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From: The Bawdy Bloke <john@bawdybloke.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Winners and Losers 02 (MM, 1st, flash)
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Date: Sun, 13 Jul 2014 06:10:43 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

I've written a number of stories on my blog recently, and have been a 
little lax about posting them to the Newsgroups. As ever, I would love 
opinions and feedback as to what I have done right or wrong.
My site is http://bawdybloke.com
Thanks.
* * * * *

To read previous chapters go to http://bawdybloke.com/tag/winnersandlosers/

We trained a lot that following week; the humiliation the Woodford 
Wanderers suffered in giving blowjobs to the victors of our friendly 
match burnt into every aspect of our waking moments, and even as I was 
fucking my girlfriend, the vivid memories of the swell of his cock and 
the tickle of his pubic hair on the end of my nose, was innermost in my 
mind.

In truth, I think I found the game exciting too, and relished to be back 
on that field of play, longing to right the wrongs of our 5-0 drubbing. 
We had a workmanlike team, without the natural flair of a creative 
midfielder, but the rule changes made it difficult to recruit. After 
all, why would a talented player want to join a team that had finished 
second-from-bottom the last two seasons and just been humiliated in 
their friendly match? Particularly as the losing team now had 
punishments to endure, that for straight men was bordering on humiliation.

It wasn't just blowjobs we faced either: they were for the friendlies. 
For league matches the victorious team would be sodomising the losers 
and there were weekends allocated during the year for "special" 
celebrations, while a four-goal victory or greater allowed the winning 
team to issue "spankings" just as their team had been spanked. And the 
cup winners had all night with the losers. It was quite daunting, but 
the league wanted to drive up standards and they thought by increasing 
the incentive to win, the teams would adopt more effort in the matches, 
and the quality of the football would rise.

The opening match of the league season would not be an easy one: away to 
Sunnyside Cross FC who had come third in the league the year before. 
Their team had bulked out considerably, the beefy striker who was strong 
and uncontrollable in their emphatic 6-0 victory last season was 
stronger and full of rippling muscle. He eyed me as we lined up, and 
sent a few crunching tackles my way in the first few minutes.

We did well to hold them off until half-time, but as the team tired in 
the second half, they got their goals and the final score of 4-1 
flattered us not them.

We knew the implications: tired and exhausted our coach gave us a pep 
talk in our changing room; we needed to improve, we needed to track 
midfield runners and we all needed to be fitter. But our ten minutes of 
cooling down was over before it felt like it had begun. A bang on the 
door woke us from our heated discussions. "Get your fucking arses in 
here, losers!"

I took a deep breath. At least we had avoided the spanking punishment 
again. "Be out soon," the captain shouted back as I looked around the 
room. Shirtless sportsmen, all with bulging muscles looked almost 
broken. We had expected to hold them to a draw at least and yet had been 
overpowered by their relentless attacks and insatiable drive to win.

"Come on. We got some losers to fuck!"

It was all part of the game; they were right to impose their victory on 
us, as had we won we would have done the same. But it exposed our 
weaknesses as a team: unless we found a way to improve, and quickly, our 
Saturdays would see us on the receiving end of a lot of cocks.

"I'm not going," Terry spat. "This is a stupid idea and I'm not being 
buggered. The blowjobs were bad enough. The league can fuck off if they 
think ..."

"You've got to," our coach responded but our left-winger was adamant. We 
knew what the implications would be for him if he didn't prostrate 
himself to the victorious cocks of Sunnyside Cross FC. He refused; the 
tricky dribbler shook his head and crossed his arms as the door banged 
again, the voice threatening to report us to the league if we resisted 
any further.

Whoops, jeers and whistles greeted us as we traipsed into their changing 
room: the smell of sweat and exertion filling my nostrils as we lined up 
against the wall, eyeing the half-naked goading men: this was new 
territory for both of us. Who made the first move?

Our nimble, pacy striker was picked first: a brute of a centre back, 
hauling him by the shoulder and pressing him against the rough wooden 
bench that lined the room. "Come on lads," he shouted, pulling down our 
striker's golden shorts to reveal his cheeks, ready to impose his will 
on the bank clerk's anus.

I watched, open-mouthed. I had never seen a man get buggered before, and 
only a sly finger from my girlfriend while giving a blowjob had ever 
violated my ring; butterflies spun in my stomach as I stared, entranced 
and enchanted at the muddy players.

