Ball Games Ch. 22: In Trouble!

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.

* * * * *

There was no way Sunday could have topped Saturday, from annoyance and defeat came a beautiful experience. We were called into the training and met the ManLube representative who wanted to do some features on us for their website.

The Cup Final was a "fucking big deal" and ManLube wanted to make sure their sponsorship of one of the finalists got attention. We were the big underdogs but I think they actually wanted that.

"The bottom is the focus of the camera," Dmitri mused as I voiced my thoughts. "It's all about the cock sliding into the bottom. It's all about their expression and their arse being pounded. It's about them submitting. Who cares who that cock belongs to? People want to see penetration."

The reason for the ManLube guys coming into Woodford was they had selected a number of men to be profiled; they wanted all the key players to feature on their website prominently and talk in flattering terms about the range of lubricants which brought untold pleasures to their sex life.

Dmitri and I would be one of the profiled pairs. We were "the midfield axis," and the two of us posed naked in just our socks with our arms folded next to the goal as a professional photographer eagerly took pictures of us against the twilight backdrop.

We had numerous onlookers snapping long-range pictures of the two of us, calling out our names as we posed for the professional photographer.

It lacked the raw power of my first photoshoot with a ManLube employee. That occasion I was knelt in the mud and savoured the long, thick cock of Paul -- the male adonis -- spearing my buttcheeks and filling my arse with his dominant prick. My first and only bareback anal experience. The cool rain, the splashing mud, the nasty submission and first footsteps towards my bisexual sexuality was a lifetime away. I didn't know who I was back then.

It seemed so innocent all those months ago. Everything was new and exciting. Now, it was just sexual and satisfying. I'd lost the novelty value of sucking cocks or being penetrated. Anna suggested I was bored, but that was only part of the story.

Standing naked in front of the goal with Dmitri at my side as I glared down the lens with a ferocious stare was mechanical. It was going through the motions, and it wasn't boredom but a lack of an adventure. I'd done everything almost; my curiosity was sated.

Giving head, check. Received head, check. Being buggered, check. Fucking a guy, check. Being live on television, check, check and check. Being gunged, check. Being humiliated, check. And so on.

I needed a new adventure. I needed a new challenge and a new world.

I reasoned if I was tiring of it, then other people would be too. The league would need to find a new way to attract attention; they would need to try something new to keep the gaze of the media on them. They needed to reinvent themselves.

The league would end up following the trajectory of a fading pop star, dramatically trying to relaunch themselves, before they gave up and accepted their fate on Celebrity Love Island or Christmas Pantomime in obscure West Country theatres.

I didn't want that. I knew I loved the team, and I loved playing football, but I knew I was at a cross-roads. If I continued to play for Woodford Wanderers then this Cup Final would be the very pinnacle of my "fame." The league may have signed a television deal for the following season, but they would need new blood and new stars to keep interest and I would no longer be as crucial.

I had found myself the most celebrated and famous footballer in my league. This was an accident and a freak of circumstance. One that fate would right as a new breed of fitter, better, sexier and younger footballers joined our teams and the attentions of thousands of horny men and women turned to admire the brutish strength and talent of better sportsmen.

Perhaps I would too.

But, as much as I knew I wasn't even the best footballer in the league, in my team or even in my team's midfield, I was the luckiest and I was growing to like my status. I enjoyed the banter with Betty and the trip to Estonia. I liked the attention. I liked entertaining.

And I felt like a bad entertainer when I was tiring of the games. I needed to feel energised and excited again. I needed a challenge.

ManLube's demands stopped training completely on Sunday; we got nothing productive completed as photographs upon video vox-pops were recorded.

Monday though, was a disaster. I was in trouble at work. No sooner had I arrived at my spartan office and shook my wet coat free of rain drops, was I called into the boss's office.

His eyes were sparkling with anger; the rotund sixty-two year old growled with annoyance as I entered his spacious office on the third floor. I'd only ever spoken to him once in five years.

"Marc Lawyer-ton."

I wasn't sure if his mispronunciation of my name was deliberate to unsettle or if he genuinely couldn't read the words at the top of my personnel file on his desk.

