol intake rose. Previous events had seen streakers with the main course, adultery in the rookery and a very unfortunate incident with some candles and Deirdre's pubic hair.

I expected a degree of misbehaviour, and while my role as a midfield general for a weekend football team was known in the office, no-one to my knowledge had connected my pastime with the popularity of the league under the new rules.

It took ten minutes at the "meal" for that secret to be revealed; I hadn't even finished my starter when Emit, my undiplomatic colleague, drunkenly asked, "You ain't playing for the team that's gettin' buggered every time they lose, are ya?"

"Yes, that's the team," my girlfriend drunkenly slurred before I could answer. "It's so hot though. How many times have you lost this season, love?"

I groaned. "I've been involved in five losses," I replied counting out the defeats on my fingers. "Team's had eight. And seven victories. And two draws."

"And 'e's on the new advertising for..." My colleague swirled his drink as Anna blurted out more of my secrets. "... ManLube. And that Paul who he was with was so hot," my drunken girlfriend continued. "So very hot. He fucked him on that poster, it's not set up. He actually fucked him. I'd love to have seen him get fucked."

Emit blushed as I looked apologetically towards my colleague. "Wow, do you... you know... really have to, all the time?"

"Sort of," I mumbled; I had deliberately not revealed my membership of the team at work as I didn't know how my colleagues would react if they knew. "Friendlies were just oral, the cup game was bukkake which is men jacking over the loser and then spanking in the next round. But sometimes I've been taken from behind."

"Yeah, he likes giving head though! He raced a porn star to blow some fit dudes in..." Anna shrank at her candid outburst when I glared at her; she sank in her seat as I shrugged at Emit.

"Yeah I have given a few blowjobs, but it's just a laugh. And anyway, it's not too bad at all. I've given enough that you just get used to them. Cum doesn't taste bad and it's just... normal now."

"That's so... gay!" Emit squealed. He muttered a muted apology when I shook my head. "OK. Well bi then." I shrugged again; what did he want me to say? Admit my bisexuality to him when I had not admitted it to myself. I had no qualms about bisexual sex, and quite enjoyed playing with cocks as well as pussies, but I had no romantic interest in men. I loved my girlfriend, and wanted a female soulmate. I did not have the same feelings towards men, and I was no longer sure what to label my sexuality as, so I left Emit thinking I was bisexual; it was easier than trying to explain something to him that I couldn't rationalise or explain to myself.

Emit left our table shortly afterwards and I saw him talking to many of my colleagues, walking slowly around the assorted tables to converse in hushed whispers. My heart sank as I finished our food. My girlfriend held my hand as I watched the gossip in my peripheral vision.

"We could go and fuck on the golf course," she whispered; aware that her candid outburst was the reason for the hushed whisperings. "I might let you do anal." Her eyes fluttered, her lips pouted, her fingers revealed the trial pack of the ManLube lubricant from her handbag. "I came planned for fun."

"Let's just go," I muttered, rising from the table as the DJ played his first "cheesy classic." Emit and Troy approached us as we made it to the cloakroom; they looked shiftily at each other.

"Hey, you're not leaving are you?"

"Yeah. Early night."

"Ummm..." Emit swayed from one foot to another, rubbing his hands and then wiping his face; he was nervous as he glanced at Troy, spluttering incoherently. "It's just... we were wondering if... you..."

"... yeah, if you wanted to and you said... you know, and..."

"... absolutely, totally up to you... but, you know and it could be, well..."

Anna giggled. "Guys, I'm totally pissed but even I can't understand what the fuck you want."

"Blow-jobs," Troy snapped.

"Pardon?" Anna and I asked in unison."

"Well you know... it's just..."

"Guys, don't start this again," my girlfriend hissed. "You want my boyfriend to blow you?"

They shifted uncomfortably as they looked each other; admitting by their nervousness that they were after sexual favours from me. I sighed; it was one of the reasons that I tried hard to keep my secrets away from them: I knew they wouldn't understand and make a deal of it. "Yeah, well, Troy was meant to order in a whore for upstairs and she ain't here."

Troy sheepishly looked away from them, muttering about a "mix up."

"Well, we were going to set up a gloryhole in the bedroom and then after it's all finished, a few of us pile up for a bit of a gangbang."

"Classy," Anna muttered, grinning as they squirmed. "Romance is so dead, isn't it, boys?"

"Hey, it's a bit of fun at a Christmas party. Whores don't expect roses," Troy snapped.

"And he's now your whore substitute?" She asked, confidently prodding my retreating colleagues. "Eh?"

They nodded. "Well, just, you said he liked it and he said it was nice. And he said he was bi."

"I said it wasn't bad," I reminded him. "I didn't say it was nice. And you said I was bi, not me."

"Will you do it?"

"Oh let me think," I taunted. "Will I be stuck up in a bedroom sucking off every guy in here until my jaw aches. And then get buggered by most of the company. Ummmm..."

"Can I watch?" My girlfriend asked. "We'd definitely do it if I can watch."

"Anna: no. Troy: no. Emit: no." My answer was unambiguous and final. Non-negotiable. Only, Anna didn't see it with quite the same finality. She coaxed and pleaded, before finally promising me that I could have sex every day for a whole month if I did this for her. And let her watch.

I felt a little coerced by my three pimps and agreed to the gloryhole, until I got bored.

Troy and Emit had set up a small single room in the hotel by moving the bed into the corner of the room, and emptying the spacious wall-to-ceiling cupboard. A small stool was joined by another, and the doors replaced by a thick duvet: pinned to the top of the wardrobe frame.

About three feet from the floor was a dinner-plate sized hole in the duvet, that provided the majority of the light in the small space. My girlfriend tittered as she joined me, pulling the cord on the courtesy light inside the wardrobe so she could watch my gay acts.

I stripped to my underwear. It was warm behind the duvet and giving blow-jobs was exerting on so many muscles. Anna cooed; we talked in hushed whispers as we heard the voices of the two pimps talking in excited voices on the phone.

I recognised the darkened skin of Troy as the first prick was slid into the hole. I watched the veins pulse on the erect cock and traced the thick, bulbous head with my eyes. Anna held her breath as my lips moved towards the throbbing cock, taking the base of the long dick in my hand and flicking the piss slit with my tongue.

I tasted the unmistakable scent of man, the musky unami grunt of masculinity that oozed from every cock and seeped from Troy's bulging manhood. He grunted as my lips wrapped around his slippery glans, sucking gently as my tongue swirled over his sensitive frenulum. I listened for the whimpers from my girlfriend and my colleague as my hand rolled over his shaft and my mouth suckled on the purple tip of his rugged cock.

I slowly worked more of his cock into my mouth, guiding his prick over my tongue and towards the back of my throat. I could feel every pulse on his cock, every heartbeat and every ridge on his shaft. I could taste his arousal, smell it, see it, hear it and feel it. I could feel mine: the subtle hand of my girlfriend gripping my erect cock through my boxer shorts as I bobbed on Troy's dick, moving my head back and forth over his pulsating prick while my own manhood was pumped energetically.

Troy squealed as his arousal surged, my mouth sucking wantonly as his balls tightened, and his dick trembled. The first wave of his cum smacked against the back of my throat, the second, landed on my tongue. His salty semen pooled in my mouth as his satisfied sighs showed he was sated and he withdrew his dripping cock from my lips.

"Wow!" It was all Anna muttered as her fingers took me further and further towards my own orgasm.

"Stop," I reluctantly moaned, pushing her hand away. "If I come now, I won't want to suck any more dick." She pouted. "You know how my horniness disappears after I spurt." Her eyes twinkled as her dress pooled at her waist, her knickers at her ankles. She swirled her finger over her clitoris, sweeping up and down her crack.

My next customer was a long, thin, white cock, smooth and with blemish-free soft skin. I felt the dick harden in my mouth, a gentle sweep on the underside of his shaft with my tongue had the owner squealing with delight. He pressed his cock deep into my mouth, his heavy, pendulous balls coming through the hole in the duvet. I rubbed my finger over the hairy testicles, sweeping the wrinkled skin with my gentle touch as my mouth sucked on his salty aroma, bringing him to a gasping orgasm in minutes.

I lost count of the amount of orgasms I gave. I had cum on my chest and on my face, in my hair and coating my lips. There was a never ending stream of men who were desperate to have their cock sucked and my devilish girlfriend masturbated herself to dozens of climaxes, watching as every man's cock was taken by my mouth.

There was one guy who blew the moment my lips closed over his glans, crying out loudly as a few feeble squirts splattered against me. Very much premature as I had barely touched him."Bet you loved that," my girlfriend whispered as the man withdrew at the last moment and squirted into my face. I closed my eyes just in time, as the musky goo landed on my cheek.

"Kiss me," was all I said in reply and her tongue swept over my lips to pool the creamy deposits of my colleagues into her mouth with wanton lust consuming her every move.

It took another twenty minutes and eight blow-jobs for Troy and Emit to call "finished" and lift the side of the duvet. "All done."

"Not quite," I mused and demanded my wife's knickers from her. She passed them to me, giggling as I wiped my cum-splattered face and chest with her ruffled pink lace. I tossed them back to her as I rolled underneath the duvet and lowered my boxer shorts, poking my erect cock through the hole in the vertical duvet. "My turn," I muttered as I awaited for Anna to wrap her tongue over my rock-hard cock.

After all, I think I'd earned it.

To be continued...



Winners and Losers Ch. 09



The premise of this story, is that after the match, the losing team provides sexual satisfaction to the winning side. Previous chapters are on Literotica. 

*****

I was certainly a little nervous about returning to work a few hours after sucking most of my colleagues in a hotel bedroom behind a gloryhole constructed from a vandalised hotel duvet. I had swallowed a lot of cum that night, and I found myself awoken the following with a longing to give oral sex. I swirled my tongue against the clit of my girlfriend as my finger pressed against her G-Spot, waking her with a squirting orgasm that propelled her cum into my face.

But my thirst for sex was near constant: I just wanted some action. Anything, to relieve the tedium of work. I walked into the office desperately horny, despite fucking Anna before leaving the house, and I barely concentrated on my employment as I ogled the women in short-skirts and the men in tight trousers. I was a walking sex addict, imagining several orgies where I was fucking and being fucked, sucking and being sucked.

"What's up?" Emit asked after lunch; my attention had been away with the fairies all day and he crouched down at my desk asking in hushed whisperings. "Is it about... the party? Are you... OK?"

"I'm fine," I muttered, glancing at our boss leaving our office for a meeting. "Can I borrow you?"

He tentatively agreed, following me into the tiny meeting room and I locked the door; his words asking me questions as I sent a video chat request to Anna on my smartphone. "I'm going to blow you."

"What?" He spluttered, as I knelt in front of his crotch and passed him my phone. Not a request or an enquiry. Not a ponderous suggestion but a command: I was going to give him a blowjob. "And record it." I heard the distinctive voice of my girlfriend splutter as I yanked the zip of his fly and removed his cock from his red boxer shorts.

It was already filling with blood, the warmth and aroma of his dick stoking my senses as my tongue swirled lustfully over the purple head. My nose nestled against his trousers, my lips sliding over his tumescent cock that filled my mouth.

It was disgraceful behaviour at work; I was providing gay oral sex to a colleague to fulfil my needs. I wanted someone to rip my trousers away and plunge a thick slippery cock against my butt hole, thrusting deep into me to excite my prostate. I wanted someone to breathe warmth onto my balls and then float their lips over my genitals to kiss my shaft, sucking the pre-cum leaking into my briefs as I worked Emit into a groaning mess of desperate lust. He squealed as he approached his peak, gasping heavily.

