Winners and Losers

"What?" My trembling hand wiped my feverish brow.

"I think I'm bisexual," I blurted out as she held me tightly. "I ..."

"Love, tell me something I don't know!"

"What! You knew?" My voice incredulous; hers flippant.

"I sort of knew all along." Her fingers wrapped themselves around my hand and stroked it gently. "Been waiting for you to realise."

"What?"

"After that very first game when you had to go down on that guy, half of my Facebook wall was lit up by the wives and girlfriends of the players complaining that their partners were whinging and whining about it. You: you told me what happened but just looked forward to next Saturday. And every week, you'd want next Saturday to be around sooner and sooner. And that's more than the football. Then Dmitri and you doing the 69: I've known you long enough to know that was fun for you too! You loved the games, the play, the exploring. Everything."

"But ..."

"And the photo shoot. And so much more. Don't worry," she simpered. "I think it's really hot you've explored your sexuality." Her eyes sparkled. "And I know the way you've been fucking me after you've been fucking them, you're not going to run off with Dmitri. It's cool." I gulped. "I still love you Marc Lowton, and I still very much want to be Mrs Anna Lowton as soon as possible. And you getting ten, a hundred, a thousand, a million dicks cumming inside you isn't going to change that one bit and ..."

She never finished her sentence, I kissed her and pushed her against our wall, pawing at her clothes and ripping the flimsy knickers from her body. She panted as my fingers swept over her cunt and pressed against her clit. She groaned as I swirled her button as I kissed her, feeling her squirm underneath my touch until she whimpered. She was on edge. I pulled her onto the floor and entered her throbbing cunt, thrusting deep into her heaven and pounding her moist pussy until we both came, collapsing into each other's arms with big smiles.

"Not bad for a homo!" She teased with a vicious grin. "Not bad at all!"

I gave Anna the appearance money I had earned at the International tournament towards our wedding; it was a sizeable chunk of our budget. Indeed, most of the moaning during training was that most of the players had had their money seized by their demanding partners. "I got fucked in the arse at the weekend, and what have I got to show for it? Fuck all. She didn't get fucked in the arse, she was round her mothers having roast lamb while I was on my knees. And she wouldn't open up her back door to me last night. Not fucking fair, I tell you!"

But for all our Captain's rampant indignity, we had a game to prepare for, and the four games in two days had certainly shaken the festive lethargy from our muscles. The main news was that the league had decreed that they would be varying the tasks each week for a draw but that it would involve jeopardy for both sides and would be very "audience friendly." I shuddered to think what that could be! The other news was that GaySportsTV had purchased the live television rights for the league and had allocated a handful of games for live coverage.

Alas our first league game after the Christmas break wasn't one of them, when we welcomed Mansfield Park Rangers to our home ground. The team had finished directly above us in the league last year but were struggling this season and their only win had come against the pitiful Leyton Kennels, as their best players had deserted them when the new rules came into force. I remembered the team as being stuffed full of physically strong, and commanding players who tackled strongly and painfully. They may have been pretty poor at playing football, but they were very good at causing bruises and working hard.

When they disembarked from their minibus, none of the bulging muscles were left: they were thin, wiry and dainty. They didn't look like footballers; they looked geeky and weak. If appearances are sometimes deceptive, then that wasn't the case: we played them off the park. They were short on skill, strength, match practice and fitness. Dmitri had scored a hat-trick before half-time, and Lee completed his hat-trick in the second-half. Even I got a goal as I lashed home a loose ball in the area as Woodford Wanderers completed a sensational 14-0 victory.

Our opponents were stunned; we were pretty shocked ourselves. The match had been easy: the crowd roared with approval as the final whistle blew and we congratulated each other on a job well-done. The Manlube representative was especially delighted: Mansfield were sponsored by their big rival!

The slender men entered our changing rooms looking shaky; we had inflicted the worst defeat in their history with a powerful display of strength, guile and skill and I am not sure they quite knew what to expect from us; we had been uncompromising on the pitch.

They appeared anxious and self-conscious, and a little scared. The wiry lad who I selected was the midfielder who I had bullied all game. He had marks all over his legs and a delicate frame that screamed vulnerability. He only eighteen with fashionably untidy blonde hair and a smooth wispy smattering of light fuzz over his cock.

