Paybac?

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.

* * * * *

Although Julia and her Estonian friends had, quite fantastically shown, that they wanted me to "piss off," it was done in good humour. Julia asked me to come back soon, and she gave me a big hug before I left for the airport to return to Britain.

She also tweeted Betty Maxx a couple of pictures from my golden shower, "look what we did to @woodfordmarc" and her message got retweeted around the world!

The UK porn star responded gleefully, promising me no end of pee if I wanted it! I had found the act deeply humiliating to be receiving several streams of urine, yet intensely rewarding as I had sunk into my submission. At that moment, I had felt worthless yet sexually charged.

I arrived home and Anna greeted me warmly, eager to show pictures of bridesmaid dresses and an itchingly desperate clit for me to go down on. She squealed as my tongue swirled over her sensitive button, sending my gorgeous fiancée into a spiral of powerful orgasms that soaked my face.

My scheme to avoid wedding planning by being away in Estonia was a flawed plan; Anna spent Monday evening recounting all the different fabrics and styles and colours of her bridesmaids dresses while using her tablet to show me the endless numbers of garments on her short-list.

In truth, I was desperately relieved to go to training the following day to escape the relentless wedding chatter. I'd always been told that it was the "bride's big day" and that she would get her own way completely, but Anna seemed intent on asking for my opinion. Whatever I thought, Anna had already decided on "rose blush" or someother vague description of pink and no matter how long she spent deliberating between that and other hues of feint red, she kept coming back to a particular shade.

She wanted my approval and I was more than happy to give it, until she told me the price for three bridesmaids dresses. "Can't we just go to Debenhams?" I asked, causing her to scowl. The dozens of brochures from wedding fayres told me that she had looked everywhere and had decided; I just needed to pay for her extravagance.

The lads teased me when I arrived; for missing my kick in the Estonia game and for receiving the golden showers. The Captain threatened to make it a repeat occurrence if I missed such an easy chance in the forthcoming match, but I wasn't entirely certain if I disliked his proposed forfeit.

I saw Lucy at the corner of our ground with an excited looking man; he was easily 6 foot in height and had a muscular, slender body. With his strawberry-blonde hair and cheeky smile, I could see why he was a stripper.

I had arranged with the coach for "Leo" to join us for the session, and I showed him to the changing rooms. He smiled, and chattered, as he got changed; he was relaxed at being naked in the company of the two dozen men, and I noticed his delightfully large and well-veined cock.

He wasn't particularly good at playing football; his passes were wayward too often, but he had stamina and kept up with the training. Lucy watched him from the sidelines: this was her present to him, although I wasn't quite sure what her payment to us was to pay for it!

We enjoyed having visitors in truth; Woodford Wanderers were hospitable and we all gleefully signed some ManLube posters, as well as posing naked with our guest for Lucy to take several pictures of.

He had a good evening, and I did wonder if "guests" would become a feature. We could hardly offer corporate boxes and prawn sandwiches but training sessions and showers with naked men was more within our reach.

Lucy e-mailed me her thanks the day after. Betty and I continued our long-distance very public flirting over social media throughout the week. A cynic would deem that both of us were using our public profiles to generate chatter as we exchanged salacious photographs and messages, but there was more to it than relentless self-promotion. She was smart and fun, and our chat left people smiling and laughing.

It was dirty and good natured.

Our match at the weekend wasn't.

Sunnyside Cross FC was our very first competitive match when I got buggered by a small-dicked self-important tosser. It was later the team where I got buggered by an arrogant prick in front of my fiancée as he tried to seduce her with chauvinistic nastiness. We were ripe for revenge.

The pre-match atmosphere for our cup semi-final was as tense as I could remember; focused minds and driven players yelled angrily as the coach barely needed to motivate us. We were motivated.

I never felt a drop of rain as I took to the field; torrential downpour had turned our muddy pitch into a quagmire and my boots sank in the soft mud as we lined up to face our Orange-shirted opponents.

