Infamy

Many years ago, I wrote "Winners and Losers" that I never finished. I subsequently rewrote it in 2016, but never published the 27 chapters to Literotica.

This is the complete 70,000 word story from eight years ago.

* * * * *

The ire did not abate throughout the evening; I turned off my mobile phone after the third member of my extended family rang to condemn my activities. I did wonder how my Aunt's husband had managed to "stumble" across my material on the Internet, and Anna suggested that I procure some homosexual pornography to send to him in a brown envelope as I pondered the obvious answer to the question.

Between my contacts at ManLube and the league, I was certain that I could lay my hands on oodles of hardcore DVDs, and I could obviously arrange for them to be sent in an unmarked brown envelope to my aunt's address, but it would do little to assist with the issue at hand. Why would I want to provoke them? I had not intended for them to discover my other life, any more than I wanted my colleagues to know. Although my co-workers had been fantastically understanding as I explored my bisexual side, in a way that my extended family had not.

But any hope that my auntie and her crazy band of conservatives would forget that I was satisfying a never ending line of men with my willing orifices was extinguished when day after day I would receive text messages or e-mails "advising" me, cajoling me and imploring me to turn my back on the "sinful and disgusting antics" of the football team. I was a disgrace, a moral vacuum and a loathsome, repugnant aberration. And many more things in between.

I had a difficult discussion with my parents as my mother, while accepting that my "hobby" was my choice, was concerned that inter-familial relations would be harmed and she worried for my health with "all the gay sex." It was an argument I didn't want and shied away from.

Anna could see the effects on my mood, and my lacklustre and lethargic efforts in training saw me dropped for our team's match against Heston United. "If you want to talk then I'm here to listen," the coach privately said to me after he read the team sheet to the players. "But you need to go home and sort your head out. You've been distracted all week."

He was right, and I watched from the sidelines as my team-mates get torn apart by a mobile, energetic and skilful team, losing the match 4-1.

Anna was sympathetic and I knew I shouldn't let the hatred and petty small-minded attitudes influence my happiness but it was impossible for it not to. My aunt was my blood-kin; I grew up with Auntie Rose a few streets away and I knew she had been gossiping about me and my activities with the rest of the family. I didn't fancy being an outcast. And that's the future I faced: ostracised by my family. The guilt tore me apart, and while I knew that I should not feel any shame, it was their reaction to me deviating from society's "norm" that had put me in that position.

Anna seized the initiative the following day: we drove the twenty-or-so miles through the English countryside to my Aunt's terraced house. I didn't want to go but my fiancée was insistent that the pressure on us would only stop when we had faced down my Aunt's bullying rhetoric.

We were not welcomed; I guessed we wouldn't be, but Auntie Rose refused us entry into her "godly house." It wasn't until Anna screamed from the front garden that my aunt was a "fucking sick coward," which caused the neighbouring curtains to twitch, that we actually got to speak to our tormentor.

Words were exchanged; I was still a foul and vile deviant. I was still going to Hell and be subjected to a hundred violations. I was still not fit to be her nephew. She prayed that I would reject the Devil's temptations but believed that I would remain a disappointment while I rejected normality. My aunt was angry, but so was Anna: she was messing with our life and it was causing us pain.

"Don't know why you're still with him, love?" My aunt spat at Anna after she had exhausted her repertoire of insults against me. "He's cheating on you. He'll catch AIDS and you need to ..."

Anna's eyes flashed; I had not seen this side of her before. She grabbed the collar of my Aunt's flowery dress and pressed her against the pebble-dash on her house wall.

"My fiancé is not cheating on me!" She yelled, her voice bristling with anger and frustration. "My fiancé is a brave man, finding the strength to be honest about his sexuality. I admire him for that. He's not hiding away, but being open-minded, embracing new ideas and enjoying himself. So who cares, that he is exploring and relishing sex? I want him to be happy. He will not catch AIDS and ..."

"It's against the Lord's teaching and ..."

Anna snorted. "Didn't you know your nephew was an atheist? As am I."

"He's no nephew of mine." Those words knifed me as she spoke them. "No nephew of mine lies with another man. Or wants to."

"No ... just your husband then?" Anna's eyes flicked towards me. "How do you think he found those videos on the 'net?"

"He stumbled across them."

