Chapter 7: ManLube comes to town

There was no denying that the last minute loss to AFC Kerlon had dented confidence in the dressing room, but when we considered our performance in the match we realised how unlucky we had been. We had lost the match because of a last minute own goal scored by a fluke deflection while playing away against the best team in the league. We were desperately unfortunate; most teams ended up on the end of a hiding when playing them.

Our fortunes did not improve in the following match: a home game against Elvedon Bridge Warriors, last year’s surprise champions but who had been struggling this season. A number of their key players had left their team after the new league rules had been introduced and their superstars had not been adequately replaced. I know a couple of them had stepped up to proper non-league teams. We were leading from the second minute and had a 2-0 lead as the clock ticked past ninety, but we conceded two injury time goals: the second of which did not cross the goal-line because I hacked it clear,. The equaliser was unjustly given by the linesman.

We complained vociferously, but to no avail. One of our players even got booked for his protestations. Everything seemed to be going against us.

The draws were a loophole in the new league rules: there was no penalty for teams drawing and as the final whistle blew, both groups of players knew that no-one would be taken or humiliated. Indeed, I wondered why many of the teams didn’t play for a draw from the outset instead of gambling on a win.

However, our next two matches were against teams towards the bottom of the table and yielded victories. I had a cocky lad from Framlington Giants groaning as I pounded my cock into his tight hole, squealing and crying as my prick bounced against his prostate and forced him into an erection. I looked at him in the eyes, my hands holding his ankles in front of me as I told him to wank himself off.

I drizzled a long streak of lube onto his dick, causing it to glisten under the strip lights flooding into the changing room. His hands gleefully rubbed his twinkling shaft, moaning like a little pig as my cock pounded past his ring. He looked so submissive as I emptied into the condom. He came over his hairless torso, the glistening pearl of his semen contrasting with his tanned skin. He was less arrogant when I made him eat his cum.

The second victory fell on one of the league’s special weekends. We didn’t know the forfeit before the game but Dmitri noticed that the league had sent a group of four people to “assist” with the losing team. It provided an added spice to a match which was marred by dozens of poor challenges and yellow cards. It was violent, and a lot of anger and frustration had built up during the ninety minutes of our victory, provided to us by Dmitri’s sublime finish from the edge of the area. It took an hour to prepare the losing team, but after an intense delay, seventeen embarrassed men came into our changing room shaved hairless by the league’s helpful entourage. And they wore nothing but pink flimsy skirts.

Tutus really; delicate lacy puff-balls of embarrassing ridiculousness on the glabrous men. We laughed, mercilessly roared with laughter as they blushed. It was part of the humiliation: we had to make the losers suffer, and that moment we did.

And after that match, I really wanted to; they had been animals on the pitch. The photos and videos we watched afterwards were unreal; completely glabrous bodies and feminine short skirts being ravished by men. And we looked like men compared to them: hairy chests, masculine thighs and still in our muddy football socks. We treated the sissies remorselessly to eighteen horny dicks. Our changing room was a deafening wall of lustful sounds and testosterone.

Their arses were ravaged as we tormented the cross-dressing failures to intense energetic poundings, causing them to squeal like young ladies as we fucked them. No mercy, no stopping, just an all-consuming, raw orgy of brutal proportions.

I had their centre-back; a ferocious beast tamed by the humiliating ordeal of the league rules. I could see the defeat in his eyes as I pushed him onto the sweaty floor and stuffed my prick in his open mouth, groaning as I face-fucked him. No tears from him, no quarter from me. He grunted angrily as I troubled his gag reflex and jibed nastily about his dress. It was a savage revenge for ninety violent minutes of football.

And then I screwed him. A drizzle of lube over his arsehole was followed by a squirt over his cock. I told him to enjoy himself as I enjoyed him, flipping his skirt onto his bare back as the beaten footballer was taken roughly by my cock. His hands jerked his dick, my prick rammed into his tight hole as he leant over the changing bench.

All around me was grunting and crying; vicious words of taunting victory degrading the spiritless submissives. We’d never been like this before, we’d always entered the after-game enjoyment with a sense of care-free fair play, but the bruises on our bodies lay testament to the brutal nature of that match. We wanted to seize vengeance, and we wanted to impose our victory.

They all knew we had won, meekly leaving our changing room twenty minutes later, still dressed in their little pink skirts with their humiliation captured for posterity on video.

I’d never felt so much like a warrior.

The following week, I had to give up an evening of my time for a ManLube photo shoot. Our sponsors had enlisted some male models and wanted to use their sponsorship of our team for their promotional posters and adverts. As I did not watch any homosexual pornography or visit such Internet forums I was unaware of how “big” or notorious our league was becoming, but Dmitri assured all of the team that we had gathered thousands of fans on-line from the stories, the photos and the odd video posted onto the ‘net.

I wasn’t sure I wanted to be known for that reason but the guys I played football with were akin to my family and no matter what it cost, I wanted to remain part of the team. And I found it exciting; the unknown is always exhilarating and we never knew what was going to happen from one week to the next.

Whatever my thoughts were, our cooperation for ManLube’s promotional activities was part of the sponsorship deal the team had signed and instead of the players having to help pay for the kit and the transport, the club was able to fund all of the footballing activities from the lubricant manufacturer’s generous financial package. They even provided us with loads of free bottles of lubricant for “home use” that my girlfriend had seriously depleted with her rampant use of her glass dildos and less-than-occasional use of our strap-on. She had been highly sexed since the start of the football season as the talk of our adventures had spurred her libido into overdrive.

The three male models ManLube had hired had perfect Adonis-like bodies. The Greek god had been reincarnated in triplicate, each with impressive muscles and well-defined physiques. I was in awe of them, drooling slightly at their statuesque perfection as they wandered around our changing room in just flimsy underpants. “Hey mate, can I have your autograph?” The blonde-haired lad asked, holding a pen and paper to my hands as I pretended not to admire his toned body, impressive bulge and glistening skin. And when the other two did the same, asking each of the eight players selected for the photoshoot for their autographs, I started to believe Dmitri. Perhaps I had unknown fame, which was slightly scary.

It was twilight before we got onto the pitch; the bald-headed director barked and snapped impatiently. He wanted the blonde-haired six-foot rugby player, Paul, and myself for the first picture. Paul and I wore just differing coloured socks in the light rain; it was cold, especially when I had to kneel on all fours in the muddiest part of our pitch, and Paul positioned his impressive hairless cock against my crack, while a couple of lighting rigs were sited around us.