A gay story: Ball Games Ch. 11: Italian Job 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.
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I was certainly more than a little nervous about returning to work a few hours after sucking most of my colleagues in a hotel bedroom behind a gloryhole constructed from a vandalised hotel duvet. I had swallowed a lot of cum that night, and had even more splattered over my body; the mere thought made me scared and horny.
I found myself awoken the following morning with a longing to give oral sex. I swirled my tongue against the clit of my girlfriend as my finger pressed against her G-Spot, waking her with a squirting orgasm that propelled her cum into my face.
But my thirst for sex was near constant: I just wanted some action. Anything, to relieve the tedium of work. I walked into the office desperately horny, despite fucking Anna before leaving the house, and I barely concentrated on my employment as I ogled the women in short-skirts and the men in tight trousers. I was a walking sex addict, imagining several orgies where I was fucking and being fucked, sucking and being sucked.
“What’s up?” Emit asked me after lunch; my attention had been away with the fairies all day and he crouched down at my desk asking in hushed whisperings. “Is it about … the party? Are you … OK?”
“I’m fine,” I muttered, glancing at our boss leaving the open-plan office for a meeting. “Can I borrow you? In private.”
He glanced up; I could see the scared expression on his face as he pondered what I could want with him. I detected a fear that another person may want to talk about emotions or their feelings with him. He tentatively agreed, following me into the tiny meeting room and I locked the door; his words asked me questions that remained unanswered, as I sent a video chat request to Anna on my smartphone. “I’m going to blow you.”
“What?” He spluttered, as I knelt in front of his crotch and passed him my phone. Not a request or an enquiry. Not a ponderous suggestion but a command: I was going to give him a blowjob. I was going to suck on his cock and bring him to an orgasm. “And record it.” I heard the distinctive voice of my girlfriend splutter as I yanked the zip of his fly and removed his cock from his red boxer shorts.
It was already filling with blood, the warmth and aroma of his dick stoking my senses as my tongue swirled lustfully over the purple head. My nose nestled against his trousers, my lips sliding over his tumescent cock that filled my mouth.
It was disgraceful behaviour at work; I was providing gay oral sex to a colleague to fulfil my needs. I wanted someone to rip my trousers away and plunge a thick slippery cock against my butt hole, thrusting deep into me to excite my prostate. I wanted someone to breathe warmth onto my balls and then float their lips over my genitals to kiss my shaft, sucking the pre-cum leaking into my briefs as I worked Emit into a groaning mess of desperate lust. He squealed as he approached his peak, gasping heavily.
I tasted the beads of pre-cum on my tongue. I felt the quivers of his prick and heard the feverish panting as I sucked, flicking the underside of his sensitive cock until he issued a battery of profanity and came on my tongue. He squirted several waves of cum into my mouth with a febrile grunt.
I smiled at my phone, licked my lips and showed my girlfriend the cum in my mouth before swallowing Emit’s semen.
If I expected the giving a random blowjob to a colleague would satisfy my lust, I was mistaken. My mind fantasised even more about sex, and I skipped dinner when I arrived home, jumping on my masturbating girlfriend to ram my dick into her moist hole until we both came to our ferocious climaxes.
I knew I had set a precedent with Emit. My girlfriend adored the show I had performed, I had certainly enjoyed doing it and my colleague loved the passionate blowjob I had given. He asked for an encore the following day, begging me to suck him to orgasm in the meeting room adjacent to our desks. I obliged, unable to resist sending my girlfriend another show that translated into a four hour sex session when I returned home from training.
And that continued: meeting rooms, stationery cupboards, the gymnasium changing rooms opposite our work and even once at 7am underneath his desk. We were friends before, and we came friends with benefits. Or more to the point, I became his friend with a benefit and each time we gave Anna a show.
The league had finished for Christmas, but the team trained hard when we weren’t away with our families. Our mid-table position was respectable, and far higher than where we thought we would be. We certainly had our eyes on the cup as a possible trophy, even if the league was out of our reach this year.
At Christmas, I proposed to my girlfriend, getting down on one knee as the snow tumbled around us and asked for her to marry me. It was romantic, tears tumbled down her cheek as she mumbled “yes.” As we returned to the warmth of our blazing hearth, she asked, “will my husband suck as much cock, get fucked by as much dick and give me as many orgasms as my boyfriend did?”
“Of course,” I replied as she giggled. “More, possibly!”
“Then yes, we better get married tomorrow.”
After our New Year celebrations had come and gone, the team was invited to an exhibition event in Palermo on the Italian island of Sicily. The tournament, organised by state-side broadcaster GaySportsTV, had suffered a couple of withdrawals and the coach had received a pleading phone conversation two days before the first match asking if we could take one of the spare places at the event.
I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go, but the prize fund on offer was significant and my new fiancée liked the idea of both the games and the forfeits being broadcast on live, albeit pay-per-view, television. The twelve teams playing represented countries in America, Russia, the Far East and Europe and as well as ourselves, AFC Kerlon had been invited to represent England, as well as the league we played in.
