Ball Games Ch. 07: Manlube

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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There was no denying that the last minute loss to AFC Kerlon had dented confidence in the dressing room, but when we considered our performance in the match we realised how unlucky we had been. We had lost the match because of a last minute own goal scored by a fluke deflection while playing away against the best team in the league. We were desperately unfortunate; most teams ended up on the end of a hiding when playing them.

Our fortunes did not improve in the following match: a home game against Elvedon Bridge Warriors, last year's surprise champions but who had been struggling this season. A number of their key players had left their team after the new league rules had been introduced and their superstars had not been adequately replaced. I know a couple of them had stepped up to proper non-league teams. We were leading from the second minute and had a 2-0 lead as the clock ticked past ninety, but we conceded two injury time goals: the second of which did not cross the goal-line because I hacked it clear,. The equaliser was unjustly given by the linesman.

We complained vociferously, but to no avail. One of our players even got booked for his protestations. Everything seemed to be going against us.

The draws were a loophole in the new league rules: there was no penalty for teams drawing and as the final whistle blew, both groups of players knew that no-one would be taken or humiliated. Indeed, I wondered why many of the teams didn't play for a draw from the outset instead of gambling on a win.

However, our next two matches were against teams towards the bottom of the table and yielded victories. I had a cocky lad from Framlington Giants groaning as I pounded my cock into his tight hole, squealing and crying as my prick bounced against his prostate and forced him into an erection. I looked at him in the eyes, my hands holding his ankles in front of me as I told him to wank himself off.

I drizzled a long streak of lube onto his dick, causing it to glisten under the strip lights flooding into the changing room. His hands gleefully rubbed his twinkling shaft, moaning like a little pig as my cock pounded past his ring. He looked so submissive as I emptied into the condom. He came over his hairless torso, the glistening pearl of his semen contrasting with his tanned skin. He was less arrogant when I made him eat his cum.

The second victory fell on one of the league's special weekends. We didn't know the forfeit before the game but Dmitri noticed that the league had sent a group of four people to "assist" with the losing team. It provided an added spice to a match which was marred by dozens of poor challenges and yellow cards. It was violent, and a lot of anger and frustration had built up during the ninety minutes of our victory, provided to us by Dmitri's sublime finish from the edge of the area. It took an hour to prepare the losing team, but after an intense delay, seventeen embarrassed men came into our changing room shaved hairless by the league's helpful entourage. And they wore nothing but pink flimsy skirts.

Tutus really; delicate lacy puff-balls of embarrassing ridiculousness on the glabrous men. We laughed, mercilessly roared with laughter as they blushed. It was part of the humiliation: we had to make the losers suffer, and that moment we did.

And after that match, I really wanted to; they had been animals on the pitch. The photos and videos we watched afterwards were unreal; completely glabrous bodies and feminine short skirts being ravished by men. And we looked like men compared to them: hairy chests, masculine thighs and still in our muddy football socks. We treated the sissies remorselessly to eighteen horny dicks. Our changing room was a deafening wall of lustful sounds and testosterone.

Their arses were ravaged as we tormented the cross-dressing failures to intense energetic poundings, causing them to squeal like young ladies as we fucked them. No mercy, no stopping, just an all-consuming, raw orgy of brutal proportions.

I had their centre-back; a ferocious beast tamed by the humiliating ordeal of the league rules. I could see the defeat in his eyes as I pushed him onto the sweaty floor and stuffed my prick in his open mouth, groaning as I face-fucked him. No tears from him, no quarter from me. He grunted angrily as I troubled his gag reflex and jibed nastily about his dress. It was a savage revenge for ninety violent minutes of football.

And then I screwed him. A drizzle of lube over his arsehole was followed by a squirt over his cock. I told him to enjoy himself as I enjoyed him, flipping his skirt onto his bare back as the beaten footballer was taken roughly by my cock. His hands jerked his dick, my prick rammed into his tight hole as he leant over the changing bench.

All around me was grunting and crying; vicious words of taunting victory degrading the spiritless submissives. We'd never been like this before, we'd always entered the after-game enjoyment with a sense of care-free fair play, but the bruises on our bodies lay testament to the brutal nature of that match. We wanted to seize vengeance, and we wanted to impose our victory.

They all knew we had won, meekly leaving our changing room twenty minutes later, still dressed in their little pink skirts with their humiliation captured for posterity on video.

I'd never felt so much like a warrior.