"Sure." Anna sarcastically sneered and released her grip on my Aunt's collar. "Now I don't care whether you sign up to GaySportsTV or wish a thousand curses upon our heretic bodies. But I do care when you harass my future husband. One more text, tweet, email or message from you and I will make a formal complaint to the Police. And press charges. Do you understand?"

My aunt went to speak but Anna interrupted.

"Do you fucking understand?" She shouted, pushing our nemesis against the wall with a forceful shove. And with a cursory nod of the head from my bemused Aunt, our public show for the neighbours was complete. Our inhospitable host glared and watched us as we left her street in our car. We barely talked until we hit the dual-carriageway.

For all the stress of the previous twenty minutes, a big load had been lifted from my shoulders. I knew I would never win the approval of my aunt, but believing that she would stop expressing her blatant disapproval was a relief.

To celebrate we had good, old-fashioned sinful heterosexual fucking; I brought my strong, driven fiancée to a screaming, quivering orgasm with my tongue before plowing her sodden cunt to a roaring cacophony of climatic screams and sated pants.

Premarital sex: I'm sure my aunt would be very proud!

I spoke to my mother later that day; my aunt had rung my parents in a lather about the horrendous attack "that homo and his girl" had launched upon a defenceless woman. We exchanged words and I gave my side of the story which was considerably more truthful than my misguided aunt's version.

My mum believed me, and we had an understanding. She would not go searching the Internet to find "Marc Lowton" and we would not need to talk about my public displays of bisexuality again. It was a good compromise, that suited us both.

After all, the thought that my parents had seen the videos of cocks being rammed up my arse is enough to shrivel all but the most freakishly perverted of libidos.

My good friend Dmitri noticed the change in me immediately; training was lively and my reawakening of my good mood was marked by a dozen forceful tackles that left my team-mate on his backside in the mud. "Fancy going to Wondermen on Thursday?" He asked as we showered, eyeing a handful of the bruised footballers soaking in the luke-warm water.

His eyes flickered over their naked torsos: water cascading over their muscular bodies and tempting cocks, washing the mud from their tired limbs. I could read his mind; he wanted to slip onto his knees and take one of the luscious pricks in his mouth. He wanted to slide his tongue over the purple tip and bask in the excitement the footballer, tasting and inhaling the raw power of our striker. He wanted to grease his hole ready for the cock to penetrate his sphincter and squeal as he was bent over a changing room table and fucked like the desperate pig he was.

And as his imagination dreamed and whirred, mine did the same.

"Pardon?"

"The gay and bisexual sauna on the main road," he explained, his eyes now focused on the pert buttocks of our goalkeeper laughing raucously as the sexy married man soaped his delicious torso. "Sam has said I need to go and I need someone to go with me. And ... you've not been fucked for awhile, you could do with the practice!"

"Need to go?"

"Yeah," he aimlessly replied; his eyes barely removed from the long, thick cock of 18-year-old Ahmed. He involuntarily licked his lips at the mixed-race teenager, idly washing his hair as my friend couldn't resist ogling him. He was enticing; I could sense the raw power and streetwise persona in his body. Dmitri wanted him. In fact, Dmitri wanted any cock. "Well, Sam's put me on no-sex," he moaned. "She says I can't have any until I have had a hundred cocks come inside me."

"You and your crazy dom-sub relationship," I teased and Dmitri just groaned.

"Oh and no wanking either. It's mean."

It was, but Dmitri needed to go and bump up his score, and Sam sending him to Wondermen Spa and Sauna was the ideal place to do that. But, of course, he needed an "independent adjudicator."

I agreed, and a few days later I drove to a rundown café after work for a small dinner of greasy food. Dmitri was full of boundless excitement before we walked next-door to the sauna. I was nervous; I had never been to such an establishment before.

Dmitri was confident as he made small-talk with the assistant. He joked with the topless man, ogling his chiselled muscles. I was too anxious to be too horny.

Our visit was inexpensive: it cost a few pounds for "membership and entry" and we each loaded a wristband with £10 for refreshments. The white-washed changing room was silent, and I conversed little as I stuffed my clothes into a locker before sealing it with a padlock. I looped the key around the wristband.

All I had was a towel wrapped around my waist, a pair of flip-flops and a bright pink wristband that was my equivalent of cash.

