Ball Games Ch. 08: Fun at Sutton

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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My partner alternated between horniness and teasing; I found them both exciting but for different reasons. I loved her more than words could express, and attempts at doing so didn't go unspoken.

I suggested to her that she find a similar venture where the losers of a competition were sexually taken to help her understand the thrill, passion and fierce rivalry it evoked. She joked about joining the team so I would get to witness her be fucked by other men, but fortunately our league refused to admit women. I'm not sure how I could have reacted to witnessing my girlfriend being so roughly treated as I was.

Paul and I emailed each other over the week; the male model was friendly and we had struck up a good rapport with each other. Much of his work was gay or gay interest and from the other side of the country recounted tales of how much my league was discussed.

We promised to meet up the next time our schedules coincided and I felt as though I had the beginnings of a good friendship. I appreciate that it was normal to be friends first, before giving away benefits, but Paul was definitely in the potential friend with definite benefits category.

Sutton Workings Men Club existed on the west side of the nearby town: it was located in a parish that was traditionally popular with ethnic minorities and had the multicultural mix of the area well reflected in its football team. They had finished fourth the year before, and were on a good run of form after a poor opening few games. It would not be an easy match and they had beaten us by four goals in the fixtures last season.

We always remember their games however: their players and spectators are full of life, and their stadium announcer had an incredible wit with a fantastic sense of humour. Despite being hammered last season, and every season as long as I can remember, we enjoyed our visits to their dilapidated pavilion and muddy pitch more than any other match.

Some of the money flowing into the league because of the increased publicity had certainly found its way to Sutton: they sported a brand new bright scarlet red football kit, complete with the name of their new sponsor -- a local sportswear manufacturer. Their captain, a big, beastly giant of a man, nearly headed them in front within sixty seconds but his effort cannoned of the crossbar, and I hacked it clear of the penalty box. Their team, mostly of black men, were skilful and clever in possession, working space and time on the ball as we struggled to match them physically. The bog-like conditions of their playing surface were tiring on the muscles and the ball rarely ran true on the muddy pitch.

But our goalkeeper was in imperious form, performing several incredible saves to keep out their onslaught, and with the 0-0 draw in sight, we cracked. Our right back slid in for a tackle in the box and took down the opposition player. It was a challenge Ben didn't have to make. It was a challenge he had no hope of winning. It was a challenge that led to a penalty, which was slotted home.

We lost 1-0.

But as our coach decried, we win as a team and we lose as a team. It was no use blaming Ben, it had happened. If Lee or Dmitri had taken their chances earlier in the match, we wouldn't have lost. If I had cut out the through ball, Ben wouldn't have had a player to have tackled. Of course we got teased as we left the field; the "stadium" announcer poked jokes at our expense as we filed into the giant changing room, partitioned with a large piece of thin, shabby curtain.

We were soaked and filthy, covered in mud and dirt: it was always like that at Sutton.

Their captain tossed a tube of lubricant over the top of the curtain from their side of the changing room. "Hope your holes are ready, boys. The men with the big pricks are coming!"

And coming they were. We had ten minutes to remove our wet kit, the sodden garments clinging to us as we stripped naked in the changing area. They blew wolf whistles as they peered over the dividing cloth; offering lewd comments as we bent over to untie bootlaces or discarded saturated underwear. It was good-natured and we responded accordingly. Unlike AFC Kerlon who thrived on our humiliation, I had no such thoughts about Sutton. They came for a game and a laugh, and the sex was a side benefit.

They were naked too, discarding their soggy garments in a pile by the door, and whistled as we poked aside the curtain. I had a "cute little ass," Dmitri had a "mouth fit for sucking" and our captain would "look good in suspenders." The least said about the size of Lee's prick the better; he blushed immensely! It was all said jokingly, but I looked at their swinging pricks wondering which one would be in me. We barely made it into their space before they started picking.

I felt a cold rush of apprehension as their young midfielder grabbed me on the shoulder. "Hey!" I cried as he painfully pulled me into our side of the changing room where there was more space. "Ow!"