I tasted the beads of pre-cum on my tongue. I felt the quivers of his prick and heard the feverish panting as I sucked, flicking the underside of his sensitive cock until he issued a battery of profanity and came on my tongue. He squirted several waves of cum into my mouth with a febrile grunt.

I smiled at my phone, licked my lips and showed my girlfriend the cum in my mouth before swallowing Emit's semen.

If I expected the giving a random blowjob to a colleague would satisfy my lust, I was mistaken. My mind fantasised even more about sex, and I skipped dinner when I arrived home, jumping on my masturbating girlfriend to ram my dick into her moist hole until we both came to our ferocious climaxes.

I knew I had set a precedent with Emit. My girlfriend adored the show I had performed, I had certainly enjoyed doing it and my colleague loved the passionate blowjob I had given. He asked for an encore the following day, begging me to suck him to orgasm in the meeting room next door. I obliged, unable to resist sending my girlfriend another show that translated into a four hour sex session when I returned home from training.

The league had finished for Christmas, but the team trained hard when we weren't away with our families. Our mid-table position was respectable, and far higher than where we thought we would be. We certainly had our eyes on the cup as a possible trophy, even if the league was out of our reach this year.

At Christmas, I proposed to my girlfriend, getting down on one knee as the snow tumbled around us and asked for her to marry me. It was romantic, tears tumbled down her cheek as she mumbled "yes." As we returned to the warmth of our blazing hearth, she asked, "will my husband and fiancé suck as much cock, get fucked by as much dick and give me as many orgasms as my boyfriend does?"

"Of course," I replied as she giggled. "More, possibly!"

"Then yes, we better get married tomorrow."

After our New Year celebrations had come and gone, the team was invited to an exhibition event in Palermo on the Italian island of Sicily. The tournament, organised by state-side broadcaster GaySportsTV, had suffered a couple of withdrawals and the coach had received a pleading phone conversation two days before the first match asking if we could take the spare place at the event.

I wasn't sure if I wanted to go, but the prize fund on offer was significant and my new fiancée liked the idea of both the games and the forfeits being broadcast on live, albeit pay-per-view, television. The twelve teams playing were representing countries in America, Russia, the Far East and Europe and as well as ourselves, AFC Kerlon had been invited to represent England, and the league we played in.

For attending, the broadcaster paid for our flights, accommodation and food. I left work early after blowing Emit into a spasming relief on live video chat for Anna, to fly to the Southern tip of Italy.

We were drawn in Group III with Tallinn New Boys from Estonia and Pride of St David from Wales. Not all of our players travelled but the core spine of our team came and we flew with the cocky AFC Kerlon players who were certain that they were going to win all of their games and take the top prize of $100,000: to be split between the team and the players.

The tournament was a much bigger event than I expected. Posters and banners lined the Mediterranean streets as a minibus drove us towards our accommodation, but the event brought tourists and the tourists brought money to the island. Our group games were to be played at a small, provincial stadium on the outskirts of the town, and our hotel was situated opposite the venue.

Dmitri and I took a walk around the stadium and the area after we arrived and were stopped for autographs when two young Italian ladies recognised us: I ogled their arses as they walked away from me! There were stange benefits to being a bisexual sports icon!

The first match in the group was us, Woodford Wanderers, against Tallinn New Boys of Estonia. We met them when the hotel served breakfast and the half-naked men and women crashed into the dining room. They joked in Estonian, laughed and spoke to us in broken English: all of their players topless. Some had rippling six packs, some had paunches and some had bare breasts. I ogled the girls, smiling at one as she blew me a kiss and rubbed her pierced nipples. I felt my cock harden as she pouted at me.

Tallinn New Boys were a mixed gender team, a founder member of the new "Ultimate Humiliation League" that was due to start in February and follow the model of "our" league in England. This tournament was part of their pre-season, and they were the only mixed gender team in the competition.

They played in the colours of their national flag: royal blue shirts, black shorts and white socks, and the young lady who caught my eye looked sexy as she lined up in the midfield, barely looking at me as Tallinn New Boys started the game to rapturous cheering from the crowd. The girl was good, scything my legs away with a crunching tackle and opening the scoring from thirty yards with a thunderous drive into the top corner. However, our superior fitness showed and two goals in the closing fifteen minutes from Dmitri gave us a 2-1 win in front of a packed, and appreciative, crowd.

Dmitri and our captain was interviewed after the match for the cameras, before we swapped our tiny changing room for the "victory tent:" a marquee set up in the corner of the car park. Sixteen naked football players waited for us, as did two benches, a sex swing, four buckets of condoms with bottles of lubricant, six multi-coloured GaySportTV cushions, two screens showing homosexual pornography and three cameramen.

I wanted "her": she was the midfield maestro who had given me bruises and the hardest match of the season. She was the one who had turned from a pleasant flirt at breakfast into a Roy Keane nutter when crossing the white line onto the pitch. I wanted to fuck her.

So did Dmitri, and as man of the match, he got to choose first. This was unfair: she hadn't fouled him!

Indeed, all five of the girls were seized by other players before I got to choose. I picked a slender eighteen year old with boyish charm and a worried look. He also didn't speak much English, but being pushed onto the green cushion by a naked and victorious player had his tongue tentatively poking out beyond his lips to flick at my cock.

"'E's never done it before," the girl explained to me, as she knelt in front of Dmitri. She spoke to him in Estonian and he nodded with a worried look on his face, watching her as her mouth slid over Dmitri's prick.

My team mate sighed as she sucked on the underside of his erect cock, groaning as her mouth coasted up and down the manhood I had once pleasured.

It seemed such a long time ago; I felt a pang of jealousy as I watched her suckle my friend's dick. I remembered the tastes and sensations as he mewled under my touch, feeling my erection harden for my young loser watching intently.

It was his turn now. I was about to take his oral virginity. He tentatively brought his lips to the tip of my cock, pushing his tongue underneath my prick and allowing my purple dickhead to glide into his mouth. He grunted as he sucked, grabbing hold of my thigh with his left hand and rubbing my balls with his right.

His uncertain sucking became more relaxed and passionate as his anxiety drifted away; his cock became hard as his fingers rubbed against my perineum. It felt fantastic: I felt powerful. The all-conquering warrior taking satisfaction from the plundered losers. Them subjugating themselves to my will and my pleasure as my subjects watched my victory via live streaming.

I smiled towards the cameraman capturing the deflowering of my loser's mouth: the innocent man with his hairless body sucking with lustful zeal. His fingers left my thigh and tugged at his erect cock; smooth except for a splash of blonde teenage fuzz.

"Wank yourself off, slut!"

I wasn't sure where the words came from, but the camera blatantly focused on us, capturing the furious masturbation and passionate oral from my inexperienced opponent. I grabbed hold of the sides of his head, pressing his blonde locks and began to impale his mouth onto my manhood.

Not roughly, not angrily, but to increase the pace of his lips sliding over my shaft.

He sucked; squealing as I pushed my cock deeper into his mouth, drawing passionate mews and cries. His fingers blurred over his dick as he pumped his manhood faster, lapped at my frenulum harder and pressed his fingers onto the bud of my arse.

My body surged past the point of inevitability with a desperate swirl of lust. I whimpered, tensing my muscles as I held onto my orgasm, delaying my eruption to intensify the rush of climatic explosion.

I felt his cum land on my bare feet, the groaning of his ecstasy vibrating my cock as I squirted cum into him.

For the first time, he tasted cum from the source.

For the first time, he blew a man.

His oral innocence lost, on live television.

His humiliation complete, for everyone to see.

His dreamy eyes looked up at me: his female team-mate watching as I clicked my fingers and pointed to the cum on my feet. "Clean them up, slut!"

The cameraman, considering moving on to another frantic tryst for their viewers, filmed the wicked smile on my face. I really didn't mean him to, but the young lad threw his face into his feet, pressing his tongue against my sweaty limbs and sucking his deposit from my toes.

It tickled. His mouth swiping over my skin tickled. I squirmed, Dmitri laughed.

I got interviewed by GaySportTV after the session: I gave "my" man, a full ten out of ten with a cheesy grin. I meant it too: he sucked good!

Two hours after we finished, I watched Tallinn New Boys put six goals past The Pride of St David: the Welsh team. They were hideously out of condition, and it was painful as they were outclassed. Dmitri loaded the website onto his tablet after the match and we watched the live streaming as we munched on lunch. We laughed: several proud Welshmen were debased by being "forced" into homosexual acts. I enjoyed the spit-roast and the spankings given: the players from Tallinn enjoyed their victorious treat, especially my midfield girl who rammed an impressive strapon into the arse of an indignant Welshman.

In the late afternoon, it was our turn to play: if we beat Pride of St David then we would win our group and advance to the semi-finals the following day; if we lost, then Tallinn would probably progress.

We didn't lose; we were four goals up by half-time and finished the game at 9-0. The Welsh team were hopeless; wheezing and coughing as they half-heartedly ran with the ball. Most of them were hideously unfit and unable to tackle. It was easy.

I got a hairy, rotund Welshman in the victory tent: ten years older than me and coughing as I wordlessly gave him the lube to apply. He complained we were "too lucky" but we weren't: his team were just too bad!

I made my sheathed cock slippery and parted his buttocks as he leant over a cushion, grunting as my dick penetrated his anus. It was soulless and emotionless. There was no joking or laughter from them, like Tallinn New Boys. There was no willingness to admit they had been beaten, they were just in denial that we had trounced them.

It took the enjoyment out of the fuck, and made it about imposing our victory onto him. And he was tight: his ring of muscle gripping my cock as I slid into him and rocked to a powerful rhythm. I pulled him onto my dick by the thighs, listening to his reedy panting over the desperate grunts in the tent.

The camera crew watched the young Lee and Dmitri spit-roast their Welsh captain, while another filmed the passionate oral given by their cock-loving goalkeeper. But my loser was being fucked by me; his tight muscles massaged my intruding dick in a tent smelling of sex, testosterone and sweat.

He squealed as I pounded him, thrusting my cock deep into his arse as our skin slapped. He was pushed forward with the force of my hammering dick, powering into him with keen ardour. I wanted to seize my orgasm from him. I wanted him to be responsible for filling my condom with my seed, and for him to know it.

I wanted him to remember the furious fucking I'd given him and remembered that he had been fucked. On the pitch, and off of it.

I felt my prick surge with lust and arousal, my balls contract and quiver as my second orgasm of the day crept up underneath me and surged into a smattering of cum into the condom.

I barely said nothing: he slipped off my prick with the merest squeal. Not even able to admit that he was beaten at the end.

We spanked them each nine times, due to our emphatic victory: bare bottom spanks issued for the camera that had them yelling with discomfort as we turned their arses the same colour as their shirts.

They had come to "win the competition for Wales," but had been humiliated twice and were leaving a broken team. Albeit a little bit richer.

We, on the other hand, had a semi-final to prepare for. At the big stadium in the town. And we wanted to win the competition for us, and our fans.

To be continued...



Winners and Losers Ch. 10



I had a brief chat on the phone with my fiancée when the team returned to the hotel; she had watched me on television at her friend's house and was breathless as she described how majestic I looked seizing the oral virginity of the young player. The day had been awesome, in every way; the double dosing of sexual relief coupled fantastically with the progress on the pitch and our exuberance at our success translated into several bottles of beer each and a roaring celebration in the hotel bar.

