Ball Games Ch. 21: Gunged!

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.

* * * * *

I had long since stopped the automatic emails which Twitter sent every time a message I had been copied into was retweeted or favourited; it brought too many unwanted emails and my phone was constantly beeping with a slew of notifications. But even without the constant reminders of my unexpected notoriety, I knew that Betty's tweets were popular.

After an uneventful day at our client, I pondered on the journey home whether her analysis was correct; could a Betty Maxx-Marc Lowton film really be that popular? Who else would want to be in this? What would Anna say?

Betty was ludicrously successful; a popular entertainer in her own right, she also part-owned a film company that sold DVDs and website subscriptions by the bucket load. She was smart and astute, and she did nothing in the industry that wasn't well-calculated and sapient. And most of all, I'd be negotiating from a position of strength myself.

I put out of my mind the idea that I could have a career change into a bisexual male pornography artist, and attended training with relentless zeal the following day. We had two more games left, and the squad, depleted for the abject humiliation at the weekend, was back to full strength. Every member of the team wanted to play in the Cup final, a re-run of the match against AFC Kerlon, and everyone trained hard.

The spring-time rain showers didn't disrupt the intensity of our efforts as sweaty, muddy bodies collided relentlessly in the mud. We longed to demonstrate to our coach that we were ready to be picked. No-one cared about bruises or gashes; it was more full-bloodied than most of our matches.

This continued on Wednesday and Thursday; we all lapped up extra training sessions as the Cup Final against Kerlon dominated our chatter. It was all we thought about. It was all we wanted. It was at a proper stadium, in front of a worldwide audience. It would be the pinnacle of our season, and one of the most important matches in the team's history.

Before then, we had the small matter of our final league game; the cameras would record the "special event" of Framlington Giants coming to our stadium as the warm up to the big game. AFC Kerlon were also treated to live cameras as they sought to claim the win that would hand them the league title. They played Elvedon Bridge Warriors in a winner-takes-all game while our match against lower-half opposition was a "dead rubber" for both teams. We would finish eighth with our 34 points from 25 games; we couldn't catch The Cock Inn in seventh and neither could Framlington Giants catch us, no matter what the score in the game was.

When I mused over our position in the table, it made it all the more strange how Woodford Wanderers had become a poster-team for the league. The relentless ManLube promotion helped and the initial media exposure was focused on us, but with seven teams doing better over the course of the season, it made little sense for our small village to become an epicentre for the attention.

And I was hardly the Gareth Bale of our team; I worked hard and I made a net positive contribution. I wasn't the goalscorer or the goalkeeping hero. I was just a single cog in the machinery of a mid-table unexciting team. We all possessed limited skill, but my skill was far more limited than others. I didn't have the body of an Adonis and I wasn't anything special. Why was I the focal point of so much of the Twitter attention? Why was I so special? What did I do?

I didn't know, and nor did Anna. "If fame was a logical beast, do you think Piers Morgan would be famous?" She asked. A point, excellently made.

Our opponents had been beaten earlier in the season by a resurgent Woodford Wanderers; we won 1-0 at their ground, claiming three points from the light-blue team. I had particularly enjoyed fucking an arrogant young lad as I held his ankles above his body and bounced my cock over his prostate. The impeccably shaved striker groaned and squealed, and I knew from the thick erection he had enjoyed himself almost as much as I had.

In the game last season against our opponents, we played in the heavy rain and their churned pitch resembled a quagmire; the last day of the league season had drawn the elusive sun from it's home and was shining brightly and warmly on our isolated village. Our stand was full too; ManLube had sent a handful of erotic male models bearing their logo; they posed in front of the cameras and along with advertising hoardings. I looked for Paul but didn't see him.

The coach fielded an experimental side; Dmitri, Lee, Ralph, Hugh and I were relegated to the bench as a number of our second string got the nod ahead of the Cup final. I was annoyed, but couldn't show it. They had played in the previous weekend when the team had been demolished by AFC Kerlon and although I hadn't been there to witness it, I had been told the performance of our reserve goalkeeper had been diabolical.

It wasn't his fault; he was only eighteen and was learning the game, but playing him in front of TV cameras was not fair. There may have been no league placing riding on the outcome of the game, but the sanctity of my anus was. The coach treated the violation of our bodies as a fair price to pay for his experimentation and I could tell that I wasn't the only one on the bench who was unhappy.

As expected, there was no experience and leadership on the pitch; Framlington Giants dominated the midfield and took the lead before half-time. They were two goals to the good a few minutes after the restart and Connor's own goal made it three.

Our coach put Ralph and Dmitri and I onto the pitch to try and salvage something from the game. Framlington retreated, changing tactics to protect what they had. Dmitri scored our first and Ralph headed in from a corner a few minutes before full-time. But we could not force an equaliser.

Our league season ended as it had begun. With a loss.

We shook hands with them all; they wished us luck in the Cup final as we waited for the "special event." I wanted our coach to apologise for his monumental tactical mistake, but he didn't say a word about it, just watching as we stretched and "warmed down."

The special event was brought onto our pitch by way of a tractor; a trailer draped in tatty, faded tarpaulin was sited in the middle of our pitch and plastic soulless presenter walked onto the grass in front of a camera.