"Sorry," he squealed. "I've not done this before." His body was trembling under my gaze as he clamped his clammy fingers together. "It's my first time." His eyes were torn to his team mate squealing beside me, groaning as his hole was stretched by the sizeable cock of our goalkeeper sliding past the young man's anus. "I ... I ... I ... saw it on television and ..."

"Sure," I soothed and took a deep breath. "Relax." I ogled his naked body for a few moments; he ws sexy. Very sexy.

"The team asked for new players and it looked like fun but ... I'm ..."

"Relax," I said a bit firmer; more of a command to the panicking man hyperventilating than a calming piece of advice. "Just, relax. Deep breaths. It's fine. Where you are today, I was there last week and will be there again soon. And where I am, you will be soon." He nodded as I spoke. "It's part of the game. If you don't want to play, you don't have to, but you have to leave the league. Is that what you want to do?"

He shook his head defiantly. I had given him a get-out and he didn't want to take it.

I asked again but he was certain that he wanted to fulfil the forfeit, and knelt in front of me, eyeing my cock for a few moments. "They told me what to do," he muttered as his virgin lips fell onto my manhood, drawing itself into an erection. His tongue drew tentatively over my glans, looking for approval with doe-eyed innocence. He got it, a warm, genuine smile as his mouth slid over my cock.

The tingling became intense; he sucked and cajoled pleasure from my dick, bobbing slightly as he took the first couple of inches in his mouth and rolled his tongue over my glans, tickling the frenulum. He swept delightfully over the opening and caught the roll of my foreskin.

The added knowledge that I was seizing his oral virginity was sizzling hot. I was pillaging his mouth for my pleasure and taking his innocence. I was the Viking, triumphant in battle and now taking my reward for my victorious toil.

His fingers danced lightly over my balls and pressed against my taint, drawing the briefest of mewls from my lips. It was intensely erotic and my orgasm welled up inside of me. I thrust my cock deeper into his mouth, bucking his lips as my climax swelled and my point reached.

I warned him, grunting that I was about to come, and he sucked powerfully on the tip of my prick as my loins pulsed and my cock squirted my cum into his mouth.

He coughed as I withdrew, leaning against the wall. He wasn't so innocent now, cum leaking from his lips. I wasn't going to steal his anal virginity either; I doubt he would have been comfortable giving it to me, and I certainly wouldn't have been comfortable taking it. I enjoyed the jeopardy and the risk and I loved winning, but only when the loser was happy to consent to the plundering of their body for my satisfaction, for the right reasons. A false obligation was tenuous grounds.

"Have some fun with a dildo," I suggested. "Next week you might lose and they might take your backside. Who do you play next week?"

"Leyton Kennels."

"OK. The week after then," I joked. "But ask your girlfriend to peg you to get used to it. It's ... nice. Prostate play is." He muttered an appreciative response.

We spanked them thoroughly before they left; every member of their team received fourteen spanks from each and every one of us on their bare asses for their pitiful display from the captain's "Paddle of justice" that left them squealing with pain and then writhing in agony.

They looked so damn hot; wiry, thin, feminine bodies that were mostly hairless and dainty. Sweaty, and clammy, and with reddened backsides that glowed under the strip lights. I felt my cock rising at the sight, although our fun was over as they left our changing room, down-trodden and defeated.

I had an interesting experience at work the following day; I got quizzed about sex! I had had the week off following our trip abroad as I needed to "use up" my holiday before the end of February or I would lose it. Emit congratulated me on the sizeable win against Mansfield when I returned to the office. "I checked up on the score," he asked. "Did you get to fuck the losers."

"Sssshh!" I whispered, glancing around the office to see who had heard his tactless candour. "Yes!"

"It's OK," he broadcast. "Hey guys! He's back!"

"What?"

"Dude," my youngest colleague cried. "We saw you in Italy last weekend. On TV. Wow! Was it good?"

I glanced at Emit who just shrugged. "They found out. What do you want me to say?" I blushed at the attention, even more so when most of the office demanded to know exactly what went on. When I described the sex after the matches for what it was - mostly fun, a bit humiliating at times, and always exciting - the expected homophobia never materialised.