My companion slung a tight-fitting singlet over his head and stretched it downwards to his belly-button; it was way too short for him and the black garment was emblazoned with large white writing - "All holes open. Use me." He smiled as he turned, exposing his battered buttocks to me. "Gagging for it. Lube up and go," I read the back of his shirt and he tossed me a small waterproof digital camera as he screwed his clothes into an adjacent locker.

I took pictures of Sam's bisexual slut as he posed for the camera. He beamed, proudly displaying his provocative singlet and wide smile. He spread his buttocks for the pictures and provocatively cupped his genitals.

He was far from the stereotypical submissive but an outwardly confident man, eager to embrace his extroverted nature. The Bulgarian was enthusiastic and was a little disappointed when he found the main playroom of the sauna to be empty, apart from a couple kissing in the corner of the settee.

We bought drinks from the small café, chatting idly about the league as we sat and watched the gay pornography in the background.

It took an hour for the spa to start getting busy; many of the men had clearly finished work, gone home to their family and then slipped out with an excuse. I'm sure Wondermen Spa was "the gym" or "the pub" or maybe even "going back to work" but the paucity of willing sexual partners very quickly became a flood.

Dmitri greeted a few. Several came and greeted us. We were recognised as "the blokes from the football team" almost immediately, and we chatted with one of the players for Ramplington Rovers, the team Wondermen sponsored. He told us he got free entry while he played for the team.

I remembered him as one of the four men who fucked me in a gangbang; we had drawn the match and my holes were offered as a sacrifice to the lustful players of our equals. "Tight little hole you had," the blonde midfielder teased. "Can help you loosen it up a bit."

We had gathered quite a crowd, and Dmitri's singlet had drawn comment. His eyes flitted between the naked cocks and prominent bulges; socially chatting and laughing with strangers was enjoyable but we had all gone to Wondermen Spa for sex. And Dmitri's horniness itched for it.

His hand gently pressed against the hairy thigh of the gentleman standing beside us. Dmitri rubbed his buttocks and looked up at the stout naked man. He grunted, nodding his head towards the infamous footballer as Dmitri slipped off the leather sofa and drew his tongue across the shaft.

Chatter petered out; all eyes turned to watch the notorious man swirl his tongue over the thick meat of the beefy stranger, inhaling his cock with ease. Tension lingered in the air. Intense, fiery lust burnt inside every spectator as Dmitri passionately fellated the desperate man.

I photographed Dmitri's lips bouncing off the pubic fuzz that topped the veined cock of the stranger. He panted and grunted, bucking his hips into my friend as his lust threatened to consume him and he came with a merest whimper.

After which, we retired to a more secluded playroom. Dmitri was taken from behind, squealing like the desperately horny pig that he was as a thick cock entered his butt.

Word spread; there was a dozen men waiting when the first man had come inside the condom and the number continued to grow.

And as I saw my mate getting screwed, it sparked a lustful longing inside me. I tried to ignore it, but as a second man lubed his thick, meaty condom-clad cock, I slipped to my knees and beckoned the next man forward.

No longer was there a respectful silence but crying and yelling filled the room. No longer a powerful, intense atmosphere but a jovial sex-filled gangbang! And the Woodford Wanderers boys were the soul of the party.

I sucked the gorgeously musky cock in front of me, bringing my lips over the bulbous head until the man's dick was at its fullest length. I savoured the delicious taste and musky aroma as his bare cock was pleasured. And then he moved onto Dmitri.

I was Dmitri's fluffer. I was there to prepare him for his fucking, and I existed at that moment to fellate men to an erection. The worst job in porn became my ideal job for the evening.

My lust never subsided as every size and taste of cock was pressed into my face. My dick leaked pre-cum, leaving a sinful wet patch on the floor as man after man was pleasured by my mouth.

The only time I wasn't drawing cocks into stiffness was when I took pictures of the gagging slut next to me; capturing evidence for his dominant partner.

The longest cock made me gag, the thickest made my jaw ache and one of them eagerly provided me with a delicious meal of cum that excited the senses like a fine wine.

But it was a disgusting orgy of filthy gay sex. It was a sinful explosion of immorality and a rampant abuse of two footballers; we were photographed by Dmitri's camera, passed around the watching men as they hollered humiliating words at us.