I corrected him; my heart fluttered in my chest. At that point, I didn't know why I was being growled at in his office; the client at the previous weekend had been happy and I'd done lots of additional work without pay. Was I about to be rewarded? Or had my secret come out?

He clicked his fingers at the black leather chair facing his imposing desk as his secretary retreated through the open door. She had been emotionless when she had summoned me on the 'phone or when I knocked on the office door.

Perhaps I should have seen the signs and read them. In hindsight, they were glaringly obvious.

"Do you know what disrepute means?" His words hit me before I'd even got comfortable on his chair.

"Ummm ..."

"And Misconduct?"

"Errr ... I've not committed misconduct or ..."

"Gross Misconduct!" His voice boomed as he opened my file to throw a picture taken from Betty's studios of me, wearing my T-Shirt with the small company logo in the corner, and with the UK's top porn star.

It went down-hill from that point. Some eagle-eyed "fan" had ratted me out to my company and while a handful of people knew what I had been getting up to in my spare time, nobody had said a word officially until an "official complaint" was made.

Then the powers-that-be had investigated; the popular and pornographic Twitter account -- woodfordmarc -- had numerous pictures of myself. They had seen the stills from GaySportsTV and links to Woodford Wanderers. They had seen everything.

And as I was being photographed by ManLube on Sunday, a senior meeting was deliberating as to whether to sack me. The old boss wanted to; the bible on his desk and the Christian symbol on his car were reminders that the enlightened social attitudes hadn't permeated his belief system. He told me that homosexuality was the gravest of sins. And he sacked me on the spot.

I was escorted from the building, confused and disorientated. Emit brought my jacket from my chair and I sat for a few moments in the car park, wondering about my life. Considering my future.

Suddenly, anyone searching for Marc Lowton on the Internet would find a bisexual footballer, naked and sexually promiscuous. I'd not be the IT professional but the star of a pornographic TV company's sports coverage. They'd see my plundered arse on the Internet before my excellent résumé. I felt defined by my hobby, imprisoned by sexuality.

What future could I have?

I was lacklustre in training as the rest of my team trained harder than ever; the Cup Final was causing buoyant spirits and I lacked the merest of smiles. I told Ryan not to say anything and he didn't. Our gruff coach talked to me after the game but I told him it was just nerves and I'd be all right on Saturday.

Anna had been aghast when I told her of my treatment, and I spent most of Tuesday rewriting my CV and speaking to recruiters. None mentioned my notoriety and I omitted any personal interests from the document. I got the offer of an interview on Wednesday and was interviewed by a bland IT manager in a soulless office the following day.

All the while, I tried hard to put on a brave face at training; the root cause of my issues and problems was my sanctuary as I drowned in a myriad of job applications and concern.

Anna tried to reassure me: we could survive on her salary alone, but I didn't want to just survive. I wanted to live and I wanted my Saturday recreation to bear no influence on my Monday to Friday job.

Indeed, whenever there was a clash between the business obligations and my personal life, my employment triumphed. Anna's delightful cheeriness and warm embraces were a comfort.

Her delicious long licks of my tumescent cock in the evening and sweet, musky, heavenly cunt were a welcome distraction. I dined on her wonderful clit for numerous orgasms as her button flicked over my tongue and her juices fell down my face.

I had Emit too on Thursday night; my ex-colleague gave me a card, signed by our entire department, containing a small bundle of banknotes and a wry smile.

"We spoke to a journalist," he admitted. "Not from the Mail but we spoke to her and she said she was going to run the story."

"What story?"

"About you. And Ryan got suspended today. They analysed the pictures Betty tweeted and saw him in the background."

"And you?"

"I've said nothing!" His lips curled into a smile. "I wasn't going to admit to anything and they can't prove I've done anything. I've not anything wrong anyway."

"Would your partner say that?" I asked the sexually-promiscuous adulterer. "Or would she look to kick your arse out onto the street?"

He flinched. I saw a fear in his eyes I'd never seen before; his tortured bisexuality was as much a part of him as mine was for me. I'd embraced mine with the love and support of my wife. He hadn't managed that. He skirted the issue.

Suddenly, I felt, despite all the problems in my life, unbelievably lucky.