"Sorry man!" His Caribbean drawl was deep, his apology sincere. "But ya took me down, I want some payback." He chuckled ominously, laughing as I remembered my mistimed tackle in the first half.

"Yeah, sorry for that." I had apologised at the time when the referee had threatened me with a yellow card. "You're too bloody quick."

He smiled half-heartedly as I looked him up and down; he introduced himself. Kojo was in his early twenties, much younger than me. His hairless torso had the outline of a "six-pack," a church tattoo lined his toned muscles and his body wrapped in skin of dark espresso.

My eyes flicked downwards as he stood dignified and expectant. His cock jutted towards me, eager for me to wrap my lips around its bulbous tip and pleasure the skilful footballer. He leant on the bench, sitting up and beaming as he pushed his legs outwards. I knew the score; I sank to my knees, taking a moment to admire him.

To focus my eyes on his cock: long but not excessively so. It was hairless with the veins pronounced and the skin dark. It made it more taboo: the middle-aged white man sucking the young black man. It was a clichéed porn film plot but I didn't care: I was feeling entranced by the appendage inches from my mouth.

He adjusted himself on the bench, sliding his hardening length towards my lips. I felt an unspoken impatience from him as his tip touched my orifice. I grabbed hold of his cock pushing my tongue out to slide down his shaft and wrap around his wrinkled balls.

He tasted of sportsman: a strong mix of muskiness and sweat, seasoned with laborious effort. I sucked each of his testicles, allowing the heavy pendulums to fall between my lips and drink the sudor from the textured orbs. He groaned with every flick of my tongue, shuddered with every suck.

I'd not done that technique on a blow-job before, but copied it from an article Dmitri had sent me. And I wanted to; with Sutton it was different: I wasn't having the humiliation seized from me, but it felt like a mutually agreed bet I'd lost. The tone was different, the feeling inside of me was different, the blow-job was so very different.

I wanted him to come. I wanted him to come hard.

I lifted his rock-hard cock higher pushing my tongue along his taint; he was lying almost horizontal. He whimpered as I flicked at his skin, sliding across his balls. I felt him shake with every touch of my lips on his genitals. He was aroused and swimming with unspent lust. Already desperately close to orgasm.

I could delay the delight no more, glancing down his smooth, elegant body as I leant over him and rubbed the top of his pre-cum covered cock with my mouth, sucking on his glans and sliding my tongue under his frenulum.

His whimpers were hot, his cries erotic. He panted, and squealed as my mouth took almost half of his length, sliding up and down his shaft before he reached my gag reflex. But I cared not, my own lust controlling my enthusiasm as his cock quivered underneath my tongue.

My fingers pressed against his perineum, brushing against his balls as his moans become louder and his breathing ragged, hyperventilating as my toil was rewarded with several blasts of his thick cum into my mouth.

He lay on the bench for a few moments, his cock falling from my lips and dribbling pearlescent semen onto his belly. It contrasted sexily with his dark skin.

"Wish my girl could do it like that," he laughed as he stirred. I passed him the ManLube lubricant and condom from the side but he wouldn't take them. "We do it for a laugh and a blowie," he replied. "I dain't wan' ya'r backside." Kojo's eyes glistened cheekily. "But I do need a shower."

And we were the first to hit the tepid water, shared between the two changing areas. I scrubbed his back, he scrubbed mine. My hands floated over his muscular body as I gently soaped him.

The two teams met in the Working Club for a couple of pints, a chat, some games of pool and an afternoon of roaring enjoyment. The captain demanded it, and we raucously took over the establishment.

Kojo introduced me to his mother and girlfriend, happily calling me "the blowjob guy." His mother teased me, his young lady making me blush as she spoke lewdly. It was harmless, it was fun, and it was a nice reminder of the sort of attitude that made football so very special.

After all, it wasn't so much fun for the losers when it was all about drilling your opponents ass into humiliation but a bit of banter, reasonableness and playfulness goes a long way into making it into an enjoyable day for both teams, whatever the result. I just wished all the teams had the same attitude.