For attending, the broadcaster paid for our flights, accommodation and food. We were informed that a couple of the teams were “mixed-gender” and “participants should be prepared to have sexual relations with both sexes.” I pondered this before discussing it with my new fiancée, trying to guess what she would say.
It was a very different dynamic playing with other men, compared to women. There was no way Anna could give me what Emit or Paul or Dmitri or any of my other partners had given me, but with a woman it was different.
She was blasé when I brought it up. “Fuck ’em,” she casually demanded. “It’s just your hobby. You’re not going there to find another girlfriend or wife, enjoy yourself.”
Her only payment was another session via live video chat with myself and Emit: our sessions had become so regular and I played with his testicles in my mouth as I sucked hard on his delicate orbs before savouring his prick into a spasming relief for my understanding fiancée.
We were drawn in Group III with Tallinn New Boys from Estonia and Pride of St David from Wales. Not all of our players travelled but the core spine of our team came and we flew with the cocky AFC Kerlon players from Manchester Airport who were certain that they were going to win all of their games and take the top prize of $100,000: to be split between the victorious team and the players.
The tournament was a much bigger event than I expected. Posters and banners lined the Mediterranean streets as a minibus drove us towards our accommodation: the event brought tourists and the tourists brought money to the island. Our group games were to be played at a small, provincial stadium on the outskirts of the town, and our hotel was situated opposite the venue.
Dmitri and I took a walk around the stadium and the area after we arrived and were stopped for autographs when two young Italian ladies recognised us: I ogled their arses as they walked away from me! There were strange benefits to being a bisexual sports icon!
The first match in the group was us, Woodford Wanderers, against Tallinn New Boys of Estonia. We met them when the hotel served breakfast and the half-naked men and women crashed into the dining room. They joked in Estonian, laughed and spoke to us in broken English: all of their players topless. Some had rippling six packs, some had paunches and some had bare breasts. I ogled the girls, smiling at one as she blew me a kiss and rubbed her pierced nipples. I felt my cock harden as she pouted at me.
Tallinn New Boys were a mixed gender team, a founder member of the new “Ultimate Humiliation League” that was due to start in February and follow the model of “our” league in England. This tournament was part of their pre-season.
It was easily the best stadium we had ever played in; the expansive changing rooms were ten times the size of our ramshackle facilities in England and our coach had a whiteboard to convey his tactics to us. We felt like proper footballers.
Our opponents played in the colours of their national flag: royal blue shirts, black shorts and white socks, and the young lady who caught my eye looked sexy as she lined up in the midfield, barely looking at me as Tallinn New Boys started the game to rapturous cheering from the capacity crowd. The girl was good, scything my legs away with a crunching tackle and opening the scoring from thirty yards with a thunderous drive into the top corner. However, our superior fitness showed and two goals in the closing fifteen minutes from Dmitri gave us a 2-1 win in front of a packed, and appreciative, audience.
Dmitri and our captain were interviewed after the match for the cameras, before we swapped our changing room for the “victory tent:” a marquee set up in the corner of the car park. Sixteen naked football players waited for us, as did two benches, a sex swing, four buckets of condoms with bottles of lubricant, six multi-coloured GaySportTV cushions, two screens showing homosexual pornography and three cameramen.
I wanted “her”: she was the midfield maestro who had given me bruises and the hardest match of the season. She was the one who had turned from a pleasant flirt at breakfast into a Roy Keane nutter when crossing the white line onto the pitch. I wanted to fuck her.
So did Dmitri, and as man of the match, he got to choose first. This was unfair: she hadn’t fouled him!
Indeed, all five of the girls were seized by other players before I got to choose. I picked a slender eighteen year old with boyish charm and a worried look. He also didn’t speak much English. I pushed him onto the green cushion, and he tentatively poked his tongue out towards my naked cock.
“‘E’s never done it before,” the girl explained to me, as she knelt in front of Dmitri. She spoke to him in Estonian and he nodded with a worried look on his face, watching her as her mouth slid over Dmitri’s prick.
My team mate sighed as she sucked on the underside of his erect cock, groaning as her mouth coasted up and down the manhood I had once pleasured.
It seemed such a long time ago; I felt a pang of jealousy as I watched her suckle my friend’s dick. I remembered the tastes and sensations as he mewled under my touch, feeling my erection harden for my young loser watching intently.
It was his turn now. I was about to take his oral virginity. He tentatively brought his lips to the tip of my cock, pushing his tongue underneath my prick and allowing my purple dickhead to glide into his mouth. He grunted as he sucked, grabbing hold of my thigh with his left hand and rubbing my balls with his right.
His uncertain sucking became more relaxed and passionate as his anxiety drifted away; his cock became hard as his fingers rubbed against my perineum. It felt fantastic: I felt powerful. The all-conquering warrior taking satisfaction from the plundered losers. Them subjugating themselves to my will and my pleasure as my subjects watched my victory via live streaming.
