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Much fun is had on the way to college.

"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 and they threw everyone forward, our Bulgarian playmaker clipped the ball into the box for our striker to head home.

The pitchside 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 the leagues rules and the joviality in the changing rooms was clear.

"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 300-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, we might 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.

They would not be so lucky. The club had placed a handful of mats, and a couple of boxes, across the pitch as we cooled down in the changing room and we entered the pitch to a loud roar: louder than anything that greeted a goal during the match. It came from the stand and the gathered supporters around the pitch, including the wives and girlfriends of The Cock Inn players.

The crowd wanted action, and behind us the losing players entered the field of play. Many were shirtless, accepting the cool breeze of a late September afternoon. Their goalkeeper was naked, his large cock swinging as he walked towards the mats. I think he wanted to show off his masculinity, to try and salvage some pride from his well endowed prick.

We faced them. Watching their apathetic looks. I glanced down the line of players, wondering if I should exact a revenge on the player who had sodomised me weeks ago. Would that make it personal or just still the instrument of physical enjoyment and humiliation the league board had decreed?

I didn't get that option. Dmitri seized the bald-headed captain as the first player to make a move. The crowd erupted into cheers as he pushed him onto his knees, ready to enjoy his first blow-job of the league season.

It was the cue for everyone to pile into the Cock Inn team, choosing a loser to degrade and humiliate. To bugger in front of their wife or girlfriend, in front of their adoring fans and cheering friends. The sadistic urge to debase and humble the opposition was overwhelmingly strong, grasping at the cocky forward who had taunted us through the match.

His sneering had long since disappeared; his pride vanished equally as quickly, watching with worried eyes as my shorts fell to my ankles. "Suck it."

I loved saying those words; those words meant I had someone to fellate me, someone to do as they were told, someone we had beaten.

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