Winners and Losers

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

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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.