Chapter 2: The first match

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. 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.

Anna knew what had happened; I had told her and she had found the explanation of my humiliation amusing and then exciting.

In truth, I think I found the game exciting too, and relished the thought of rejoining the 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 third-from-bottom in 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 intensely degrading.

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. 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.

We all received booklets on the Friday before the curtain-raiser. Earthy brown pages, filled with diagrams and stories about anal sex, oral sex and coping with bisexual feelings. It contained articles about a couple of famous “gay for pay” porn stars, who related our forfeits with their day job, and told us to keep a level of detachment from the invading pricks.

It contained advice on positions and penetration. It showed the location of the prostate, and how to prepare a bottom for receiving your prick. It recommended that we all evacuate our bowels before the start of the match and, basically, was an A-to-Z of advice about fucking, and being fucked.

I read it, from cover to cover; I found the concept fascinating as well as scary. Would this really improve league standards, or was this just a very extreme way to get dozens of mostly straight men to act out a fantasy for a handful of perverted suits, watching over the league?

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 of our defeat. 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 faggot ass 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 implored 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 threatened to report us to the league if we delayed 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?

They picked our nimble, pacy striker 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 buttcheeks to the room. My team-mate flinched in anxiety; the winner readying himself to impose his will on the bank clerk’s anus.