In London

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.

* * * * *

My re-run of the race with Betty was broadcast as "extra-time" and while in the white heat of lust I knew what I was doing, I hadn't realised just how much attention it would garner. I was on the front page of GaySportsTV and Betty linked to the video from her Twitter feed, including my teasing jibe about her not getting off.

Indeed, she was clever in that she offered her fans a "help get Betty off" appeal and the offer for five of her fans to "join her in her studio" caused a furore around Twitter.

But Marc 'The Cocksucker' Lowton had become big news. And I wasn't sure if I liked the notoriety. Indeed, Emit teased Ryan and myself in the office, and it wasn't until I threatened to withdraw oral privileges from my cocky work colleague did he relent.

The training that week was buoyant; we had a cup final to look forward to when we would play top-of-the-league, and arrogant FC Kerlon.

Ironically FC Kerlon would also be the team's next league match, but a few days before the game I was asked to do some work at the weekend in London. I moaned about it a bit to Anna, but my fiancée and I had an expensive wedding to fund and the overtime would be a welcome boost to our sagging savings account. Expensive bridesmaids dresses didn't come cheap.

I, therefore, accepted, planning the work for one of our biggest clients without objecting, especially when Emit and Ryan were also persuaded to give up their weekend for welcome moolah.

We rented a small holiday apartment on the south side of the Thames; the flash two-bedroom apartment had one king size bed and two twin beds and we arrived on Thursday evening, having fought our way through the sweaty and claustrophobic Underground network.

We tossed a coin for the big bedroom; Emit won and so Ryan and I shared the smaller room with twin beds. It was a strange feeling to be sharing a flat with work colleagues but I had seen everyone naked many times and I know Emit was hankering for some sexual relief.

That evening, Ryan happily serviced him; the two of them slipped subtly into the master bedroom while Betty and I tweeted flirtatious comments and I phoned Anna.

Anna and I teased each other with phone sex; I heard her vibrating wand pressed against her cunt deliver groans and squeals as my fingers blurred over my erect cock. It was strangely clinical; a fake sensuality that sated the arousal rather than enriched the soul.

We were busy on Friday, ripping up the original plans when we met the client and spoke at length about their project. Several assumptions previously made were flawed and we came close to abandoning the weekend work. If it was up to me, I would have done, and planned a second attempt when I was not due to play football, but Emit was the senior consultant and we worked an alternative strategy.

It meant I got to start work at midnight, and after the briefest of sleeps at the apartment walked through the cold, unforgiving streets of London. The mist gave it an eerie feel, as shouting in the distance and the constant scream of sirens drew my self-consciousness into a deep state of unease. I wasn't used to the big city.

There was already a state of energy in the vast room, and three members of the client's technical support team and I began work on their software upgrade as the rest of the city partied or drifted into a slumber.

I was knackered by the time Emit and Ryan arrived at 9am to start the bulk of the serious work. I slipped into the busy streets to return to the apartment and retire into a well-deserved sleep.

I was at the offices again by 4pm, and as Saturday evening drew into a twilight, I started my shift again to finish the migration.

It was hard work, and I'd earn my overtime. We finished at 2am on Sunday morning and by three, I was tucked up in bed alone. Ryan and Emit were either sharing in the master bedroom or clubbing.

I woke up at 10am to the smell of fried breakfast. An almost naked Emit, wearing just a frilly pink apron he'd found in the cupboard, swanned around the kitchen like a TV cook on crack cocaine. A chef, he was not.

I surveyed my phone as I sat down at the breakfast bar and reached for the tea. I had a message from the captain. "Dmitri and Lee ill. You and Ryan absent. Hugh red card. Lost 9-0." I felt guiltier than ever as I wrote an apology in return, but work had to come first.

And then I replied to tweets directed onto my Twitter feed. I had some fans grumble about my absence from the team, some salacious messages from strangers and plenty of filth from Betty. I told her I was in London, and she messaged back.

"Guys," I asked as the poorly dressed Delia broke another yolk in the frying pan. "Fancy going to a porn shoot?"

My friendship with Betty had elicited the unusual and tempting offer; she had sent me the tongue-in-cheek offer over Twitter and I had checked privately if she had meant it. She did.

I had no intention of appearing in the pornography shoot with her, but I enjoyed the bubbly enthusiasm of the erotic superstar, and the playful teasing and banter between us was fun.

Emit's breakfast was not inedible, but his smothering of my meal with lashings of tomato ketchup meant that I got red sauce down my only T-Shit and I had to get dressed in a navy polo shirt bearing my employer's logo instead. The garment was a little itchy.

The film studios were located in Surrey. We had a twenty minute train journey to the South side of London, before a five minute taxi ride to a converted barn on the outside of the town. Emit was excited, Ryan was quiet; they both slightly irritated me for opposing reasons.

The car park was busy; a multitude of rusting cars filled the gravel drive, along with a couple of expensive super-marques. I guessed Betty's car from the personalised number plate on a glistening Aston Martin.

She whistled at me as I peered through the window of her luxury vehicle. "You'll need to suck a lot of cock to be able to afford that." Her grin was welcoming as the busty wench stood seductively dressed. She leant against the wooden beam of the building, licking her lips. "I can provide the cock. I have loads of young men who'd happily ..."

"I'm not here to suck cock!"

She pouted. "You better come in."

