A gay story: Ball Games Ch. 26: Betty’s Challenge 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.
* * * * *
It took a couple of days for normality to return; Anna had seen most of the action and she hardly tired of me repeating the detail. She enjoyed me recounting my feelings of submission.
Of course, Betty enjoyed the show. She tweeted several stills from the broadcast and repeated her offer for me to join her in a challenge.
With my bank balance heading into scarlet territory, and few job applications yielding a phone call I sat down and talked it through my fiancée. We were in danger of needing to touch our wedding savings, and the pragmatist in me won over the pride. I didn’t want to be a porn star; it wasn’t my chosen vocation.
But it was the only way I could make any money and I rang Betty a few days later. The buxom blonde bombshell gleefully invited herself to my house a couple of days later.
“I was in the area,” she admitted as she lounged on our sofa, accepting a cup of tea from my partner. Anna was always a little awe struck by the adult producer and entertainer, and that day was no exception.
Betty purred when I admitted what I had told her on the telephone. Her eyes sparkled. “Quite simply,” she said. “I want a Challenge. Me and you. May the bigger slut win. This will be set up by the way that I win. But it’ll be close. Winner fucks the loser.”
“Oh OK.”
“There is a nightclub I often use. It’s in the City, but I have dozens of people no questions asked. Who can fuck, or suck, the most people.”
“Women too?”
Betty broke into a smile. “If you think you can pull lesbians!”
Anna giggled.
The evening was spent talking to Betty; we didn’t need to discuss the long plot of her pornographic masterpiece as it a simple piece of staged erotica. Instead, we passed the time talking as my new employer, or business partner, and we talked long into the night.
The next day I did my first STI test. Anna accompanied me to the soulless clinic a few miles from Manchester’s city centre. For the first time for a very long time I felt anxious as I stood naked, shivering slightly as the male doctor inspected my genitals with white latex gloves covering his hands.
It felt clinical, which I suppose it was.
The following day the agreed contract arrived in the post for me to sign. The film, when made, would see me receive £2,000 plus a 5% share of any revenue. The film would be uploaded to Betty’s members-only site as well as a handful of pay-per-download stores.
Anna hugged me as I signed it.
It was hard not to be nervous on the day of the recording in Betty’s home town of London. I stayed in a run-down hotel a few stops on the Underground from the venue and responded to some comments on Twitter; I’d neglected my social media profile in the few days since the mass orgy and there were more than a few comments.
In truth, I just needed to draw my attention away from what I was doing. I wasn’t ashamed, but I didn’t want to dwell on the uncertainty of the 24 hours that would follow.
Looking back, I can see how ridiculous it was; perhaps professional football players who spend ten years working their way through their club’s academy get the same feelings of nerves and excitement before their début. Perhaps Olympians who spend years training for their one shot at a gold medal can’t sleep the night before. Or perhaps, it was just me.
But I hardly slept all night until 4am and then overslept and had to skip breakfast as I hurriedly ran towards the Underground station.
“You’re late,” Betty moaned as the bedraggled man burst through the doors of the club. Two bouncers took a step towards the flustered man, before Betty stopped them with an icy stare at me.
“Sorry,” I panted, glancing at my phone. “Got lost,” I lied. “Big place is London.”
“Yes, indeed.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “We have a very tight schedule. Changing room is through here.”
The swingers club was almost empty but Betty assured me that she had plenty of plans; I felt out of place amongst the black and red erotic furnishings, and she showed me to a small area, normally reserved for the club dancers, to get changed in.
Four people turned to face me. “This is your fluffer, Ruby,” Betty said, airily waving towards a naked teenager; she can’t have been much more than nineteen.
She was thin; delicately so, but with a hairless body marked by a small number of tattoos. My eyes were drawn to a dark red gothic creature, a few inches long, inked onto her waist, off-centre from her belly button.
She was daubed by graffiti; her ankles and back, wrists and arms were marked by a sinister array of monsters and mythological figurines. Her eyes pierced my ogling of her thin, wiry body and petite breasts. “Hi,” I tried to confidently say.
“All of Ruby’s efforts will count towards your total. Just as Stewie’s efforts will count towards mine.”
I had forgotten the rules Betty had set; it didn’t really matter. People were not going to tune in to watch a game or a competition, it was a mere flimsy excuse for four nymphomaniacs to engage in a wild orgy while catering for every taste.
Heterosexual, check. Heterosexual anal, check. Gay sex, check. Lesbian, check. Public humiliation, check.
I was used to the gay humiliation.
In the end, it came to a Manchester vs London contest. Ruby’s origins were from the leafy suburbs of Hale, while Betty and Stewart were fucking for the Capital city.