The Welsh team disappeared into the Palermo night, sulking after their defeat, but the players from Tallinn New Boys were in the bar to wish us the best of luck in the semi-final. We appreciated their sportsmanship and they joined us for a round of drinks, that soon became several.

They approached the game in the same relaxed, competitive and fair-minded spirit that we possessed and we all enjoyed their raucous company. I drank with the midfield maestro who hacked my legs away in the match and her team mate who had fellated me to orgasm. The Estonians, Julia and Daniel, spoke excellent English, although we taught them several authentic British swear words and traded stories as we drank; she showed me scars, I showed her a couple of mine.

We were flirting; in my drunken haze, I wanted her. I wanted the brown-haired minx coquettishly squirming in her seat with her teasing pout and subtly lowering the zip on her training top. There was a spark in her expression: a fire in the eyes, a lick of her lips and a fleeting touch on my hand. "We have some vodka upstairs," Julia offered with a muffled whisper. "We love to share. Everything."

I didn't compute her offer at first, not focusing on the hidden subtext of her words until she pouted seductively. "Sure." I accepted her unspoken offer as Daniel and I left with the Estonian midfield general.

Her room was as spartan as mine: they had two single beds squeezed together to make a double and Julia unzipped her training top the moment the door closed to show the breasts I had been entranced with at breakfast. "I wanted to pick you after the match," I drunkenly admitted when I saw them again, glancing at Daniel watching on the periphery of our flirting. "But Dmitri got to you first."

"And if we'd have won, I'd have picked you. You squealed like a baby when I tackled you, I want to have you yelling on the end of my strap-on."

I snorted. "My fiancée has one. We play with it often."

"I fuck, like I tackle."

"Mistimed?"

"Hard." Her voice snarled as she spoke. "Very, very hard."

"Well maybe later." She tried to read my evasive expression but there was nothing to read; I was happy to "go with the flow" but there was no way she was going to crack open her strap-on to pound my backside when I was cold; I needed to be touched, to fire the engine up and to relax. The alcohol had started that and the undressing continued it.

Daniel looked reticent, like he was being coerced onto a scary roller-coaster, but Julia slipped her hand into the waistband of his training bottoms and lowered them to the floor. He gasped as his prick bounced into view; she kissed him, pushing her tongue into his mouth until his reluctance was sucked out of him. She explored his wriggling body with her hands and slowly rubbed the end of his cock.

"I want you to go down on me." Her gaze flicked over her shoulder towards me; my cock tensed into an erection as I stared at her naked frame and lithe sexiness. She broke from her midfield partner, and pointed to the bed, positioning me across the duvet so my head was on the edge of the mattress before positioning her naked body over me. "Now fuck me," she demanded of her team-mate, as her clit fell onto my tongue.

I watched, in slow motion, as her partner's erect cock brushed against the top of my face: it smelt delightfully sapid and I ran my tongue instinctively across the base of his shaft sliding towards her. He tasted of man; taking me back to the debauchery of the office blow jobs and our changing rooms. He tasted of musky, sweaty, hunking brutishness that I just adored to have slipping between my lips and sucking until the owner squealed into a conquering climax to fill my mouth with cum. He tasted of sin and taboo: a teenage cock that I wanted to have on my tongue.

But it wasn't for me. Julia sighed as the cock parted her lips and not mine, sliding into her sanctuary with the sexiest of whimpers. His young balls bounced over the bridge of my nose as his shaft stuffed her pussy. I longed to kiss them or to suck them, but I had Julia's clit in my mouth, and swirled my tongue over her moist button. My fingers toyed with her nipples.

She was fragrant and sweet; a beautiful honey from the shores of the Baltic, squirming lust and juices onto my tongue. She writhed; her fingers poked gently at my balls before sliding a wet, slippery finger onto my perineum.

I parted my legs further as her finger delved deeper, pushing at my ring of muscle and sliding inside with little resistance. Her touch felt cold and lubricated, wet and slimy. I relaxed, enjoying the slide of her finger against my skin and felt her trembling body cry louder at the lustful touches she adored.

Daniel's thrusting was deep and powerful, jolting her body forward with every ram of his prick into her dripping pussy. Her juices flowed, her cries vocal, as her body writhed with unrelenting zeal at her first orgasm.

Daniel came on her second; his cock buried deep into her pussy as his muscles quivered and pumped his semen into her trembling cunt. "Clean him," she demanded as Daniel withdrew his prick from her, covered in his cum as strings of his semen dripped from her hole.

My cock tensed; I wanted to taste him. I opened my mouth, and pushed my head back into the mattress as my lips savoured him for the first time. I swirled my tongue over his goo and sucked in his muskiness: a treat for the senses, an explosion of lust on my tongue.

He whimpered as his cock slid past my tongue and my lips cleaned his prick; she sighed as I returned to her dripping hole to suck the mess from her cunt. The ooze slipped into my mouth as gravity pulled the cum onto my lips and my taste-buds.

Her thighs squeezed my ears, my eyes focused on the dripping lust hanging from the midfielder's quivering cunt. The sucking of his cum from her luscious hole was too much for her, and she came again. A soft, low rumbling climax: her fingers stroked my nipples and then squeezed them, drawing pleasure into pain as her orgasming cunt fired the remaining cum into my mouth.

"Ouch," I moaned as she swung her legs off my sodden face and I soothed my abused nipples. I wiped her moistness on my face with my hands. She said nothing as she reached into her athletics bag to remove her strap-on dildo and harness.

I watched her with a wry smile as she lubed the condom-clad dildo. "I'm going to fuck you." I melted at those words in her Baltic accent; she was going to take me. Not asking to, or requesting it, but going to. I could not resist her demands and my arousal surged as she grabbed hold of my ankles to pull me towards her.

Her black dildo glistened in the under-illuminated room. She lifted my legs into the air as her right hand squirted Manlube against my hole. "We only bought this because you guys advertise it," she admitted, showing me the bottle before discarding it on the bed.

"Oh... ummmm!"

Her finger worked the clear goo into my anus before positioning her toy against my skin. She looked at me in the eyes, gently working the prick into my rear and beaming as I was penetrated. I gulped, feeling the smooth phallus slip inside me.

Her thrusts were gentle and smooth, her expression firm and unwavering. With each movement the cock slipped a little deeper, each thrust a little harder and faster. She was building up to her rhythm, and her movement while watching me for signs of distress. But it felt good; the smooth act of submission always did.

I drifted into her beat, savouring every slap of her skin on mine and delighting in the bounce of her strap-on against my prostate. My loins sizzled, my cock twitched with the thrust of her toy into my arse.

"That feels so good." It really did. I savoured every powerful thrust of her cock, every sinful slap of her thighs, every twinkle in her eye and every movement on my ankles. I whimpered, squealed and murmured at her rampant rodgering; she grunted and panted. Daniel's wide eyes breathed in the sight before him, gently stroking his cock, already erect again: the joys of being eighteen apparent.

My ass was being plowed. Without mercy or relief; she was fucking my butt like a woman possessed. My erect dick leaked pre-cum constantly, the clear viscous liquid rolling down my waist and pooling on the mattress below.

She barked in her mother tongue; her friend passed her two condoms. She threw one onto my hairy chest and passed one back to her team mate, gently withdrawing her cock from my butt. I rolled the see-through sheath down my cock as I missed her strap-on; I wanted to be filled again and Daniel lined up behind me instead, slowly pushing his cock into my open hole.

I groaned as the real cock occupied my mind, rubbing against my prostate as she swung her legs over me: the harness discarded obscenely on the floor of her hotel room. Her wrists grabbed mine and pressed me into the mattress, seizing control as she positioned her cunt over the tip of my condom-covered cock.

It was the grunts behind her, of Daniel, plowing my arse with his teenage cock that I felt and adored. The plundering of a straight man by choice by another man was a mindfuck; the fact he was fifteen years my junior made it even hotter.

Julia impaled herself on my cock as I was pounded by Daniel; every penetrating thrust vibrated my body and made my loins dance with delight. He was a good fuck; pressing firm and hard as he rammed into me. I wanted more; I longed for him to go faster, go deeper and plunder me. I wanted a cock in my mouth and another two in my hand. I wanted to be taken and degraded in a debauched orgy of bisexual lust.

My mind wandered - Dmitri, Lee, Emit and a dozen other men stood watching: staring and commenting on the filthy sight in the hotel room. They teased and condemned. Taunted me, as one of them fingered my fiancée to orgasm. She was taken too, in front of me, satisfying her to howls of climatic lust before I ate the cum pouring obscenely from her cunt. I was coated in spunk, a thick glazed sheen coating my hairy body as man after man took turns with me, fucking me like a ragdoll until I could take no more and succumbed to came with an orgasmic scream that troubled the dead.

Only it wasn't a crowd of my friends but Julia and Daniel; her bouncing body and Daniel's long thrusts had brought me to a deafening climax with a fierce tingling satisfaction that I rarely experienced.

It took a few moments for my body to function again, my desperate pants giving way to total exhaustion. Julia and I kissed briefly; we cuddled for a bit longer before I dressed and stumbled towards my room.

"You lucky bastard!" Dmitri exclaimed when I finished telling him about my evening. "You lucky, lucky bastard." I was indeed, but there was something troubling me. I just couldn't work out what.

The following day, I received a naked picture message from Julia on my phone of her and her strap-on. "Win. Or else your arse gets it."

I had to smile. Our semi-final was in a packed top league stadium: 30,000 people were watching our match against Amethyst Lions, a team from western Ireland that had progressed with a win and a draw. The other match was a game between AFC Kerlon and New York Champions from America.

To call the game spicy would be an understatement; the tone for the match was set when two players were yellow carded for brawling within two minutes of the start and they had a man sent off inside the first ten minutes for a dreadful tackle. I picked up so many bruises but when playing football I always drop into the zone, and pain is barely felt as my attention is dominated by the play.

I never saw the bulges in the shorts or the muscular frames. Or the hint of jockstrap, or even the fiery expressions. I saw nothing, just the whites of the eyes in the heat of the battle.

Dmitri scored with two minutes of the match remaining; they equalised inside a minute and the game went into extra time. Both teams finished on nine men; I was red carded for retaliating to a vicious tackle from their midfielder that could have broken my leg. I tried to hit him and we were both given our marching orders.

The coach was furious with me, and Lee, and we watched from the changing room as the game went to penalties and Woodford Wanderers won 4-1. Our victory caused another brawl in the centre of the pitch and I wondered if they might abandon the triumphant fucking. But GaySportsTV had us on primetime and they wanted some gay action for their schedule.

I apologised to the team for my behaviour on the pitch; I was banned from the final but I had also let my team-mates down and the latter hurt a lot more than the former. "Yeah, and ya didn't even twat the fucker," our captain joked. "You missed. If you're gonna get sent off, do some damage when you do!"

It broke the tension. As did filing into the victory tent where the defeated losers waited naked for us. They scowled as we entered; the cameras picking up every reaction from the Irish team of disgust and loathing.

Our stocky captain didn't even wait, grabbing hold of their captain by his long, red hair and pushing him onto his knees. "Suck it, you fucking faggot!" The anger in his voice was electric; the cameras loved it and the Irish team stepped back in shock. He rammed his erect cock into the mouth of the gagging loser, grunting as he face fucked their startled star.

It was a cue for us all. The room was full of desperate, raw penetration with gagging, panting and crying. I had my nemesis: the guy who I brawled with, sucking and fellating my cock with a disgusted expression on his face.