They sneered and they laughed. Their captain sought to remind us for humiliations past, yet we needed no prompting. It was foremost in our minds.

I ignored the television camera or the league's representative skidding on the slippery pitch. I ignored the cheering and jeering crowd and the freezing cold swirling wind. It was us versus our nemeses.

Payback time.

Only we were too focused on getting revenge and to fired up, our gameplan was immediately forgotten. We had endless enthusiasm and anger but little focus on how to play our football.

Tackles from us flew in on the skiddy pitch but their players stuck to their pre-match tactics, taking the lead when our captain brought down their player on the edge of the box.

They doubled it a few moments later when we charged upfield and left ourselves vulnerable to the counter attack and just before half-time, a sliced clearance from our left back nestled in the far corner of our goal.

Suddenly, it was cold on the pitch. Pre-match adrenaline had faded into reality. Optimism had given way to realism. We couldn't win a match on spirit.

Our manager reminded us at half-time; he calmly went over his tactics again and made us listen. I said he screwed our heads on, but it was much more than that. He gave us hope and purpose. He gave us desire to win again and a belief we could do it.

It was better; it had to be. It couldn't have been any worse. We returned to the field with focused minds and pushed forward, eager to find a route into the match. The ball wasn't running true on the muddy football pitch, hitting bobbles all over the field and it made it difficult to pass to team-mates.

Our first goal was a stroke of luck, Dmitri's volley bounced off a divot and wrong-footed their goalkeeper. Our second goal was masterful as Lee flicked the ball over their stopper with the deftest flick of his boot.

And for twenty minutes we relentlessly pressed for an equaliser; Ryan came on for a defender and we tossed the ball repeatedly into their area. Lee hit the post, Dmitri hit the bar. I scuffed a shot wide of the upright and Wayne missed an open goal. It was edging towards a third loss against the same team inside six months as the clock nestled past the 90th minute.

Injury time. That was all we had.

Sixty seconds to find a goal. Sunnyside had all eleven players inside their box as we pressed for an equaliser. Tackles and blocks tried to stop us, as the mud-caked players gave everything.

And a corner, our last chance, was enough. Our goalkeeper, Hugh, up from the back, prodded home on the goal-line as the ball bobbled uncontrollably in the area and from his first shot of the season, he scored.

He did what ten outfield players couldn't, and as one side rejoiced, another eleven players sank to their knees. It was 3-3, but they looked defeated. Beaten and exhausted.

The referee blew for full time, and for another thirty minutes we pressed forwards. Woodford had momentum and belief, Sunnyside were holding onto the draw as we inched towards a penalty shoot-out in the driving rain.

We stood in a line near the half-way line, arms over shoulders and watching the exposed goal. We won the toss and elected to go first; my heart pounded in my chest as our first penalty taker strode towards the muddy penalty area.

Lee scored slammed his attempt into the corner, Sunnyside equalised. Wayne scored his, Sunnyside equalised. Dmitri and Ryan netted their attempts with Sunnyside keeping up with the home team with two well-taken kicks.

John stumbled as he approached the ball, looking back at the line of team-mates. I closed my eyes, partly because I could see into his mind. Fear was inked across his face and indecision streamed from his eyes. In his mind, the goalkeeper was dominating the goal, the ball was the enemy. He could feel the cold and the rain, distracted by the crowd. The world was squeezing him and his fingers tingled.

He no longer had control of his body, autopilot taking over as he stood a few feet from the ball. The stone orb on the penalty spot. Immovable. Unyielding. Numbness enveloping him as the referee's shrill whistle blew and his leg arced forwards and skewed the ball into the car park.

A mile away from the goal. We all fell, physically and metaphorically. Muddy players falling onto the muddy pitch as our hopes had taken a kung-fu kick in the genitals. We were down.

But not out.

Hugo had a chance to stop their penalty. And their player looked no more certain that John. His tentative steps towards the goal, and uncertain placing of the ball. He turned and took two steps back, facing away from the goal. With a bleep of the whistle, he turned and smacked the ball as hard as he could. It was rising, and rising, towards the corner as Hugo dived to his left.