They weren't bothered by it at all.

They didn't care that one of their colleagues and friends spent the weekends engaging in rampant homosexual sex publicly and explicitly. They didn't vilify or offer moral objections; they were interested in my experiences and about what Anna thought.

I was shocked; I expected fear and loathing not blind acceptance, and although I didn't divulge my new sexuality to them, I don't think I really had to. I think they just guessed.

We were busy that week, and I had plenty of work to catch up on, so I was somewhat grateful for the sanctuary of training and the excitement of a forthcoming match. We loved playing Sutton Working Mens Club: their lust for the game, good humour and impious irreverence made them fantastic opponents.

We always went the extra mile when hosting Sutton; adjacent to our ground was the village pub, and our coach coaxed the club into paying for the function room and catering from the Manlube sponsorship for a post-game reception.

Our visitors arrived late, they always did, and took an incredibly long time changing. This was normal; they worked to their own schedule and the game kicked off ten minutes late.

It was a fiercely competitive match. My midfield opponent from our game earlier in the year was quick and nimble, I was strong and fierce. When I could get near him, I won our duel but that wasn't too often!

His turn of pace opened the scoring. One of my midfield partners, Kevin, gave the ball away to him and the quick opponent surged past my outstretched leg to lash the ball home from forty yards, with the help of the crossbar.

In the second half, we equalised through a goalmouth scramble. I wasn't completely sure if I got the last touch on the goal-line, but I claimed the goal and nobody disagreed as I wheeled away from the box, arm aloft in celebration.

The final whistle ended a desperate ten minutes as both teams surged forwards to find a winner, taking risks as both crossbars were rattled. The frantic match was succeeded by a harassed representative of the league taking to the field with a PA system to announce the "draw game."

The two sets of players waited anxiously. It was our first draw since the start of the year. It felt a little bit like "It's a knockout," listening to some rules for a wacky game read out to an appreciative crowd.

"Pay the penalty," he announced. "Each player will be paired with one player from the opposing team. They will take it in turns to take penalties against their opponent's goalkeeper. For each goal they score, the player must remove an item of clothing. The first player to miss a spot kick, when their opponent scores, loses."

We looked at Hugh, our goalkeeper. He wasn't the most agile of players but his record at saving penalties was incredibly good. Despite being the wrong side of thirty, his reactions were quick. I was the first person selected, and was paired with their Irish striker: a cheeky young man who confidently dispatched his first spot kick.

I focused on the goalkeeper, as my shot was hit hard and low to his left, burying the ball in the bottom corner as my shirt was dropped onto the floor. We both scored our second and third strikes too, stripping naked and keeping our socks and boots on, before my opponent got arrogant and tried to chip our goalkeeper from the penalty spot and cleared the crossbar to whoops of delight from the crowd.

The nearly naked man, fell onto his knees, swearing loudly and beating the ground. "Stay down there," I joked, shivering in the cold swirling wind as the ball was placed next to my opponent. Their goalkeeper tried to distract me, monkeying around on the goal-line. My opponent taunted me as my eyes narrowed on the goalmouth. The crowd were tense, I was anxious, taking deep breaths as I sized my options.

Instead of placing it, I powered the ball into the roof of the net, giving the goalkeeper no chance of saving it.

"Hey, nice one," my opponent muttered as I held my hand out to him to pull him from the mud. "Well taken."

It was, and I pushed the lightweight Irish striker to his knees the moment we entered our changing room. His mouth opened the moment I sat on the bench; he knew the rules, and he was fine that he lost. My arousal was tickled as his lips plunged onto my cock, staring at his closed eyes.

His lips massaged my cockhead and shaft, taking my full length into his throat without a moment's hesitation. His warm mouth made delightful noises on my cock, slurping, sliding and mewing. "Play with yourself," I suggested, although it came out as an order.

His fingers wrapped around his thick cock, pumping himself to the same rhythm that his mouth was bobbing on my dick. Smoothly sliding his mouth over my shaft as his other hand gripped the base of my cock and his mouth swept gloriously over the impaling member.