He hated it; I loved it. He wasn't a good cocksucker but his submission was the sweetest of victories; more so, when I pushed him onto a mat and drizzled lubricant onto his hairy crack. He prepared himself for me: the losing man rubbed the slippery water-based lube into his arsehole for me, subjugating himself and readying his body for my penetration.

The pillaging of his vulnerable arse, given meekly to me after he lost the battle.

My sheathed cock slid easily past his ring of muscle; he was loose and he groaned as I rammed into his backside. Pre-cum dripped from his prick as my cock slid against his prostate. A camera focused on us, watching his expression of deep revulsion as I plundered his masculinity, relishing every fiery spark in my cock.

A reminder that we had won.

And with a desperate squeal I came in the condom; he couldn't get away from me quickly enough. In the six months since the new rules had come in, I do not believe I enjoyed a fuck as much as that one. It was revenge of the highest order, and I knew it would make fantastic television.

It was a raw, passionate battle that was unscripted. It was a real conflict with real energy that had seen real men forced to submit to other real men. No acting, just desperate sportsmen plundered.

We watched AFC Kerlon lose to New York Champions; we cheered when they conceded their third goal as they had been so confident of victory on the plane. It set a story for the final: Europe vs America. Akin to a Ryder Cup or Weber Cup, only the consequence for losing was greater.

I had to watch from the stands as Woodford was outclassed: although 1-0 down at half-time thanks to Dmitri, New York Champions showed the resolve of champions to score twice and win the trophy. We got a silver medal each and I had to then watch as my team-mates were sodomised by the victorious team.

Lee and I were stripped naked and made to watch: we couldn't play in the match and we couldn't partake in the party afterwards. Forcing us to see the consequences of our bans were greater than any other punishment they could have offered.

The cameras caught our torment: I would happily have taken those cocks as I watched my team-mates squirm and whimper as they were pounded mercilessly by the victorious muscle-clad footballers: awesome specimens of masculinity and strength.

But aside from the pangs of lust, they were my team mates. They were brothers and friends, weakened on the pitch because of my stupidity and forced to submit to New York because of it.

When our team finished, they spanked us. Lee and I were thrown over a bench and all of my team mates spanked us on our bare bottoms with their hands as punishment. The cameras loved it, our coach looked on satisfied as the pelts rained down pitilessly on our reddening arses.

Neither me nor Lee begged for forgiveness or respite, closing our eyes and accepting the fierce brutal agony of the revenge from our team mates.

Justice done.

In truth, they weren't that upset with us. "We'd have lost if we had you on the pitch anyway," our captain decried. "We just spanked you for fun!" I rubbed my abused arse as I left the shower and he winked. "Well, we've both got sore arses now. That player who fucked me was hung like a bloody elephant!"

We caught a late night flight out of Italy and most of my team-mates slipped into a tired slumber as the plane reached cruising altitude. It left me alone with my thoughts as I pondered the activities of the previous two days.

I had openly wanted Daniel to fuck me in that hotel room. I had let him. I had fantasised about being taken, humiliated and degraded. I had thought about men when Julia was bouncing on my cock and I wanted to be fucked when my team lost. Plus, I was still unsure what the blowjobs to my colleagues meant and the lust swimming inside of me. What did it all mean?

Could I accept the obvious explanation?

If I opened my phone to look for pornography, what did I want to see? I tried it, checking to make sure a cheerleader getting gangbanged still gave me an erection. It did, but it didn't flag when I changed video and it was a barman at the centre of the gangbang.

Suddenly I wasn't sure of my sexuality. In my heart of hearts, I knew it but it wasn't an answer I wasn't entirely comfortable with.

I opened the door to my house at midnight, walking into the brightly lit hallway as my fiancée wrapped her arms around me. "I've got something to tell you," I muttered.

"What?" She whispered. "I think you were so hot on telly. That spanking was..."

"I think I'm bisexual," I blurted out as she held me tightly. "Well I keep thinking about fucking men and women and I just want to fuck both," I admitted. "I love you, but I like playing with men too."

There was a pause for a moment as I waited for her response. Just how would she take it?

* * * * *

Due to personal commitments it is more than possible that there will be a two week break between chapter ten and chapter eleven of this story; sorry!

To be continued...



Winners and Losers Ch. 11



"What?" My trembling hand wiped my feverish brow.

"I think I'm bisexual," I blurted out as she held me tightly. "I ..."

"Love, tell me something I don't know!"

"What! You knew?" My voice incredulous; hers flippant.

"I sort of knew all along." Her fingers wrapped themselves around my hand and stroked it gently. "Been waiting for you to realise."

"What?"

"After that very first game when you had to go down on that guy, half of my Facebook wall was lit up by the wives and girlfriends of the players complaining that their partners were whinging and whining about it. You: you told me what happened but just looked forward to next Saturday. And every week, you'd want next Saturday to be around sooner and sooner. And that's more than the football. Then Dmitri and you doing the 69: I've known you long enough to know that was fun for you too! You loved the games, the play, the exploring. Everything."

"But ..."

"And the photo shoot. And so much more. Don't worry," she simpered. "I think it's really hot you've explored your sexuality." Her eyes sparkled. "And I know the way you've been fucking me after you've been fucking them, you're not going to run off with Dmitri. It's cool." I gulped. "I still love you Marc Lowton, and I still very much want to be Mrs Anna Lowton as soon as possible. And you getting ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million dicks cumming inside you isn't going to change that one bit and ..."

She never finished her sentence, I kissed her and pushed her against our wall, pawing at her clothes and ripping the flimsy knickers from her body. She panted as my fingers swept over her cunt and pressed against her clit. She groaned as I swirled her button as I kissed her, feeling her squirm underneath my touch until she whimpered. She was on edge. I pulled her onto the floor and entered her throbbing cunt, thrusting deep into her heaven and pounding her moist pussy until we both came, collapsing into each other's arms with big smiles.

"Not bad for a homo!" She teased with a vicious grin. "Not bad at all!"

I gave Anna the appearance money I had earned at the International tournament towards our wedding; it was a sizeable chunk of our budget. Indeed, most of the moaning during training was that most of the players had had their money seized by their demanding partners. "I got fucked in the arse at the weekend, and what have I got to show for it? Fuck all. She didn't get fucked in the arse, she was round her mothers having roast lamb while I was on my knees. And she wouldn't open up her back door to me last night. Not fucking fair, I tell you!"

But for all our Captain's rampant indignity, we had a game to prepare for, and the four games in two days had certainly shaken the festive lethargy from our muscles. The main news was that the league had decreed that they would be varying the tasks each week for a draw but that it would involve jeopardy for both sides and would be very "audience friendly." I shuddered to think what that could be! The other news was that GaySportsTV had purchased the live television rights for the league and had allocated a handful of games for live coverage.

Alas our first league game after the Christmas break wasn't one of them, when we welcomed Mansfield Park Rangers to our home ground. The team had finished directly above us in the league last year but were struggling this season and their only win had come against the pitiful Leyton Kennels, as their best players had deserted them when the new rules came into force. I remembered the team as being stuffed full of physically strong, and commanding players who tackled strongly and painfully. They may have been pretty poor at playing football, but they were very good at causing bruises and working hard.

When they disembarked from their minibus, none of the bulging muscles were left: they were thin, wiry and dainty. They didn't look like footballers; they looked geeky and weak. If appearances are sometimes deceptive, then that wasn't the case: we played them off the park. They were short on skill, strength, match practice and fitness. Dmitri had scored a hat-trick before half-time, and Lee completed his hat-trick in the second-half. Even I got a goal as I lashed home a loose ball in the area as Woodford Wanderers completed a sensational 14-0 victory.

Our opponents were stunned; we were pretty shocked ourselves. The match had been easy: the crowd roared with approval as the final whistle blew and we congratulated each other on a job well-done. The Manlube representative was especially delighted: Mansfield were sponsored by their big rival!

The slender men entered our changing rooms looking shaky; we had inflicted the worst defeat in their history with a powerful display of strength, guile and skill and I am not sure they quite knew what to expect from us; we had been uncompromising on the pitch.

They appeared anxious and self-conscious, and a little scared. The wiry lad who I selected was the midfielder who I had bullied all game. He had marks all over his legs and a delicate frame that screamed vulnerability. He only eighteen with fashionably untidy blonde hair and a smooth wispy smattering of light fuzz over his cock.

"Sorry," he squealed. "I've not done this before." His body was trembling under my gaze as he clamped his clammy fingers together. "It's my first time." His eyes were torn to his team mate squealing beside me, groaning as his hole was stretched by the sizeable cock of our goalkeeper sliding past the young man's anus. "I ... I ... I ... saw it on television and ..."

"Sure," I soothed and took a deep breath. "Relax." I ogled his naked body for a few moments; he ws sexy. Very sexy.

"The team asked for new players and it looked like fun but ... I'm ..."

"Relax," I said a bit firmer; more of a command to the panicking man hyperventilating than a calming piece of advice. "Just, relax. Deep breaths. It's fine. Where you are today, I was there last week and will be there again soon. And where I am, you will be soon." He nodded as I spoke. "It's part of the game. If you don't want to play, you don't have to, but you have to leave the league. Is that what you want to do?"

He shook his head defiantly. I had given him a get-out and he didn't want to take it.

I asked again but he was certain that he wanted to fulfil the forfeit, and knelt in front of me, eyeing my cock for a few moments. "They told me what to do," he muttered as his virgin lips fell onto my manhood, drawing itself into an erection. His tongue drew tentatively over my glans, looking for approval with doe-eyed innocence. He got it, a warm, genuine smile as his mouth slid over my cock.

The tingling became intense; he sucked and cajoled pleasure from my dick, bobbing slightly as he took the first couple of inches in his mouth and rolled his tongue over my glans, tickling the frenulum. He swept delightfully over the opening and caught the roll of my foreskin.

The added knowledge that I was seizing his oral virginity was sizzling hot. I was pillaging his mouth for my pleasure and taking his innocence. I was the Viking, triumphant in battle and now taking my reward for my victorious toil.

His fingers danced lightly over my balls and pressed against my taint, drawing the briefest of mewls from my lips. It was intensely erotic and my orgasm welled up inside of me. I thrust my cock deeper into his mouth, bucking his lips as my climax swelled and my point reached.

I warned him, grunting that I was about to come, and he sucked powerfully on the tip of my prick as my loins pulsed and my cock squirted my cum into his mouth.

He coughed as I withdrew, leaning against the wall. He wasn't so innocent now, cum leaking from his lips. I wasn't going to steal his anal virginity either; I doubt he would have been comfortable giving it to me, and I certainly wouldn't have been comfortable taking it. I enjoyed the jeopardy and the risk and I loved winning, but only when the loser was happy to consent to the plundering of their body for my satisfaction, for the right reasons. A false obligation was tenuous grounds.

"Have some fun with a dildo," I suggested. "Next week you might lose and they might take your backside. Who do you play next week?"

"Leyton Kennels."

"OK. The week after then," I joked. "But ask your girlfriend to peg you to get used to it. It's ... nice. Prostate play is." He muttered an appreciative response.

We spanked them thoroughly before they left; every member of their team received fourteen spanks from each and every one of us on their bare asses for their pitiful display from the captain's "Paddle of justice" that left them squealing with pain and then writhing in agony.

They looked so damn hot; wiry, thin, feminine bodies that were mostly hairless and dainty. Sweaty, and clammy, and with reddened backsides that glowed under the strip lights. I felt my cock rising at the sight, although our fun was over as they left our changing room, down-trodden and defeated.

