A Proper Stadium

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 newspaper's coverage was considerable. Initially, my heart raced as adrenaline was pumped into my bloodstream. I read the headline in the broadsheet and my spirits sunk - "Bisexual sports porn star fired over sexuality." I was on the front page of the national newspaper; on page eight the story continued with a picture of me.

But the story was complimentary. It detailed my team's popularity as footballers as much as the sexual forfeits and it highlighted equality issues with my ex-employer in that they discriminated against people of alternative sexuality.

My Twitter feed was dominated by messages of support, interspersed with messages of disgust. Betty repeated her offer of a pornographic collaboration and I began to seriously contemplate the offer.

I also had a job interview to prepare for, and the two gentlemen who interviewed me for a role with their software company were at pains to stress that if they didn't offer me the position, it was not on the basis of my sexuality. "We are an equal opportunities employer," he stressed.

"Sure. I didn't leak my encounters to the press. That was my colleagues aghast at my treatment. I don't flaunt my ... sexuality." The elder man's eyes narrowed; he was uncomfortable with me and I knew I wouldn't succeed in getting offered employment.

For all the rhetoric, the company clearly weren't comfortable; either it was the pornographic nature of my extra-curricular activities or my sexuality or both, but it was not because of a lack of skills that saw me rejected. I was well-qualified, if not over-qualified, for the role.

Training was far more competitive that usual, and I was just as combative; a weight had been lifted from my shoulder as the world had discovered the truth, and ferocious tackles were being played by everyone.

The showers were raucous; muscular bodies soaked as mud flowed from tired limbs. We felt ready. We were due a victory against AFC Kerlon and the coach communicated his tactics the following day.

We would play a 4-2-3-1 formation with myself and Ryan as the two holding midfielders. It felt so real. Playing in a proper league stadium -- in a major town twenty miles away -- in front of thousands of people.

The interest in the game had increased; tickets had sold out within hours of the news article appearing and the league had cheerfully reported that a cut of the sales would be split with each club; Woodford Wanderers stood to make a large five-figure sum from the game and more if we won.

We didn't need any additional incentive to win; we had that already. The social media accounts of AFC Kerlon's players was enough; they were acting like they had already won the trophy. I was excited on the morning of the game, nervous when I stepped onto the minibus. I wasn't the only one.

A camera crew filmed us disembarking and we had a large changing room to ourselves. It was a world away from what we had in our league.

Immaculate, tiled floors; coat hangers and lockers and even a medical bench. It was impressive. ManLube had provided us with brand new kits; shiny and flawless in the harsh light of the clinical changing room, they hung on our pegs. "LOWTON 4."

I had butterflies.

It was unreal. I tweeted a picture of my spot in the changing room. I didn't know what else to do.

The next ninety minutes flew past; we trained on the pitch, we got changed, we had our tactical talk about AFC Kerlon and we had a talk from the referee. I felt like a spectator.

The roar of the crowd was deafening. Ear-splitting and thunderous, ten thousand fans yelled as two lines of players ran onto the pitch.

I don't remember the kick off; I can't remember too much about the first ten minutes. Our coach told us to keep it tight and not concede and we didn't. Every moment I was thinking about my position or the runs of the opposition. Every moment I was focused, disciplined and attentive.

Suddenly, I knew how the players felt who pulled on the jersey of their national team and played in a World Cup; every second counted: too scared to make a mistake and yet eager to be the magnificent hero.

I can't deny I dreamt of lifting the trophy. It may have been silly, but at that moment in time it was a massive occasion. I didn't see the crowd, or concentrate on them, just kept AFC Kerlon's attacking players at bay with well-timed tackles.

It was 0-0 at half-time; we'd closed them down when they had the ball and Lee had rattled the post with a scorching volley. Woodford Wanderers were dominant.

The second-half started with the same high tempo; it was natural that both teams would tire. Dmitri's scrambled goal gave us the lead and we celebrated like we had won the World Cup; their curly-haired forward equalised, before an 89th minute corner was headed into our net by our full-back.

It was heart-breaking.

We poured forward and peppered their goal with shots of our own; Lee's effort narrowly scraped the post and Dmitri had a volley cleared off the line. Seconds from the final whistle and our goalkeeper launched the ball into the box from a free kick. We all went up for it, and it bobbled free. For a split-second time froze; it was heading for me. I shaped to shoot, glancing up at the goal to see our opponents shaping to block.