The dreary outside gave way to a brightly lit interior; original wooden beams crossed through the roof that gave the building an impressive aura of old world charm, while barely clothed men and women criss-crossed the room in a hive of activity.

Betty smiled at me. "I don't suppose I could interest you in ... something!" She asked, cocking her head. "I have some girls who are happy to do golden showers!"

"I'm fine."

I knew Betty would try all day to get me out of my clothes; how many men could resist the charms of the country's hottest porn star?

She took the obligatory photograph; a selfie of the buxom legend sprawled across my lap, subsequently uploaded to the Internet.

I suppose I expected the pornography shoot to be more erotic than it was. I couldn't say I was disappointed as I got to chat and talk to loads of hot men and women off camera. I also got tickled by the newest addition to Betty's stable of playful, horny minxes; the naked woman using her fingers to reduce me to a writhing mass of giggles.

Emit was like the excited squirrel from Over The Hedge; his eyes bulged at the debauchery on display, got in several salacious discussions with sexy women, and was teased by two teenage nymphomaniacs.

To say it was all sex would be incorrect; I spoke about football and television too. It was a myth that all sex stars want to talk about is genitals and the allure of the sexual union on screen is little more than a clever act. The sex was clinical and emotionless. It was a deceit.

I knew this; Honey explained it so elegantly to me with a few choice words in between her two scenes. At a first glance she looked like it was an epic orgasm: the culmination of uncontrollable urges that reached a deafening crescendo of intense sensations. We all felt her release of satisfaction, and the deep enjoyment that radiated from her cunt as she was pounded by the big-dicked co-star. We sensed her relief and enjoyed her explosive climax with her.

Only she didn't. Not once. Her boyfriend would give her that later.

I guess when I considered it, I always knew it was acting. I always knew that the adult scenes were concocted, filmed, staged and performed for the audience and not the porn star. It was why they were called actors and actresses, they acted out their sexual enjoyment.

And I knew that I could never join Betty's world. I enjoyed fellating men, and I enjoyed being fellated. I enjoyed anal and fucking and everything else. I loved kissing. The feeling of uncontrollable lust that I experienced when I was a submissive was because I was extremely horny. I couldn't fake that, I wouldn't know how.

I had a new found admiration for Honey, Betty, Peaches and all of the men and women milling about that barn. They filmed two dozen scenes for four films, and every single one of them feigned the most natural of emotions: lust. Many faked orgasms and the sparkling fury of the deepest, most satisfying climaxes. They made the unreal, real.

Far from being an easy job, it was hard.

Betty was the busiest; she was directing many of the scenes before joining the final orgy, filmed in a lounge-type setting. She coached the youngest of the girls and guys, coerced me into joining.

She found Emit willing; he lacked the release forms she knew I had signed for GaySportsTV. Ryan was just as eager, and he begged to "fluff" his favourite male star; they had spent most of the day chatting and practising his "lines:" a mere four pieces of dialogue but he took it seriously.

Or perhaps he hoped a major Hollywood film director would stop mid-wank to Bi Boyz and Babez and reach for the phone because he liked the beautiful elocution of the Shakespearean delivery when Plumber 2 recited his bawdy lines.

The final scene was the most erotic of them all; twenty porn stars engaged in a mass of carnal fucking, as the camera took turns in focussing on the debauched groupings. Betty directed much of it with a cock up her arse and her fingers knuckle-deep in a cunt, while her camera men and women captured everything.

An hour after the final scene had ended, the barn was almost bare; only a couple of members of Betty's company, herself and a camera man remained; we had helped them clear up and we had bags of rubbish, and even more bags of clothes and clothing to be cleaned. I had gained several followers on Twitter as well as an insight into the world Betty was keen for me to adopt.

Her tweets had garnered hundreds of retweets, sly captures of the scenes blasted onto the Internet and lapped up by thousands of adoring fans.

And Betty is alluring. She knew how to get a reaction, and the seductress teased Emit and taunted me. Her bubbly demeanour demanded attention, and she begged for one more photo.

Naked.

I rolled my eyes; she needled me and I relented. I could hardly be precious about my nude frame: I'd been fucked and sucked and done much more on camera, and with Emit, Ryan and a handful of her employees watching she grinned as my clothes were discarded on the small canteen sofa.

We posed against the white wall, adorned with the company logo as her cameraman used her phone. I smiled, my arm around the waist of the gorgeous woman.

"I told you I'd get you naked," she teased as she examined the picture on her phone and I reached for my navy T-Shirt. "Oh, no good."

"What?"

Her hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me back to the white wall, as she knelt on the floor. "This needs to be bigger." She wrapped her lips around my cock.

Emit looked on enviously as her camera man snapped his boss giving a stranger a blow-job.

I pulled away and put my T-shirt on with a smile. "No." I spoke firmly and she pouted. It was all part of her games, but there was a reason behind it; she had explained over lunch.

I had more followers than any male porn star in the UK; our league had media interest and our matches were getting large audiences. And apparently, only a third of the audience were homosexual male; the other two-thirds were bisexual male, heterosexual male or female. She had calculated that our friendship had elicited a considerable boost in her profile and she thought an adult film with her, her top stars, myself and some my team mates would be her biggest earning film to date.

"Everyone wants to see it," she reminded me as we left her expansive studios.

Maybe, but there was one person who I don't think did. And that was Anna. And she was more important than anyone else Betty was thinking about.