I smiled towards the cameraman capturing the deflowering of my loser’s mouth: the innocent man with his hairless body sucking with lustful zeal. His fingers left my thigh and tugged at his erect cock; smooth except for a splash of blonde teenage fuzz.
“Wank yourself off, slut!”
I wasn’t sure where the words came from, but the camera blatantly focused on us, capturing the furious masturbation and passionate oral from my inexperienced opponent. I grabbed hold of the sides of his head, pressing his blonde locks and began to impale his mouth onto my manhood.
Not roughly, not angrily, but to increase the pace of his lips sliding over my shaft.
He sucked; squealing as I pushed my cock deeper into his mouth, drawing passionate mews and cries. His fingers blurred over his dick as he pumped his manhood faster, lapped at my frenulum harder and pressed his fingers onto the bud of my arse.
My body surged past the point of inevitability with a desperate swirl of lust. I whimpered, tensing my muscles as I held onto my orgasm, delaying my eruption to intensify the rush of climatic explosion.
I felt his cum land on my bare feet, the groaning of his ecstasy vibrating my cock as I squirted cum into him.
For the first time, he tasted cum from the source.
For the first time, he blew a man.
His oral innocence lost, on live television.
His humiliation complete, for everyone to see.
His dreamy eyes looked up at me: his female team-mate watching as I clicked my fingers and pointed to the cum on my feet. “Clean them up, slut!”
The cameraman, considering moving on to another frantic tryst for their viewers, filmed the wicked smile on my face. I really didn’t mean him to, but the young lad threw his face into my feet, pressing his tongue against my sweaty limbs and sucking his deposit from my toes.
It tickled. His mouth swiping over my skin tickled. I squirmed, Dmitri laughed.
I got interviewed by GaySportTV after the session: I gave “my” man, a full ten out of ten with a cheesy grin. I meant it too: he sucked good!
Two hours after we finished, I watched Tallinn New Boys put six goals past The Pride of St David, the Welsh team. They were hideously out of condition, and it was painful as they were outclassed. Dmitri loaded the GaySports TV website on his tablet after the match and we watched the live streaming as we munched on lunch. We laughed as several proud Welshmen were debased by being “forced” into homosexual acts. I enjoyed the spit-roast and the spankings given: the players from Tallinn enjoyed their victorious treat, especially my midfield girl who rammed an impressive strap-on into the arse of an indignant Welshman.
In the late afternoon, it was our turn to play: if we beat Pride of St David then we would win our group and advance to the semi-finals the following day; if we lost, then Tallinn would probably progress.
We didn’t lose; we were four goals up by half-time and finished the game at 9-0. The Welsh team were hopeless; wheezing and coughing as they half-heartedly ran with the ball. Most of them were hideously unfit and unable to tackle. It was easy, they were exhausted.
I got a hairy, rotund Welshman in the victory tent: ten years older than me and coughing as I wordlessly gave him the lube to apply. He complained we were “too lucky” but we weren’t: his team were just too bad!
I made my sheathed cock slippery and parted his buttocks as he leant over a cushion, grunting as my dick penetrated his anus. It was soulless and emotionless. There was no joking or laughter from them, unlike Tallinn New Boys. There was no willingness to admit they had been beaten, they were just in denial that we had trounced them.
It took the enjoyment out of the fuck, and made it about imposing our victory onto him. And he was tight: his ring of muscle gripping my cock as I slid into him and rocked to a powerful rhythm. I pulled him onto my dick by his thighs, listening to his reedy panting over the desperate grunts in the tent.
The camera crew watched the young Lee and Dmitri spit-roast their Welsh captain, while another filmed the passionate oral given by their cock-loving goalkeeper. But my loser was being fucked by me; his tight muscles massaged my intruding dick in a tent smelling of sex, testosterone and sweat.
He squealed as I pounded him, thrusting my cock deep into his arse as our skin slapped. He was pushed forward with the force of my hammering dick, powering into him with keen ardour. I wanted to seize my orgasm from him. I wanted him to be responsible for filling my condom with my seed, and for him to know it.
I wanted him to remember the furious fucking I’d given him and remembered that he had been fucked. On the pitch, and off of it.
I felt my prick surge with lust and arousal, my balls contract and quiver as my second orgasm of the day crept up underneath me and surged into a smattering of cum into the condom.
I said nothing: he slipped off my prick with the merest squeal. Not even able to admit that he was beaten at the end.
We spanked them each nine times, due to our emphatic victory: bare bottom spanks issued for the camera that had them yelling with discomfort as we turned their arses the same colour as their shirts.
They had come to “win the competition for Wales,” but had been humiliated twice and were leaving a broken team. Albeit a little bit richer.
We, on the other hand, had a semi-final to prepare for. At the big stadium in the town. And we wanted to win the competition for us, and our fans.