It all sounded flimsy and silly, but I showered and had a make-up artist groom my genitals. I had a very light enema, clearing my rectum for the day’s activities before dressing in a “full body leather harness” which was a set of black straps that criss-crossed my body and left little covered and everything exposed. Betty approved whole-heartedly; Twitter agreed with her.
The next half-hour passed in a blur. Three men in white coats introduced us to the camera, and explained the rules of the game. The hustle of people around the camera was unmistakable; we were there to put on a show.
The crowd was stuffed with “some porn stars, lots of swingers, bored Londoners and desperate nymphos.” It wasn’t my biggest crowd, and I got the loudest cheer when I was introduced. It was ginseng to my ego.
Five minutes after I had nervously walked onto the stage of the club, I was preparing my first man. The cock in my hand was a great prize. The suited gentleman smiled at me; the top half of his face covered by a mask. It was mysterious; no doubt a city gentleman enjoying a free fuck on my account.
I loved that the film would see my debasement and preserve the privacy of the alpha male. The kinky leather harness with the powerful pin-stripe suit was a wonderfully erotic combination. I was on my knees, working his thick, erect cock with my fingers before plunging my mouth over his glans and sucked.
He tasted musky. He tasted of man, as I knelt forward. I felt movement to my right and saw Lucy impale her lips over another gentleman and the cameraman focused on the fellating Northerners, debasing themselves on Southern pricks.
The bench provided a better position; Ruby’s tracksuit-clad gentleman was provided with a condom and my assistant generously lubricated my arse for the gherkin-sized cock to edge past my ring.
I never stopped fellating. As one man shot cum into my throat, another man took his place. They continued to bang my rosebud too. Gently stretched and fully lubed, I was constantly full, submissively enjoying the thrusting into my anus.
As was Ruby, and Betty and Stewie. Glances across the club saw the venue fill and the plethora of men in white coats direct horny individuals to various holes.
It never stopped there; I had more than my fare share of drinks slopped over me, of cum shot across my stomach or face and of a dozen other things randy men do.
And I came too; the buffering of my prostate by one particular big-dicked man was enough to send my cum spewing into my chest. I might have felt embarrassed but I was too far gone with rampant lust.
This was no act. I was not acting or pretending, but this was me in the middle of an orgy with the incidental appearance of some cameras. Betty had set up a submissive bisexual orgy and she had invited me. My lust was no fakery or falsity; it was true, raw, rampant debauchery.
My nostrils filled with a kaleidoscopic scent of fucking; richly layered: lube, cum, sweat, sex and a dozen other things mingled in that swingers’ club as Ruby and I must have reached three figures by mid-afternoon.
We had a break. All four of us did; Betty was covered in cum and had a bucket of used condoms at her feet. She smiled at me, knowingly. She wanted to be the country’s biggest slut, and she whispered in my ear as we drank water. “I’m going to fuck your arse so hard,” she warned.
I never doubted it.
After our break, we mingled. The camera caught us “seducing” partners in the swingers’ club; many with masks covering their faces, although the porn stars were obviously not reticent or apprehensive about showing all of their bodies.
The “half-time” scores showed the Southerners with a small lead. Several parts of me were sore; parts that hadn’t been before I’d even thought about being in an orgy. I was in my second in three weeks.
The second half was more varied; we mingled amongst the desperate guests and Ruby and I spent much of our time on our knees or over tables.
I was groped, fondled and abused. I stopped enjoying the sex and relished the submission. The feelings of the cock sliding against my prostate brought little tingling to my prick, but my head was swimming with helplessness and degradation.
I was being a slut. A filthy, dirty, nasty little slut; taken by everyone for their wanton excitement. I had no say in proceedings. I had no vote or veto. My holes existed for them. All of them.
City men. Football fans. Smart office workers. Tourists. Chavs. Everyone. I sucked the long, thin cock of a tracksuit-clad hooligan, face-fucking my mouth as his taunts rained upon me. I was fucked by a city trader; his suit costing more than my car as his trouser fly parted to impale me on his condom covered cock.
I did everyone.
I fluffed for Ruby; sucking a steady stream of gentlemen to hardness as she took a conga line of men in her cunt and her mouth. Suddenly relegated to the support act, I’d never felt so weak and small.
Of course Ruby and I lost. It was pre-determined. Betty’s teeth glistened in front of the cameras, gesturing towards the stage where a strap-on waited.
“What do you have to say?” She asked; her voice boomed across the swingers club to the hundreds of witnesses.
“You are the biggest slut.”
“I am,” Betty proudly announced, fastening the black dildo to her waist. “Now suck it.”
The last scene was more staged than the rest. There was no spontaneity or imagination; the strap-on act was what Betty had planned from the start. I’m sure the numbers she gave were fictional; her dildo was very far from being unreal.