The following week, I had to give up an evening of my time for a ManLube photo shoot. Our sponsors had enlisted some male models and wanted to use their sponsorship of our team for their promotional posters and adverts. As I did not watch any homosexual pornography or visit such Internet forums I was unaware of how "big" or notorious our league was becoming, but Dmitri assured all of the team that we had gathered thousands of fans on-line from the stories, the photos and the odd video posted onto the 'net.

I wasn't sure I wanted to be known for that reason but the guys I played football with were akin to my family and no matter what it cost, I wanted to remain part of the team. And I found it exciting; the unknown is always exhilarating and we never knew what was going to happen from one week to the next.

Whatever my thoughts were, our cooperation for ManLube's promotional activities was part of the sponsorship deal the team had signed and instead of the players having to help pay for the kit and the transport, the club was able to fund all of the footballing activities from the lubricant manufacturer's generous financial package. They even provided us with loads of free bottles of lubricant for "home use" that my girlfriend had seriously depleted with her rampant use of her glass dildos and less-than-occasional use of our strap-on. She had been highly sexed since the start of the football season as the talk of our adventures had spurred her libido into overdrive.

The three male models ManLube had hired had perfect Adonis-like bodies. The Greek god had been reincarnated in triplicate, each with impressive muscles and well-defined physiques. I was in awe of them, drooling slightly at their statuesque perfection as they wandered around our changing room in just flimsy underpants. "Hey mate, can I have your autograph?" The blonde-haired lad asked, holding a pen and paper to my hands as I pretended not to admire his toned body, impressive bulge and glistening skin. And when the other two did the same, asking each of the eight players selected for the photoshoot for their autographs, I started to believe Dmitri. Perhaps I had unknown fame, which was slightly scary.

It was twilight before we got onto the pitch; the bald-headed director barked and snapped impatiently. He wanted the blonde-haired six-foot rugby player, Paul, and myself for the first picture. Paul and I wore just differing coloured socks in the light rain; it was cold, especially when I had to kneel on all fours in the muddiest part of our pitch, and Paul positioned his impressive hairless cock against my crack, while a couple of lighting rigs were sited around us.

Excitement surged through me, wondering if Paul would slip his cock past my inner ring. We had a bottle of lubricant in the foreground of the photo, and I relaxed my muscles as I expected him to poke me with his prick. I almost wanted him to, closing my eyes as I took deep breaths.

I wondered what had I become? Was I completely bisexual, desperate for cock, or just highly sexed? Hours before, I was balls-deep inside my girlfriend, pumping cum onto her belly as we finished our morning tryst and then suddenly I was thinking about Paul being balls-deep inside my butt.

My internal confusion didn't show on my face. A camera clicked as the photographer took the picture along my mud-splattered body of me being "fucked" by Paul. Only I wasn't being fucked by his smooth tool, but teased as his manhood rested on my skin. A torture: playfully showing me with what he could do but leaving my hole unpoked. Paul was told to rock gently, I was told to yell, opening my mouth wide as the photographer tried to capture the rawness of the faux-penetration.

But I wanted it. I was being neglected. I had the semi-erect cock of the well-built, good-looking model waiting against my butt-hole and I was aroused. I needed him to slide a well lubricated finger against my ring, before ramming his cock into me. I needed to feel the familiar touch of an erect prick slamming against my prostate, the forceful rhythm of my body being violated as it was abused by a sportsman claiming their right to satisfaction.

I needed sex.

I mattered not whether I truly was bisexual. I had no romantic or relationship interest in men, but at that moment I just wanted to be plundered. To hell with the rights and wrongs of a "heterosexual" man wanting to be buggered by a sportsman, I wanted it. I needed it. The league rules had opened a door to me, opened my eyes to new experiences and I was suddenly desperate for that penetration. It had been a month since I was spit-roasted by the brutish AFC Kerlon, and I longed for the passionate thrusting and the submissive pounding in my arse once more. I wanted to feel sore for a few hours, complete in the knowledge that I had been ravaged. Nothing else but to sate my overwhelming urges.

The photographer swore as the camera whirred. "Stay there," he muttered, taking his camera as he strode across the muddy field and past the director. I glanced behind me; the rain drizzling onto my back. I was cold, but not uncomfortable; I had the strong grip of Paul on my hips. He said nothing as we waited. Tense moments, I felt every pull on my waist as time stood still. He reached over to take the bottle of lubricant into his hand.