It was good; he was good. He was a cocksucker of amazing talent, rolling his tongue under my cock as his mouth sucked the pleasure into my manhood. He grunted as I approached the inevitable; the fiery peak of my lust approaching.

I could not resist his manly skills; groaning with desire and anticipation as my orgasm approached. He was about to get a mouthful of cum and the little slut knew it. My balls tightened, my muscles quivered, spasming with passionate arousal as my body shuddered. A wave of lustful relief swept over me, followed by another and another. I felt incredible, breathlessly groaning as I desperately held onto my orgasm before the intensity in my loins was too great and I released a dozen streams of cum into the losing striker.

He swallowed it; licking his lips as he got every last drop of my semen into his throat, gulping loudly and obscenely.

He'd come too: I hadn't noticed and I told him to lick his fingers clean. He smiled as he did, his tongue sliding over his cum-covered hand before leaving me in our changing room, completely sated and satisfied.

Because only Lee, Dmitri and our captain, Ralph, joined me in our changing room, it revealed that the team were not very good at taking penalties: we won just four of the fifteen duels!

The food and drink at the pub was a raucous affair; we joked with them, got completely pissed, stripped naked and then thirty drunk men streaked through the village. We even got our picture taken with a bride and bridesmaids about to enter the church for a wedding, posing with them as a reluctant photographer snapped the indecent pictures.

As I said, we always had fun when Sutton came to play.

At work, Emit and I had barely crossed paths for a couple of months, but the following week, we were both asked to visit a client's site; they had problems and had not received the sort of assistance they or our company expected. As a goodwill gesture, myself and Emit were asked to travel to their headquarters in London for a couple of days.

They were a little frosty at first, but when they realised that neither Emit nor I had caused or were responsible for the issues they had and were simply present to assist and help, the barriers dropped. They dropped a little further when I was recognised as "that football guy from the telly." Yes, the manager watched GaySportsTV, and therefore nearly outed himself in front of the entire office by his candour; he chatted to me in the canteen over hushed whispers about how "hot" it was and how much he wanted to play in a similar league.

In the evening though, Emit and I were bored. Our employer had booked a twin room for us, and after an unhealthy meal, he was in the mood to relax. I knew what he wanted and so a few minutes after he had finished his final pint, we had the Manlube freebie open, and I was lubricating my arsehole for penetration

He had complained that his partner refused him anal sex and after a careless comment about my own experience of being rodgered regularly by Anna's strap-on or a victorious footballer, I knew what the next words would be.

Of course, I consented. It had been a couple of weeks since my sphincter had been plundered by a rutting man and I missed the sensation of being full. I wanted to be taken by a grunting, sweating, desperate bloke. I wanted to feel submissive for a moment, to feel on the receiving end of a thrusting member, filling my need and pumping desperately into my hole.

I needed to submit and provide satisfaction and pleasure. I needed to be a mere orifice for someone to own and rampantly abuse. I needed gay sex.

My own need was clear, as was Emit's. He needed a hole, nothing more nothing less. His slippery sheathed cock poked tentatively at my hole. I told him to be firmer and push harder. I told him to fuck me. I told him to be a man, and he giggled like an immature schoolkid.

It might have spoilt the moment if he hadn't taken the hint and plunged his cock deep into me. I groaned as he did; the shock was delightful, the feeling was intense. He impaled me, sliding against my prostate, thrusting deeply into my arse and pulling at my hips.

My submission soared; the finger tips digging into my flesh as he plundered my sanctuary for his pleasure. Pre-cum dribbled onto my duvet, streaming from my cock as every nerve in my rectum sizzled with delightful intensity.

I needed more. I needed a cock to fill my grunting mouth as my colleague drove himself to orgasm. I needed to have my desperate cries silenced by a rampaging manhood as I was reduced and debased. I needed a team to service, eleven desperate men lining up with hard dicks and aroused minds, ready to use my body for their pleasure and then discard me. I needed to be a ragdoll or a gangbang slut.

But I couldn't have it; my mind spun with ludicrous lustful fantasies as Emit pounded my backside, his cock slipping to an orgasm with a few snorting grunts and loud, satisfied shrieks. I felt his cock pulse as he filled the condom; my own arousal shaking and quivering with unspent desire.