Our goalkeeper may not have saved it, but the ball rebounded loudly off the bar, landing inches from the despairing hand of Hugo and bounced away from the goal.

We celebrated, but all their failure had done was to keep it at 4-4. And the coach tapped me on the shoulder. "Your turn."

I bit my tongue; I was no striker of the ball. I was no calm head under pressure, or unflappable beast. I did my best to stride confidently through the rain, forcing a smile onto my face as I stared at their goalkeeper. I had to act the part.

I picked up the loose ball and put it firmly onto the muddy penalty spot. "Goal's here," their goalkeeper taunted. "Not over there." He gestured towards the car park as he bounced on his line.

But I was ignoring him as my mind processed. He dived to his right or his left, but he never stayed still. He always vacated the centre of the goal. Six penalties he'd faced and every time he'd moved to the far corners of the goal.

I stared at the ball, at him and at the corner of the goal.

I was still thinking about his previous efforts to save the penalties. In truth, I was no striker. If I went for the corner of the goal, I could miss. I could be a few inches out and strike the post. I could be more than a few inches out and hit the car park.

But smashing the ball down the centre of the goal, I could do. Plenty of power, plenty of force and anger against the ball to hammer the ball into the back of the net.

Of course, if the goalkeeper remained still, he would save it, but I took a deep breath, focused on him for a brief moment and waited for the referee's whistle to leather the ball hard and true.

The cheers behind me told the world I'd made the right choice; the beaming smile on my Captain's face was a greater story. The goalkeeper was on the way down before I'd even struck the ball, diving to his left as the ball whistled past his outstretched boot. Unstoppable from his position.

And 5-4.

My team mobbed me as I rejoined the group and we watched, silently, as their nervous player trembled in the cold, evening air and faced Hugo. Death or Glory. He had to score if they wanted to stay in the match. No second chances.

And he copied my trick, opting to slash at the centre of the goal. But Hugo must have realised he would and stood upright, beating the ball away with his right hand as the leather ball was fired forwards his face.

We jumped forward and tore across the muddy quagmire, jumping joyfully onto our heroic goalkeeper. We dived into the mud by the corner flag as eighteen ecstatic players swamped the victorious goalkeeper.

No amount of mud, or rain, could dampen spirits. No amount of realisation that we had spent two hours in the cold, harsh wintery afternoon could draw us from our revelry. Woodford Wanderers had never reached a cup final in our long history. We had achieved something that none of the former wearers of the Golden Shirts and Navy Shorts had done.

We were going to play at a proper football stadium.

But that was for another day, we had celebrations to start and losers to fuck. We joyously taunted the losing team as we left the pitch; no worse than what they had done to us for games previous. A few reacted, threatening words of violence, but league representatives were on hand to quell any nastiness.

They entered our changing room as the victorious team laughed and cheered, celebrating wildly as cans of alcoholic beverages were passed to us. "Guys," a young lady in a tracksuit called, desperate to get attention. She waved her clipboard in front of her, shouting loudly as rampantly overenthusiastic men jeered and jostled. We shouted, we cheered and we roared. We sang about "going to Wembley" and we celebrated raucously, opening cans of beer.

Miss Clipboard tried again, the young lady nervously squealing in front of two dozen celebrating men. Half-naked, muddy, dirty men. Her pupils dilated, her pride bruised. She called in vain, until our coach caught our attention and the bawdy shouting faded into a muted cheer. "Listen to our league."

She blushed as she peered down at her clipboard. "The losing team will be taken to the Village Hall where they will provide relief for upto three hours for the winning team, their friends and a small selection of the winning team's sponsor's delegates."

"Eh?"

"You get to fuck Sunnyside," the young lady explained, smiling. "And so do everyone else."

"Sounds like great fun!" Our Captain replied. "We could do with some payback!" He smiled. "Hey, do you have a strap-on, love? A big, humongous strap-on. Could you be our guest."

She smiled. "I have to remain impartial," she said with an air of authority