It just made me hornier; the smallish room was warm, the sound trapped as grunting noises of sexual satisfaction and degrading yells bounced from the walls.

I lost count of the number of men; more and more of them came through the open door, replacing those who had had their fuck or were bored. No doubt our popularity helped by the number of people who had seen our videos.

We were celebrities; we were "famous." Men were coming to see us as much as getting their cocks pleasured. But as the numbers dwindled, and I had fluffed my last man I got up behind him and waited my turn.

I didn't use a condom; Dmitri knew and said nothing, just sighing with pleasure as my bare cock speared his lubed butt-cheeks. Pre-cum coated my cock as I buried my dick into his well-fucked arsehole, leaning over him so my chest rubbed against his singlet-clad back.

My hands pressed his wrists into the mattress; our thighs touched. I gently filled his arse with my cock. "Bet you like that," I whispered into his ear.

He hummed. I rammed harder, feeling his body heat against mine and panted. The lust built over the last two hours ready to explode as I jackhammered my cock into his hole. He hips slammed further onto the mattress, his mouth squealing as I pounded him.

Raw, angry, visceral fucking; a powerful display of male libido as I gave my midfield partner no respite from the unsated horniness. I wanted him to mewl and squeal. I wanted him to feel the unbridled masculinity as I took my friend's arse for my pleasure.

I wanted him to feel submissive; I wanted him to be in the same subspace I got into when I was rampantly fucked.

He grunted as I neared my climax, withdrawing my cock to lean up and spew cum over his black singlet. We panted together as I leaned back, taking a tissue to wipe the shit specks, lube and cum from my cock.

Dmitri lay motionless for a moment, turning round to show cum over the mattress and up his singlet; he'd come too -- and more than once.

We cleaned ourselves and returned to the main room, signing a few autographs and making chatter with the clientèle of the Wondermen Spa. It was a relaxing evening.

I returned to Dmitri's house for a coffee. We counted 24 men from the photographs and I left Sam and Dmitri to intimately examine the pictures while I went home to lie in bed next to my Anna.

"Good night?" She asked.

"Very," I whispered and wrapped my arms around my gorgeous fiancée.

I enjoyed the sweet feeling of a delicate mouth salivating gently over my prick as I woke from my slumber, awakening to find the beautiful expression of my fiancée smiling from my crotch.

She had drawn my morning erection into desperate horniness and I pushed her onto the bed, to part her legs and kiss her wildly. She panted as our bodies tessellated and my cock penetrated her cunt, satisfying her lustful demands.

Her body loved every thrust of my cock. I felt her cunt squeeze my intruding prick until I unleashed a wave of cum in her hole and she made me suck from her pussy.

I never tired of eating cum, and went into work satisfied; I mused about whether I could entice Emit into a meeting room. Until I entered my office; there was a dark silence as I pushed open the door and I felt every eye land on me.

"What's up?"

Emit passed me his newspaper: a filthy right-wing rag that I never bought. "Pages eight and nine." My phone beeped twice as I unfurled the paper. My heart skipped a beat as I saw a grainy picture of myself from Italy and plastered across the top of the two-page "Mail special investigation" was "League of Shame."

It was a hostile newspaper article, full of homophobic rantings and misinformation. There were claims that all the players were forced to submit and were raped if they didn't; this was a lie. There were claims that all the players were gay; this was inaccurate. There were claims that players were contracting HIV; this was blatantly untrue.

It was a nasty, disgusting piece of journalism which specifically mentioned my name and my team. I had been outed by someone I had never spoken to or met.

I had never felt so violated.

Nothing could compare to the feelings of helplessness I felt. I felt impotent and powerless; unable to stop the rampant lies and unsure of what to do.

Emit put his hand on my shoulder. "It's OK mate," he purred. "We don't believe a word of it." I smiled. "I mean, the idea that you might think of giving another man a blowjob. We couldn't believe it, could we guys?"

I felt my insides chuckle as he rubbed the top of my arm affectionately. "Thanks," I murmured.

"How are you going to respond?"

"Ignore it," I muttered, but Emit talked me into setting up some social media accounts and "woodfordmarc" was born. We tweeted the journalist and newspaper responsible rebutting their assertions and we had hundreds of "likes" and "retweets" from our carefully constructed comments.