Chapter 8: Fun at Sutton

My partner alternated between horniness and teasing; I found them both exciting but for different reasons. I loved her more than words could express, and attempts at doing so didn’t go unspoken.

I suggested to her that she find a similar venture where the losers of a competition were sexually taken to help her understand the thrill, passion and fierce rivalry it evoked. She joked about joining the team so I would get to witness her be fucked by other men, but fortunately our league refused to admit women. I’m not sure how I could have reacted to witnessing my girlfriend being so roughly treated as I was.

Paul and I emailed each other over the week; the male model was friendly and we had struck up a good rapport with each other. Much of his work was gay or gay interest and from the other side of the country recounted tales of how much my league was discussed.

We promised to meet up the next time our schedules coincided and I felt as though I had the beginnings of a good friendship. I appreciate that it was normal to be friends first, before giving away benefits, but Paul was definitely in the potential friend with definite benefits category.

Sutton Workings Men Club existed on the west side of the nearby town: it was located in a parish that was traditionally popular with ethnic minorities and had the multicultural mix of the area well reflected in its football team. They had finished fourth the year before, and were on a good run of form after a poor opening few games. It would not be an easy match and they had beaten us by four goals in the fixtures last season.

We always remember their games however: their players and spectators are full of life, and their stadium announcer had an incredible wit with a fantastic sense of humour. Despite being hammered last season, and every season as long as I can remember, we enjoyed our visits to their dilapidated pavilion and muddy pitch more than any other match.

Some of the money flowing into the league because of the increased publicity had certainly found its way to Sutton: they sported a brand new bright scarlet red football kit, complete with the name of their new sponsor – a local sportswear manufacturer. Their captain, a big, beastly giant of a man, nearly headed them in front within sixty seconds but his effort cannoned of the crossbar, and I hacked it clear of the penalty box. Their team, mostly of black men, were skilful and clever in possession, working space and time on the ball as we struggled to match them physically. The bog-like conditions of their playing surface were tiring on the muscles and the ball rarely ran true on the muddy pitch.

But our goalkeeper was in imperious form, performing several incredible saves to keep out their onslaught, and with the 0-0 draw in sight, we cracked. Our right back slid in for a tackle in the box and took down the opposition player. It was a challenge Ben didn’t have to make. It was a challenge he had no hope of winning. It was a challenge that led to a penalty, which was slotted home.

We lost 1-0.

But as our coach decried, we win as a team and we lose as a team. It was no use blaming Ben, it had happened. If Lee or Dmitri had taken their chances earlier in the match, we wouldn’t have lost. If I had cut out the through ball, Ben wouldn’t have had a player to have tackled. Of course we got teased as we left the field; the “stadium” announcer poked jokes at our expense as we filed into the giant changing room, partitioned with a large piece of thin, shabby curtain.

We were soaked and filthy, covered in mud and dirt: it was always like that at Sutton.

Their captain tossed a tube of lubricant over the top of the curtain from their side of the changing room. “Hope your holes are ready, boys. The men with the big pricks are coming!”

And coming they were. We had ten minutes to remove our wet kit, the sodden garments clinging to us as we stripped naked in the changing area. They blew wolf whistles as they peered over the dividing cloth; offering lewd comments as we bent over to untie bootlaces or discarded saturated underwear. It was good-natured and we responded accordingly. Unlike AFC Kerlon who thrived on our humiliation, I had no such thoughts about Sutton. They came for a game and a laugh, and the sex was a side benefit.

They were naked too, discarding their soggy garments in a pile by the door, and whistled as we poked aside the curtain. I had a “cute little ass,” Dmitri had a “mouth fit for sucking” and our captain would “look good in suspenders.” The least said about the size of Lee’s prick the better; he blushed immensely! It was all said jokingly, but I looked at their swinging pricks wondering which one would be in me. We barely made it into their space before they started picking.

I felt a cold rush of apprehension as their young midfielder grabbed me on the shoulder. “Hey!” I cried as he painfully pulled me into our side of the changing room where there was more space. “Ow!”