It was thick, and long. It glistened under the lights and she cackled malevolently as it was thrust into my mouth. Almost naked, humiliated, face-fucked by a rubber dildo and watched by hundreds of people, my cock stiffened.
It was the ultimate humiliation. It was the nastiest feeling. I closed my eyes as I tried to accommodate the black beauty past my gag reflex. I coughed and nearly choked. I know it made good television.
The parting of my arse as she rammed the thick cock past my ring and filled my rectum. It was the biggest prick that had intruded into my orifice all day. The porn star held my waist with her fingers and pivoted from her grip.
I was kneeling on the stage, staring into a camera and groaning loudly. It was being captured.
The wash of prostate pleasure interwoven with painful submission was being captured for posterity. The look of pain and humiliation in my eyes, the flushed face and grunting as Betty plundered my soul for her gleeful enjoyment.
She slapped my rump. She squeezed my waist. She thrusted the dick deeper and deeper into me.
It was like the peak of nine months of sexual humiliation and notoriety in one fucking; the object of my Twitter flirting and constant fan was bringing me towards the edge of my climax.
She had hers; I felt the tremble in her hands as the nub of the strap-on had brought her into a cacophony of orgasmic relief.
She came; I slumped forwards, sliding off the dildo and panting on the stage.
The camera caught everything.
I’d never felt so humiliated. I’d never felt so alive.
* * * * *
In the days and weeks that followed my début with Betty on her own Internet TV channel, I got used to transitioning to becoming a pornography star as my main vocation. I did talks with bloggers and magazine articles, as well as two more photo shoots with my new employer.
Betty was astute. We had teamed up together to produce a couple more films, and as they continued to sell, we made more. Betty and I worked apart too: she had a huge heterosexual following that wanted to see her at the centre of a gangbang and other such debauched activities. She said she was adored by people of all sexualities.
“Did you know,” she informed me over my kitchen table, sipping delicate elderflower tea and munching on a croissant, “that less than half of all young people identify as completely straight. It’s around 55% of men and women who want to and are prepared to experiment with their own gender in the bedroom. It’s like being in Ancient Greece or Rome.” The naked coquette giggled as she brushed flaked pastry from her bosom. “Quite fantastic really!”
Of course it was. I was encouraged, explicitly by Betty and implicitly by Anna, to hit the gym and beef up somewhat. I wanted to be in better shape than I was, and a few more muscles wouldn’t do my sales any harm.
I was in no doubt that while Betty was a multi-millionaire, I would never reach her heights. I hoped to make an income from my activities, if not my fortune.
My first cheque paid off my debts from not working and paid for a big chunk of our wedding. It was exciting times.
The following day, I met up with my team for the first day of pre-season training. They joked with me, and we had numerous new faces eager to try out for the squad.
We also had a decision to make; the league had convened a special conference and each club was told to elect two members to attend, and vote on the team’s behalf. I attended with Ralph and the first motion put to us was whether to continue with the forfeits and sign up for an exclusive deal with GaySportsTV.
Ralph’s pen hovered over the voting slip; we chatted in hushed tones. I had made no secret of wishing to maintain the status quo. I enjoyed the winning and in the right circumstances didn’t object to the losing. The dares and forfeits made the games more intense and I would find it a regressive step to abandon them.
I whispered my intentions to Ralph and he passed me the voting slip. “I can’t do it,” he muttered. “I’d want to abstain.”
The two options didn’t give an abstention. The league had promised to review the new rules when they were introduced the previous Summer and they were seeking our consent to continue with their sex-crazed ideals.
I gave it to them. Ralph watched in silence as I confidently ticked the box to continue and strode towards the ballot box. Many of the players had expressed concerns from the first moment the forfeits had been written into the league rules. Many of the players had continued to do them under duress, complaining that they “weren’t gay so they shouldn’t have to suck cock!” But they stayed. They stayed and became better players.
I expected the league’s motion to fail. I expected Woodford Wanderers to be a lone voice in a sea of conservatism.
Only, it wasn’t.
Across all three divisions, twenty-four of the thirty-nine teams opted to continue with the rules, and all but one of the top flight. I saw the representatives from the other teams looking around the hall, not making eye contact. We’d all chosen to continue with the homosexual fucking.
In the days that followed, I’d hear from six of the representatives who’d claim that they were the lone voice, but it didn’t matter.
Woodford Wanderers would be back sucking cock, fucking losers, being taken and exploited, and being the most debauched bunch of footballing fuckers the country had ever seen.
Except, before the new season I’d have a wedding.
And a stag do. Dmitri had an idea that involved Emit. And Betty. And twenty sex-crazed individuals.
And a video camera.
I couldn’t wait.
And neither could the fans.
The End.
* * * * *
Sorry for not uploading this sooner; it was written over five years ago and I think my writing has changed and improved since, but I hope you enjoyed the twisted tale 🙂