My heart quickened as I felt something fall onto my anus: a cheeky giggle accompanied the shivering rush of the cold sensation. He said nothing as his finger worked the colourless gloop into my butt. I hoped. The bottle was returned to it's place on the muddy ground before the photographer returned, screwing a new lens onto his camera. Paul's clandestine activities had not been noticed.

Not that I cared if it had. "Go on," I whispered, my mind screaming at Paul to impale his thick cock into me. "Do it." He did nothing, rubbing his impressive tool along my perineum as he rocked on his haunches. The rain didn't matter, the unsuspecting audience didn't matter, the location in the centre of the pitch didn't matter. In that glorious moment I just wanted to be taken.

"OK sorry guys, let's get this wrapped up! Sure you don't want to be out here any longer than necessary." Another time, the photographer's cheery innocence would have been comical. Instead, it grated: he was interrupting my moment with the flawless model. Paul pulled his hips back and pushed the blunt head of his unfettered cock against my lubricated hole. I felt it straining; the resistance disappearing as his hands pulled my hips back onto him. He was piercing me, pulling me into his crotch, guiding my body back as his cock slid slowly into my butt.

But it was my choice: I craved for it. Unlike our forfeits after losing matches, I chose to allow him. I became oblivious to the world around me as I gasped with every rock of his hips, pushing his cock deeper and deeper, faster and faster into me.

The flashes in my eyes were possibly the camera, or maybe I was seeing stars. I heard a multitude of cries escape from my mouth as he plowed my arse. My cock danced to his tune, bobbing with every thrust as my hands and knees slipped in the mud. I heard little grunts on the autumn wind, felt every slide on his thick cock and savoured every touch on my prostate.

With a merest gasp, I felt his cock quiver and he buried his prick balls-deep into my arse. A flood of warmth filled my rectum.

"OK thanks guys," the photographer shouted over the rain, getting to his feet and wiping his muddy knees. My arousal flitted with my peak, flickering at the cliff and desperate for a merest stroke of my cock. "That was pretty awesome. They'll come out fantastically!"

I took some deep breaths as he eagerly jogged to our pavilion to escape from the rain. I leaned forward, feeling empty as Paul's shrivelled member glided out of me. I was wet, the slime of his cum lining my whirl.

"I've never fucked a celebrity before," Paul joked as he helped me to my feet. "That was pretty intense."

I couldn't disagree.

The team were at our floodlit ground for over four hours as the photographer took dozens of promotional pictures. The rest of the pictures were faked homosexual or masturbatory acts: ManLube couldn't advertise their products with explicit sex knowingly. The semi-darkness of the night-time pitch had masked our original fun that the light of the changing room wouldn't do. Paul later confessed I was the first man he had taken, and had the strangest conversation as two "straight" guys sat in the changing room naked while talking about the secret gay sex we had just had and had both wanted.

He offered to sneak off to the other changing rooms with me if I wanted to "even it up" but I politely declined. I needed to understand why I wanted penetration at that moment: I wasn't compelled to let him do anything but I had needed it, I had been desperate for him to ram his prick into me.

I confessed all to my girlfriend when I got home, not sure what she would say. For the first time, I had gay sex without being compelled to do so, and I wondered what she would do.

After I assured her that I wasn't joking, she jumped me, desperate for sex. The heat in her crotch was not satisfied after dozens of orgasms. But my climax, when I came, was incredible: I'd had the excitement of my secret buggering, the taboo of doing it my public and my prostate poked by a male model. I was so worked up and horny that being deep inside my lady helped alleviate all of my desperation.

It's safe to say, my Anna found my admission to male-on-male sex to be an aphrodisiac; I knew she wanted me to have more and more bisexual encounters!

I never told any of my team-mates what really happened on the pitch during the photoshoot; there was a gradual acceptance that the league's rules were livening our games as they added an element of chance and jeopardy to the proceedings, but I wasn't ready to say that I had wanted to be taken. It's not that they were homophobic as there was no way any of my team could be, but to be honest, I wasn't sure I really wanted to admit it to myself. I still considered myself to be straight, just with bisexual tendencies and needs.

That said, there would be no chance that I would be happy that we lost a game. Quite the reverse. I enjoyed the session with Paul because I was in control, if that had happened after a match, not only had we lost the game, but also that I would be ceding control to someone I didn't know.

On reflection, I guess that made all the difference.