Chapter 4: Tasting Victory

The league table did not lie. Woodford Wanderers, Played 5, Won 0, Drawn 0, Lost 5, Goals scored 4, Goals conceded 15. The close defeat against The Cock Inn was followed by two 1-0 losses and then a 6-1 thumping at home by Heston United. I’d missed the last three games: first through my cousin’s wedding in Scotland and then work commitments overshadowing my Saturdays.

So much so, the coach was on the phone on Sunday morning, begging me to return to the team: the league had seen a number of teams losing players and he feared that the run of five losses would cause others in our team to drift too.

It wasn’t my intention. I longed to get back onto the football pitch and in the three weeks I had been away I would be a liar if I said I hadn’t missed the thrill of the danger and jeopardy the penalties caused.

There had been some fallout from the league’s decision to allow victorious teams to sodomise the losing players in the dressing room. A couple of teams, in the second tier, had lost access to their ground: for “immoral and shameful” acts and Terry, our ex-left winger had gone to the local newspapers, along with a couple of ex-players from the other teams.

However, attendance swelled at the games; the Internet was awash with the story and, possibly in part due to our losing streak making us notorious, we were now sponsored by ManLube, who had provided two new football strips to the team containing their logo.

The new navy shirt with bright golden shorts looked fantastic. It was the heraldic colours of our village, and at training I was told several other teams had landed sponsorship deals too. The big news was that the coach had managed to find a couple of new players, including Dmitri, a playmaker from Sofia who had an impressive eye for a pass!

I would have thought that the near certainty to being fucked by testosterone-filled football players on Saturday, especially given our reputation, would be an obstacle to further recruitment but Dmitri wasn’t bothered by the prospect. The day before the match, the nervous graduate student admitted to me that he was bisexual. The punishments for failure were strange, he wouldn’t have chosen them, but it didn’t faze him.

In many ways, I was delighted that Dmitri had joined us with his attitude. I didn’t dislike the sensations of being sodomised and my girlfriend and I had spent much of the three weeks playing with her strap-on.

While I would rather not be buggered by another guy, the filling of being pounded from behind held some enjoyment. Furthermore, I needed the practice, and Anna was only more than happy to ensure that I got used to relaxing my muscles and savouring my buggery. I enjoyed the sodomy more than ever, although I could not tell any of my team-mates what I had been doing and enjoying: the protestations from the other players about the league’s activities was relentless.

Dmitri quietly listened to my thoughts one evening as I admitted to him what out-of-hours practice I had had, and what I had enjoyed. He understood.

“Let’s still win,” he suggested with a laugh in his Bulgarian accent, and I thought that was a great idea. There was never any thought that I wouldn’t try to be victorious.

The league had decided that the match would fall on the first of their “special weekends” and planned to take full advantage of the notoriety and interest; for that week only, the victory fuck would be conducted in public and not in the dressing rooms.

The sixth match of our league campaign was the home match against The Cock Inn. The league had rescheduled some matches at the request of a team whose ground was flooded. It was quite an intriguing thought to think that we would be able to seek revenge for the raw fucking we had been on the end of only three weeks previous.

It didn’t start well: they scored within sixty seconds when their cocky striker volleyed the ball past our defence, and at half-time they were leading 1-0. Their captain snarled as we walked off the pitch, rubbing his crotch suggestively. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you won’t be sitting down for a week.” It was all part of the mind games.

We needed a lucky break, and we got two. Dmitri came on at half time, playing in front of me in our midfield, and his first shot on goal bulged the back of the net after it clipped the heels of a defender for a big deflection. The second goal was scored by our goalkeeper: a wind assisted punt down field embarrassingly bouncing over their stopper. And as they attacked, we defended with our lives: the first victory was in sight and as the ninetieth minute edged closer, they threw everyone forward. It left holes in their backline and our new Bulgarian playmaker clipped the ball into the box for our striker to head home.

The pitch-side celebrations were emphatic and wild; the sliding of the players across the muddy ground to celebrate in front our solitary stand was intense. It meant a lot to us. It meant a lot to our supporters. They cheered for us, and as the final whistle sounded, the realisation of what The Cock Inn players would be doing had sunk in. In the heat of the game, I had forgotten. I was focused solely on the match.

“Come on, we got some losers to fuck!” Our captain shouted as we banged on their locker room door. “Get out here and face your fans! And our cocks!” There were other more uncharitable jeers: but for the first time it would be another team on the end of our pricks.

Our ground was full: the 750-seater stand was erected in the club’s heyday thirty years ago and was crammed with expectant adults: men and women eager to see over a dozen sweaty athletes buggered for their entertainment. Their humiliation would be public; no doubt it would be captured on camera and uploaded to the pornography tube sites on the Internet. They would become infamous. Perhaps I would be too.

The sheepish looks on the faces of the losing team was stark from their attitude three weeks ago: they were cocky then, kings of the world, dominants. Now their spirits were broken, punched by the result and aching for their torment to be over before it had begun.