I had an interesting experience at work the following day; I got quizzed about sex! I had had the week off following our trip abroad as I needed to "use up" my holiday before the end of February or I would lose it. Emit congratulated me on the sizeable win against Mansfield when I returned to the office. "I checked up on the score," he asked. "Did you get to fuck the losers."

"Sssshh!" I whispered, glancing around the office to see who had heard his tactless candour. "Yes!"

"It's OK," he broadcast. "Hey guys! He's back!"

"What?"

"Dude," my youngest colleague cried. "We saw you in Italy last weekend. On TV. Wow! Was it good?"

I glanced at Emit who just shrugged. "They found out. What do you want me to say?" I blushed at the attention, even more so when most of the office demanded to know exactly what went on. When I described the sex after the matches for what it was - mostly fun, a bit humiliating at times, and always exciting - the expected homophobia never materialised.

They weren't bothered by it at all.

They didn't care that one of their colleagues and friends spent the weekends engaging in rampant homosexual sex publicly and explicitly. They didn't vilify or offer moral objections; they were interested in my experiences and about what Anna thought.

I was shocked; I expected fear and loathing not blind acceptance, and although I didn't divulge my new sexuality to them, I don't think I really had to. I think they just guessed.

We were busy that week, and I had plenty of work to catch up on, so I was somewhat grateful for the sanctuary of training and the excitement of a forthcoming match. We loved playing Sutton Working Mens Club: their lust for the game, good humour and impious irreverence made them fantastic opponents.

We always went the extra mile when hosting Sutton; adjacent to our ground was the village pub, and our coach coaxed the club into paying for the function room and catering from the Manlube sponsorship for a post-game reception.

Our visitors arrived late, they always did, and took an incredibly long time changing. This was normal; they worked to their own schedule and the game kicked off ten minutes late.

It was a fiercely competitive match. My midfield opponent from our game earlier in the year was quick and nimble, I was strong and fierce. When I could get near him, I won our duel but that wasn't too often!

His turn of pace opened the scoring. One of my midfield partners, Kevin, gave the ball away to him and the quick opponent surged past my outstretched leg to lash the ball home from forty yards, with the help of the crossbar.

In the second half, we equalised through a goalmouth scramble. I wasn't completely sure if I got the last touch on the goal-line, but I claimed the goal and nobody disagreed as I wheeled away from the box, arm aloft in celebration.

The final whistle ended a desperate ten minutes as both teams surged forwards to find a winner, taking risks as both crossbars were rattled. The frantic match was succeeded by a harassed representative of the league taking to the field with a PA system to announce the "draw game."

The two sets of players waited anxiously. It was our first draw since the start of the year. It felt a little bit like "It's a knockout," listening to some rules for a wacky game read out to an appreciative crowd.

"Pay the penalty," he announced. "Each player will be paired with one player from the opposing team. They will take it in turns to take penalties against their opponent's goalkeeper. For each goal they score, the player must remove an item of clothing. The first player to miss a spot kick, when their opponent scores, loses."

We looked at Hugh, our goalkeeper. He wasn't the most agile of players but his record at saving penalties was incredibly good. Despite being the wrong side of thirty, his reactions were quick. I was the first person selected, and was paired with their Irish striker: a cheeky young man who confidently dispatched his first spot kick.

I focused on the goalkeeper, as my shot was hit hard and low to his left, burying the ball in the bottom corner as my shirt was dropped onto the floor. We both scored our second and third strikes too, stripping naked and keeping our socks and boots on, before my opponent got arrogant and tried to chip our goalkeeper from the penalty spot and cleared the crossbar to whoops of delight from the crowd.

The nearly naked man, fell onto his knees, swearing loudly and beating the ground. "Stay down there," I joked, shivering in the cold swirling wind as the ball was placed next to my opponent. Their goalkeeper tried to distract me, monkeying around on the goal-line. My opponent taunted me as my eyes narrowed on the goalmouth. The crowd were tense, I was anxious, taking deep breaths as I sized my options.

Instead of placing it, I powered the ball into the roof of the net, giving the goalkeeper no chance of saving it.

"Hey, nice one," my opponent muttered as I held my hand out to him to pull him from the mud. "Well taken."

It was, and I pushed the lightweight Irish striker to his knees the moment we entered our changing room. His mouth opened the moment I sat on the bench; he knew the rules, and he was fine that he lost. My arousal was tickled as his lips plunged onto my cock, staring at his closed eyes.

His lips massaged my cockhead and shaft, taking my full length into his throat without a moment's hesitation. His warm mouth made delightful noises on my cock, slurping, sliding and mewing. "Play with yourself," I suggested, although it came out as an order.

His fingers wrapped around his thick cock, pumping himself to the same rhythm that his mouth was bobbing on my dick. Smoothly sliding his mouth over my shaft as his other hand gripped the base of my cock and his mouth swept gloriously over the impaling member.

It was good; he was good. He was a cocksucker of amazing talent, rolling his tongue under my cock as his mouth sucked the pleasure into my manhood. He grunted as I approached the inevitable; the fiery peak of my lust approaching.

I could not resist his manly skills; groaning with desire and anticipation as my orgasm approached. He was about to get a mouthful of cum and the little slut knew it. My balls tightened, my muscles quivered, spasming with passionate arousal as my body shuddered. A wave of lustful relief swept over me, followed by another and another. I felt incredible, breathlessly groaning as I desperately held onto my orgasm before the intensity in my loins was too great and I released a dozen streams of cum into the losing striker.

He swallowed it; licking his lips as he got every last drop of my semen into his throat, gulping loudly and obscenely.

He'd come too: I hadn't noticed and I told him to lick his fingers clean. He smiled as he did, his tongue sliding over his cum-covered hand before leaving me in our changing room, completely sated and satisfied.

Because only Lee, Dmitri and our captain, Ralph, joined me in our changing room, it revealed that the team were not very good at taking penalties: we won just four of the fifteen duels!

The food and drink at the pub was a raucous affair; we joked with them, got completely pissed, stripped naked and then thirty drunk men streaked through the village. We even got our picture taken with a bride and bridesmaids about to enter the church for a wedding, posing with them as a reluctant photographer snapped the indecent pictures.

As I said, we always had fun when Sutton came to play.

At work, Emit and I had barely crossed paths for a couple of months, but the following week, we were both asked to visit a client's site; they had problems and had not received the sort of assistance they or our company expected. As a goodwill gesture, myself and Emit were asked to travel to their headquarters in London for a couple of days.

They were a little frosty at first, but when they realised that neither Emit nor I had caused or were responsible for the issues they had and were simply present to assist and help, the barriers dropped. They dropped a little further when I was recognised as "that football guy from the telly." Yes, the manager watched GaySportsTV, and therefore nearly outed himself in front of the entire office by his candour; he chatted to me in the canteen over hushed whispers about how "hot" it was and how much he wanted to play in a similar league.

In the evening though, Emit and I were bored. Our employer had booked a twin room for us, and after an unhealthy meal, he was in the mood to relax. I knew what he wanted and so a few minutes after he had finished his final pint, we had the Manlube freebie open, and I was lubricating my arsehole for penetration

He had complained that his partner refused him anal sex and after a careless comment about my own experience of being rodgered regularly by Anna's strap-on or a victorious footballer, I knew what the next words would be.

Of course, I consented. It had been a couple of weeks since my sphincter had been plundered by a rutting man and I missed the sensation of being full. I wanted to be taken by a grunting, sweating, desperate bloke. I wanted to feel submissive for a moment, to feel on the receiving end of a thrusting member, filling my need and pumping desperately into my hole.

I needed to submit and provide satisfaction and pleasure. I needed to be a mere orifice for someone to own and rampantly abuse. I needed gay sex.

My own need was clear, as was Emit's. He needed a hole, nothing more nothing less. His slippery sheathed cock poked tentatively at my hole. I told him to be firmer and push harder. I told him to fuck me. I told him to be a man, and he giggled like an immature schoolkid.

It might have spoilt the moment if he hadn't taken the hint and plunged his cock deep into me. I groaned as he did; the shock was delightful, the feeling was intense. He impaled me, sliding against my prostate, thrusting deeply into my arse and pulling at my hips.

My submission soared; the finger tips digging into my flesh as he plundered my sanctuary for his pleasure. Pre-cum dribbled onto my duvet, streaming from my cock as every nerve in my rectum sizzled with delightful intensity.

I needed more. I needed a cock to fill my grunting mouth as my colleague drove himself to orgasm. I needed to have my desperate cries silenced by a rampaging manhood as I was reduced and debased. I needed a team to service, eleven desperate men lining up with hard dicks and aroused minds, ready to use my body for their pleasure and then discard me. I needed to be a ragdoll or a gangbang slut.

But I couldn't have it; my mind spun with ludicrous lustful fantasies as Emit pounded my backside, his cock slipping to an orgasm with a few snorting grunts and loud, satisfied shrieks. I felt his cock pulse as he filled the condom; my own arousal shaking and quivering with unspent desire.




Winners and Losers Ch. 11



His cock looked so sexy, shrinking in the latex sheath saturated with cum and hanging limply from his dick. I watched as he said nothing, avoided looking at me as he slipped into the bathroom to "clean up."

It was a task I would have happily done for him, but he became embarrassed by his sexuality. I felt a little rejected but understood why he was like that. Ultimately however, he had just had gay anal sex with a bisexual man; I was happy with that reality, he was clearly less so.

His actions didn't harm our relationship; I sucked him off to orgasm in the morning and we worked well during the day before returning home. He had the most wonderful of cocks and I spent the journey fantasising about it.

One of the matches I missed at the start of the season was against Burnden Town; the team lost 1-0 as they went five matches without a victory and the return match at their ground was a chance for the entire team to make amends on the narrow defeat.

The white and black striped team played their matches on a poorly-maintained pitch with just portacabins for changing areas that were surprisingly warm given the wintery February weather outside. The several heaters helped with that regard.

Burnden Town were a good team, just a point behind us in the league, and were itching to complete their first home and away win double over us in several seasons. The match was keenly-contested and spicy, and Lee struck a thunderbolt of a volley just before half-time to give us the lead. They got a deserved equaliser when our captain slipped to let in their pacy striker and they nearly scored a winner when our midfielder, Kevin, tripped their winger in the box. Fortunately, Hugh saved the resulting penalty, tipping the ball onto the post.

The 1-1 draw was a fair result, although their players grumbled at the scoreline and at their penalty-taker. The league representative came onto the cold pitch, taking the microphone for the PA system to announce the "after-match game" to the hundreds of spectators: the matches had certainly attracted a greater audience since the new rules became public.

"For the draws in League Week 18, we will randomly pair opposing players for cock size comparisons. The captains of each team will work as fluffers as both men are compared in size, in front of everyone as we measure each pair one-by-one. In each contest, the loser must satisfy the winner."

The vocal cheers were deafening; the crowd jeered and laughed as the players looked on horrified. It was the ultimate humiliation: I could be satisfying my opponent after the size of my cock, the measure of my masculinity, had been denigrated. I would be taken because my manhood was deemed inferior, and I knew the public measuring would be just as humiliating. We would be belittled. Smartphones would record the event, they would uploaded onto the Internet before the loser had finished sucking the winner. My colleagues would see and laugh, taunt and tease.

Only I wasn't that small. But nor was I that big. I wasn't sure where I would be in order, but I didn't know, and the uncertainty was unnerving. Even if I had a monster member, there would be people who had freakishly large cocks; it was a clever challenge from the league.