He dribbled a small drop of anal lubricant onto the butthole in front of 
him, causing my friend to jerk in shock at the sudden appearance of the 
wetness. "If you think that's bad, wait until you feel this!" His 
team-mates laughed as we watched the victor unfastening his own shorts 
and letting them fall to the floor, before removing his jockstrap.

His veiny cock was big: eight or nine inches and thicker than anything 
else I had ever seen, glistening with sweat. He said nothing as a condom 
covered his manhood and then pressed the head of his lubed cock against 
the parted buttocks.

There was something filthy yet visceral as the victor squeezed the 
globes of my team-mate, forcing his cheeks apart so he could access his 
hole. Our striker gasped as the prick made its way into his bum, sliding 
an inch or two in before stopping. His cries tickled my insides with 
intrigue and sympathy; were they of discomfort or submission?

I heard a few squeals to my left and right: some of my other team-mates 
were having their arses prepared for a pounding while I watched, 
transfixed at the sight. Every inch the erect cock slid in, the more my 
friend cried and squealed. It was slow, the top was going patiently, but 
his size was big and we had discussed this in the coach coming down to 
the game: we were all anal virgins.

I felt a firm grip on my arm: a ginger lad who had scored the fourth and 
final goal against us, squeezed tighter. "I'm claiming my prize," he 
demanded in a Northern accent, pulling me into the corner of the room.

I was frightened but excited; I was straight, loving my girlfriend 
deeply and until recently had never contemplated being with a man, but 
now found the situation exciting. He was going to fuck my arse, and I 
was under an obligation to let him.

In truth, I wanted him to. The confused squeals and unmistakeable grunts 
from the room piqued my curiosity. I could never admit it to my 
team-mates, but at that moment I was intrigued as to what buggery would 
feel like. I needed to know.

I was almost too hasty in removing my shorts and underwear, watching as 
his cock, smaller than mine, was exposed to a condom and some clear anal 
lubricant. I was given the same tube. "Grease yourself up."

My hand trembled as I squeezed the bottle, putting a generous sized 
amount onto my finger and rubbed it against the whorl of my anus. It 
sent shivers down my spine: I was unused to the feeling of wetness there.

I never got a moment to consider the new sensation. It was a prelude to 
the stuffing of my arse with the ginger guy's cock. Two strong hands on 
my cheeks, holding me steady as he poked at my opening, sliding his head 
past my resistance.

The grunts and sounds of my team mates were irrelevant, I was focused on 
him; his muddy hands on my hairy arse, sliding his sheathed cock past my 
virginal orifice. His grunts, his movements, his rocking against my opening.

It was a weird feeling; he pushed his cock further into me, brushing his 
thighs against my buttocks. I squealed as my butt felt uncomfortably 
full, pressure on my prostate that leaked pre-cum from my cock onto the 
bench.

He cried out insults. "Like my cock, loser? Eh?" His voice snarling with 
every poke of his prick into me. I felt used and abused as he pounded: a 
pathetic loser taking his punishment from the winner, a worthless slave 
ceding control his master or a vile prisoner paying his debt to society. 
He wanted me to feel insignificant as my body jerked forward to his rhythm.

But I didn't dislike the feeling. Sure, I didn't like that we had 
capitulated, but the warm glow against my prostate, the desperate 
pressure in my butt and the sparkling sensation along my erection was 
pleasurable and unlike anything else I had experienced in my life.

His pace increased, thrusting deep into me as he neared his orgasm, 
squealing and grunting as I felt his cock twitch and quiver in my butt-hole.

The victor withdrew his pirck, unfurling the condom and flinging it into 
the bin. He looked away from me, and I did him. I saw many of my 
team-mates on their knees, sucking the last of the cum from the cocks 
bobbing in front of them, but as I felt for the dripping wetness of lube 
leaking from my anus, he poked me in the shoulder. "Be fuckin' ya later 
in the season!" He taunted, gesturing towards the door.

I returned to the changing room: Terry had gone and we wouldn't see him 
again. The league rules were clear: losers could withdraw consent but 
they lost the right to play in the league.

And as my dejected team-mates returned, I knew it would be a very long 
season.

To be continued ...

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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