One shot, that's all we had. Five seconds. I was the last chance. I wrapped my leg around it and slashed at the bouncing ball. It bobbled to my left, away from the goal, and everyone, for Ryan to lash the loose ball against the bar and in.

It was an assist.

I'd made a colossal mistake that Ryan had finished on my behalf. My blushes were saved but I never cared that I had fluffed my lines. We'd equalised. We celebrated wildly, running to the corner flag and gesturing to our fans.

Only, the cup final didn't end in a draw; it couldn't do as there had to be a winner. The final whistle signified penalties and I was given the unenviable task of taking one.

We stood arms interlocked on the half-way line, watching Dmitri slam the ball into the net. He made it look so effortless. They followed; all eight of the first takers were successful.

And then it was my turn. The lonely walk, the butterflies, the clammy hands and the cool realisation that the world was watching. I puffed out my chest and glared at the goalkeeper. He looked big.

He looked like he could save anything.

My heart pumped as I firmly put the ball on the penalty spot, and took two steps back. The goalkeeper waved his arms about and moved forwards. Two, three steps forward as I started my run up. Towards the ball, towards me.

My shot was pushed onto the bar; I complained, pointing at the goalkeeper three foot from his goal-line, but the referee was unmoved.

How could he not see it?

How could he be so blind to the obvious infringement?

It all rested with our goalkeeper, staring at the taker; he pulled off a spectacular save to deny AFC Kerlon the victory. Only, the referee spotted an infringement; Hugh had strayed from the line. The lanky keeper had moved forwards inches and been spotted.

We yelled towards the referee but he couldn't hear us, or care. No-one needed to tell me, but it was no doubt my objections that made him look for Hugh's movements and it was my anger that had started the wheels of the injustice.

Our opponents didn't make a second mistake; the ball was tucked away in the corner and the arrogant players streamed across the turf towards their fans.

Small margins. Wafer-thin.

We collapsed on the turf. We got medals to signify our runners-up spot but it was something I didn't want. A reminder of my failure. We saw AFC Kerlon collect the cup and their captain hold it aloft.

The interview with the television personality made it worse; he confirmed what we all knew that the referee had made a mistake, but it made no difference. We were to be AFC Kerlon's bitches for the rest of the day. Our forfeits expired at midnight and we returned to the changing room to cool down and have the briefest of showers.

We had a date with destiny; our captain lead us to the conferencing suite of the football club, naked and proud. "No-one thought we'd get this far," he reasoned. "Be proud of what we've achieved not ashamed of what we didn't." It was a fair comment, yet I still felt guilty and demoralised. The cameras focused on twenty naked men striding through the corridors of the football club, emblazoned with photos of red shirted professionals before we entered the vast suite, crowded with victorious and lecherous AFC Kerlon players.

They were dressed in tuxedos. We were naked.

They were smart powerful, we were anything but.

Our captain strode towards the AFC Kerlon's captain and held out his hand. They shook. The briefest moment of humility from a team that had been nothing but brutally arrogant all year. We'd been their equal and a fair match: it had been a tough game and that small gesture acknowledged it.

We all had bruises. It had been uncompromising. It could have been us in smart tuxedos.

Instead, it was them.

Although we'd been allowed to shower, they took all twenty of us to a side room. We needed to be "clean" and the cameras came with us. A small number of nurses were prepared for us, a larger number of enema kits.

A couple of our players objected; the cameras caught their anger. I said nothing as I was shown to one of the beds and I had a lubricated nozzle poked into my bottom. The water was cool and it caused me to yelp.

I felt a pressure inside; more than a cock thrusting into my rectum. A gentle force that grew, pressing on my prostate. I moaned; partly in arousal and partly in discomfort. I wasn't the only one.

Some of my team mates swore. Others grunted and groaned. Ryan was silent. I tried not to look at them, yet the camera was lapping up our degradation. Nozzles were replaced with buttplugs. The foetal position showed my distended belly. I felt flushed with shame.

The cramping got progressively worse. Tears streamed as I fought the pain and discomfort. Some of my team mates squealed, others groaned and begged.

The cameras loved it. I saw the director pointed to the camera man to focus on different players. It was a nasty humiliation and the sadistic film crew savoured the filthy display.

One by one we were called to the large bucket and told to sit on the seat, remove the plug and empty. Everyone got a minute to expel before we were carried back and plugged back in. It was a blissful release, forcing the pressure of the water out and savouring the flow of liquid from my rectum. A relief.

