A gay story: Ball Games Ch. 01: The Beginning 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 swell of his cock bobbed inches from my face. The delicate aroma of masculinity and sweat swirled around me. There were no chains binding me to the wet floor of the changing room, but I was immobile. Captivated. Unable to move a muscle. Spellbound by the thick meat. I’d never been so close to one before.
The marbled pattern of the veins spiralled across the pale, turgid member swaying gently beside me. He waited. Paused as my mind twisted with emotion. My lips parted to allow a man to stuff his erect prick into my mouth. For the first time in my life.
I was naked; I was vulnerable and defeated, but he cared not. He had no reason to care. I had played the game and I had lost; we all had. We had to suffer the consequences.
Straight men forced to fellate their opponents; constrained and obligated to subject themselves to the overwhelming confidence of the victorious footballers. The violation was intense; the shame burnt as the veined cock slid past my tongue.
Our small changing room was crowded: victorious yells and screams dominated, echoes bouncing from walls and jostling players intimidated and disoriented us. My clothes were torn from my body: the laughter as they saw our naked crotches served to belittle us.
My cock strained, my eyes watered. I’d never done anything like this before. I had never touched another man, and until a few weeks previous I had never even thought of an erect dick sliding past my lips.
But I knew if nothing changed, I would be sucking a lot of cocks, and being fucked by lots of men in the coming months.
And the reason? After all, what could possibly possess heterosexual guys, many of them married or with girlfriends, to allow themselves be humiliated and obligated to commit homosexual acts with sweaty, overconfident men?
I’ll explain my wild, rampant year of discovery and adventure that took me onto a new career path. It brought me to hundreds of cocks and a handful of cunts being pleasured by my body. It exposed much about my colleagues, myself and my family.
It all started though, with me choking on that cock, attached that man and that changing room, in late August.
* * * * *
The North Midlands Sunday League pyramid was always a diverse, tolerant conference; it was also innovative and progressive, and nothing is a better example of this lust for experimentation than their efforts for the 2014/15 football, or soccer, season.
It was a heady combination of factors; in the second and third tiers of the league there had been a small number of male LGBT clubs seek admittance to the pyramid over the previous years, and a story was retold though whispering changing rooms that had minds whirring. The whispers said, in the previous season, the captains of two male LGBT teams had made a sporting bet where the losing team would blow the victors at the end of the match.
No-one knows for sure if this is just an urban legend, or a tall tale made up by homophobic critics stereotyping the successful gay football teams, but it was clear that Billingsford United vs Hartsford Lads FC was one of the most competitive football matches ever seen at our level. It finished 4-3.
The league had always been keen to promote good and entertaining football, and a chance meeting at the AGM got mouths talking. They proposed that there should be some jeopardy and forfeit for the losing team. The majority of the league clubs abstained or supported the motion, as well as a further proposal that banned financial penalties; all the teams pay considerable dues to be able to play football and to lease their grounds. A monetary forfeit would put our sport beyond reach.
Over the summer, two proposals were made and the league were obligated to consult all the teams on: a sexual forfeit, or a naked streak leaving the pitch. Alas, the voting forms were distributed over the close season and with only five teams of the forty in the pyramid responding, the sexual forfeits were chosen by three votes to two.
My team, Woodford Wanderers, saw a number of players walk out instantly: the idea of getting on your knees to suck the erect cock of another sportsman was too abhorrent for them and they left the team without hesitation. Other teams reported a similar exodus but the league pressed ahead with their plan.
They promised to abandon their scheme if it proved too unpopular, and they sought advice from sexual charities. Some people praised them for their libertarian stance, others were disgusted.
Personally, I pondered my options. My girlfriend made me “practice” on her dildo and I promised that I would at least give the new regime a couple of games.
I argued that probably wouldn’t be so bad as to stop me playing my sport. My girlfriend teased me as I barely took her five-inch sex toy in my mouth, but I was adamant the new rules would be bearable.
In truth, I didn’t want it to be awful; my football was my only sanctuary outside work and the only place I could truly unwind after a stressful day in the office. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the team I loved and had played centre midfield for, for five years. My team-mates were like an extended family and I longed for the return of the games again after our Summer break.