I looked apprehensively as two naked, muscle-clad men dramatically unfurled the tarpaulin to reveal a giant tank.

A gunge tank.

A remnant from 1990's children's television, the brightly coloured gunge dominated the a perspex tank on top of an empty cage.

I couldn't help but smile. It was mixing the playful and silly, with the erotic. It was my favourite type of forfeit. It would have been a great event with the good-natured men of Sutton Working Mens Club.

We weren't allowed to strip; we weren't allowed to do anything but climb onto the trailer and through the opened gate. The cameras focused on us as Framlington Giants, the crowd and the naked showmen clapped and laughed. We had to smile too, glancing up at ceiling of the gunge tank, creaking as the eighteen men stood underneath gallons of gunge.

Wet and Messy play had never particularly appealed. I'd never been particularly into sploshing or getting messy. But the excitement of submissive humiliation surged through me; the thoughts of the golden showers again danced in my loins. I'd feel the degradation as a thousand people in our stadium and thousands of people across the world watched the belittling of Marc Lowton.

Yet, I relished the submission. The sweet feeling of excitement as I knew what treatment awaited me; the wait was a delicate torture. We all waited, looking at each other and the gunge suspended above us. We waited ominously for the trigger. That moment was sheer hell. I stood in the middle of the tank, away from the caged sides open to the cameras and waited.

Waited as the door slammed shut and the naked beauties stood guard theatrically, arms folded, legs spread apart. Muscles bulging, as they stared at the camera. It was the show, the gladiatorial impact of the show of strength.

The echo of the metal door shutting reverberated around the cage, the roar of the crowd as the captain of the victorious football team approached the plunger; a prop for the cameras, a play to the crowd.

Our fate in his hands. They were ready to spoil our kits and bespoil their opponents; underline their victory in front of our fans with a ritual humiliation. My body tingled with excitement; hairs stood on end as I desperately wanted him to press the plunger. His fingers grasped the wooden bar and with a ferocious yell, pushed the yellow handle towards the ground.

A buzzer sounded; I looked up to see the nozzle open and thick, gloopy gunge rained down on everyone.

It was cold; I gasped in shock as the vicious liquid poured over us, saturating my kit and covering my hair and my body. I was spoilt. I was a plaything, and I was covered in gunge that poured from overhead. It pooled in the bottom of the cage and although some of the mixture bounced off the players onto the pitch through the bars, much didn't.

And as I moved, I slipped, falling into the gunge as it continued to pour over me. It was completely degrading; we were like pigs wallowing in filth. And my erect cock showed a deep love of that rampant humiliation. It was a base disgust and a worthlessness that I adored.

But our humiliation was not over; a few moments later, naked Framlington Giants pulled us from the mess, threw us onto the pitch and began to enjoy their victory properly. My peachy rear was exposed from my slime covered shorts and the cocky lad who I had fucked so enjoyably six months previously lubed my hole.

In front of our fans. In front of my Anna. In front of ManLube, the cameras and everyone else, a gunge-covered Marc Lowton was plundered by the young man, eager to take his revenge. His hands slid over my waist as he slipped his cock into my anus and pushed forwards, forcing me to take the full length of his manhood.

"Wank," he ordered, repeating my order to him. And as he fucked me doggy style, my wet hands slipped delightfully over my erect cock. My messy forehead rested against the prickly grass as I grunted, enjoying his cock stroking my prostate as I wanked my dick.

Because I was ordered to.

Because he demanded it.

I forgot there was a camera trained on me, or why the victorious teenager was fucking the slime-covered man almost twice his age. I never cared for that, but just wallowed in the delicious feelings of submission and degradation. Of worthlessness. Of an oiled, slippery hand wanking my cock as I was buggered from behind.

It was the sweetest of all the losing forfeits, and I felt a deep, intense climax building. My balls sizzled with every thrust into me, my breathing was desperate and snatched. I was groaning and crying as he rammed his beautiful prick deeper and deeper into my hole. I was his, to do with as he wanted.

I felt his cock twitch and he pushed his prick deep into my hole as it shivered; he came, unloading his cum into the condom as my body was swept with waves of debauched pleasure and my cum squirted onto the muddy earth below.

It took a minute to come back to reality; I blushed as I looked around me. We'd all been fucked, and we'd all been taken. Sheepish faces surrounded me as a few of us left for the changing room. My horniness evaporated and then returned as I ran across the pitch, unsure of what to make of my feelings. I loved my submissiveness but I was almost ashamed by it. I'd never felt like that before.

When I got home, we saw the clip on GaySportsTV; I watched my face as the guy plundered my arse. I was a mess; thick slime covered me from head to toe and he looked the warrior. Yet, there was a sense watching it that I was enjoying it. I was being taken, but it was connecting with my very soul and I was savouring every plunge of his cock into me. It was erotic, but perhaps only because I could relate so well to every thrust into me.

Anna made me recall everything and I did. The homosexual erotic enjoyment had my fiancée playing with her cunt as I told her how much I enjoyed the full feeling of his cock against my arse. Of the stroking of my prostate and the slippery mess I was covered in. Of everything. She wanted to see me gunged again.

And I didn't think I could resist if the opportunity arose.