Our ten minutes to cool down was ended with a vicious rap of knuckles on the door; we joked with and teased our opponents as we ran down the steps to the impatient crowd, eager to see some male cock and taunt the opposition. Burnden were as nervous as we were.

They assembled both teams near the centre circle, called out players two-by-two to the touchline. The captains were given one minute to bring their team-mates to their full length before an independent adjudicator would measure the cocks in length and girth to determine a cylindrical value. It all seemed very complicated, but our left winger, goalkeeper, centre back and substitute striker all won their contests with ease, before Dmitri was called.

My friend was not massively endowed, but he had a sizeable cock that looked bigger than it was due to his shaved pubis. He was certainly bigger than me, and of many of the team, but he lost. And not just lost, but was well beaten: their centre-back was hung like an elephant and Dmitri stared wide-eyed at the massive member swinging between the legs of the footballer.

And then it was my turn: both of us had to strip bottomless, holding our shorts and underwear as our crotches were eagerly photographed by the appreciative crowd. I faced my midfield opponent with a steely grin. My captain, already on his knees, gently pumped my erect cock, stroking it gently to coax it into it's full length. I didn't look at him, I focused my eyes on the grunting opponent in front of me, glancing at his dick. "I'm going to have you sucking mine!" I yelled across at him. "Look at the size of that."

He sneered; it was for show: a show of confidence, but his cock looked no smaller or bigger than mine. The measuring tape wrapped coolly around my shaft and measured the length as I stared at him, arms crossed triumphantly. "Marc from Woodford Wanderers loses," the guy called out. "By 0.02 cubic inches!"

The victorious opponent sneered. "Shit!"

It was the narrowest of victories but the measurements were clear: I had a smaller cock. The walk of shame was far worse. The crowd taunted and sneered at me; I was "tiny cock" or worse; he was the champion. The partisan audience made gestures as I traipsed from the pitch, entering their dressing room on the right instead of our dressing room on the left.

"I thought you were going to win that," he confessed as he threw his dirty football kit onto a bag and reached for the small bowl of delights. Dmitri was already being pounded by the giant cock, groaning as the monstrous appendage stretched his hole. I knew my fate. "Suck it first," he demanded. He watched me as I sat on the bench, pulling his thighs towards me and felt the warm, moist tip of his cock bob against my lips.

I smelt his masculinity: a cool odour of sweat and mud. I sensed his power, his dominance and his arousal. I felt my own cock rise at the thought and eagerly allowed his purple glans to slide over my lips and delight my tongue with his manful taste.

My hands held his thighs as my tongue swept over his head, flicking his cock to delightful groans. He was panting already: my mouth sucking on his cock as I bobbed along his shaft. I relaxed the back of my throat to push the man further into me, pulling deeply on his muscles to impale him as deep as I could take him.

And I wanted to take him further and further; I felt the cool aura of submission wash over me as his cock filled my mouth and he quivered. His hips bucked slightly as I took the length of him into me, squawking rudely at me.

But I loved it. I should have felt degraded and I did. I was worthless and disgusting. Losing a cock size contest in front of hundreds of people and then sucking off the victorious cock. It was a debasement that had me feeling dirty and filthy. My cock tensed as my humiliation was furthered.

"I'm going to fuck you," he demanded.

Music to my ears. I wanted nothing more than to boost the desperate feelings of submission and eagerly presented my rear for his pleasure, coating my anus with lube. He chortled as he unfurled a condom along his shaft. "You're keen!" He joked.

But I was.

Keen for him to fill me and pleasure himself. Keen for him to use me and discard me. Keen for everything he wanted to do to me. His opened my resistance with ease, poking my lubricated whorl and easing it open with a gentle push.

My cock, pressed against the bench, flickered. I closed my eyes and imagined a battery of men and women watching and laughing. Teasing me. Tormenting me. Forcing me to orally satisfy their cunts and cocks as I was rodgered from behind. His cock stretched my hole as his rhythm paced, quickly filling my orifice and pressing against my prostate.

The pressure was intense; my pleasure floating. I was so close to an orgasm, so close to feeling satisfied and sated. Those imaginary cocks buffeted my face as I focused on the feelings on the real cock poking my hole. I wanted another one. I wanted another ten to satisfy; I needed to feel debased and revolting. I wanted to be a slut.

But I was a slut.

A complete and utter slut.

I was a disgusting piece of shit bouncing energetically as his arse was plowed as a punishment. A punishment, no less, and I was savouring every thrust of his manhood into me. My testicles were dancing, my cock was alive: tingling with orgasmic pleasure as he grunted and pressed his dick deep into me with a squeal, filling his condom with his cum as I squirted onto the bench, panting and exhausted.

"Wow!" It was all he could say when he saw. "Wow!"

I said nothing as I left his changing room: naked and yet still so very horny.

Although, there was no need for me to say so, I decided to come out to my team mates the following training session. I had finally come to terms with my sexuality and admitted it to my fiancée; I owed my team-mates the same respect.

It didn't change anything: all of them had had bisexual or gay experiences, and been filmed doing so. The difference was, was that I was comfortable to seek out repeat encounters away from the football pitch. It was part of me, and I hoped they would understand.

I waited until the end of the next training session, when the coach had finished talking to us. My heart was pounding and my chest clammy as I asked for everyone's attention before they reached the showers, and explained what I had told my wife-to-be. I assured everyone that I wanted to win as much, if not more, than them, but I couldn't deny that some of my bisexual adventures were fun, and that I had needs and itches that required scratching.

And that I would leave the team if they didn't want to play with a bisexual man with no hard feelings.

"You're bisexual?" Dmitri asked with a wry grin. "Well that makes two of us." He patted me on the shoulder as he spoke. "You don't think Sam has to try very hard for me to be 'forced' into bisexuality, do you?"

I nervously chortled.

"Actually Dmitri, that makes three of us," Lee spluttered and gripped the edge of the bench. "I ... well ... sometimes ... I've been ... out places." I smiled at him, stammering his words out as he shrugged. "It's hard to admit in a straight world, isn't it?"

"Yeah." I understood completely.

"Well, I guess I'm bi too," Connor, our Irish divorcee admitted. "I had some fun with a Police officer last week at a spa."

"Awesome," our captain cried, and looked at us. "We've got poofs in defence, midfield and attack!" He joked. "I don't think any one on the team cares what you lot do," our Captain decried. "Do we lads?"

There were mumblings of support and acknowledgement, shaking of heads and warm smiles.

"But we better have showers before the water gets cold. Go give 'em some eye candy, lads!"

I waited for the room to empty and looked across at the centre-back. "Thanks," I muttered.

"No problem." He held his hand out to pull me from the bench. "You OK?"

"Nervous," I admitted as I took a deep breath. "Well fuckin' terrified."

He gave a shrug. "To be honest, I think we all knew. After that race to suck off people at Manlube, it was pretty clear you were doing it for fun."

"Really? I wasn't bisexual then."

"You probably were," he airily disagreed. "You just hadn't realised."

Why, as everyone keeps telling me that they already knew, didn't they bloody say something to me?!



Winners and Losers Ch. 12



If you have missed the previous installments the premise of the story is that after a football match, the losing team must provide sexual relief for the victorious players; the narrator has recently admitted his bisexuality to himself, his team and his fiancée.

Previous chapters for Winners and Losers are on Literotica

* * * * *

My "coming out" to my team mates went a lot better than I expected. There was some changing room humour the following training session when I came into the dressing room to find a pink tutu on my peg. I wasn't bothered about it but the Captain was, and he made the perpetrator, Ben, wear it for the entire evening as we practised our distribution around the pitch.

I owed our Captain a lot. He held the team together through his strong leadership and his rejection of Ben's misguided actions was firm and decisive. As he demanded in his forceful tone, "there'll be no homophobia on my watch."

Our next match was our first live television broadcast, and the cup quarter-final. We had been drawn to play Elvedon Bridge Warriors at home. The league winners from the previous season had already played us twice, beating us at home and drawing with us away, and they were one of the toughest teams to play against.

Our pitch had suffered greatly from a handful of downpours, and the slippery grass was almost bog-like. The league and the referee surveyed the playing surface before kick-off and despite the opposition complaining that it was "unplayable," the referee disagreed.

I was interviewed before the match by GaySportsTV; I was the "midfield general" of the team and the muscular ex-professional was as interested in my thoughts of the opposition as much as my views on the obvious sexual content post-game. There was humour as my answers went from "penetrating their back line" to "penetrating their backsides!"

Their team line-up lacked balance; their pacy forward runners were being fed long, aimless punts and our stocky defenders easily gathered the long-balls as they towered over the diminutive but agile strikers. Dmitri opened the scoring from a clever turn and Lee doubled our advantage before half-time after some clever interplay between our attackers.

The partisan crowd were delighted, the cameras were filming a one-sided game of football. Although the opposition pulled one back after the restart when Ben sliced a clearance into our goal, our right winger restored a two goal advantage moments later. Despite twenty minutes of non-stop pressure they could only force a consolation goal seconds from full-time.

We had won 3-2, but that told only a fraction of the story. We had outplayed and outfought them for most of the match. We had dominated them and their makeshift team were lucky we didn't score more than three. The league representative skidded onto the pitch, clipboard in hand and with a microphone for the PA system; it was a cup game so slightly different rules applied.

"The losing team will each run from one side of the pitch to the other. The slowest player will be gang-banged by the victorious team."

We sat back and watched, eyeing the players and making wagers as to which one would lose. There were a few wheezing players towards the end of full-time.

The losing player was a young, fit, agile and nimble striker. He raced into a small lead, was tripped from behind and the rest of his team pushed him back to the mud as they ran past him; he swore at them, they laughed sadistically.

It was a great example of their failure as a team: the teamwork and camaraderie was non-existent. His team had intentionally chosen him to be slaughtered because he was faster than them. I felt somewhat sorry for the loser, and continued to do so until I heard his arrogance in our dressing room. His over-confident demeanour was unwelcome, unrequired and very ill-advised. He was being fucked moments later as we took turns in plowing the young man's hole. His grunts filled the room, as he coughed on the dicks rammed down his throat.

His eyes streamed as cock after cock came in his mouth and his hole became well fucked. All captured from three angles by GaySportsTV in glorious High Definition and streamed live onto the Internet.

It was a complete humiliation; the plundering of his masculinity being so public. We all knew men and women across the world were masturbating to the sight of him being taken so overwhelmingly. They would be loving the desperate grunts and groans from us all. They would be adoring the sweaty sheen and muddy bodies of the seventeen men fucking the helpless loser. But most of all, they would be wanking to the expressions of utter debauchery and strained submission plastered onto the strained face of the arrogant boy.

I smacked his buttocks before I plundered his booty, pushing my sheathed cock into his lubricated hole and filling his arse with my erect manhood. He grunted into Dmitri's cock stuffing his mouth. We worked a good rhythm with each other, pushing against his wriggling body with deep, passionate thrusts at the same time.

I laughed with Dmitri; we high-fived each other, as was becoming a common trait in the League's new rules after-match parties. It was captured by the cameras, and it showed the contempt the victorious team had for the losing players; it objectified them. It highlighted our dominance.

And our bitch was wriggling underneath us, squealing as I felt my orgasm approach. I grabbed his hips, drawing myself deep into his rectum with my thrusts into his backside until I came with a desperate pant.

It was fantastic, and as I slid away from the man, another of my colleagues took my place. The young loser was being well fucked; it was addictive viewing and a desperately hot sight.