Short-lived.

The bucket stunk but two flushes of water for us all and we were "clean." And then we were told to pick out tokens from a black bag. Ralph got a pink one and left the room. I got a plain blue navy one as did Ryan. I never saw the rest of my team, as we were escorted to various rooms to get ready. Ryan and I were taken back to the main party, and sat in the corner, behind a large screen with two holes cut out.

"Gloryholes, boys!"

I tried not to roll my eyes, but it felt such an obviously stereotypical event to have. I saw the camera out of the corner of my eye, and the young cameraman stayed behind the screen as the brutish minders strode away. I stared at Ryan; he quivered under the glare of the cameraman.

"You OK?"

He nodded. He suppressed a smile. "Nervous. Excited."

Excited was one word I was not using, but his twinkly eyes said volumes to me. His rubbed his face and ran his fingers over his hairless body. He hands jerked and he knelt down on the pad in front of the hole, taking deep breaths.

We could hear the commotion outside but a quick peek through the hole showed that they were just manoeuvring a small number of the Woodford Wanderers 24 man squad into humiliating positions. I saw Dmitri wearing just a bowtie directly in front of me and dozens of cameramen.

I turned back to Ryan. His nervous smile had migrated into an excited grin, and he gulped, leaning towards the silent cameraman.

He was tall, no later than his mid-twenties and with a foppish streak of blonde hair. He said nothing as my naked colleague, leant towards his shorts, clearly enjoying the sexuality on display.

He was commando underneath the navy shorts. I know this because Ryan removed them, and without saying a word and licked the erect cock protruding from underneath the film studios T-Shirt. The camera focussed on me; the guys in the studio directing the cameramen through earpieces would likely say nothing as my friend was underneath the view of the video camera.

They must have heard the slurping, or the long sucks of his prick by Ryan. They must have heard the gentle groans from their employee or the slight shake on the large, expensive camera as he quivered from the relief Ryan was giving him.

They could not have seen the erotic explosion happening a foot away from me, or taste the desire in the eyes of my colleague. They couldn't smell the horniness, nor feel the urge to reach out and touch the desperate display unfolding in front of me.

It felt unreal. It was teasing. I wanted to feel someone, something. Any thing. Anything but the cold, clinical sexual detachment I was faced with. If they wanted to humiliate me then I needed them to stare me in the eyes as their cocks sprayed piss onto my face, or hold my ankles up high as they drilled their cocks into my butt.

I did not want them on the other side of a large partition anonymously posting a dick through the hole. I wanted to see their faces as they came, or felt their touch as they dominated me. The men of AFC Kerlon may have been arrogant bastards, but they had won the right to dominate and humiliate us, and if they wanted us to put our fullest energies into their games then they had to fuck us like the nasty little sluts we were.

That's what we all were: nasty little sluts. Filthy animals that had undertaken a game knowing that whether we won or lost we would be engaging in depraved activities. And while we may have muttered and tutted, whinged and moaned, deep down we all enjoyed the jeopardy and the sex. That first game against South End Harriers, where we had to give oral to the victorious team was a world away. I'd come out since then, as had many others in the league. Several were adamant that they were "100% straight" but still engaged in the "lewd" and "disgusting" antics with relish and zeal.

We'd had a part of our identity questioned and we'd shown our real selves. We were all filthy, nasty, disgusting pigs and we wouldn't change it for the world. Sure, if I could rewind I'd have taken the penalty differently, and I'd have made sure we had won the match, but right now, butt emptied and sat waiting to be dominated, I was content. I was happy. I'd even think about this in the weeks and months to come. I'd masturbate and come to orgasm as I recall how sexually helpless I was. How vulnerable. How degraded and humiliated I had become.

My colleague felt his own cock as he blew the cameraman, taking long deep throaty sucks of the young man busy concentrating his camera on me.

I was the decoy. I tried not to look at the hot sight of my footballing partner deep-throating the thick hard cock of the cameraman.

But I couldn't resist. I wanted to be him. I wanted to feel the swell of the organ rise in my mouth and the supple hardness of his young prick. I wanted to feel it twitch as his cum roared along the narrow shaft and squirted into the mouth of the submissive slut, coating the back of his throat with cum as he looked on.

I wanted it.

But as the noise behind me grew, I knew I'd have some cock to suck soon enough.