Chapter 1: The beginning

The North Midlands Sunday League pyramid was always a diverse, tolerant conference; it was also innovative and progressive, and nothing is a better example of this lust for experimentation than their efforts for the 2014/15 football, or soccer, season.

It was a heady combination of factors; in the second and third tiers of the league there had been a small number of male LGBT clubs seek admittance to the pyramid over the previous years, and a story was retold though whispering changing rooms that had minds whirring. The whispers said, in the previous season, the captains of two male LGBT teams had made a sporting bet where the losing team would blow the victors at the end of the match.

No-one knows for sure if this is just an urban legend, or a tall tale made up by homophobic critics stereotyping the successful gay football teams, but it was clear that Billingsford United vs Hartsford Lads FC was one of the most competitive football matches ever seen at our level. It finished 4-3.

The league had always been keen to promote good and entertaining football, and a chance meeting at the AGM got mouths talking. They proposed that there should be some jeopardy and forfeit for the losing team. The majority of the league clubs abstained or supported the motion, as well as a further proposal that banned financial penalties; all the teams pay considerable dues to be able to play football and to lease their grounds. A monetary forfeit would put our sport beyond reach.

Over the summer, two proposals were made and the league were obligated to consult all the teams on: a sexual forfeit, or a naked streak leaving the pitch. Alas, the voting forms were distributed over the close season and with only five teams of the forty in the pyramid responding, the sexual forfeits were chosen by three votes to two.

My team, Woodford Wanderers, saw a number of players walk out instantly: the idea of getting on your knees to suck the erect cock of another sportsman was too abhorrent for them and they left the team without hesitation. Other teams reported a similar exodus but the league pressed ahead with their plan.

They promised to abandon their scheme if it proved too unpopular, and they sought advice from sexual charities. Some people praised them for their libertarian stance, others were disgusted.

Personally, I pondered my options. My girlfriend made me “practice” on her dildo and I promised that I would at least give the new regime a couple of games.

I argued that probably wouldn’t be so bad as to stop me playing my sport. My girlfriend teased me as I barely took her five-inch sex toy in my mouth, but I was adamant the new rules would be bearable.

In truth, I didn’t want it to be awful; my football was my only sanctuary outside work and the only place I could truly unwind after a stressful day in the office. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the team I loved and had played centre midfield for, for five years. My team-mates were like an extended family and I longed for the return of the games again after our Summer break.

Our first, and only friendly, was a home match against South End Harriers; we entered the game full of confidence. They were a good team, but we’d seen a few new faces as they disembarked from their minibus and their newest recruits didn’t look physically strong.

It was a massacre: 5-0. Skilful players ran the midfield as we struggled to cope with their stamina or ability. It should have been more.

Fortunately, it was just a friendly: the victors could only claim a blowjob for a friendly win. As the final whistle blew and the referee led the teams from the pitch, we knew what the Harriers would demand from us. They sneered as muddy football kits glued to our bodies from the rain while they called us names.

It was part of the game. We had to grin and bear it. They had won; they savoured their victory, with excited voices and overflowing testosterone. They were able to enjoy their thirty minutes of fun at our expense.

They laughed at our naked forms, shivering in their cold changing room as they surveyed their beaten opponents. It was humiliating.

Their striker, the victim of a few steady tackles from myself, grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me onto my knees. He had short-blonde hair, a bit of bulk around the middle and a cheeky smile on his face. An extrovert, my tormentor, glowed as his cock bobbed free and he swung it into my face. I watched it harden, the veins on his meaty prick becoming prominent. His uncut cock now textured and ready for him to claim his reward.