"You were fantastic!" Emit's summation of my weekend performance in the office on Monday morning was limited in as much as its praising overtones. "And the commentators said you were the engine of the team!"

"Yeah well..." I blushed; I had recorded and watched the GaySportsTV analysis of the game more than once since the match. Having an ex-professional describe my performance in positive terms was Oxygen to the ego.

Emit waited for the lull in the conversation to invite me to his birthday celebrations. "We are just going for a few beers on Friday," he promised and then shrugged. "And then onto a strip bar in Manchester. I've got a couple of hotel rooms booked."

"I can't get pissed." He pouted forlornly at me, begging me to reconsider. "If I do, then I'll be tired for the match, and then we'll lose and I'll be buggered by a giant brute called Jason or Tyler or something..."

After all, I was the midfield general. My team needed me! But Emit was a colleague and I agreed to go for the evening and leave first thing in the morning. He gave me a knowing glance and I guessed what he wanted from me.

Emit's birthday booze-up started at lunchtime with the smuggling of beer into the office. Our manager turned a blind eye to obvious rowdiness around Emit's desk and the celebrations continued at a local bar. The train to Manchester caused a small interrupt in the alcohol consumption, before the dozen boozy blokes checked into one of Emit's four rooms in a motel-like establishment to dump their belongings.

The meal was loud and bawdy; the alcohol flowed and the food was unhealthy. I had to be careful what I ate and drank, or else I knew I would feel the effects on my legs the following day; I wasn't 21 any more. I was recognised too: several men and women squinted and stared at me as their minds whirred and they desperately tried to remember where they had seen me before.

I approached one such group; several of them had cast glances our way and my ego tickled with delight at the thought of fame. Or infamy, which was probably more accurate. In truth, I got buggered and fucked to arouse others, which was a scandalously scintillating thought. "I play for Woodford Wanderers," I explained to one of the women when I introduced myself.

Her expression changed instantly. "Your trip to Italy. That was sooooooo sexy! Oh My God!" It felt good to be admired and liked in that way; I signed dozens of autographs, posed half-naked for more selfies and completely naked for a few more in restaurant's toilets. It was fun, I was drunk.

The strip club was fun too; the dancers sliding and gyrating their pelvises into our laps while dressed in seductive clothing, before they became very much undressed. I felt a cool breeze in the club and instantly sympathised with the naked dancer: we had the same problems in some of the changing rooms.

And, as expected, Emit was horny. And he obviously hadn't brought his girlfriend. Indeed all of our colleagues were horny; two hours of sexy strippers, sensually and seductively casting their magical spells of sweet lust and temptation engorged many cocks. I could feel the desire building. The desperation seeping from their pores as they watched open-mouthed at the sinful display in front of them. They wanted to fuck something.

Emit didn't have to ask; we fell into the crowded motel rooms with expectation and I knew what he wanted to happen. A couple of our colleagues left to find the local massage parlour, but I had half-a-dozen men eager to have their cocks sated but too embarrassed to ask me. They looked at each other, hoping someone else would suggest that my orifices are used to continue the party.

But deep down I wanted to do it. I loved the idea of satisfying a group of men. I wanted to have them seize their sexual satisfaction from my body and toss me around for their gratification. I wanted to have several thick, hard cocks pounding into me and bringing me to untold feelings of sexual submission. I wanted it, but it could come with a catch. "I'll do a party if someone does it with me."

Emit looked horrified, but I wasn't going to back down. I wanted the fun too, but I was not going to get a reputation as being an easy receptacle for cum. One of our ex-secretaries slept her way through the management team and Kelly was hounded out of the company by sly whispers and rumours; I wasn't being another Kelly. "Ummm..."

"I'll show them what to do, but I am not the only one being sodomised tonight. Either someone else is, or I don't get fucked. And neither do you lot." There was deep discomfort from the drunken men in the room; Paul swore at me, Emit pleaded. "Emit, why don't you do it?" I teased. "Let your colleagues give you a present!"

I got called something unmentionable and I was tempted to walk to the station to go home until Ryan squeaked. "I'll do it," I muttered. All eyes looked at the young engineer; we had hardly heard him speak all night and the quiet man's hands trembled as he felt the focus of six gazes.

"Awesome..." Paul squealed.

"Ummm... you sure?" I asked; I was expecting to coerce Emit into playing his own game and never expected anyone else to volunteer. Ryan just looked unsure and worried at the prospect of fulfilling his promise. He nodded, unable to muster the words he needed to communicate. He grunted as my eyes read his anxious body language. "You won't regret it?"

He shook his head; Paul told me to "stop being a baby and get on with it." I told the obnoxious man to back off; he hadn't offered his orifices for mutual enjoyment!

"Go next door," I demanded, snapping at my impatient colleagues. "We'll be in, in a minute." They grumbled as they left Ryan alone with me.

"I'm fine," he muttered, smiling after they left. "I saw your match at the weekend. It looks fun and I just thought it'd be different and if you can do it, so can I and..." He blurted, pre-empting my question.

"Hey kid, sure. Shall we get ready then?" I wasn't about to dictate someone else's sex life to them. We stripped naked, folding our clothes next to our rucksacks, and I took out a small bag of condoms as I described the basics of giving a blow-job. His eyes widened as I passed him a small bottle of Manlube. "For the back-door. It's the best..." I promised.

I had too: I was a product advocate!

Walking naked in the budget hotel corridor felt so normal for me; Ryan panicked and then smiled as I closed the door behind us. I could feel the excitement in his body language. His golden mop of unruly gossamer was the only hair on his glabrous body. The feint ridges of his muscles barely visible underneath his boyish youthful exterior and his cock looked enticing and delicious.

I wanted to take him at that moment; pushing him up against the 1970′s textured wallpaper and sink my lips over his circumsized head. To bring the smooth, hairless shaft into my mouth and inhale the delicious scent of masculinity through my nostrils as his young cock bobbed against the back of my throat.

He was sexy. Incredibly sexy. Hot. His smile was boyishly sanguine, his eyes naïve. Youthfully innocent and yet full of filthy promise. I wanted him, but I had a promise to keep, fantasies to indulge.

We had other men to satisfy; my knocking loudly on the door made him startle. "Who is it?" A voice needlessly answered.

"Two naked sluts," I replied, a little too loudly but the corridor was deserted.

They teased us; they told us to kiss before we were allowed in, and in all my experiences with bisexuality, a kiss was the last thing I had been asked to do.

It felt, weird. Far weirder than allowing grunting, rutting men to plow my backside, but to kiss another man had my stomach flickering. My cock rose as my hands held his hips, facing the young man with excitement. He licked his lips as we stared at each other in the eyes, watching for the other one to make the first move. Our cocks touched as I pulled on his smooth skin, our lips touching for a fleeting moment.

My hands snaked around his body, holding him into my frame and pawed at his delicate buttocks; they were gorgeously pliant and delightfully soft. He gave a mild grunt as our lips melted again, pressing our kisses together as I squeezed his lithe, sexy body against my hairy skin.

"What a pair of homos," Paul cried from behind me, but he could not spoil an intimate moment. Ryan's body was warm and sensual, an incredible feeling of lust and contentment surged through me as I held him against my body and I wasn't prepared to have a drunken letch spoil that. "After you," I gestured as we parted, stepping aside to allow Ryan into the room of clothed, drunken men.

It was a powerful psychological statement. Their fun for the evening were naked. Sluts, submissives, worthless, mere holes for their entertainment. And not needing clothing and dressed in nothingness to underline our worth. They, the dominants and the penetrators, were clothed. They may have removed their trousers, but they were clothed. Superior, alpha men ready to debase and defile the beta boys offering their bodies to them.

They shouted and grunted obscene comments; Ryan shrank under their excitement. It was intense; more intense than a dressing room as the drink had caused confidence to surge and expectations to rise; there was too much energy to expend.

I saw Ryan checking out the packages in front of him. I saw a tinge of doubt in his eyes and fleeting grasp of fear. "Emit," I called, gesturing our colleague to the front of the room. "And... Oliver." I had picked the two calmest men in the room. I had to show Ryan what to do; I had given broad instructions as we got undressed but it was different now.

Oliver's cock quivered under my touch; his check shirt hanging over his member as I removed his thin, long dick from his brightly coloured boxer shorts and flicked my warm tongue over the tip. He tasted of excited man; a musky, deep flavour of pre-cum that oozed sinfulness and fizzed on the tastebuds. Of nastiness and of lust. Of passion. Of intense fire, and a million other things that sounded wrong but felt so fucking right.

Ryan eyed me as I sank my lips over the erect cock impatiently waiting in front of me. I sucked the tip, swept my lips over his shaft and delighted his foreskin. I wanted to make him squeal and cry, passionately shrieking as my lips took him to orgasm. His cum on my lips, that was all I wanted at that moment; man after man to come to orgasm and offer me the gift of their cum.

And the slut was getting what he wanted and didn't deserve. He was getting the smooth cock of his colleague, rutting into his mouth as his hips bucked to the rhythm of sin.

They watched; all of my colleagues did. I didn't care what they saw or thought, I wanted more cock. I threw a condom between the legs of Oliver, groaning as my mouth sucked him towards his climax. His cock quivered as my hands gripped his muscular thighs, pulling the grunting man closer towards me. I wanted his cum, I needed it. My head was awash with submissive needs, and sexual wants, and I sucked harder, slid faster and expected more.

As another of my colleagues waited behind me, Oliver grunted and squealed, filling my mouth with a piston squirt of his cum. He panted as my lips sucked the rest of his salty, musky seed from his cock, pulsing with a dozen sprays of my treat.

I glanced behind me, Paul was waiting. I said nothing as I took my lubricant and squirted it onto my fingers to lubricate my anus. I glanced at Ryan smoothly fellating my colleague and smiled: he was a natural.

I flung my body over the nearest single bed and told Paul to be "gentle." I had another cock thrust into my mouth although I never saw who it was; it didn't matter. I would sate anything put inside me that needed satisfying.

I was in that space.

Paul was surprisingly gentle as he parted my buttocks; his body weight leaning on me as his cock slid between my buttcheeks and against my anus. I felt helpless, feeling the weight of him pushing my body into the mattress as his dick slowly penetrated me. It was a new feeling of submission; an intimate feeling of dominance as my colleague pressed his body against my back.

The cock was thrust into my mouth; this was no blowjob but I was being face-fucked. I was having a thick, erect cock rammed into my mouth and against my gag reflex, and I was powerless to stop it. And I loved it. I loved the passionate grunting and energetic disgusting lust of it all. I loved the pace of Paul's cock bobbing against my hole, thrusting deeper and deeper into my inner sanctum. I loved the pure passion of the two men and I adored the lack of control that I had.

I loved being a slut.

Paul grunted and filled the condom moments before the cock in my mouth spewed several streaks of cum into my throat and then onto my face. His seed, his warm goo, oozing down my face had my cock leaking pre-cum copiously as my backside was replaced with another sheathed cock, parting my buttcheeks with impatient fingers and sliding their manhood into my butt.

My groans and cries were real; his cock was big and stretched my hole in a wonderful way. "Take it," he grunted. Forcefully. Commandingly. I wanted to and I did, feeling and savouring the wild lust from the rutting gentleman poking his cock deep into me. My head was spinning; the room was alive with manful grunts and groans, thrusts and squeals as Ryan got pounded on the other bed.