Our first, and only friendly, was a home match against South End Harriers; we entered the game full of confidence. They were a good team, but we’d seen a few new faces as they disembarked from their minibus and their newest recruits didn’t look physically strong.
It was a massacre: 5-0. Skilful players ran the midfield as we struggled to cope with their stamina or ability. It should have been more.
Fortunately, it was just a friendly: the victors could only claim a blowjob for a friendly win. As the final whistle blew and the referee led the teams from the pitch, we knew what the Harriers would demand from us. They sneered as muddy football kits glued to our bodies from the rain while they called us names.
It was part of the game. We had to grin and bear it. They had won; they savoured their victory, with excited voices and overflowing testosterone. They were able to enjoy their thirty minutes of fun at our expense.
They laughed at our naked forms, shivering in their cold changing room as they surveyed their beaten opponents. It was humiliating.
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.
Me.
My mouth tentatively welcomed the victor: he slid his warm, firm cock between my lips. I sucked; I thought I was prepared for the intrusion from the practice on my girlfriends dildo but nothing prepared me for the real thing.
It was intense; a filling of my mouth with firm softness that was warm to the lips and shockingly sinful. I was excited and disgusted; my heart thumped dramatically in my chest as my eyes closed and I felt the features of his cock with my tongue.
I licked the soft ridges as his foreskin slid back and his glans became exposed, sucking in his masculinity and swirling my tongue over his sensitive head.
I tasted it, the bitter fluid; a pea of pre-cum forming on my tastebuds as I sucked his manly scent in. His pubic hair tickled my nose, his hands rubbed the back of my head as I closed my eyes and bobbed, allowing him to guide my head further and further onto his cock.
I barely heard the insults, didn’t need to hear to the cries or groans of satisfaction; his cock twitched repeatedly, spasming as my mouth slid up and down his shaft, taking in every aspect of him. Savouring him, enjoying his taste and my submission.
My hands rubbed around his legs; pressing against the roughness of the hair on his muscular thighs. He jerked as two fingers pressed against his taint, groaning as I circled it with firm movements on his perineum.
Pre-cum leaked from my cock: I had never done this before, and the feeling of the twitching cock in my mouth was far hotter than I expected. I waited for his final twitch and jerk as he pulled against my head, pressing his cock deep into my mouth before several pulses spewed his cum into my throat.
I coughed much of it up; the sudden realisation that another man had orgasmed down my throat was intensely erotic yet much of a head-fuck. He leant against the wall, eyeing me as his salty deposits dribbled from my chin.
His erection was withering, but the glowing sheen on his shaft was a testament to his victory as he revelled in the sight of his team-mates face-fucking my team-mates. It was visceral: the grunting of the passionate debauchery surrounding us. “I want the spanking rule too. And I choose you!”
“But that’s not in the friendlies!” I objected.
He shouted across the room. “Hey Dino! Spanking rule is friendlies too, ain’t it?” Dino grunted, nodding as our goalkeeper’s mouth swept their captain into a vocal climax that covered our keeper’s face in pearlescent goo.
I was pinned to the bench, protesting and arguing as their striker smashed his hand against my backside. My team-mates did nothing, watching or sucking as the five-goal winning margin was played out in spanks on my rump. I had to take them, struggling against the cold wood in the draughty changing room. My face was held down on discarded sweaty clothing as the striker counted; each strike bouncing painfully against my arse.
It hurt: more than the embarrassment of a straight guy giving a blowjob, more than the humiliation of our defeat, and more than the physical pain of the spanks, but the emotional angst of being hit; being disciplined like I was an errant Victorian child punctured the very core of my dignity.
I held onto the bench as his triumphantly counted to five. My arse burnt with agony while my cheeks burnt with shame at his treatment. “Go!” He cried, releasing his grip on me and watching as I scrambled to my feet. “I’m so looking forward to our match in three weeks time,” he gestured, licking his lips and gently stroking my bare bottom. “I want to get my prick up there!”
Because with league games it wasn’t a quick blowjob for the losers, but every time I crossed the white line to go onto the pitch, my arse was on the line.
In every sense of the word.