Ball Games Ch. 25: The Finale

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 wasn't quiet, I just never heard anything. A pause in the din of beautiful silence in the moments that followed was bliss. Cum dripped down my chin, making me feel like the worthless slut I was. My own submission had overtaken my senses and I felt nothing but heavenly waves throughout my body.

I was unaware of everything. I didn't know where I was, what I was doing or even my name, as I fell from the brown cock and landed on the soft floor.

There was cum in my mouth. There had been plenty of cum sliding down my throat all night and I adored the delicious, viscous sap of the alpha males. My eyes closed and I breathed deeply, only gently aware that there was a commotion around me.

Laughter. Giggling and sadistic chatter. They made comments but I barely heard the voices let alone the words. I felt my arms lifted upwards and I was half-dragged, half-carried to the table.

The remnants of dessert were pushed to one side and I was pushed onto the soft table top, arse hanging over the sides. A finger, lubed and ready, pressed against my butthole.

The host said nothing; I opened my eyes to see him unbuttoning his trouser fly and presenting his meaty cock to my lips.

I groaned as the first cock slid past my sanctuary; loosened from the finger and used to raw fucking. I closed my eyes as pubic hair tickled my nostrils and prick threatened my gag reflex.

I slid further into my submission.

Much further.

I was a pig.

I don't know how many men came from my butt that night; I don't know how many came down my throat. I saw the highlights from the TV station and it was many; my body ached the next day. I knew scores of uninvited men slipped into the venue and few had come to offer their holes for enjoyment. The hosts mandated condoms -- that was non-negotiable -- but everything else was just additional video copy for their popular website.

They came to fuck us. They came to fuck me.

Yet I would not have complained. At that moment, had I been asked, I would have wanted more and more. I was living for the cock, desperate to be more submissive. I wanted nothing but more and more submission.

I wanted to be spanked and to be pissed upon. I wanted to be at the centre of the bukkake. I wanted to be used and abused. I adored the tight hold a man placed upon my waist. He was in control. He was fucking me. He was sliding his veined cock past my ring and enjoying my body for his pleasure.

His hand slapped against my buttocks; I groaned into the spewing cock in my mouth. I wanted more. I needed it. I was trapped in a world of powerful submission and helplessness. I was a fly in their web of sexual mystery and I had long since accepted my fate.

They laughed at my humiliation; entertained by the nastiness of the Woodford Wanderers players. I danced in their laughter, and absorbed their cruel comments. It fuelled my desperation.

Their fun ended as quickly as it had begun; I snapped out of my head-spinning with a my stretched anus longing for a further penetrative assault on my bud. It was wet; the lube clung to my skin as I was dragged and marched into the adjoining room.

Most of my team-mates were there. Some, were still in the toilets or tied in the other room. Our stocky defender, dressed as a maid was being dowsed in piss in the corner of a vast room, full of torture equipment and sexual paraphernalia.

I never saw the man who did it, but I was pushed into a paddling pool, a third of the way down the room. It was full of mud. The cool glutinous filth splashed up my body as I landed and sank into the six inches of dirt.

They laughed. I was dirty, they reminded me. But I knew that. I had always known that. It was a sensual coolness, soothing against the abused muscles tired from an energetic football match and supporting my weight in unnaturally submissive positions.

I sank into the ooze, feeling it entrap my body and wrap it's dark, thick arms around me. I guessed what they wanted; our sadists knew my muscles were weakened, my strength sapped. They wanted me to lose.

But they wanted me to fight.

The first man to fight me was a fan. His elegant torso was chiselled with rippling muscle. Another day, I would have gleefully surrendered to him. A smile emerged from underneath his thin face, topped with thick black hair. I stared at the topless man, unbuttoning his belt on his trousers to reveal a brightly coloured jockstrap.

It bulged.

I murmured; I was fixated on his bugling muscles as his shoeless feet kicked away his trousers with a deft flick. He was ten years' my junior, and the peak of physical perfection. His eyes narrowed, sizing me up as we stared at each other. Trying to detect fear or weariness.

His fingers dropped to his waist; my gaze flinched, before restoring eye contact. I tried to ignore my peripheral vision. I tried to ignore the movement of the thin, kaleidoscopic fabric to his ankles. I tried to abstain from the temptation of the thick cock, bobbing gently in my vision.

I couldn't resist; I gulped as I saw the meaty prick. He stood powerfully, his legs a foot or so apart and his hands folded as he glared down at me.

Down at me in the mud.

The filthy, gloopy mud.

I scrambled to my feet, willing him into the pit. His smile broke further, gesturing to the assorted onlookers. "Let's see the piggy squeal."

His macho bravado was for entertainment purposes; I knew his sort from the matches and he whooped loudly as he took his first step into the ring.

The sadists refereed from the sidelines, counting us in. We fell into each other, slipping and sliding in the pale brown earth and trying desperately to keep our footing. I felt a kick to one of my legs, falling face first into the mud.

They had interfered with me; the crowd had intervened. Not that it mattered; they wanted to see me lose, and see me fucked. It was inevitable.

But Marc Lowton never gave up. As my opponent fell on top of me, I squirmed out of his control, and scrambled to my feet, wiping my eyes free of the mud. I spluttered.

"What's up? You need your little friends to help you?" I taunted, smiling again. "I'm ten years old than you, little boy."

He waved his mud-covered prick at me. "Not so little, old man." He turned behind himself to stare at a guilty-looking naked man. "Leave 'im," he warned. "I'll beat him on my own."

His voice was firm, but not threatening. His eyes locked on me again, growling as we collided, each trying to tip the other into the mud. It was tiring; the mud made it impossible to grip the smooth flesh and flailing limbs, and we lacked the technique that would come with practice.

We were inexperienced, but his superior strength and fitness was telling. He used his weight to bear down on me, and leave me panting as I squirmed away from his grip.

A couple of times I motioned myself on top of him and managed to thrust his face into the earthy mud or slap his slippery buttocks.

Other times, I caught his cock as I tried to throw him into the mud, but he was adept to my manoeuvres and a few minutes after we started I had been pinned down in the corner, my chest hanging over the inflatable wall of the pit.

He wiped his cock down and rolled a latex condom over his muddy prick. It slid into me without any extra lubrication; the mud acted as a slippery guide and the fucking I'd had early had opened my muscle nicely.

I groaned; it was a heavenly feeling to feel so full again; the rutting warrior thrust powerfully into me, unleashing his cum with a warm squirt that I felt against my insides.

My time was far from over; I fought eight men in the mud pit, losing four of my battles. They came with wild abandon in my arse, and settling for a blowjob from me if I'd won.

The mud tasted vile; it was a clear ploy to ensure that I didn't want to win but I didn't like losing and so I accepted the thick, earthy gunk on my lips and tongue as a punishment for failing to accept their will.

As 11pm chimed, the hall entertainment were released; we were taken to the hot showers to get cleaned up and I watched my skin go from brown to white again. We said nothing to each other, just sore after our torture.

But there was one more lesson to come. We were kicked out of the stadium after they had drawn and written things on our bodies in marker pen.

Naked.

Our minibus was a short run away. All we had to do was run through a busy and partying Crewe town centre bare-arsed and humiliated with degrading slogans written on our bare bodies.

Let's just say we trended that night on the Internet.