I was in another place; I was floating and dreaming, my rectum sparking with lust with every thrust into my orifice. He high-fived over me; they were celebrating his taking of my hole. I was objectified, a mere container for him to expel his horniness into. It made my cock surge. I was in heaven.

So was he. He filled his condom with a grunt, sliding out and leaving my butt with a vacancy. Alas, there were no more unsated men and I watched as Ryan was spit-roasted on the other bed. It was a gorgeous sight: two older men being pleasured by the young junior engineer. Two men, with wrinkled and scarred bodies using the youthful, radiant boy as their fucktoy, thrusting deep into him with fiery grunts.




Winners and Losers Ch. 12



It was a scene from Greek or Roman folklore; it was hot. Very hot. My mind felt every pound of their cocks into their young charge. I felt the pulsing and quivering of the dicks, filled with cum as the milky delicacy surged through their manhoods and spewed into the young Ryan.

I saw the look in his face; the smile, the relief, the satisfaction.

The two of us, with cum on our faces and sweat on our bodies left the room to get cleaned up. We walked nonchalantly down the hotel corridor, oblivious to the shocked look from a couple walking towards us.

"What you expected?" He nodded, as I closed the door.

"It was fun. I... I... It was..."

He groaned as I sank to my knees; I could resist no more, and took the length of his boyish cock in my mouth, sucking the tip of his manhood and plunging my lips down his shaft. He grunted, and squealed, tensing his buttocks as my fingers explored his perineum.

He tasted of pure man. The musky taste of pre-cum swept through my tongue. I wanted it. I wanted the full course and I sucked and tickled his cock with my lips, eager to bring him to orgasm. I wanted him to come in my mouth. Eager to feel his pulsing manhood squirt his sticky lust into me.

His muscles flexed as he panted, his eyes meeting mine as I bobbed my mouth over his smooth dick. He glanced away, groaning as my hands cupped his balls and my tongue swirled messages of admiration on his purple head.

His hands screwed into fists as his body twitched and shook, and his cock spasmed, delivering me a delicacy of delicious masculinity on my tongue. It oozed from his cock; endlessly oozed. I had more than a mouthful of smooth, delicious cum sliding down my throat.

And still it kept coming; more and more of his semen squirted from his cock, every spasm greeted by a grunt and a cry from my orgasming colleague.

Eventually, he slumped against the wall, sated, and his cock slipped from my lips. "Fun, you were saying?"

"Yeah," he muttered and gulped.

He masturbated me with a copious amount of lubricant, watching my cum arc into the air and splatter across my chest. We showered as a handful of our colleagues entered the room; they said nothing as we dried ourselves off, and drifted into a slumber.

Ryan left the hotel early in the morning with me, and I bought us a breakfast of instant porridge from the coffee shop. I could tell from his expression and demeanour that the morning had brought doubts and uncertainties. I knew and recognised them.

"Let me guess, you're straight, you've always been straight and you adore women. But something you enjoyed last night didn't make sense and you're wondering is there something else there."

"Yeah," he muttered as he fidgeted on the train. "Something like that."

"And you have spent the last thirty minutes wanting to stop thinking about being fucked in the arse and giving blowjobs and not being able to. And then feeling guilty for it."

"Hmmm."

"And right now, you're probably thinking a heterosexual fuck is the best thing you could do so are planning a one-night stand, but also want to play with another guy again, so are a bit confused."

"Ummm... yeah!"

"Then welcome to the world of being bisexual!" I meant it part in jest and part seriously. I took the time to explain what my feelings were in the period before I came to accept my new sexuality. I told him what I had done at the Manlube photography shoot and in Italy and what I had enjoyed while doing it. He listened, and we reached our station long before I had finished.

"Can I come and watch?" He asked. "The football. I've nothing else to do. I'd rather not go home and just be alone with my thoughts."

"Sure."

I stopped at my house to retrieve my football kit and was surprised to find my fiancée not at home. I was even more surprised to see her at the stadium but she wouldn't tell me why. I had an uneasy feeling, but left my work colleague with her and went into the changing room to get changed, warm up and then listen to our coach distil tactics for our league match against Sunnyside Cross FC. A lot had changed since that first game of the league season and their 4-1 defeat of us had stayed long in the memory. It was a high-energy, ferocious game and we had deservedly lost but Sunnyside were not without their weaknesses.

They were, however, second in the league and rivalling AFC Kerlon for the top spot. The game was tough; Dmitri scored with a piledriving free-kick and they equalised with a header before half-time. Lee's second-half goal saw us heading for victory but an own goal levelled the score two minutes before full-time and the last kick of the game was a long-range effort from their striker that our goalkeeper fumbled into our net.

It was desperately unlucky. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him; it was a goalkeeping clanger of stunning ineptitude and it meant we lost the match 3-2.

It was also a "special weekend" and the flustered league representative strode onto the pitch with a megaphone to call for the attention. "Every team were instructed to send the girlfriends, boyfriends, husbands, wives and fiancées of the players to the match, and now the losers will pleasure the victors in front of their partners."

I gulped, glancing at the stands to see a gleeful Anna smiling broadly.

She knew; the little minx knew the league had planned this "surprise" for the team and had slipped along not to watch me play but to watch me be fucked.

I growled inside; I played football, it was my game and they were my forfeits. The league had dragged my family into my sexuality without my consent and it riled me. But I didn't have time to be angry; the Sunnyside Cross players were striding towards us forcefully and menacingly sizing us up. There was movement in the stands as our partners ambled down towards the changing room.

My arm was grabbed by their left back: a wiry, smarmy, snarling man with a curling smile of devious intent. He was a nasty, intimidating player.

My fiancée joined us as we entered our changing room; there was not enough room for everyone to be in the victor's changing room, and she smiled briefly as he snarled at me. "Oh, nice ring," he muttered as he slapped me painfully across the face. "On your knees, sunshine. Show your little girly what you do. He's a fucking faggot, love."

My scowl deepened. Sunnyside Cross were full of arrogant players who revelled in dishing out humiliation and the league had given them fantastic ammunition to use against us. He grabbed the back of my head and thrust his cock deep into my throat, causing me to gag.

"Steady on," my Anna cried.

"If you fuck me, I'll leave him alone." My hands instinctively rolled into a fist and I was ready to punch him in the low-hanging testicles; he was being a cunt.

"Touch me and I'll floor you," my fiancée warned as he thrust his cock deep into me. It was humiliation, it was submission, but I wasn't revelling in it.

"He's just a filthy little fag," he snapped. I was being degraded but it just felt dispassionate and inhuman. There was no connection between me and my tormentor. He spoke gruffly and angrily, calling me names that I easily blocked out. He pushed me onto the bench and made Anna prepare me for his "monster prick" but it wasn't that big and Anna had prepared me for her strap-on several times before; it was part of our play.

The thrusting of his cock to the hilt into my hole was rough, but I felt no satisfaction. I felt nothing. I watched as he scissored into me, remaining silent as I glanced up at Anna. She smiled at me; the connection was with her, not with him. She ignored him holding my ankles splayed into the air as he fucked my butt. It meant nothing to her.

He came into the condom. "Fancy fucking a real man," he asked as he withdrew.

She snorted derisively. "I already do," she coolly replied and I laughed as his face fell. Rejected. "And you are a million miles away from being a real man."

It was harsh; he left immediately.

"Dmitri and you was hot," she said after the match as we walked back to the car. "And you in Italy on TV was fucking unreal. He was a jerk."

"Yep, he was a jerk," I replied, as we drove Ryan back to his house, and then had a celebratory meal together as a couple; it was two years since we had got together. An anniversary for two people in love and in tune with their sexuality. Quite what that player thought he could show Anna I will never know.

Despite our loss and "abject humiliation," I was surprised when Ryan asked how easy it was to join the team; he played at University and had represented them in a number of leagues. "I might be a bit rusty," he admitted; he hadn't played for eighteen months, but I told him to come down to the training ground for a trial.

The coach was impressed by the accuracy of his passing, although his fitness levels were a little suspect. He needlessly explained about the forfeits and then offered my colleague a few matches on the bench to see how he fitted in: in training and on the field.

South End Harriers were the first team we had ever played under the new rules in a friendly and the first time I had ever given a blowjob to another man. Although we had beaten them away from home, we had the opportunity to repeat that at home, and complete our first home-and-away double over our rivals in several seasons. Ryan was on the bench but Dmitri was absent and Lee was ill.

We had no need to worry about the loss of our two key players, South End Harriers were down to nine men before half-time and in the second half our makeshift striker headed us in front before our wingers both scored. I completed the rout with a mishit pass that looked like a wonderful strike so I said nothing about my fluke and just celebrated as if I had meant to take aim and shoot.

Ryan played for the final fifteen minutes, but it was clear he was a little tired towards the end of the match.

However, we had won 4-0 and a thoroughly dejected and defeated South End Harriers filed into our dressing room after the match. We were the victors; we had to seize our victory from the despondent opponents and Ryan watched as we each grabbed a filthy, muddy man for our needs. "Go get one," I suggested, glancing at the naked goalkeeper on his knees and with his mouth inches from my cock.

My colleague and team mate found their substitute striker without a victor savouring their body and Ryan took advantage of his mouth. I loved the sound of the grunting, groaning and panting in the changing rooms after the matches; it was so intense, visceral and energetic. It was sinful and disgusting.

Writhing bodies, muddy skin, hard cocks and stretched holes. It was a filthy pervert's dream. It was my dream.

My loser's tongue swept over my balls as I groaned, licking the wrinkly, sweaty sacks of masculinity. His finger pressed against my taint as his tongue drew across the purple head of my cock.

My hands rubbed the hair of the defeated man, slowly bucking my hips as he worked his tongue around my cock. Slurping, groaning, sucking, crying. We were a cacophony of sinful sounds; two men playing. Two men having sex. Two men enjoying themselves.

And the goalkeeper was enjoying himself. He was playing with his hard cock as his tongue delighted mine, drawing his mouth over my dick with increasing speed and fervour. He wanted my cum as much I wanted to cum when I was giving a blow-job. He wanted to feel the pulse of my cock and taste the musky dirtiness of my semen.

With some passionate sucks, I could not resist and squirted several waves of cum into his waiting mouth as he came over my feet; his orgasm triggered by mine. I took a few moments to compose myself, panting with deep breaths before I made him clean his mess.

It tickled; the feeling of his tongue sliding between my sweaty feet tickled and I writhed as he gleefully licked his mess from my dirty toes.

We spanked them before we left; each member of their team receiving four hard, firm spanks on their bare arses turning them crimson.

Anna kissed me when I returned home. "We won."

She smiled. "Dinner'll be two minutes," she promised as my pocket vibrated and I took out my mobile phone, answering it before checking whom it was.

"Marc! Is that you?"

"Oh, hi Auntie," I muttered, glancing at the display for a moment.

"Marc. I've seen what you've been doing with those men," she snapped. My mother's sister shrilly blustered down the telephone. "You're on the computer. It's outrageous and it's got to stop Marc. Think of the family name and..."

"Are you really worried that I'm bisexual?" I interrupted; there was silence.

"It's wrong, Marc," the religious zealot squealed. "It's so... ungodly. Wait until the family hears this. Think of your mum and dad. What must they think?"

"I think they would be happy that I am happy," I suggested and continued before she could muster a retort. "And as I know them far better than you I think I'm right. But it's no-ones business but mine. Goodbye."

"Marc! Marc! Don't you dare put the 'phone down..."

I never heard the rest of her objections and ignored her telephoning me back. Suddenly, I had a very big problem.

* * * * *

To be continued...