The swell of his cock bobbed in front of my face, the feint aroma of masculinity and sweat swirling around me. There are no chains binding me to the wet floor of the changing room, but I was immobile. Captivated. Unable to move, my lips parted for the first time to allow a man to stuff his erect prick into my mouth.
I was naked; I was vulnerable and defeated, but they cared not. They had no reason to care. I had played the game and I had lost; all of us had. The Woodford Wanderers were hammered by South Oak Harriers and we had to suffer the consequences.
Fortunately, it was just a friendly: the victors could only claim a blowjob for a friendly win, so as the final whistle blew and the referee led the teams from the pitch, our football kit glued to our bodies in the rain, we knew what the Harriers would demand.
It was crowded in the small changing room: victorious yells and screams dominated, echos bouncing from walls and jostling players intimidated and disorientated us. Our clothes were torn from our bodies: the laughter as they saw our naked crotches served to belittle us.
It was part of the game. We had to grin and bear it. They won, they savoured their victory, with excited voices and overflowing testosterone, they were able to enjoy their thirty minutes of fun at our expense.
Their striker, the victim of a few steady tackles from myself, grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me onto my knees. He had short-blonde hair, a bit of bulk around the middle and a cheeky smile on his face. An extrovert, my tormentor, glowed as his cock bobbed free and he swung it into my face. I watched it harden, the veins on his meaty prick becoming prominent. His uncut cock now textured and ready for him to claim his reward.
